Tintabulation
Authors: VS 13 Producers (Donnaj, Martin Ross, Traveler, and Vickie Moseley 
Artists:  Donnaj, Martin Ross, Truthwebothknow1 (Lisa) 
Videographer:  XSketch 
Rating:  Mature Audiences for violence and torture. 
Category:  Movie 
Spoilers:  Relies heavily on Televised Seasons 1 - 7 and Virtual Seasons 8 - 13 
(read 'Previously on VS 13
Disclaimer: This is a labor of love.  Absolutely no profit is being made.  No 
copyright infringement intended. 
Archive:  This production is exclusive to the Virtual Season 13 for two weeks, 
then anywhere. 
All comments, feedback, etc should be addressed to virtualseasonx@gmail.com
URL: http://virtualseasonx.com/ 


Teaser
Place: Unknown
Time: 2321 hours
Seventy-nine hours earlier

They were shrouded in black fabric. These men, part of the "Ghosting team", if 
not for their mission and the secrecy that surrounded their duties might have 
looked comical. Dressed head to toe in black, all wearing black ninja-masks to 
cover their identities and all wearing double-gloved surgical gloves to protect 
themselves and their detainees from contamination. Team X had just received the 
fifth and hopefully final ghost detainee to be processed. The white male 
strapped to a backboard and was semi-conscious; vomit coated his suit and had 
ruined his tie. One of the team has noticed that the suit was not cheap. It was 
a quick thought, as this information didn't matter to the Team's objective.

The detainee took in the surroundings as much as he could; a dazed and confused 
expression and the sense of power surrounding this unknown place made his blood 
turn cold. Finally getting a grip on his senses, he tried to question his 
captors.

"Look. What's going on here? Who are you?" He felt his stomach clinch but tried 
to ignore it. The situation reminded him of another time another place.

Working with quick hands, one of the team members hit the detainee cutting off 
the detainee's inquiries and making him gasp in pain and surprise. Moving 
quickly the detainee was removed from the backboard and unceremoniously thrust 
into a straight back chair, his hands wrenched behind the chair's back and 
bound. 

"Now what fu--" Adrenaline coursed through his veins, the detainee tried to 
break free from his captors. Struggling and becoming more lucid and panicked, he 
was placed in a secure headlock. Stepping forward before the detainee could 
voice more obscenities, a huge amount of duct tape was placed over the 
detainee's mouth and almost covered his nose, causing the man to struggle for 
breath. 

Satisfied, two of the team members held the detainee's neck and shoulders still 
while the third member turned and retrieved a pair of shears from the table. 
Without much care for fashion, the man's hair is crudely trimmed down to an 
uneven stubble, his hair falling in great amounts onto the floor. Powerless to 
move or raise protest, the only sound was from the shear's scissoring sounds and 
the man's muffled cries, his eyes pleading for explanation. 

Once the team member had finished cutting the detainee's hair, the man's muffled 
cries stopped, his breathing harsh, his chest rising and falling as if he had 
run a marathon. His panic increased and his heart pounded harder in his chest 
when he heard the sounds of an electric shaver and jumped involuntarily as his 
head was now shorn by the quick-handed skill of his captors. 

The manual of detainee processing stated that prior to interrogation, it was 
important to keep the detainee in optimum health. According to protocol, skilled 
medical personnel would identify any health problems present through the 
administration of frequent, routine, hands-on medical examinations. The 
identification of skin infections, however, was made increasingly difficult as 
the quantity of hair increased. Conversely, non-medical detainee staff could 
more easily identify questions as to an inmate's possible skin disorder if said 
inmate was bare faced and with short hair.

Bald now, the detainee was administered several attention grabs, two dozen 
'attention slaps' and given three hard open handed belly slaps to the stomach 
which caused pain and triggered an immediate submission response in the 
detainee. 

Finally subdued, the detainee was returned to the gurney where his clothing was 
cut away using stainless steel trauma shears. Now completely nude, the attention 
grabs and slaps were inflicted upon the subject's body, reinforcing the 
submission response and leaving his face streaked with tears. 

Resurrection Cemetery
Clinton, MD
11:21 am

The black hearse led the single file of cars into the cemetery. It parked along 
the road in a section of older graves, most of the stones still looking timeless 
in their settings. A funeral home attendant opened the back door of the 
limousine directly behind the hearse, helping Margaret and Tara Scully out onto 
the pavement. Matty and Claire, both wide-eyed and silent, came next, followed 
by their Uncle Charles. 

Six agents, including Walter Skinner, carried the casket, a simple polished 
cherry box now draped with the stars and stripes, to its final resting place. 
Skinner had picked the 4 men and one woman personally, knowing them to be among 
the handful of agents who respected Fox Mulder and his work. Mel Bocks was one, 
Kenny Andrews another. Agents Stonecypher and Kinsley both looked grim faced 
determined, but there were tears on the female agent's cheeks. Danny from 
research made the sixth pallbearer as they moved their burden closer to the 
gravesite. 

Skinner looked out over the gathered attendees with an unbearable feeling of 
dread. He didn't want to have to face Maggie Scully and any of Dana's close 
family. Not while Scully herself sat in a padded room, restrained to her bed, 
incoherent. She wasn't injured, aside from the now healing cuts on her arms. Not 
physically, at least. But emotionally, he was afraid his agent would never come 
back from this most horrible attack on her psyche. 

She should be here, his mind kept repeating. She should be witness to the life 
and the quest that was Agent Fox Mulder. She would want to stand next to the 
grave, he could see her composed in her grief, but grieving nonetheless. Mulder 
deserved to have her here. Scully deserved to be in this place of honor -- to be 
handed the flag now draping the coffin for the service. But she wasn't here and 
nothing seemed right or proper because of her absence.

Maggie Scully spotted him and waved him over next to her. There were chairs in 
place for the family and some of the mourners. He was relieved to note that many 
of the Bureau agents had come to pay their respects, at least in death Mulder 
held their favor. 

The man to Maggie's immediate right caught Skinner's gaze and nodded. Lt. 
Commander Charles Scully was decked out in his Naval Dress Blues, the epitome of 
a faithful son and now head of the family. It had been grating on the Assistant 
Director's nerves, this man's sudden appearance at such a tragic moment. He 
couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong but continued to 
push the thought to the back of his mind. Everything seemed out of place since 
Agent Clark had called him in the middle of the night just days ago.

Maggie reached out and took Skinner's hand for just a quick touch. Their eyes 
met and he saw her struggling to compose herself. "I don't know what we're going 
to do without him," she admitted brokenly, barely whispering the words. She 
glanced over past Charles to where Tara and the children were sitting. Matty sat 
unnaturally straight and refused to look at the coffin. Little Claire sat on 
Tara's lap and clung to her mother fiercely, as if Tara might be taken away, 
too. 

Maggie touched his hand again, lightly. "Will you please say a few words -- for 
Dana. I know she would want you . . . " Her words trailed off, her second grief 
coming fast on the heels of her first. 

"Of course," he said, wishing with all his heart he could refuse her.

Place: Unknown
Time: 23:31

Completely nude, the detainee was lifted and placed onto a gurney that had a 
waterproof pad under the detainee's buttocks. Rolled to a left side-lying 
position, the detainee's right knee was flexed and draped with a cloth, his anus 
exposed so that the team member in charge of administering the hallucinogenic 
enema could clearly see. The other members of the team now held the detainee 
prone and watched the team leader lubricate 2 inches of the rectal tube with 
water-soluble lubricant. The team leader approached the prone detainee and 
lifted the patient's upper buttock to now clearly see the anus. Directing the 
tube toward the detainee's umbilicus, the team leader inserted the it slowly and 
smoothly 3 to 4 inches, and released the clamp flooding the detainee with a rich 
cocktail of THC (tetrahydrocannabinol), kratom extract, indigenous to the rain 
forests of South East Asia, and the major tranquilizer clozaril. 

Place: Resurrection Cemetery
Time: 11:45 am

Father McCue had been pressed into service, leading the assembled mourners in a 
brief prayer. He looked over at Maggie, who in turn, nodded toward Skinner. The 
priest smiled warmly at Skinner and motioned him to come to the head of the 
coffin to deliver the eulogy.

Walter Skinner had always hated public speaking. It had been one of the many 
reasons he stayed out of the limelight in all his years at the Bureau. However, 
of all the briefings he'd led, all the panels he'd participated on, nothing had 
prepared him to speak at the gravesite of a fellow agent and friend. 

Straightening his suit coat as he walked to the spot near the head of the 
casket, it felt like time stood still. The cemetery was suddenly silent. He 
couldn't hear the birds in the trees or the cars on the road nearby. He couldn't 
hear the mourners, although many of the female agents and both Scully women were 
now openly crying. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts and suddenly, 
everything fell back into place, the sounds, the people. 
Drawing in a breath, he allowed his gaze to fall on the flag-draped casket. He 
honestly never thought he would see this day. He had watched Fox Mulder cheat 
death more times than Skinner cared to count. With Dana Scully, it seemed the X 
Files Division was impervious to death. But now Death had finally won, the price 
of constantly seeking the Truth had been paid.
"I first met Fox Mulder when he arrived at the Academy, over 15 years ago. I was 
waiting for my assignment in the DC Bureau and had been tapped to help out with 
some classes. I was working on the firing range." Skinner's lips curled into a 
grim smile. "Of all the recruits, Fox Mulder couldn't hit the broad side of a 
barn." There were appreciative chuckles through the crowd.

"We practiced and practiced that week. Each day Mulder would be the first one on 
the range and usually the last one to leave. All the other recruits eventually 
got the hang of the 9 mm and passed their certifications. Mulder, however, was 
still a long way from hitting the target sheet, much less the designated target 
areas on the sheet." 

"It was the day before the last day to be certified for his class and I was 
walking across the complex. I heard someone out on the range. It wasn't unusual 
-- anyone was allowed range time. But it was getting late, almost a half hour 
past dark. I went over to see who might be out there."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you what I found. There was Fox Mulder. He had 
the flood lights on, and he was firing clip after clip. As I stood there, I 
could see the determination in his stance, in the way he ejected one clip and 
shoved another into its place. I was a Marine and I can tell you not since my 
days in boot had a seen a man more set on hitting a target."

"I was about to go over and try to give him some more pointers when I noticed 
something. He was hitting the target. Not just the target, he was hitting square 
on the bull's-eye. But he kept going. I stood there watching him for at least an 
hour, clip after clip and it was always the same. He'd found his aim, he was 
hitting the target -- and yet he refused to call it quits."

"Eventually, he ran out of clips. He was taking off his gear when he turned and 
saw me standing there. I had to say something. I asked him why he'd wasted all 
those clips when he was finally hitting the target. He shrugged and told me 'I 
got so used to being bad at it, I didn't want to give up once I got good.' 
Skinner smiled at the memory and the crowd again rippled with respectful mirth.

"Fox Mulder never gave up on anything in his life. Not his sister, definitely 
not his partner, not on finding the Truth. Every day, no matter how few the 
leads or how cold the trail, he went out and kept searching."

"We're here today to honor not just the man, but his quest for the truth. We're 
here to honor the partnership he held so sacred. We're here to remember a man 
that many reviled in jealousy, some considered insane, but no one dismissed out 
of hand. If he left us nothing else, he left us an example of how to live, how 
to love and how to never, ever give up. I'm a better agent for having worked 
with him and a better man for having known him. There is not a single doubt in 
my mind -- he will be missed." 

Location: Unknown
Time: 23:47

The virtue of delivering drugs by enema was that they bypassed the small 
intestine's private line to the liver and offered the blood and brain the full 
effect of the narcotics in less than half a minute. Any resistance from any 
ghost detainee after being treated with the standard enema was 100% futile. With 
satisfaction the team members observed the detainee's eyes widen and then slowly 
roll back into his head, the detainee's respiration evened out. Now the team 
members rolled the detainee onto his back where he was quickly dressed in adult 
diapers and clothed in white cotton underwear, t-shirt, drawstring pants and 
shirt. His feet were placed in cotton tube socks and white deck shoes. The 
detainee's wrists were wrapped in cotton gauze and restrained in tight fitting 
handcuffs. 

All of team X except for the team leader left the holding room. The team leader 
than gathered the man's clothing into a garbage bag. As he was retrieving the 
clothing that was around the gurney, a wallet fell from the destroyed pair of 
pants. The team leader indulged himself and flipped open the wallet. Reading the 
name quickly and then flipping the wallet closed, he placed the identification 
back in the black bag, along with his gloves, sealed it and headed toward the 
incinerator with its contents. 
Within seconds the team leader completely forgot the name of the person. 

As of 0001 hours, he noted on his watch, the subject had entered a class under a 
residential directive allowing the CIA to capture and hold specific classes of 
suspects without accounting for them to the public, or revealing the conditions 
they faced in a prison on foreign soil. Guilty or not he was now heading for 
Flight N44982, a Private Lear Jet operated by the CIA, heading for a Black Site 
where he would most likely be interrogated, tortured and hopefully die quickly 
after the information he held was extracted.

Fox W. Mulder, recently of the FBI, was now officially and unofficially 
'ghosted'. 

Act 1 Scene 1
Weathersbury, Vermont
7:06 p.m.

"The man who arrested you," Dr. Conrad began carefully, studying his patient's 
face. 
His eyes flicked down to the open folder in his lap. "Mulder."

Robbie Briese seemed at that moment to disappear into himself, his eyes 
retreating to the ornate Kashan rug on the psychotherapist's floor. In moments 
of discomfort or silence, "Robbie" often explored the dusty red Persian carpet, 
seemingly finding some sort of meaning or even solace in its organized chaos of 
flowers, knots, and amoeba-like patterns. His permanent state of amnesia and the 
simplicity it had brought to Robbie's life had opened him to a world of new 
perception.

"Robbie?" Dr. Conrad murmured gently. "Adam?"

Robbie's eyes returned to the older man with the mention of the name he had 
taken years ago, following his rebirth. The first man, the last innocent in a 
world of pain, his foster "father" had informed him during a lull between the 
lunch crowd and the late afternoon crush. That innocence had disappeared when 
that man, Mulder, yielded up a glimpse into Hell itself. Robbie had refused to 
see his smiling, soft-spoken tormentor, and until now, Dr. Conrad had not spoken 
his name.

What Robbie had assumed to be an act of compassion in fact was Dr. Conrad's 
recognition that he must tread cautiously. Robbie had come to look forward to 
his long sessions with the patient old European, even if he felt no connection 
to Conrad's revelations about Robbie's abusive parents, dark acts of childhood 
malevolence, and resurrection on a New York highway. It was almost as if Conrad 
were some benevolent djinn sharing 1,001 tales over a sea of elaborately woven 
silk.

"I don't want to talk about him," Robbie grunted in a tremulous voice. "Please."

"Fox Mulder is an FBI agent," Dr. Conrad continued. "He lives in Washington, 
enjoys old movies and baseball, and, like you, he is tormented by loss. His 
sister disappeared when he was but a boy, and this has driven his quest for 
order and his compassion particularly for the young. Agent Mulder has been very 
concerned about you. He is just a man -- from everything I have been able to 
gauge, a very decent and gentle man."

Robbie's eyes were fevered with terror. "He wants to know what I saw. He 
murdered 
John."

"Your friend was ready to kill Agent Mulder," Conrad softly reminded him. "Agent 
Mulder is concerned by your fear of him, afraid that somehow it may reflect on 
his own emotional state. But he intends you no harm. This I promise. Do you 
think you could help him?"

"Keep him away from me."

Conrad nodded. "As you wish. However, we need to deal with your fear, Robbie. We 
need to banish the monsters, exorcise these demons you associate with Agent 
Mulder."

Robbie's red head began to twitch vigorously from side to side. "No."

The boy was about to run, Dr. Conrad could see it. Not from the facility, of 
course -- an individual of Robbie's unique skills had to be contained. Not that 
he had shown any propensity to use his talents after opening the Pandora's box 
in Mulder's head. 
"Adam" had abandoned his zeal to wipe clean the collective conscious of society, 
and subsequently, his "victims" had regained their memory -- including their 
memory of the fresh-faced boy in the Manhattan deli. He had no past to which to 
return, no present that would accept him.

No, Dr. Conrad could see Robbie retreat to the comforting den of his clean, 
simple, uncluttered mind. He had invested weeks just to reach this point -- 
there was ample time, and ample reward in patience.

"Robbie," he drawled, templing his fingers beneath his chin, "I wonder if it 
might not help if you were to begin a journal -- a private journal of your own 
thoughts and fears. Begin with Agent Mulder, if you wish. Perhaps if you commit 
your anxieties to paper, if you can study them in cold black and white, they 
won't seem as terrifying."

Robbie blinked warily at this man he had come to trust. Dr. Conrad reminded him 
somewhat of his friend Mr. Marxmann -- weary of the world's pain and wise to its 
evil. As if the two had forged some kind of psychic link. His sole remaining 
regret about relinquishing his talent had been returning Mr. Marxmann to his 
painful memories of the Nazi camps.

"Private," Robbie finally savored. "No one would see them."

"Not even myself," Conrad assured him with a fatherly smile. "Staff will be 
instructed not to so much as touch it, under penalty of unemployment. Perhaps we 
can find you a lockbox -- you would be the sole key holder."

Robbie relaxed in his chair. Dr. Conrad nodded contentedly.

**
"I would have had him begging to tell us," Charlie proclaimed, flopping into the 
chair, vacated moments before by the young amnesiac. "He'd remember things he 
never knew in the first place."

Conrad Strughold chuckled sadly. "Always with the sledgehammer approach, yes, my 
brash young friend?"

Charlie was merely bragging, too cocky to realize the magnitude of his 
impertinence. 
Men had died for questioning Strughold's prerogatives, and those who hadn't 
often would ultimately have welcomed death into their parlor. However, these 
were different days. Reliable colleagues were growing harder to find -- or to 
keep -- and those willing to pay the price for the greater good even rarer. 
Charlie substituted foolhardiness for courage, acted in his own interests, which 
fortunately coincided with that greater good. 

A blast from the past, young Scully might have called it. Strughold had been 
notified following Mulder's trace on the old gypsy's camp tattoo -- staying 
ahead of the Israelis alone required extensive global networking – and had been 
amused to learn that his psychic "protégé" had cultivated his own successor. In 
this case, the sorcerer's apprentice possessed a wizardry far more potent -- and 
dangerous -- than his master's. To Strughold, Adam's unique ability amounted to 
an amusing parlor trick, something of interest perhaps to the preening 
adolescents in the CIA or the NSA. There was far more at stake for Strughold and 
his colleagues than some mere reshuffling of geopolitical power.

What captured his attention was the name at the head of the boy's criminal case 
file -- Fox Mulder. Adam refused to discuss the events leading to his 
apprehension, and clearly was terrified by the inquisitive Agent Mulder. Given 
Adam's reported talent, the implication was obvious. The boy had peered into 
Pandora's box.

Strughold had had him transferred to this rural facility in Vermont to unlock 
what Adam had secured deeply inside his own psyche. The documentation had been 
flawless, and few questions had been asked -- the staff and administration had 
seemed only too eager to be rid of their haunted, and haunting, young charge.

**

The man in the Sunkist VW van smiled grimly with satisfaction as the red LED 
bleeped to life. The range was incredible -- although dosing the target had been 
a dicey proposition, involving split-second timing and an encyclopedic knowledge 
of electronics, he now was ensconced safely in the parking lot of a Brit-themed 
pub a quarter-mile away. The vehicle's day-glo gaudiness in fact provided a 
perfect camouflage -- he was one more unreconstructed hippie tripping through 
the Wal-Mart-free land of maple syrup and organic zealots.

Of course, he could easily have terminated the subject. The facility was 
reasonably fortified, but the kind of system necessary to keep him out would 
have attracted every hidden federal eye and ear out here in the Vermont 
wilderness, especially in this post-9/11 world.

If you only knew what wolves were slavering at the threshold, he mused.

No, even he had to fly under the radar: For the time, he had to keep his deal 
with the devils, although he could sense their suspicion each time he entered 
the room. 
And why not, he conceded? Placing himself in the camp of the angels was a 
precarious proposition, to say the least, especially considering tonight's task.

Killing the boy outright would have been merciful. The man in the van was able 
to separate the import of his task from the enormity of its cruelty, but he was 
perhaps an unfeeling man, not an unthinking drone. It was the only way, 
whichever outcome resulted. The old Nazi was making progress, though not enough 
for his idiot "protégé" Charlie. Briese was growing to trust Strughold, and it 
was only a matter of time before the boy opened up about whatever they'd put in 
Mulder's head. He'd been told only that it was of "cataclysmic" significance, 
and Briese would have no idea what to make of it, but for Strughold, it would be 
a defining piece of the jigsaw. 
The old Nazi already possessed the adjoining piece, although he did not realize 
it. 

He cranked the heat up a notch and manipulated the keys and toggles of the small 
device he'd brought for the job. Better living through atrocity, he grinned 
mirthlessly. 
He was convinced that only an outmoded sense of honor had prevented the Japanese 
from claiming global primacy decades ago -- the technology in his hand had been 
nurtured for nearly a half-century, and was capable of so much more than the 
most fertile sci-fi hack could imagine. It was a biomedical miracle, but one 
that would never cure a dying child or mend a diseased mind. It was the stuff of 
dreams, in the hands of some of the most vile monsters ever to inhabit a 
paranoiac's nightmare.

Six days earlier, an orderly in the employ of "Dr. Conrad" had unwittingly 
delivered a payload of nearly 50,000 nanobots into Robbie Briese's bloodstream 
along with the thorazine used to suppress his "powers." Not that the sedative 
was necessary -- the kid had lost his appetite for mind-gobbling. The nanobots, 
assembled by yet other machines of confounding complexity, had been built for 
one simple task: To repair what a catastrophe on a New York interstate and 
Robbie Briese's suppressed guilt had torn asunder.

Even assuming Briese's amnesia was psychogenic -- produced by the subconscious 
rather than the grill of a Peterbilt -- his associate was confident the nanobots 
would do their job, repairing pathways and synapses, rebooting circuits the 
boy's own pain had shorted out, defragging scraps of memory scattered but not 
lost. At roughly 0.01 micrometer -- half the size of the smallest nanobots known 
to the outside world -- these miraculous machines would be virtually 
undetectable in any reasonably rigorous medical exam.

Under ordinary circumstances, Robbie Briese, AKA Adam, would have exhibited an 
earthshaking recovery, would have been restored whole to the world and his 
family. However, in this case, the cure would kill, or at least chase Mulder's 
demons back into a black hole where Strughold would be unable to extricate them. 
The monster we know often is infinitely more frightening than the lurker in the 
dark.

Although the boy had attempted to deflect Strughold with small talk and 
innocuous insights during their last few sessions, his very dissembling revealed 
his newly rebooted terror. 

The man in the tangerine van recalled the cautionary wisdom of Pogo Possum, the 
marsupial philosopher of the cartoon pages who had been a staple of his 
childhood.

"'We have seen the enemy, and he is us,'" Alex Krycek murmured.

**

"Leave me alone," Adam growled, rocking on his bed. He glanced again about the 
ceiling, searching for the cameras that indeed were not there. Strughold had 
insisted complete trust was tantamount to extracting the young man's suppressed 
intelligence, and the discovery of unnecessary surveillance equipment would 
destroy that faith. 

Indeed, Adam had come to implicitly trust Strughold, the closest thing to a 
father figure he'd encountered since that day in the deli with the alien. The 
alien had murmured and empathized and promised, but in the end had revealed 
himself. The things he had seen in "Mulder's" mind were real, somewhere -- Adam 
knew his imagination had fled long ago with his memory. 

A memory which now had returned to haunt Adam. Initially, he'd rationalized 
"Robbie" away as some unwelcome, malevolent houseguest, rather than the true 
psyche of the shell Adam had come to inhabit. Robbie whispered in Adam's ears, 
taunted his resistant host with dark notions and fevered dares and invitations. 
He'd shared stories of cruelty and violence inflicted by and upon him -- them; 
of the fear he'd -- they'd -- visited upon Ron and Sharon Briese, his neighbors, 
his classmates, his teachers.

Before he'd grown content with his life with Max and Betty Stein and the 
comforting clamor of the deli, Adam had exhaustively researched the topic of 
amnesia. He was an intelligent young man, and he recognized that, somewhere, he 
had known another existence. But these stories "Robbie" had spun -- they 
couldn't conceivably be true. The dark evil Robbie described couldn't possibly 
be a part of him.

But, slowly, instinctively, Adam had recognized the ring of truth. Why do you 
think they didn't come looking for you? Robbie sneered. Probably afraid you'd 
come back someday, their bad seed. Now they know, they probably wish that semi 
had sent you to hell instead of the looney bin.

It was a truth too staggering to accept, that this soulless, sadistic thing 
was…him. 

Then it came to Adam in a crushing wave of relief and horror.

The alien. He knew its secrets, its plans, its nature, and "Mulder" was aware he 
knew. It couldn't afford to raise suspicion by killing or taking him -- his 
human colleagues at the FBI knew what he and Mr. Marxmann had done. Mulder had 
created Robbie, planted these lies in his head, made him question his sanity and 
distrust his perceptions. 

His first thought was to share his insights with Dr. Conrad. Certainly he'd know 
who to tell, some way to deal with the threat "Mulder" posed. However, Adam was 
reluctant to expose the kind old man to such danger -- Dr. Conrad reminded him 
in many ways of Mr. Marxmann. And what if the psychiatrist didn't believe Adam's 
theory? What if, instead, Dr. Conrad believed Adam's story about this 
psychically invasive alien to be merely a delusion he'd concocted to discount 
the vicious acts "Robbie" had fabricated? He was a shrink, and Adam had learned 
from his stints at Bellevue that they tended to think in such twisted ways.

No, drastic action was required here, something dramatic to convince Dr. Conrad 
of the Truth.

**

Krycek started at the insistent thumping. Depositing the device in the driver's 
door pocket, he grinned sheepishly at the pudgy face in the window and feigned a 
yawn.

"This ain't a KOA campground, friend," the middle-aged man stated as the window 
rolled past his hawk-like nose. Krycek was prepared at any given moment to deal 
with any impediments to his mission (via the Tokarev tucked into the waistband 
of his jeans) but the man's tragic comb-over and the windbreaker hawking The Ale 
and Steer signaled only a minor annoyance.

"Hey, sorry, man."

"Yeah, well," the pub owner grunted eloquently. "This is a private lot, and you 
don't look like you got the price of a Pepsi on you. So why don't you find 
another place to flop? Maybe Kerrigan's down the road -- it'd serve the son-of-
a-bitch right."

"Ah, yeah, sure," Krycek mumbled, portraying embarrassment and twisting the key 
from accessory to ignition. As the pistons popped noisily to life, the owner 
stepped away, then planted his feet and crossed his arms in an expectant, 
authoritative gesture. For a spilt second, Krycek considered the Tokarev. He 
waggled his fingers and smiled weakly as he backed out of the spot and belched 
black smoke into the street.

Five miles down the highway, Krycek discovered a far more raucous and chaotic 
setting for his surveillance: A faux-cowboy bar nestled incongruously in a 
clearing of firs. The lot was largely full, but a Vermont wrangler in an S-10 
yanked out of a spot in the fifth row, spitting gravel.

Krycek settled in and retrieved the device. Red flashed through the cab of the 
van -- the second LED flared angrily.

There were two possibilities. The first, system failure or malfunction, was not 
an option, at least according to Krycek's associates in the Pacific Rim. The 
nanobots were self-repairing and, when necessary, self-replicating.

The nanobots also were designed to cease function and degrade with the failure 
of their host. The second alternative. Krycek knew the microscopic machines had 
done their job.

A nanosecond of weariness washed through him. Then he locked the device in the 
glove compartment, wrenched the VW's door open, and headed for the noise…

**

Charlie's moment of petty vindication regarding the cameras was wiped clean as 
he dashed for Adam's toilet. Strughold ignored the retching sounds from within 
the restroom, containing his nearly homicidal fury.

"And you are positive this was a self-inflicted act?" he asked the security 
chief in low tones laden with menace as he glared at Adam.

"Door was locked," the chief noted as calmly as possible. He, too, had 
recommended surveillance cameras, but the scary old kraut would scarcely 
appreciate that nuance. 
"We kept him on suicide watch, just as a matter of routine. No belt, no laces, 
no pipes or rafters, no weight-bearing shelves, nothing sharp."

Strughold's glacial eyes met the guard's. "I'm not interested in procedure. Was 
this young man murdered?"

"No." It came out cracked and weak. "Although I have to say, it takes an awful 
strong desire to off yourself to do it this way."

"Hmm…" Strughold stared again at the pulped horror that was Adam/Robbie's head, 
at the damaged bed frame and the blood-soaked mattress on the floor beside the 
corpse. Nothing in their last "session" would have indicated Adam capable of 
repeatedly bashing his skull against the corner of the frame until his diseased 
brain splattered into gelatinous meat. Strughold's only guess was that the boy 
somehow had regained the memory of his sociopathic deeds and had managed to fool 
him. 
Trust had backfired: Adam had chosen death over the potential loss of "Dr. 
Conrad's" friendship.

Strughold chuckled sadly, despite himself. Had the boy only known what dark 
deeds his "therapist" perpetrated over the past 60 years. He sobered; his 
conduit into Mulder's mind was irrevocably sealed.

A spot of black-and-white in Strughold's peripheral vision ended his black 
ruminations. The journal was placed squarely in the center of Adam's writing 
desk, as if on exhibit. The book anchored a folded sheet of ruled paper.

Strughold waved the security chief aside as Charlie emerged from the toilet. The 
younger man glanced at the ceiling tiles as he sidestepped Briese's shattered 
shell, halting instantly as a soft, chilling chuckle filled the room.

"Yes, Adam," Strughold whispered almost warmly as he scanned the brief note his 
charge had left him. "That's my boy." He was smiling as he turned to Charlie. 
Strughold handed him the note and left the room briskly, journal under his arm.

"Dr. Conrad -- I thought you should know what Agent Mulder really is. I put 
everything in Mulder's brain into the journal -- I hope it helps. You need to 
tell the government or something, unless they're in on it with him. Sorry I'm 
doing things this way, but he'd find me one way or another, sooner or later. If 
I'm dead, maybe he'll think he's in the clear. You have to catch him. Adam"
Charlie grinned. "Don't worry, you sick little fuck," he murmured.

Georgetown Memorial Medical Center
the next day
10:00 am

Charlie tried to appear interested as the nurse chatted merrily. It seemed that 
opening the door to his sister's room was an occasion to update him on her care 
and condition -- as if he truly gave a tinker's dam.

"Dr. Leonard thinks this fugue state is merely temporary," the nurse 
continued. "Please don't let her condition stop you or your mother from 
visiting. She needs all the love she can get right now."

Charlie shot her a disarming smile. "She's my big sister. I want her well and 
out of here as soon as humanly possible."

The nurse returned his smile with an adoring one of hers. "With family like you, 
I'm sure that will be quite soon." The key turned in the lock and the door 
opened. "I'll be right at the desk, if you need anything. As you can see, she's 
still, uh, restrained -- for her own protection, of course," she added hastily.

"Yes, I understand," Charlie said mournfully. "I just hope it won't be necessary 
that much longer. It's so painful for my mother to see her like this."

"Well, if you need anything, just push the call button. Have a nice visit," the 
nurse said and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Dana," Charlie drawled. "Hey, big Sis. How're you doin', huh? Feelin' a little 
under the weather? Oh, don't bother to get up -- I can find my own seat," he 
said glibly. He grabbed a ladder back chair from the corner of the room and 
turned it so that he could rest his arms on the back. "So, you'll never guess 
where I've been," he prattled. "Remember that plot in Resurrection Cemetery -- 
the one next to Grams and Gramps? Well that's where Mom dumped your old pal 
Mulder. Yup, right there with her own mom and dad. Bet Gramps would be rollin' 
in his grave if he knew the bastard had been screwin' you for years without the 
benefit of marriage. But then, little chance they'll be meeting up -- since I 
know your boyfriend is probably deep-fried by now," he chuckled. 

"Yessirree, it was some funeral. That bald guy -- Skinner, your boss? He gave a 
great eulogy. Of course, everyone tap danced around your whereabouts. Mom is 
still a little sensitive that one of us ended up in the Looney bin, you know," 
he said with casual shrug. "Boy, I wonder if Tara had a thing for Mulder. Maybe 
they were doing it on the side -- when you weren't watching. Anyway, she did a 
great job playing the mourner. She was bawling her eyes out. But then I didn't 
get a chance to see you bury dear brother Billy, so maybe she gets that way at 
funerals. Some women are just natural caterwaulers."

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know we planted him -- so I guess that means 
you're on your own. C'mon, Sis. Now that he's gone you have to see some reason. 
I could get you a great job on the inside, Sis. We could work together. Wouldn't 
that be swell?" he sneered. He didn't wait long for an answer when she continued 
to stare into space, totally without expression. "No, you're right. You probably 
won't let bygones be bygones. So I guess you're going to end up here -- or 
someplace like it. Oh, don't worry. I have every intention of keeping you alive. 
See, as long as you're around, Mom won't be wondering what I'm up to and that 
gives me the leeway I've come to enjoy. Sometimes being the forgotten Scully is 
a good thing."

He stood and put the chair back against the wall and then walked over to place 
his hand on her cheek. "I really am sorry it came to this, Dana. But now that 
he's dead -- well, it's for the best." He patted her cheek twice and then pushed 
the button on the rail.

"Yes, Mr. Scully?"

"I don't want to tire my sister. I think I should go and come back tomorrow," he 
said quietly. When the nurse came to unlock the door and let him out, he turned 
to Dana and brushed an imaginary tear from his eye. "Get better, Sis. Please. We 
need you," he said, clearing his throat as he bit his lip. The nurse squeezed 
his shoulder comfortingly. 

The sedatives were strong, but not strong enough to protect her from her 
brother's taunts. The thought of Charlie at Mulder's funeral when she was 
viciously kept at bay hurt her worse than anything he could have said or done.

Dana let the fog of drugs surround her and drifted off to sleep. When she opened 
her eyes, she knew she was dreaming. She was in the old cemetery, dressed in her 
best black suit. The sun was shining but it held no warmth. Her mother came 
over, her arms reached out and embraced her, but Scully couldn't feel the hug. 
She was back to the numbness she'd felt before she'd gone to the basement. 

She didn't want to look at the grave. She knew the casket was there, she could 
see it just outside her field of vision. It was too much, too real. She bit her 
lip to stop the vision, but she couldn't taste the blood. She choked out a sob.

Before, when he was in danger or injured, she'd been terrified of this day. That 
fear was a living thing, deep in her soul, threatening to break free, to rip her 
to shreds. She looked down and saw blood on her fingers. It took her a moment to 
realize the blood was coming from a tiny cut, caused by a thorn from the white 
rose she held in her hand. She tore a few of the petals from the flower and 
dropped to her knees. With tender purpose, she placed the petals on the casket, 
over the name Fox Mulder.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she looked up. It was Bill, dressed in his 
dark navy uniform.

"He's not here," Bill said before she could speak.

"Bill, what are you talking about? What do you mean?" she begged, hope trying to 
conquer her fear.

"He's not with us. He's not here."

Her face crumbled as the sobs broke through. "He's not in hell," she ground out 
angrily.

"No, he's not here," Bill repeated, pointing to the casket at his feet. "He's 
still alive."

If not for the drugs, she would have jolted awake. As it was, the dream ended 
and 
she slept but no longer dreamed.

Act 1 Scene 2 Location Unknown
Time Unknown

Consciousness returned through a hazy cloud of pain. His whole body ached. He 
could feel the tenderness in his belly with every breath he took. Mulder closed 
his eyes as the recollection of the treatment he'd been given earlier came 
flooding back. The Black Ops soldiers rough treatment and relentless beatings, 
the feel of cold concrete against his skin. Good Lord, what had he gotten 
himself into this time? His face felt tight, causing him to reach up and touch 
the tender flesh around his right eye. Pain shot through his shoulders with the 
movement. His right eye was swollen nearly shut and he strained with his left 
eye to view the nylon band that bound his wrist far too tightly. How long had he 
been bound like this? 

He felt sluggish and foggy from being drugged. His ears had that plugged up 
feeling you get at high altitudes making him feel like he existed in a vacuum. 
He tried swallowing several times but it had no effect other than to remind him 
he was extremely thirsty, hunger pains gripped his empty stomach. Where the hell 
was he? 

Flashes of memory of his abduction and brutal treatment suddenly came back to 
him. He closed his eyes for a moment willing the apprehension that suddenly 
washed over him to subside. As his awareness became clearer he opened his eyes 
again to take stock of his surroundings. 

He was lying on a bed, not much more than a cot actually, with a thin mattress 
covered in rough hopsack. His hands were bound, though at least this time they 
were in front of him and his feet were unrestrained. He appeared to be in a cell 
of some kind. Three walls were whitewashed concrete block, the forth looked like 
anchor fencing reaching from floor to ceiling with a gated entrance. It felt 
hotter than hell. A single fluorescent fixture was attached to the ceiling. A 
commode was the only other furnishing. As thirsty as he was, he was damned if 
he'd drink from the commode.

Feeling the need to relieve himself, he struggled to sit up.
The movement brought with it a wave of dizziness and he reached out to his right 
with his bound hands to steady himself. Nausea soon followed and he fought the 
urge to retch. Staggering to his feet, the room swam before him. He estimated 
the commode was about eight feet away. He'd either make it or end up flat on his 
face.

Using the wall for support, he made his way across the room to the commode, the 
vertigo becoming more severe as he inched his way along. Barely making it in 
time to prop himself against the wall and dry heave into it. Sweat beaded his 
forehead and trickled down his left temple. He reached up to wipe it away and 
was met with the shock of his bare scalp. More memories flooded back -- the 
Black Ops stripping him naked, shaving his head, the. . . His stomach rolled 
again, bile rose in his throat and he leaned back over the commode to empty the 
vile spit into thin air. His body shook with a sudden fear as he stood there 
propping himself against the wall with his bound hands. How the fuck had he 
ended up in this situation?

When the urge that had brought him to this side of the room returned, he reached 
down to free himself and found he'd been handed yet another undignified 
circumstance; a diaper. "Christ!" he shouted to no one in particular and rolled 
back against the wall. One way or the other he'd get himself out of this.

He'd ended up on the floor, unable to combat the dizziness and nausea while he 
fought with his clothing with bound hands. He pulled the diaper off with disgust 
and wadded it into a ball, stuffing it in the corner behind the commode. 
Exhausted and sweaty, he lay there against the concrete wall. It was eerily 
quiet; the sound of his own voice had even been foreign to him. He stretched his 
jaw again, but it did little to alleviate the vacuum in his head. Something warm 
was trickling down the left side of his throat. That something turned out to be 
blood, coming from his left ear. He needed medical attention and water. Someone 
had put him in here; it was about time he found out who it was. 

Rolling over on to all fours, he pulled himself back up the wall. The vertigo 
came back almost instantly and he staggered, leaning his forehead against it for 
support as he tried to ride it out. A moment of clarity hit him and he did his 
best to piss into the toilet leaning there against the wall. 

The small relief was short lived. The dizziness returned with the slightest 
movement and another painful spasm wracked his body. He gasped for air in the 
sweltering heat. Breathing hard he propped himself, willing himself to relax. 
"Get a hold of yourself, get a hold of yourself," he whispered to no one. These 
were torture tactics, tactics he was well aware of as a government official. 
Someone was trying to break him. The question was why?

Still fighting the dizziness he palmed his way to the anchor fencing and looked 
through it. The cells or cages extended up both sides of the hall. None of them 
appeared to be occupied.

"Hey!" he yelled. It was a weird felling, not being able to hear ones own voice. 
"Hey, anybody here? Dammit! Why am I here?" He yanked heavily on the fencing. "I 
need some help here! Can you fuckin' bastards get me some water!" Silence. He 
leaned heavily against the fencing then, the wire pressing into the flesh of his 
abused arms. 

**

"Go tell Mr. Strughold his patient is awake," the guard said as he watched the 
video as Mulder staggered his way around. He and several other guards had had a 
good laugh as they'd watched the prisoner wrestle himself out of the undignified 
diaper and piss into the toilet. Now he was just making a lot of racket. 

There was a muffled banging sound from somewhere. Lights came on overhead in 
the hallway and Mulder teetered back from the wire. More Black Ops soldiers came 
into view and he shuddered at the thought of more beatings. Behind the guards 
strode a heavy set man with graying hair and a thick mustache. 

Mulder guessed him to be in his seventies. Standing there in the center of the 
cell, his legs splayed in an effort to prop himself up, Mulder watched as one of 
the soldiers unlocked the gate allowing the group to enter the cell. Two of the 
soldiers came to stand on either side of him, one walked around behind him. He 
wasn't sure, but the insignias on their uniforms looked vaguely familiar. "So, I 
finally get to meet you, Mr. Mulder," the heavyset man said with a thick German 
accent.

"If you just wanted to meet me you could have called the office. We wouldn't 
have had to go through all this," Mulder couldn't help but keep the sarcasm out 
of his voice as he motioned around the cell.

"This is no joke Mr. Mulder. You have caused my organization a lot of 
displeasure recently and I intend to find out why."

"And what organization is that? This doesn't appear to be a top notch health 
club I'm in."

The guard who had been standing behind him grabbed him roughly by the 
shoulders. For a moment Mulder welcomed the support until it became clear that 
his actions were not intended as a gesture of concern.

"Your health is the least of my concerns, Mr. Mulder," the old German assured 
him. "I believe we can obtain the information we are looking for from you 
whether you want to cooperate or not."

It occurred to Mulder then that what these men wanted from him might not be just 
information. The thought made his stomach roll again and he fought the urge to 
gag. The German approached him; standing barely inches from him he leaned into 
his face. "You have some artifacts in your possession that are of value to my 
party. I want to know where you obtained them and where they are now. It is also 
my understanding that your exposure to them has affected your brain chemistry," 
the German's tone was icy as his eyes scanned Mulder from head to toe. "You have 
developed a connection to their originators, an ability, clairvoyance, humans 
just aren't capable of."

They'd given him hell, Mulder thought but his fuzzy brain processed the 
reference to himself as "human" and thought it odd. "I don't know what you're 
talking about," Mulder replied, feeling suddenly defiant. "I don't know who the 
fuck you are but from the sound of things you're even crazier than I am . . ."

It was a foolish move on his part. He caught the slight nod from the older man 
as the soldier behind him yanked him backwards and spun him around to face the 
wall. One big hand grabbed the back of his skull and thrust him roughly forward 
and down on his knees. Even with his hands bound in front of him, he was unable 
to prevent the guard from submerging his head into the toilet. He bucked, trying 
to find purchase for his hands, gain leverage and force the guard off of him. 
Unprepared for the assault, he had little breath in his lungs. He closed his 
eyes and fought the urge to inhale the putrid water mixed with his own urine. As 
the bubbles left his mouth, his lungs ached for air. He felt lightheaded, 
certain he was about to drown.

Suddenly he was being pulled from the toilet, pain shot through his chest as he 
gasped for air. He opened his eyes only to find the rim of the commode coming 
back at him. His head went under in mid breath, the foul water invading his 
nostrils and mouth; he gagged instantly forcing the air out of his lungs. He 
gagged several more times before he was lifted out of the toilet. He spit water 
and gasped violently for air. His eyes burned. 

The soldier hauled him up on his feet; another spun him back to face the German 
forcing him to take several unsteady steps as he fought to suck in air. The cell 
and everyone in it spun around him, his stomach muscles clenched with pain as he 
gagged again, forcing more of the putrid water from his stomach. His eyes filled 
with tears and he closed them for a moment, willing himself to get through this. 
Scully was out there somewhere, she'd always found him before.

"Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?" the old German asked as the two 
soldiers released their grip on him and stepped back. Mulder teetered before the 
man. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldier to his right pull a baton 
from his belt.

"I don't know -- what you're ask -- ing of me," Mulder gasped out still trying 
to catch his breath. He tasted the putrid water and was unable to prevent 
himself from gagging again.

"You have made a career of interfering with our program," the German began, 
stepping forward into Mulder's space once again. "It has begun to affect our 
timetable for acquisition. I want to know how you knew about the Milford Bridge 
incident? What you knew know of our plans in Arizona?" the old German asked with 
unnerving calm. "You have a connection, a connection to something more powerful 
than yourself. I think you've known that for some time even though you've hidden 
it well. It is that connection we must understand, Mr. Mulder."

Milford Bridge? For a few moments Mulder had no idea what this man was referring 
to and then it hit him, the bridge in Pennsylvania, the one he'd been drawn to 
along with hundreds of others. His foresight had saved almost all of them from 
certain death. He really didn't know how he'd come to be there at just the right 
time but this man was right. There was a connection, between himself, the 
artifacts, and the Anasazi man, all of it. Something he wasn't able to 
understand just yet but knew enough about to try and protect. He'd use a tactic 
his enemies had always used, deny everything. "Maybe I'm just smarter than you."

Mulder caught the slight nod from his captor once again and knew he'd just made 
another mistake. The heavy baton connected with the back of both his knees. 

"AHHHHHHHH," he cried as pain shot instantly up and down his legs. He went down 
in a heap on the concrete floor, desperately throwing his bound hands out in 
front of him at the last minute to break the fall. He lay there for only a 
moment, trying once again to catch his breath before he was yanked violently 
onto his knees. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, pulling himself from the 
guards grasp and looking up at the German. "I'm an American citizen! You can't 
do this! I have rights!"

"Dead men have no rights, Mr. Mulder," the German's voice was cold. "Your 
remains were buried in Arlington just yesterday."

A sudden fear hit him as he realized the meaning of the man's comment. "What the 
fuck are you talking about?"

"You burned to death in a building explosion. Your funeral was befitting anyone 
who has died in the line of duty," the old German finished, tossing several 
glossy eight by ten photographs on the floor in front of Mulder. "You're a 
ghost, Mr. Mulder, though I'm sorry we didn't get you out of there sooner. I'm 
afraid this dizziness you're experiencing may be caused by some damage to your 
inner ear."

Fuck, he was probably partially deaf. Mulder crawled closer to the photos and 
sifted through them. The burned out shell of a building, and several photos of 
burned corpses. His mind scanned the images for a memory. He'd tracked the kids 
to that warehouse; he'd been talking to Scully on his cell when a shockwave from 
something had knocked him off his feet. "You killed those kids to get me?" he 
frowned, his lips curled in disgust.

"It was the perfect opportunity, Mr. Mulder."

Shit, he thought as he sifted through the rest of the photos,: a flag draped 
casket, Skinner, Tara and Mrs. Scully seated next to Charles Scully and Tara's 
kids, a smattering of his fellow F.B.I. alumni. They all thought he was dead, 
very, truly dead. Nobody would be out there looking for him if they all thought 
he'd been killed. 

Nobody except one. 

It occurred to him then that something was missing. He searched the photos 
again; Scully was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Scully?" Why isn't she in these photos?" He looked up again. "Answer 
me, Dammit!. Where is she?" Mulder struggled to his feet, staggering to his left 
and almost falling again until one of the soldiers mercifully reached out to 
steady him. He wrenched himself away and staggered towards the German until they 
were almost face to face. "I want to know what you've done with her! I want to 
know now!"

"Dana Scully is quite safe, Mr. Mulder," the German's voice held an edge of 
satisfaction to it, "In the psychiatric ward at Georgetown Memorial Hospital."

"You son of a bitch!" Mulder said, lunging at the man without thinking. He got 
off one blow to the man's chest with his bound fists before he was wrestled to 
the ground by the guardsmen. One of the men bound his legs as he struggled. "You 
can't do this!" he shouted as he fought them. Blood now seeped from underneath 
the plastic ties that shackled his wrists. A cloth was placed in his mouth, bile 
rose in his throat again and he gagged. The four men picked him up, carrying him 
out of the cell and placing him on a gurney attended by two men in white scrubs. 
One of them was testing a syringe. Even though he still fought them, it only 
took a minute for them to secure him on the gurney, rolling him momentarily onto 
his side while the man with the syringe plunged it into his left hip. "That will 
only take a few minutes to take effect, Mr. Strughold," he said.

"It appears, Mr. Mulder, that we will have to obtain the information we require 
another way," the German's voice was the last thing Mulder remembered.

Act 1 Scene 3
Lab 
Location Unknown

The steady muffled beep of a heart monitor was somehow calmly reassuring, Mulder 
thought as consciousness returned and the world materialized around him. Somehow 
between the time he'd zoned out and now someone had come to his rescue, 
snatching him from the gates of hell once again.

Hospitals had always been on his list of least favorite places, associating them 
always with pain, that acrid smell of disinfectant and heartache. Right now, as 
he fought to open his eyes, he was certain all that would change, especially if 
Scully was sitting by his bedside.

He'd learned over years of searching for truths that one often didn't like what 
they found when they got to the end of their search. This was one of those 
moments. The sight that greeted him now wasn't a hospital room, nor was Scully 
by his bedside. Nobody was. He was alone, shackled by his wrists and ankles to a 
surgical table. Another restraint crossed his chest and a fourth held his head 
tight against the table's unforgiving surface. His lower back ached for support. 
He'd been stripped to the waist, from his vantage point he could barely see the 
tabs from the heart monitor stuck to his chest. Other wires tickled his scalp 
and forehead. At least the dry gag had been removed.

Unable to move his head more than a few inches either way, he strained to get a 
glimpse of his surroundings. At the moment the room was dark. He could make out 
a large surgical lamp directly above him and cabinets lining three of the four 
walls. In the shadows he could see other monitors, tanks and equipment you might 
find in a standard operating room. No, not an operating room he thought, it 
looked more like your standard morgue. The thought made him shudder 
involuntarily. He was most certainly alive, wasn't he? What would he be doing in 
a morgue, shackled like this? He suddenly understood how a bug felt awaiting 
dissection. He tugged uselessly at the restraints, the nylon pulling taut 
against his skin.

The inside of his stomach felt raw from hunger, how long had it been since he'd 
eaten anything? Laying here flat on his back, the dizziness had subsided. The 
horrible thirst he'd experienced back in the cell returned. He licked his dry 
lips and swallowed what little saliva he had. Fear had a way of drying you up. 
He had a sudden flash of Richard Dreyfus trying to spit into his scuba mask in 
JAWS, "I ain't got no spit," he'd said; frightened by the thought of the 
monstrous fish that lurked below him. Right now Mulder was ready to admit he 
knew how he felt.

"The MRI results. . . yesterday . . . negative. . ." Muffled voices, male from 
the tone, drifted just out of his range. With his damaged hearing, he couldn't 
hear more than snippets of conversation. 

". . . not looking at anything that can be surgically removed." Mulder swallowed 
hard. Cancer Man's surgeons had already removed 'something' from his head. He'd 
been drugged into oblivion that time too, fighting his way back to consciousness 
to fix Diana with a look of betrayal. 
Footsteps on linoleum, the conversation moved closer. "His EEG and PET scans are 
remarkable though."

"But they're not comparable with those Dr. Leonard obtained last year."

Dr. Leonard, Mulder thought, Scully's med school alumni friend. The doctor she'd 
confided in to treat him last year. He'd had an uneasy feeling about the man 
from the beginning. It's why he'd walked out of the hospital against her advice. 

"Leonard estimated his neural electric output and thought processes at almost 
50% above normal human range at the time. Something's occurred since that time 
to knock it down to more tolerable levels. He's obviously been able to manage 
it."

"But we're still looking at activity way beyond normal human parameters. His 
temporal lobe is lit up like a Christmas tree. It's just like the boy's."

"The scans are similar but there's something different in this patient."

At this point both men were standing on either side of him. Suddenly the light 
over Mulder's head came on. He flinched; his eyes snapping shut as the intensity 
almost blinded him. Gibson? "What boy?" Mulder asked through gritted teeth.

"Mr. Mulder," the man on his right said in a most appreciative tone. His accent 
was foreign but Mulder couldn't place it. His black hair and dark skin gave him 
a Middle Eastern appearance. The stethoscope that hung from around his neck was 
anything but reassuring. "You've come a long way to present us with a very 
unique opportunity."

"What boy?" Mulder demanded again pulling fitfully once again on his 
restraints. "Gibson Praise? Is he here too?"

Ignoring his question, the man on his left reached out to place his hand on 
Mulder's arm. He flinched at the contact. "Relax Mr. Mulder. You'll find this a 
lot less invasive if you cooperate."

"I want to know where Gibson is!" The demand was weak even to Mulder's ears.

The muffled beeping of the heart monitor grew more rapid as he became more 
agitated.

"We're going to have to sedate him again," the dark man said looking over at his 
companion.

"No, we're not getting the desired results with him sedated," the man to his 
left was taller than the other, with a lighter complexion and that same German 
accent as the man from the cell. He turned away from the table and pulled out a 
drawer. "Humans normally use a very small percentage of their brain power until 
faced with an emotionally charged situation. At which point neurons start firing 
like crazy resulting in enhanced mental clarity. We need to access this enhanced 
activity if we're going to get the information Strughold needs. We have to gain 
access to his higher consciousness."

Tying the elastic above Mulder's elbow, he poked at the skin just below it. 
"He's extremely dehydrated; I can't even find a vein."

Mulder thrashed about, the darker man came around to the other side of the 
gurney and held his arm fast to the table while he watched the German insert a 
large bore needle into the already purple flesh of the inside of his elbow. His 
eyes slammed shut again, he couldn't help but cry out with the pain. 

"This is just saline solution, Mr. Mulder, the German said. "Mr. Strughold would 
be extremely upset if we let you die from dehydration."

"You tell that son of a bitch. . ."

The hollow sound of a heavy door, footsteps drawing closer again, "I understand 
you have some results for me?" 

Even through the fog in his head, Mulder recognized the man's voice from earlier 
in the cell. The German doctor almost snapped to attention. "Mr. Strughold, 
Sir."

So this was Strughold. Controller and head honcho of this God forsaken place. 
When he spoke everyone listened and obeyed. Somewhere in the back of his mind 
the name clicked. "He is a man to be feared." Words written in his mother's 
flowing script in a diary he stumbled onto not all that long ago. A warning it 
now appeared that he would soon understand the meaning of.

"Is Mr. Mulder ready to give up his secrets yet?" he asked coming to stand next 
to the two men and leaning into Mulder's space as if to emphasize his dominance, 
and making sure Mulder could hear. Another man with a terribly disfigured face 
stood just behind him.

"I don't have any secrets and even if I did you're the last person I'd give them 
to." 
Mulder tried desperately to sneer at the man. His apprehension about Strughold's 
intentions was growing by the minute. It was a feeling, hovering just beyond his 
consciousness as if it had existed within him forever. He met Strughold's eyes. 
They stared at each other; Strughold's gaze was almost penetrating. In Mulder's 
mind the old German's face began to morph, he didn't understand it, but 
recognition began to dawn. Recognition from another time, another place. 
Strughold sensed it and smiled.

"You know who I am, don't you? And you know what I want from you," Strughold's 
voice was hushed.

"I know what you are," Mulder whispered.

"Dr. Rhinehart, you've had several days, what did you get from your imaging 
scans?" Strughold turned away to address the other German.

"Results consistent with Jason Leonard's," he answered, stepping away to snap on 
a light box that hung on the far wall. "As with the boy, the activity in his 
temporal lobe is excessive to that found normally in the human brain," Rhinehart 
continued, sliding the images into the clip on the top of the box. "However this 
patient is different. The results of these scans suggest some type of neuro 
networking throughout his brain. This is beyond our technology; Leonard wouldn't 
have been able to detect it with the equipment he had."
"What would be the purpose of this network?" Strughold seemed perplexed as he 
turned back to Mulder. 

"Based on the information you've given us about this patient and the results of 
the EEG they appear to enhance the Beta and Gamma waves in his brain. The 
frequency ranges we obtained are far above normal levels. The Beta and Gamma 
waves in the human brain are associated with active concentration, perception 
and problem solving. Results in the levels we obtained from this patient would 
allow for even higher mental thought processes. This would explain some of the 
events you have relayed to me. Why you feel he's always been a step ahead of 
you."

"See, I told you I was just smarter than you." It slipped out before Mulder 
could stop himself. Scully always hated when he used a flippant comment to cover 
his emotions. Right now as he listened to these men talk around him, his heart 
began to pound faster in apprehension. Krycek had told him some far out tale 
about just this same thing in a dark hallway of a crummy motel; about something 
that had been done to him that had gone undetected until now.

"Evidently not smart enough Mr. Mulder," the Scarred Man commented 
sarcastically. "Look where you are."

Mulder didn't want to look. He closed his eyes and tried to turn away from the 
conversation.

"You're saying his mental thought processes have been enhanced in some way, 
technologically?"

"Yes."

"Then it is possible this network is the key to the information we desire," the 
words rolled off Strughold's tongue as he reached out to caress Mulder's scalp. 
"I want to know how we gain access to it?"

"I'm not sure we can, Sir. Even if we opened his skull. . ." the dark man 
answered giving Rhinehart a confused look.

Strughold continued to caress Mulder's scalp. It was a scare tactic. God, no, 
Mulder thought to himself. Shame welled within him as tears filled his eyes once 
again. He closed them tight but not before a tear escaped and rolled slowly down 
his left cheek. Strughold wiped it away. 

"I'm not sure you understand my NEED to access it," Strughold's voice turned 
demanding. "For millennia my people have followed men like him. Yours have too 
but you confuse the search with your quest to understand the divine. The 
knowledge he possesses, the unspeakable power it would bring forth is beyond the 
comprehension of even your most gifted scientists. It is the power of creation 
itself."

Strughold looked over at the two dumbstruck doctors and then back down at 
Mulder. He reached out, grabbing the top of Mulder's skull with one big hand, 
forcing him to turn his head. "Look at me Mr. Mulder," he demanded.

Mulder opened his eyes and swallowed hard, his head ached with the intensity 
with which Strughold held him. It felt as if any moment the man could crush his 
skull with his bare hand. "You have Gibson too, don't you?" he choked out. "If 
you let him go, I'll help you."

It was a pathetic attempt on his part and he knew it.

"You are in no position to bargain with me, Mr. Mulder. Not Gibson Praise' life 
nor that of anyone else on this planet is worth enough. Gibson, though a unique 
individual does not possess your ability nor your knowledge. You understand your 
position and it frightens you doesn't it? I don't need your help Mr. Mulder. I 
WILL GET what I need from you."

"It is possible that through proper stimulation we can activate this network," 
Strughold turned back to the two doctors. "Dr. Kambatta, I require only your 
assistance to monitor him," he said, addressing the darker man.

Four other men appeared as if from nowhere at the foot of the surgical table, 
four identical men, clones Mulder realized. Strughold released his grip on 
Mulder's skull and turned to them.

"Prepare him." 

Act 2 scene 1
Georgetown Medical Center
June 12, 2006
10:15 pm

Melvin Frohike pulled at the collar of his pinstriped three-piece suit with one 
hand as he pushed the elevator button. The flowers, daisies and babies' breath, 
in a plastic vase gave him the appearance of a suitor from days long gone. In 
reality, he was on a mission, possibly a search and rescue mission.

From the minute they had heard of Mulder's untimely death, the Gunmen were 
suspicious. Sure, Mulder had done enough fool-hearty stunts in his time to meet 
his maker a dozen times over. But always, he slipped the noose, ducked the grim 
reaper. Maybe this time his luck had simply run out.

The three compadres would have simply mourned the passing of a dear friend, had 
not the second 'mishap' occurred. There wasn't a man who'd met her that didn't 
think Dana Scully had more balls than they had. More determination, more 
resilience. The woman had faced all the monsters imaginable and her own 
impending death and had looked it all square in the eye, ready to spit in it's 
face. The woman was titanium in a velvet jacket. When word arrived from Skinner 
that she'd lost it, the three assumed he meant some poor sap had come a hair's 
breath from being 'Swiss cheesed' by the fireball agent in a moment of grief-
stricken anger.

But the summary of events given to them was far worse. Skinner had gone on to 
explain that Dana Scully, the strongest woman, hell, person, anyone knew had -- 
in her grief over the death of her partner for life -- allegedly attempted 
suicide after trashing their office. To make an already horrible situation far 
worse, she had been brought to the hospital and was still under heavy sedation.

At that moment, Melvin Frohike knew something was definitely amiss. 

Langly and Byers tried to make him see reason. Yes, Scully was strong, but who 
could expect her to take the strain of losing half of herself? Wasn't it 
possible that her strength came in part from that very man they now all mourned? 
Maybe losing Mulder was the straw that finally broke the camel's back. Wasn't it 
unreasonable to assume that just because she was strong she was indestructible?

All through the discussion, Frohike listened sullenly. Yes, he agreed, it was 
possible. Yes, she'd been through so much, but always, always, Mulder was there 
to provide her with back up, comfort -- a safe place to let her emotions take 
the wheel for a while. Now that he was gone --

It was so hard to imagine not having Mulder around. Frohike kept hoping it was 
all a bad dream. It was too much that the 'rat bastards' had won the greatest of 
victories. Not only had the eliminated Mulder, they'd effectively eliminated 
Scully at the same time. Who was left to fight the impending crisis? Who would 
carry the torch now?

He almost bumped into a nurse at the desk he was so deep in thought. She turned 
and smiled at him. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see Dana Scully," he said formally, tacking on what he hoped was a 
charming smile.

The nurse smiled back until she processed the name he'd given. Then the smile 
grew more businesslike. "I'll have to check the orders left by her doctor." She 
moved around the desk and typed a few keystrokes on the computer. After a 
minute, she looked up, her expression one of pasted on sympathy. "I'm sorry, Dr. 
Leonard has restricted all visitors except immediate family."

"Immediate family?" Frohike repeated, running through a possible list of whom he 
could reasonably impersonate. "I'm her father's brother -- "

"Immediate family. Specifically, Ms. Scully's mother and brother," the nurse 
interrupted.

"What about her sister-in-law?" Frohike asked peevishly. "Or her boss?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. uh -- "

"Hornswagle. Gavin Hornswagle," the little man supplied. 

"I'm sorry Mr. . . Hornswagle. But the doctor left very explicit orders. Ms. 
Scully is at a very tenuous stage of treatment right now and it's imperative her 
doctor's orders be followed to the letter. If you'd like to leave those flowers, 
I'll make sure they're taken to her room -- once her doctor approves."

"He won't even let her have flowers?" Frohike asked incredulously.

The nurse gave him another tight-lipped smile and plucked the bouquet out of his 
hands. She then cast her gaze toward the bank of elevators down the hall before 
turning her glare upon him once again. Taking the hint, Frohike turned on his 
heel and stormed off toward the car that was just starting to close its doors.

Once on the elevator, his mind started to churn. No one was allowed to see 
Scully? What was up with that? She was being isolated and Frohike had a bad 
feeling about that. All too soon the doors of the elevator opened at the lobby 
level. He was thinking so hard he almost missed it. A bulletin board with job 
openings at the hospital posted. A quick call to Langly and Byers and he made a 
right turn down a long hallway. There had to be a way to get to Scully -- by 
hook or by crook.

5:35 pm

Melvin Frohike, or as his application read -- James Dean III, newest employee of 
the hospital cafeteria staff, pushed the car onto the service elevator and 
pushed the button for the fifth floor. Amazing how a few well-placed comments on 
records from other hospitals employment managed to land him a job serving meals. 
Sometimes it was all just too easy. 

Fortunately for him, the nurse who had shooed him away earlier had left work at 
3 when the shift changed. The 3 to midnight shift nurses barely gave him a 
second glance as he pushed the cart carrying meals down the hallway, 
distributing the trays along the way. Finally he reached the door marked 
'Scully, D.' One of the nurses saw him try the doorknob and quickly walked over 
to assist.

"I'll take that one in," said the tall brunette as she fumbled with the key to 
the door.

"Aw, shucks, pretty lady, this tray is heavy. I think they used real stones in 
the stone soup today," Frohike crooned, layering on the charisma.

She gave him a raised-eyebrow look, but unlocked the door and held it while he 
entered with the tray.

It was a very good thing he had gotten the hang of handling the food trays 
because the sight before him almost caused him to drop the one in his hands to 
the floor. Some poor creature with drab orange hair falling in clumps around her 
face sat on the bed. Her arms were tied to the bedrails, but she was sitting up. 
Her sunken eyes roamed the room, searching for something but seeing nothing. Her 
forearms were bandaged to her elbows and her lips were chapped and swollen where 
she kept chewing on them. He winced just looking at her. 

As he put the tray on the table and adjusted it over the bed, he noticed that 
she'd have to be released or someone would have to feed her. He looked over at 
the nurse.

"Can you unfasten her hands, so she can eat?" he asked, trying to sound 
businesslike when he felt anything but.

"No can do. She's a suicide. She'd use the sheets to hang herself if we let her 
up. I'll get one of the aides to come in and feed her when they get back from 
dinner break. Shouldn't be more than 45 minutes."

"But her dinner will be cold by then," he objected, schooling his voice and 
expression so he didn't sound as pissed off as he felt at the woman's attitude.

The nurse just snorted. "Like she'll notice. She's completely 'round the bend' 
if you catch my drift. It'll be fine." She motioned for Frohike to come back out 
of the room, but he stood fast.

"You know, this is my last tray and I'm on dinner break now myself -- how about 
if I feed her?" he offered. He chewed on his own lip, hoping he hadn't sounded 
too desperate.

The brunette tilted her head as she considered his suggestion. He smiled at her 
and looked as non-threatening as possible. Finally she shrugged. "Hey, it's your 
dinner hour you'll be missing. Knock yourself out. I'll be out at the desk, when 
you're ready to leave just hit the call button on the rail there." She started 
to close the door, but stopped suddenly. She pointed to a security camera 
mounted in the corner of the room. "We'll be able to see anything you do -- so 
don't try anything . . . lover boy," she warned.

He swallowed and nodded hurriedly. As the door closed, he let go the breath he'd 
been holding. He made a quick glance over at the camera -- it was just video, he 
didn't think it had sound. If he was quiet, he shouldn't raise any suspicions at 
the desk.

"Agent Scully? Dana, can you hear me?" he called softly. Now that he was close 
enough to her, he could hear her mumbling just under her breath. He called to 
her again. She just stared around the room, not seeing him, and continued to 
mumble. He leaned in closer to hear her.

"For God made not death, neither hath he pleasure in the destruction of the 
living. For he created all things that they might be: and he made the nations of 
the earth for health: and there is no poison of destruction in them, nor the 
kingdom of hell upon the earth. For justice is perpetual and immortal . . .*" 
Whatever else she was saying was lost in her mumbling.

"Scully," he tried to catch her attention with a spoonful of applesauce. 
"Scully, it's me, Frohike. Scully, please, look at me," he pleaded. 

She did look at him then, but it was only to open her mouth, childlike, waiting 
for the food as he spooned it to her lips. She licked a bit of the applesauce 
from her bottom lip and opened her mouth again expectantly.

"Scully, what's goin' on here?" he asked, this time spooning up some of the 
mashed potatoes and gravy. She accepted the food, but didn't respond to his 
questions.

"Scully, I think something very weird is going on here. I'm going to get to the 
bottom of this. You just hang in there, OK? I'm going to see what I can find 
out. We'll get you out of this."

"Mulder's not dead," she said suddenly, her voice dreamlike. "Billy came to me 
last night and told me he wasn't there."

Frohike was so startled he almost dropped the forkful of meatloaf on her lap. 
"Billy who? Your brother Bill? Your dead brother Bill?"

"He said Mulder wasn't there. In heaven. I don't think Mulder would go to hell. 
I've prayed for his soul so many times -- he's the first one on my list for 
plenary indulgence on All Soul's Day. If he's not in hell and he's not in heaven 
with Bill, he has to be somewhere here." She said all this in a singsong voice 
that sent shivers up Frohike's spine.

"Just hang on, Scully. We'll figure all this out. Just hang on," he begged. 
They'd made it all the way to the ice cream and Scully seemed calmer than when 
he'd first walked in the room. "I'll be back tomorrow, Scully. I'll be back. I 
promise."

June 13, 2006
5:06 pm

After detailing what he'd seen at the hospital, the three conspiracy theorists 
worked their kung fu 'magic' on Scully's records. It didn't take them long to 
discover that Scully was not under the care of a licensed psychiatrist, but was 
being attended by a neurologist -- the same neurologist who had treated Mulder 
for his recent 'episodes' or visions. Only Scully's insistence that she knew and 
could vouch for the guy had eased their suspicious of the doctor in question.

After checking bank records, it was revealed that Dr. Jason Leonard made sizable 
deposits to his Bank of America accounts on the dates just preceding Mulder's 
stays in the hospital. There was another deposit, this for $100,000 in a new 
account set up in his name in the Grand Caymans. No longer alone in his fear 
that Scully was being held against her will and not for her own good, Frohike 
was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this mystery.

The service elevator seemed to take forever as he watched the floor indicator 
lights blink toward the fifth floor. This time Frohike was wired, eyes and ears, 
to ensure they had evidence -- evidence they would need to convince a certain 
FBI Assistant Director that something was rotten in Georgetown. 

When the elevator reached number Five, it didn't stop exactly on the mark. This 
forced Frohike to get behind the sizable food cart and push it over the quarter-
inch gap. After some manhandling and being careful not to jerk the cart too much 
and spill the numerous cups of hospital coffee and tea, he started down the 
narrow hallway that led from the service elevator. He glanced in an open doorway 
into an office and saw two men in a heated discussion.

"Look, Commander Scully, I've done all I can. The hospital board is on my ass. 
You have to take your sister to a more permanent facility. They're questioning 
why a neuro patient is being kept on sedatives on the psych ward and they won't 
let me keep her here in her present state indefinitely."

At the name Scully, Frohike pulled up short. Thinking fast, he pressed himself 
against the wall so as to present a smaller visible target and inched closer to 
the open door.

"I don't give a flying fuck what the hospital board wants," another voice 
growled. "I'm paying you to keep her here."
"She's suicidal. If she's that much of a problem, we could arrange for her to 
get out of her restraints. That would solve everyone's problems," said the first 
voice. 
Frohike heard a jarring thump against the other side of the wall directly behind 
him and a pained gasp. "You little fucker, you make sure she stays alive, you 
hear me! If anything, ANYTHING happens to her, the board will be the least of 
your problems. I'll cut you up into little pieces and feed you to the fish off 
the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, you got that?"

Frohike heard another gasp and then a strangled cough. "I understand," said the 
first voice. "I'll look into other facilities. I have a friend who has a clinic 
in Maine -- "

"Find someplace closer."

"I'll see what I can do. For now, should I just continue with the present course 
of treatment?"

"No. She's mumbling all kinds of nonsense in there; it's bothering my mother. 
Can't you put her in some kind of coma or something?"

"I suppose that's possible. It will take some time; I don't want the nursing 
staff to start questioning my orders. Give me until tomorrow to see what I can 
do. I assume there will be a suitable increase in my allotment, since this is 
outside our agreement?"

"You're a real humanitarian, aren't you, Leonard? Yes, a regular Dr. 
Schweitzer," the second voice answered with an oily chuckle. "I'll talk to my 
associates. You'll see the increase in the next deposit."

"Thank you, Commander."

Frohike realized the meeting was over and needed to get out of the way before 
being seen. Pushing the cart around the corner and into the busy hospital 
hallway, he was pulling a tray off the bottom shelf when a man who could have 
been Scully's clone strolled past him and entered Scully's room with his own 
key. After a few minutes, the man left her room and headed for the visitor's 
elevators.

After distributing the trays, and again feeding Scully -- a fantasy far better 
than the present reality -- Frohike finished his shift and headed back to the 
office. It was time to plan Scully's rescue, but first they had to convince the 
'cavalry'. The recording Dr. Leonard's meeting with Commander Scully was 
downloaded to the computer and a call was made to Assistant Director Walter 
Skinner. 

*The Holy Bible, Douay Version (Catholic), Book of Wisdom, 1:13-15 

Act 2 Scene 2
Starbucks
Georgetown Galleria
11:12 p.m.

Charlie placed his Grande Ethiopia Sidamo on a corner table away from the late-
night crowd of hormonal yuppies, de-pressurizing wage slaves, and fashionably 
unfashionable college kids.

Charlie was drawn to the very banality of Starbucks -- the Kenny G-sus muzak, 
the hyper-caffeinated animation of the hip patrons, the cordial boredom of the 
minimalist wage counter staff serving Third World coffee to Type A assholes. The 
mundo-mundane surroundings recharged his sense of power and magnitude, which 
always ebbed in the supernoval presence of Strughold and the Frenchman.

Charlie sipped his Sidamo contentedly, his nostrils flaring as they took in its 
earthy essence. His nemesis was vanquished; precious, misguided Dana had been 
taken down a notch. Poor, late, bull-headed Bill had always been the take-charge 
guy, the alpha wolf, the erstwhile bully. But Dana, now, her bullying was far 
more subtle -- quietly "rational," self-righteously "virtuous," coyly 
manipulative with her parents. 
She'd always had Dad wrapped around her fingers. Bill was Dad's legacy, Dana his 
treasure. 

He and Melissa had been afterthoughts, superfluous, which had been all right 
with his crystal-hazing, air-headed sister. But Dad had never grasped Charlie's 
cunning intelligent and instinct, his potential for greatness. Dana had 
discarded their father's dream for her to become a badge-carrying bureaucrat, 
but Dad's love for her and barely-concealed disdain for him never faded.

Now, the tables were turned. The decisions of the planet's most powerful men 
turned on his discretion -- these coffee-swilling protozoans would blow a 
circuit if they knew who was sharing their oxygen and what secrets he held. 
Charlie smiled indulgently at the blathering late-night crowd and flipped open 
his razor-thin phone.

"Yes?" The voice on the other end was composed, barely expectant.

"Yeah," Charlie laughed warmly. "Just wanted to let you know I got those 
packages in the mail."

"Excellent." The irony in Strughold's tone eluded his young protégé. The NSA had 
developed the security that had gone into securing their line, and such 
theatrics thus were wholly unnecessary.

"Oh, and hey, that new medication's working great," Charlie added, hooking an 
arm over the back of his chair with artful casualness. "The rash has totally 
cleared up."

"I'm pleased, though I might remind you that a rash can resurface easily with 
inattention. If you recall, our last patient did not fare so well."

Charlie flushed. More than ever, he wished he'd been allowed to get the truth 
out of that freak kid his way. "That was hardly my fault. You were the one -- " 
he instinctively choked off the potentially lethal accusation. 

"Of course, you are correct," Strughold murmured. "I ordered the removal of the 
surveillance cameras, and failed to ensure that compensatory steps were taken to 
monitor our 'patient's condition."

His implication was clear. "Hey, how could I predict what some whacko kid -- 
some seriously ill patient -- would do?"

Strughold was silent for a moment. "Again, you are correct -- I am the doctor. 
Which is why I have asked Pelzer to conduct a post-mortem on our young friend. 
His descent into suicidal mania was rather sudden -- uncharacteristically 
sudden. Do you suppose someone intervened in Adam's treatment?"
Charlie pulled upright, freon pumping through his chest.

"The notion is no doubt ludicrous," Strughold chuckled dismissively. "The boy 
was under the tightest security, was he not?"

"Absolutely." The reply came from Charlie's compressed trachea. "Nobody could 
have got to him."

"I am sure that is true. I nonetheless shall be interested to peruse Pelzer's 
report. Good night, Charles."

The line went dead before a response could travel from Charlie's brain.

He leaned back, heart pounding and something alive and sharp wriggling in his 
gut. 
He fumbled for his Grande. Charlie reviewed the security protocols he'd set up 
in Vermont. Of course, there had been little reason to believe there would be 
any real interest in an insane boy with no memory. No one could know -- or at 
least believe -- what was inside Briese's head. And even if someone had, how 
could they circumvent the kind of security he'd --

Coffee sloshed onto the table as it hit him.

Krycek. Could he somehow have slipped something into the kid's scrambled eggs, 
scrambled Adam's brains from outside the compound? It sounded like bad science 
fiction, but as Charlie had learned working with the enigmatic Strughold, 
brilliant and unscrupulous men could create nearly anything the most imaginative 
writer could concoct.

If Strughold was right, Charlie could not contemplate the consequences. Even if 
the old man were wrong, it was clear now that his faith in Charlie had been 
deeply compromised.

Suddenly, the room expanded around him. Couples in love, no doubt pondering -- 
perhaps even snickering over -- the barren soul in the corner. Friends 
chattering about life and its meaning, oblivious to Charlie.

He suddenly felt insignificant, ridiculous. 

"Hey!" Charlie snapped at a passing busboy, raising every eye in the house. 
"This shit is fucking ice cold!" 

Act 2 scene 3
Capitol Mall
Vietnam War Memorial (The Wall)
June 13, 2006
10:15 pm

Walter Skinner nodded to a group of Japanese tourists as they made their way 
back toward their tour bus. Finally, he was alone with the black granite 
monolith to the fallen in one of America's most distressing wars. From the 
shadows, he could almost hear the dead whispering.

But it wasn't a shadow. It was Melvin Frohike. Frohike stepped forward from his 
hiding place and nodded to the Assistant Director. "Thanks for comin', man," 
Frohike said, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

"You said it was urgent," Skinner said, foregoing formalities. "What is it you 
want?"

"Have you seen Scully?" Frohike said, also cutting to the chase. 

Skinner swallowed and looked off to the dwindling traffic on Independence 
Avenue. "No one is allowed to see her. Her mother told me -- "

"They have her tied up to her bed, man," Frohike spit out abruptly. "And she 
looks like no one has bothered to take care of her personal hygiene since she 
got in the place."

"You saw her?" Skinner asked, his voice skeptical.

"When they wouldn't let me in to see her, I smelled a rat. I took a job in the 
kitchen -- I deliver meals. I've seen her twice. I had to feed her dinner both 
nights -- they won't even let her out of the restraints to eat."

Skinner licked dry lips and closed his eyes. "How . . . how is she?"

Frohike sought the other man's eyes and held his gaze. "She's not real co-
herent. I'm pretty sure she's being drugged."

"She's probably on sedatives. She was suicidal -- "

"No, it's a set up," Frohike protested.

"You can't know that," Skinner countered through gritted teeth.

Frohike pulled out the small digital recorder out of the pocket of his vest. "Oh 
yes I can," he said. He handed the recorder and some earplugs over to Skinner 
with the play button pushed. He watched the Assistant Director as he listened to 
Dr. Leonard and Charles Scully's voices tell their version of recent events. It 
was plain that the doctor and Scully's brother did not have Dana's best interest 
at heart. 

"My god, this is -- " Skinner was shocked, pulling the earplug from his ear.

"That's not all," Frohike interjected as Skinner handed him the tape player. 
"Scully told me something last night. She said that Bill, her brother Bill, had 
come to her in a dream. He told her that Mulder 'wasn't there'. Scully took that 
to mean that Mulder isn't dead."

Skinner started shaking his head before Frohike had a chance to finish the 
sentence. "She identified the body herself. The dental records -- "

"Has the DNA test come back?" Frohike cut him off impatiently. "Dental records 
can be switched. If they wanted to take Mulder, there are plenty of ways of 
making it look like we had the right body."

"Be that as it may," Skinner said firmly, "what's most important here is Scully. 
If what was said on this tape is any indication, she's going to be moved out of 
Georgetown soon -- very soon. And then we'll lose all track of her."

"So, what do we do?" Frohike asked innocently.

Skinner looked away again and chewed on his lip. "I think we need to make sure 
Scully doesn't disappear -- from us."

"Well, now that you mention it -- you don't have any plans for the evening, do 
you, Assistant Director?"

Georgetown Medical Center
June 14, 2006
7:45 am

The bearded orderly walked up to the nurses' station and smiled 
professionally. "Hello, I'm here for a patient transport." He handed over a set 
of papers and smiled again.

The nurse sitting at the computer terminal took the page and read it, then typed 
in a few keys on the computer keyboard. "Scully, Dana K., being transported to 
Rivercrest Village upon orders from Dr. Leonard," she repeated from the screen. 
"Ms. Scully is in room 513." She stood and looked over the desk down the hall. 
"Where's the gurney?"

"Right here," said a tall blond man with slicked back hair. He pushed a standard 
transport gurney into view. 

"Well, at least you'll get her there before breakfast. We've had to feed her, 
doctor's orders are explicit that she remain sedated and restrained at all times 
-- " The nurse looked around and leaned in conspiratorially. "Suicide, you 
know," she said in a whisper.

"I'll sit with her in the back, keep an eye on things," the blond said in a 
voice that spoke to a businesslike manner. 

"Great. To be honest, I can't wait to get rid of her -- her brother gives me the 
creeps," the nurse replied. "That's just between us, of course," she added 
hastily. 

"Hey, it goes in one ear and out the other," the bearded man assured her. "The 
only way to deal with, well, you know -- " He nodded toward Scully's room with a 
roll of his eyes.

"Got that right," the nurse agreed. "I used to work surgical ward, much quieter. 
But this was the only night shift available and I needed the extra cash." She 
opened the door to Scully's room with her key. "Well, there she is, Sleeping 
Beauty. I packed her things last vitals check, not that she had much -- that bag 
on the chair. She's all yours."

Langly glanced over at Byers as the nurse left them. He started to say something 
but Byers made a point of looking up at the room's camera. Langly caught on 
quickly and got to work, untying Scully's arms and legs and the two men lifted 
her effortlessly to the waiting gurney. Byers winced as he helped Langly secure 
her arms and wrists to the gurney but soon they were on their way. 

They had just reached the elevators when the nurse called out. "Hey, wait a 
minute!" Byers glanced over to Langly nervously and Langly hit the call button 
again several times, hoping the elevator doors would open.

"Wait a minute," the nurse called again and came running toward them. "You 
forgot to sign this," she said, holding out the very professional, but entirely 
fake documents that Byers had presented to her earlier. "Got dot them 'i's and 
cross them 't's, you know," she said with a playful wink.

"Job's not finished till the paperwork is done," Byers said with a weak smile as 
he jotted a fictitious name on the line. "There you go, oh, and this is your 
pen, isn't it, um, Mary?" he asked coyly after a quick glance at her nametag. 

Mary smiled sweetly back. "Why yes it is . . . Henry," she said after a look at 
his name on the paper. "Ford? Are you any relation to the car people?"

"Distant, distant," Byers said quickly as they loaded Scully's gurney on the 
elevator. "Not close enough to even get a car loan," he added as the doors shut 
and the car started its descent to the ambulance bay.

The last ambulance in the line was a little older, but had all the proper 
registrations. Byers knocked twice in the back and Frohike opened the doors from 
the inside, helping the other two load the gurney. As the doors slammed, the 
driver, a seriously looked man in a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and wire-
rimmed glasses, pulled out of the parking spot and headed off down the road. 

And all the while, Dana Scully slept, completely unaware. 

Act 3
Lab, 
Location Unknown 

Charles Scully stood at the back of the lab. It had taken him over twenty hours 
to get from D.C. to Cairo where Strughold's chopper had picked him up and 
brought him the rest of the way to this secret installation beneath the Abydos 
desert. Mysteries of the ancient world had been buried here for centuries, how 
ironic it was that the mysteries of the future were hidden here as well. Despite 
his fatigue, Charlie felt mildly euphoric.

For some time now Mulder had been his archrival. Seeing him here, finally 
subdued was the culmination of a year's worth of planning. It had been worth 
every minute of it. 

As he listened to the steady beep of Mulder's heart on the monitor he realized 
that in reality he had no ill feelings for the man himself. To an extent he even 
admired Mulder's tenacity, character and heart. The problem was he'd become a 
plague, infecting not only his family, but every aspect of the program Charlie 
had been employed to protect. Something had to be done about it. 

"This will inhibit much of his voluntary movement," Rhinehart was saying as 
Charlie watched him inject something into Mulder's IV line. Mulder's heart rate 
and respiration slowed but his eyes remained open. From his vantage point 
Charlie could see the bruises that marred the man's chest and abdomen. His 
wrists were raw from fighting the restraints. His often offensive voice had been 
silenced with a gag. He likened the scene to that of a wild horse that had 
finally been broken. All the fire had been taken from him. 

Kambatta wrapped Mulder's left arm with a BP cuff and compressed it. "BP 131 
over 80, we're good."

Strughold was standing at the head of the table shadowed by The Scarred Man and 
the four technicians. The identical nature of the four men made Charlie pause. 

"Now Mr. Mulder, we will see what your mind has been hiding from us," Strughold 
leaned over Mulder, his tone was almost rhythmic. 

Charlie stepped closer as he watched Rhinehart open a metallic silver case that 
one of the clones had placed on the table behind him. Slipping on a pair of 
heavy 
synthetic gloves he reached into the box and lifted the contents into the air. 
Draped 
across his fingers was a fine silver mesh that almost sparkled in the light from 
the 
overhead lamp. One of the technicians stepped forward and quickly released the 
strap that had held Mulder's head tightly to the table's surface. Sliding his 
hands 
underneath his head, he gently raised it from the surface while another 
technician 
stepped in and began to apply a blue gel to Mulder's bare scalp. He heard Mulder 
drawn in a shaky breath and shiver as if the substance was cold to the touch. 

Rhinehart turned and stepped closer to the table still holding the fine mesh 
with the 
greatest of care. Leaning over Mulder he gently laid the mesh against his scalp. 
With 
a life of its own the mesh began to move, forming itself tightly against the 
contours 
of his skull. Mulder's eyes flew open wide, he screamed against the gag. Charlie 
watched as the cords in his neck rose against the strain, his fists curling into 
tight 
balls. 

"What the hell is this?" Kambatta demanded knowing full well that this was 
technology far beyond anything he'd seen. The heart monitor began to beep 
rapidly. "BP's going up fast!" he warned. 

Charlie had never seen anything like it; he stood transfixed at both the 
amazement 
and horror of what he was watching. Torture had never bothered him. In some 
respects he was a hired killer but even this made his stomach uneasy.

Mulder could barely breathe. It had felt like a thousand tiny needles had 
penetrated 
through his skull into his brain with a prickling fire. Sweat made his body 
glisten 
even though he shivered. At the moment he felt like he would welcome death.

The heart monitor beeped faster, surpassing 90 beats per minute. "Mr. Strughold, 
this man's going to go into cardiac arrest," Kambatta said turning to warn his 
superior. "It is unfortunate that the human body is even frailer than it appears 
to 
be. You're the physician, stabilize him!"

Rhinehart turned around, grabbed a bottle and syringe from the counter behind 
him 
while Kambatta place an oxygen mask over Mulder's face. Rhinehart drew the 
syringe almost full before turning to the table and injecting the liquid into 
the IV 
line. The monitor continued to beep at an alarming rate.

"What is this procedure?" Kambatta questioned looking disgustedly at Strughold.

"With this device we are able to penetrate the visual cortex of the brain," 
Strughold 
answered him. "It enables us to gain access to long term memory. The visual 
images 
of a lifetime are stored there. If as you suggest this man's brain has been 
technologically enhanced beyond human capability it is obvious that humans were 
not responsible. I am hoping that by penetrating this man's psyche we will also 
be 
able to tap into that technology."

"How is that possible? " Kambatta demanded.

Strughold didn't answer. The Scarred Man handed him a small hand held device. As 
the old German's fingers danced over its keyboard images began to appear in the 
air 
above it. On the table Mulder was beginning to shake visibly, his vitals were 
still all 
over the board.

Unable to look anywhere else, Mulder watched as moments of his life literally 
passed 
before his eyes over Strughold's device in vivid holographic images. Childhood 
memories long forgotten, back to times when his family had been close and whole, 
fleeting images of hospital stays and medical tests, his mother, crying freely 
and 
holding him possessively as they both watched his sister carried from their home 
by 
his father. Mulder closed his eyes at the truth of what he was seeing. This 
wasn't 
possible, not by any earthly means. The implications were frightening. 

Waves of prickling sensations rippled through his head, each one feeling as if 
it were 
penetrating deeper into his thoughts. Despite the perspiration that coated his 
torso, 
he was freezing as uncontrollable shivers wracked his body. He sucked hard at 
the 
oxygen that flowed from the mask. His thoughts turned to Scully, and he longed 
for 
her gentle warmth. 

Charlie watched the whole scene unfold before him. As Strughold continued his 
rape 
of Mulder's mind, images of Dana began to appear. The vulgarity of it actually 
began 
to sicken him. It also began to frighten him. Nothing he knew of current 
technology 
suggested anything like this was possible. Something was terribly wrong here. 

"BP's 170 over 100, Sir," Kambatta warned again. "This isn't good."

"His consciousness is strong, they're using his mind to block me," Strughold 
said in 
disgust. 

"They?" Charlie asked in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The images suddenly disappeared as Strughold's hand once again passed over the 
keypad of the device. "Charles, you can be so naïve. You remember of course the 
story I told you several months ago about the Black Oil virus?"

Charlie's nod was almost imperceptible but Strughold accepted it and continued. 
"Only part of that story was true. The virus was not brought here by some 
extraterrestrial force as I had told you. It is a part of the evolutional 
history of this 
planet and has indeed existed here for millennia. It lies dormant now awaiting 
another extinction of life when it can once again insert itself. Hitler was 
fooled into 
thinking his alliance with his extraterrestrial allies would provide the genetic 
material 
he needed to produce his superior race and dominate the world. He had no clue to 
the power he could have created." The old German's voice trailed of as he looked 
across the table to the four identical technicians standing across from them. He 
nodded to them. 

"What do you mean, insert itself?" Charlie was beginning to find this whole tale 
more 
then troubling.

"The ugly truth, Charles, is this," Strughold continued to speak as one of the 
technicians produced a smaller metallic box from the same one Rhinehart had 
extracted the mesh from. "The DNA testing the aliens initiated was designed to 
detect the virus not eradicate any resistance to it. The genes for the most part 
lie 
dormant in the DNA of every living thing on this planet. Almost every living 
thing," 
he finished looking down at Mulder.

Strughold reached across the table, gripping Mulder's chin and turning his head 
slightly, forcing him to make eye contact. "The results of all those decades of 
testing 
have finally produced a candidate in which those genes no longer lie dormant. We 
need only to access them."

"You talk as if they're some sort of living thing in and among themselves?"

"Ah, but they are, Charles."

Drugged and unable to mount any resistance, Mulder could only stare back into 
Strughold's eyes. He hated the submissive feeling that was washing over him. He 
feared his body would betray him and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Everything is in place now. It is time to introduce the Essence into his 
system. His 
previous exposure to the virus has been activated by the artifacts and enhanced 
by 
the neuro technology. Once the Essence becomes the dominant force within his 
being his own consciousness will no longer be able to shield it." 

"What is this Essence?" Charlie suddenly questioned.

"The virus, Charles," Strughold answered turning to one of the clones. "Hand me 
one 
of the vials." 

Charlie watched one of the four look-alike men handed Strughold a large clear 
vial 
with a silver cap. Inside the vial was a black substance, much the consistency 
of 
heavy oil. He'd read reports on a similar substance and the lethal consequences 
of 
exposure to it but he'd never actually seen it. He watched as Mulder's eyes 
widened, 
his head jerked hard to the right, dislodging the oxygen mask. Whatever this 
substance was, Charlie was certain Mulder recognized it. The old German accepted 
the vial. "Charles, Doctors, I suggest you step away from the table. You have no 
immunity to this substance."

Strughold held the vial over Mulder's chest and unscrewed the cap. Despite the 
drugs Mulder's body tensed, pulling violently against the binding on his wrists 
until 
he drew blood. His muffled cry of "NO!" could be heard even through the gag.

"What is this?" Charlie asked.

"Oil, Charles, the active virus," Strughold replied, turning to meet his eyes. 
"The life 
blood of this planet. Within its composition lies a life force as old as the 
universe 
itself and you fools have burned it for decades as fuel."

"A life force?"

"Yes," Strughold looked about the room, catching the eyes of both the doctors 
and 
Charlie as well. "An intelligence far greater than either you or I. To 
understand it, to 
hold its power within your hand would make you one with your God."

The three men watched Strughold gently tip the vial, its contents sliding slowly 
from 
the container onto Mulder's bare chest. He began to shake violently with the 
frigid 
intensity of the substance. Blood was now flowing freely from both his wrists 
and the 
corner of his mouth. Despite the Digoxin that Rhinehart had administered only 
minutes before, his heart rate and respiration climbed again. 

As the substance spread across his chest, inching its way up his throat, the 
horror of 
the Russian gulag came rushing back to him, he began to hyperventilate. One of 
the 
clones stepped forward to replace the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His 
eyes fixed Charles Scully with a look of desperation as he gasped violently for 
air. His 
lungs burned.

"I don't understand, I thought this substance was lethal," Charlie was confused 
by 
Strughold's actions. Surely he didn't want to kill this man.

The slithering oily substance had reached Mulder's face, sliding beneath the 
oxygen 
mask and creeping slowly across his cheeks to his nostrils and eyes. As it 
entered his 
mouth and nose it burned with freezing intensity. He cried out through the gag 
as it 
penetrated his nasal passages and coated his throat. Finally seeping into his 
eyes the 
burning sensation became unbearable. He could now feel it penetrating down 
though 
his chest cavity wrapping its icy grip around his heart and lungs, freezing 
them. Suddenly the alarm blared to life on the heart monitor; Charlie watched as 
Mulder's his eyes rolled back his head. 

"He's coding! He's going into cardiac arrest!" Kambatta shouted stepping 
forward.

"NO!" Strughold shouted. "Leave him alone!"

Within seconds the alarm stopped. His respiration slowed and the heart monitor 
returned to a steady 85 beats per minute. Kambatta stepped forward to check his 
blood pressure and remove the oxygen mask. Pulling a pen light from his pocket 
he 
leaned over Mulder and slowly pulled back the lid of his left eye. "Dear God!" 
he 
gasped almost jumping back from the table in alarm. Mulder opened both his 
eyes. Instead of their familiar hazel color, both his eyes now swam with the 
inky 
black of night.

Act 4 scene 1
Rockbridge Baths, VA
June 22, 2006
7:30 am

Mulder stood in the doorway of their office, a wistful smile on his face. He was 
mouthing words, but she couldn't hear a sound. She walked over and reached out 
to 
grasp his shoulder. His arms encircled her waist as he drew her nearer. He laid 
his 
head atop hers and then kissed her lovingly on the forehead. Finally, he spoke 
aloud, 
one word, full of longing and commitment -- "Scully."

"Scully? Scully, can you hear me? It's me, Walter Skinner? Can you hear me?" 

She blinked lazily and then tried to focus on the face just inches above her. 

"Scully?"

"Mmm, yeah?" she replied. Her mouth felt like a mud puddle after a sudden 
downpour, dry dust suddenly turned to mush. She could almost taste an earthworm 
at the back of her throat and the thought made her gag. 

"Frohike, grab the bucket," she heard Skinner demand and suddenly there was 
something to vomit into, but there was nothing to come up. After a few more dry 
heaves, her stomach decided to maintain its current residence and she dropped 
back 
to the pillows.

Sights, sounds and smells gradually came to her. She was in a room, shiny wood 
walls and a ceiling with a fan in the middle. The bed she was on was soft and 
comfortable, the pillows downy but with an overlying scent of disuse. A window 
next 
to the bed looked out on a sylvan landscape that gave way to the towering pines 
she 
thought reminded her of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She could smell the pine and 
the 
fresh mountain air as it wafted in through the open window, billowing the red-
checked curtains.

"Where am I?" she asked, and from the reaction of the man sitting next to her on 
the bed, she had just given an Academy Award Winning performance.

"You're in a cabin in the Shenandoah Valley. You're safe," Skinner assured her.

She put her hand up to her head and looked in dismay at the bandages on her left 
arm. Worriedly, she inspected the other bandaged arm, too. "What happened? How 
did I get here?" she asked, her voice growing stronger, her eyes clearer with 
each 
passing moment.

Skinner looked over his shoulder and Scully noticed that he wasn't alone. The 
Gunmen were in attendance as well. Frohike stepped forward, stopping at the end 
of 
the bed. "You were drugged, Scully," he said, his face set in barely contained 
anger.

"For how long? Do we know what they used?" she asked, lying back on the pillows. 

This time Byers fielded her inquiry. "As near as we can tell, you've been 
drugged for 
the last week, since Mulder's . . . " The usually taciturn ex-Federal employee 
chewed 
on his bottom lip before continuing. "For a while," he amended. "It appears to 
have 
been a psychotropic compound, possibly one of the newer antidepressants. You 
were 
given unusually high doses. Aggression is one of the side effects, as well as 
suicidal 
thoughts. Once in the hospital, after your, um, episode in the office, they 
scaled back 
the psychotropic but layered on a strong sedative. It wasn't a very beneficial 
combination," he concluded.
"How much do you remember?" Skinner asked, his tone thickly laced with worry.

"Everything," she answered. "But really nothing that makes any sense." She 
looked 
around her again, regaining her bearings. "Mulder," she said aloud, as if 
summoning 
her partner.

"Scully, maybe you need to take a little time today to rest," Frohike advised, 
stopping her actions as she attempted to get out of the bed.

"He's not dead," she said evenly. "He's alive. We have to find him."

All four men exchanged worried glances. 

"I'm not hallucinating, I'm not psychotic," she said flatly.

"You said your brother told you Mulder wasn't there, in heaven," Frohike 
volunteered. "You told me that when you were drugged."

She nodded and drew in a breath. "Look, I know it sounds crazy," she said, and 
chuckled softly at her joke. "He's alive. I would know if he weren't."

"Scully, you identified the body," Skinner interjected, his expression 
sorrowful.

"Yes, I did. But I had faulty information," she said plainly. "Now, unless one 
of you 
wants to change the sheets, I suggest you tell me where the nearest bathroom is 
located." 

Skinner got up and let her sit on the side of the bed. When she stood, her legs 
would 
barely hold her. Skinner was immediately on one side, Frohike on the other. 
After 
gaining her equilibrium, she nodded to let them know she was steady. 

"Bathroom's right through that door," Frohike directed. 

In the bathroom, with the door shut, she had a chance to look at herself in the 
mirror. Drowned rat. Those were the only words that described her. Slowly she 
unwound the bandages from her arms and winced. Neat stitches lined both 
forearms, 
healing nicely from the looks of them. She closed her eyes for a moment, 
remembering images from the office. How much damage had she done? Not nearly 
as much as she could have. But what she did was lose time, time they could have 
used searching for Mulder.

After attending to pressing business, she opened the door to the medicine 
cabinet 
and found sterile gauze and medical tape. She took a moment and applied new 
bandages.

When she went back to the room she was alone, but a fresh set of clothes were on 
the bed. Smiling, she changed out of the hospital gown she was wearing. She 
listened closely and finally heard voices coming from below her. She realized 
she was 
in a loft of a cabin. She looked over the rail and saw her four rescuers 
drinking coffee 
at a dining room table, set off from a small living room with a fireplace. She 
went 
over to the stairs and soon joined them. 

"That smells heavenly," she said, nodding at Skinner's cup. 
Byers shot up as if on a spring to get her a mug of the steaming elixir. 
"Scully, would 
you like something to eat?" he offered.

"Yes, thank you, Jon. I'm starving." Her words caused all four men to break out 
into 
bright grins. In minutes a full-scale production was going on in the galley 
kitchen, 
each gunman working diligently on his own special recipe. Skinner continued to 
sit 
with her at the table.

"I take it I'm 'missing'," she said, looking out the windows by the dining area. 
They 
appeared to be in the middle of nowhere.

"As far as your family knows, yes," Skinner admitted. "I'm officially on 
vacation. I 
took some time after the funeral." He wouldn't raise his eyes from the silk 
flower 
centerpiece to look at her.

Scully sipped her coffee and nodded. "Logical, given the circumstances. But if 
you 
took your leave at the same time I disappeared -- "

"Actually, I didn't. I've spent the last three days in DC. I came down here late 
last 
night when Frohike called me to say that you appeared to be coming out of it. 
You've 
had a pretty rough time."

"I need you to go to Los Angeles. There has to be some trail they left," Scully 
said, 
ignoring his worried expression and any talk of her recent ordeal. "I can't go, 
I'd be 
spotted immediately. But as soon as you find something, I want a call. I need to 
find 
him." 

"I'll leave after breakfast," Skinner agreed.

The guys had gone all out and Scully surprised herself with the amount of food 
she 
tucked away. Frohike's huevos rancheros were delightful, as well as Langly's 
home 
fried potatoes and Byers biscuits and gravy. After cleaning up the table and 
starting 
the dishwasher, Skinner gathered his things and Scully escorted him out to his 
car. 

"So how was the funeral?" she asked casually.

He immediately looked uncomfortable. "Scully, you don't want to go into this," 
he 
advised.

"Yes, sir, I do. You and I both know that often times a killer will show up at 
the 
funeral, just to get a second chance at the thrill. Tell me about the funeral, 
sir. Please."

Skinner's jaw stiffened and he looked out into the pine trees. "Your mother has 
a plot 
for the both of you, did you know that?"

"Yes, at Resurrection Cemetery. My grandparents are buried there."

"Did . . . does Mulder know?"

It was her turn to look into the pines. "He doesn't know the particulars. After 
his 
mother's funeral we talked about it and he did say he wanted the two of us 
buried 
together. He left the details up to me."

Skinner nodded, obviously the answer satisfied him. "It was just a little 
jarring, a 
Catholic service for Mulder."

Scully shrugged, but a small upturn of her mouth proved she understood the 
irony. "We always assumed it would be for both of us. Pre-planning our funeral 
wasn't one of those things either of us thought of as a good time, but he 
insisted we 
do it for Mom's sake. So, aside from the actual service, who was there?"

"Your mother, of course. Tara and the children. Oh, your brother Charles."

At the mention of Charles, Scully jerked. "Charles was there? At the funeral?"

"Yes," Skinner said, his expression turning to concern and surprise. "I didn't 
really 
think about it. He was there for your mother, and Tara, I'm sure. He and your 
mother dealt with your hospitalization. Surely you knew that, you said you 
remember -- "

"The bastard came to see me, but I thought it was a dream," Scully spat out. 
"More 
like a nightmare, really. Well, at least we know which rat is responsible."

"Scully -- "

"Sir, we don't have time to get into this right now, but I know that my brother 
is 
working for them. I haven't been able to get solid proof of that, but you know 
how 
these things work. I might never get solid proof. But in my heart, I know the 
truth. My brother is behind Mulder's faked death and his disappearance. I'm 
certain 
of it." 

Skinner shot a glance over to Frohike who kept his face expressionless. Scully 
caught 
the exchange.

"You know, don't you?"

Skinner nodded. "We have evidence this time," he said. "But you're out now and 
we 
have other things to attend to. Revenge can wait."

"Until we get Mulder back, yes, it can wait. After that, I make no promises," 
she said 
evenly.

Act 4 scene 2

Skinner left immediately and Scully went back into the cabin. Frohike showed her 
a 
family room in the walk out basement that held enough computer equipment to 
launch the latest NASA shuttle. Together, the gunmen went over everything they'd 
dug up during her recovery. As the forest around them darkened into a moonless 
night, Byers spoke up.

"It's after 11 already. Maybe we should throw together dinner. We haven't had 
anything to eat since breakfast and Agent Scully is still recovering."

"You guys go on up. I want to look some of this over again," Scully encouraged.

"Hey, we were thinking something simple -- I make a mean doctored up frozen 
pizza," Langly suggested. 

"Sounds wonderful," she answered, smiling. "And iced tea?"

"Sure," he affirmed. "We'll call you when it's ready."

Scully leafed through the pages of her medical report that the guys had hacked 
from 
the hospital records. Jason Leonard's name was on all the orders. She shuddered 
as 
she thought of her old classmate and the number of times in the recent past 
she'd 
left her partner's care up to this man. He had betrayed them, that much was 
obvious. But she still wondered how she'd been drugged in the first place. It 
would 
have happened in LA, not long after the explosion, but when and who?

A tap at the glass doors leading out to the patio startled her. At first she 
thought it 
was a June bug or some other insect attracted to the light. Upon closer in-
spection of 
the world outdoors, her face turned grim. It wasn't a bug . . . it was a rat.

She slid the glass open and stepped out, instinctively searching her back for a 
weapon she wasn't carrying. "Krycek, come out of the shadows, you bastard!" she 
called forcefully.

"Good to see you again, too, Scully," Alex Krycek greeted her. "Glad you're back 
among the sane, relatively speaking, of course."

"What do you know about that?" she demanded. "Oh, wait, don't bother. You'll 
feed 
me a line of crap about how you had nothing to do with any of this, right?"

Krycek shook his head in annoyance. "Scully, I always figured you for the brains 
of 
the partnership. Stop thinking like Mulder and think with your head. You know I 
didn't have anything to do with your recent bout of insanity. You can place the 
blame 
for all that right at the feet of your loving brother."

"I know this already," she spat out. "I want to know where Mulder is!"

An expression of momentary shock passed quickly over Krycek's face. "You know 
he's alive," he said with admiration.

"I know a staged murder when I see one," she replied. "At least when I'm not 
four 
sheets to the wind."

"I need to tell you a little story, but the mosquitoes out here are killing me."

"No, that would be too much to hope for," she sneered, but motioned for him to 
enter the cabin and she closed the door after them. "Now, you have five minutes 
to 
tell me who has Mulder and where he is."

"Five minutes? You want the TV Guide version?" Krycek snarled. "Let's start with 
your loving brother -- "

"Stop calling him that," Scully snapped.

"OK, Charles then, joined forces long ago with one of the members of the 
consortium 
-- "

"All but the one who holds your leash were murdered at El Rico 7 years ago," she 
interrupted.

Krycek laughed bitterly. "Just like a wild fire clears out dead wood, Scully. Or 
maybe 
a better illustration is the Hydra. They cut off a few heads but more sprang up. 
Now 
there is a division between the consortium -- a struggle for control between the 
man 
you know as Spender and another -- his name is Strughold."

Scully recognized the name immediately from Teena Mulder's journals. "Strughold 
escaped El Rico?" she asked.

"He was never there. I would expect he helped plan the whole show."

"And you're telling me that Charlie is working with this Strughold?"

"See, I knew there were brains behind that beauty," Krycek leered.

"And you're here to tell me this Strughold has Mulder," she accused with a 
disbelieving raised eyebrow.

"You really do have Mulder pussy whipped if he put up with you all these years," 
Krycek said with an answering roll of his eyes. "Yes, I'm here to tell you that 
Strughold has Mulder. And to assure you that if you don't work fast, your 
boyfriend 
is toast -- for real this time."

"Prove it," she demanded.

Krycek smiled prettily. "I thought you'd never ask." Slipping his one good hand 
into 
his pants pocket, he withdrew a CD disk. When she lunged for it anxiously, he 
pulled 
it back out of her reach. "Mind you, this is a pirated copy. No special 
features."

It had taken several minutes to convince the Lone Gun Men not to beat Krycek 
senseless and even with the disk in evidence, they had reservations. But being 
the 
true friends they were, they took Scully's word for the man's actions.

Scully schooled her features to bland detachment as she watched the video of her 
partner's brutal 'ghosting'. Aside from closing her eyes for a heartbeat longer 
than 
necessary once or twice, no one would have guessed the anguish she felt at the 
scenes playing on the computer in grainy surveillance video black and white.

"How do we know that was really Mulder?" Frohike asked, his arms crossed and 
disbelief firmly in his features.

"The scars," Scully said evenly. "One on his shoulder, one on his thigh and the 
one 
on his scalp from his surgery a few years back. I saw it as they shaved his 
head."

"Where did you get this?" Langly demanded, his face a pale shade of green as the 
20 
minute long video came to a welcome close.

"Training tape," Krycek provided with a shrug. "Gotta keep the boys on their 
toes."

"Jezus," Byers muttered, shaking his head. When the monitor went black and 
resumed the media player icons, all four men looked to the one woman in the 
room.

"Where was he taken?" she asked, after clearing her throat.

"Egypt," Krycek said, handing her a piece of paper with coordinates. "Look, 
Scully, 
this isn't just a grab and dash. You're going to need help and you don't have a 
lot of 
choice in the matter."

She stared him down. "You're suggesting that your 'associate' wants to help _me_ 
get Mulder?" she asked coolly.

"Let's just say he's never wanted Mulder to fall into the wrong hands. But for 
what 
you want, there can't be any traces back to him."

She nodded, arms crossed. "What are we talking here? Money, equipment?"

"I have a few connections outside my current employer. I can get you a plane, a 
pilot, equipment. But it's gonna take an assful of cash," Krycek replied, 
meeting her 
stare.

"Money's not a problem," she said ducking her head to break their locked gaze.

Krycek smiled. "That's a phrase I never tire of hearing," he said. "You're going 
to 
need at least a million, with more available at a moment's notice."

"Give me till tomorrow night," she said, avoiding the Gunmen's stares. 

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Agent Scully. You are by far the 
better 
half of the partnership," Krycek said with an oily smile. "Tomorrow night." And 
with 
that he slipped out of the sliding doors and into the darkness of the 
surrounding 
forest.

Act 4 scene 3

Craddock Marine Bank Washington DC
3:45 pm

"Dana, it's a pleasure to see you again," John McKinley said with a smile from 
across 
his dark cherry desk in the private office. "I was surprised when I got your 
call, but I 
have made all the arrangements." He picked up a briefcase from the credenza 
behind him and opened it on the desk. "One million dollars. Two million have 
been 
moved into a money market account that is accessible from any ATM in the 
world." He handed her a debit card and she put it in her purse.

"Thank you, Mr. McKinley, for arranging all of this on such short notice," 
Scully said 
with a relieved sigh.

McKinley smiled. "It's all a part of the service. I've come to expect such 
urgent 
requests from your fiancé," the banker said with a shrug.

Scully started to correct the man's description of what her partner was to her, 
but 
remembered back to the last time she'd been in that very bank, and all that had 
transpired. An image of Mulder wearing a dark brown fedora caused her heart to 
skip 
a beat. No, let people think what they wanted to think. It didn't change what 
they 
meant to each other. 

"As I remember, the last time Fox withdrew such a large sum, I also had to help 
him 
with travel arrangements. Something about Antarctica," McKinley reminisced. "I 
must say, the two of you take . . . shall we say 'unique' vacations?"

"Yes, yes we do," Scully said holding back a bitter chuckle. Unique. Not quite 
the 
word she would have used, but it seemed to fit, nonetheless. "Well, I really 
must be 
going. Thank you again for all your help." She held out her hand and John shook 
it 
firmly.

"I'm your banker, too, Ms. Scully. Fox made that quite clear the last time you 
were 
here. The Mulder accounts are in both your names now. Call me anytime you think 
we can help." 

Act 5
Lab 
Unknown Location

Undecipherable images began to appear as Strughold once again activated his 
device. Mulder was still restrained but Strughold had ordered the oxygen mask 
and 
gag removed. He needed information from this man. Sweat still beaded Mulder's 
forehead and chest. The inky blackness of his eyes had slowly washed away to 
reveal 
their normal color. He stared blankly at the images above him.

"BP's 140 over 90, we're still a little high," Kambatta advised with a shaky 
voice.

Strughold observed the native doctor. Rhinehart had brought him on because of 
his 
expertise in cardiology but his nervousness and questionable attitude was 
beginning 
to become a hindrance to this procedure. "Dr. Kambatta, I don't believe we will 
need 
your services any longer," Strughold replied. "Why don't you escort the good 
Doctor 
back to his quarters," he ordered, turning to look at The Scarred Man.

"Sir?" Kambatta questioned as The Scarred Man stepped forward. "If you don't 
keep 
this patient stabilized he may not live long enough for you to complete your 
tests…" 
Before he could finish, The Scarred Man had grabbed him by the bicep and was 
pulling him towards the door. "I can still be of assistance to you!" Kambatta 
pleaded.

"Once I obtain the information from this patient, there will be no need to keep 
him 
stable," Strughold then advised the rest of the group as the door to the lab 
banged 
shut behind them.

Mulder sucked in a large shaky breath at the same moment, startling them all. 
"You 
have neither the means to obtain it nor the intelligence to use it," he stated, 
his 
voice deep and resonating. 

Strughold's eyes widened at the sudden comment from the man on the table. Both 
Charlie and Rhinehart stepped back cautiously, disturbed by the threatening 
candor 
of Mulder's voice.

The old German tapped more codes into the keypad he held before him. Mulder's 
head jerked but he made no sound. More images appeared. Hideous images of 
inhuman faces that seemed to be crying out in agony hovered before them. 

"Dear God, what is that?" Rhinehart asked astonished by what he was witnessing.

"History," Strughold answered. "The ancient history of this planet, the 
extinction of 
an unknown race, advanced far beyond your current standards. Your predecessors, 
Doctor. Within their history lies the wisdom and power of the universe."