Cruel and Unusual Punishment Series
by P. C. Rasmussen



Disclaimer: The characters of "The X-Files" and the rights 
belong to FOX network, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Chris 
Carter and not to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little 
while.

Questions, comments, praise, flames, criticism, etc. are 
very welcome at piacathrin@rasmussen.mail.dk 

Summary: This is the sequel to Cruel and Unusual Punishment. 
Mulder-torture. 

NC-17 if you ask me. I wouldn't let my kids read this... if 
I had any kids, that is. :o) Anyway, our fav Fed gets in 
trouble with that shape-shifter again, but ends up in a 
completely different ball game. Want to know more? Read the 
story. :o)

Dedications: I want to use this opportunity to thank Sam for 
reading through this for me and coming up with wonderful 
ideas and spurring me on to finish this in record time. 
Thanks Sam. I owe you one. 

ILL WEEDS GROW APACE

Sequel to CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

By P.C.Rasmussen 

Bayview Road Idlewilde,
Virginia March 27
08.12 p.m.

The warehouse was silent as the grave and almost as dark. No 
sounds from the outside seemed to penetrate the otherwise 
thin-looking sheet-metal walls. The dirty windows high above 
the floor gave off a sparse, gloomy light, leaving the major 
part of the warehouse in shadows. 

Fox Mulder stopped at a pillar, his gun ready, his senses 
alert. Somewhere in the shadows, a transaction was about to 
take place and the FBI had turned out in large numbers to 
observe and intercept the shipment of the highly dangerous 
new drug called Crystalstar. The dealers would be here to 
pick up their priceless shipment. 

Scully turned up a few steps to his right, glanced over at 
him and nodded toward the rear of the building where the 
transaction was going to take place. He in turn nodded back 
to her. There were six other agents in the warehouse with 
them, spread out over an area of roughly 1,500 square feet 
covered in semi-darkness with large, concrete pillars at 
regular intervals. Plenty of hiding places. She gave her 
partner a questioning look, which he waved off with slight 
annoyance. Ever since the incident with the shape-shifter 
over three months ago, she had been hovering over him like a 
nervous hen over her chicks. 

Although he had needed her assistance then and was not too 
unhappy about the increased attention she gave him, he was 
slightly annoyed that she would almost ask him not to come 
along on a case like this. He had been through the usual 
treadmill of going to the counselor twice a week for a month 
and not dealing with any heavy workloads at first. Not 
admitting it willingly these days, he had needed both the 
counselor and the easy duties at the time. But things were 
back to normal. His nightmares, which had plagued him for 
the first one and a half-month were gone. He slept as easily 
as he ever had, which might not mean much to other people, 
but meant a lot to him. 

Scully kept an eye on him for a moment, noted how well he 
handled himself, and decided to give him a break. He had 
been his old cheerful self for the past month and although 
she still had him under suspicion for having nightmares on a 
regular basis after what had happened to him, the flinching 
and cold sweats when somebody had surprised him or touched 
him were gone. As always, Fox Mulder had a perfect grip on 
himself. She smiled briefly, then slipped away into the 
shadows to resume her designated position. 

Mulder couldn't help grinning. She was as concerned about 
him as he had always been about her. He was starting to 
understand what she was going through when he overprotected 
her. Squinting into the semi-darkness with a frown, he tried 
to hear sounds that were not made by his colleagues, 
although the sounds they made was so minimal that one had to 
know what they were to identify them as people moving in the 
shadows. Assistant Director Skinner had once again managed 
to put together a highly professional team. The thought of 
his supervisor made Mulder's frown deepen. Even though the 
change in the man's behaviour toward him was very subtle, it 
was there. Mulder was aware of the reason and couldn't help 
resenting it a little. He didn't want to win ground with 
Skinner through pity. 

Behind another pillar, Scully stood waiting for the signal 
which would tell them to break out of this hide and seek 
business and arrest some crooks. She glanced toward the 
place where she knew Mulder was and inwardly scolded herself 
for being so nervous for him. He could handle himself, 
although he had a tendency to get himself into impossible 
situations. They had not heard or seen anything of or about 
the shape-shifter after Skinner had blown her away by the 
cabin. Scully knew it was irrational to think so, but she 
couldn't help wondering about the way the body had 
dissolved. She had seen it before and, usually, when 
someone, who got killed, disintegrated like that, there were 
more of the same kind. She was not yet willing to admit to 
the clone-theory, which Mulder was always throwing around, 
although she found it increasingly hard to deny their 
existence, too. But it made her wonder if the woman who had 
died at the cabin had indeed been the same as the one who 
had attacked Mulder in his own home. Shaking her head, she 
pushed those thoughts aside and forced herself to 
concentrate on the issue at hand. After waiting around for 
fifteen minutes, the signal was finally given. Seven special 
agents broke out of the shadows, followed closely by a swat 
team, and did some very satisfying arrests. Ten pounds of 
Crystalstar were impounded. The whole thing took less than 
another fifteen minutes, but it was first by the time that 
the drug dealers and their contacts were led out of the 
warehouse to be taken to jail that Scully realized that 
Mulder wasn't among them any more. She looked around while 
she holstered her gun. "Mulder?" she called, trying to spot 
him. But he wasn't there. "Mulder," she tried again, a 
little louder. Turning to one of the other agents near her, 
she waved him over. "Johnson, have you seen Mulder?" 

Johnson glanced around with a frown. "Now that you mention 
it, no. I haven't. Not since we came in here. Are you sure 
he came in with us?" he countered. 

"Yes, I'm sure. I saw him about half an hour ago," Scully 
countered, the feeling that something was wrong building in 
the pit of her stomach. "Mulder," she tried calling again, 
but still received no reply. "Johnson, could you give me a 
hand here? Let's just go through the building and see if he 
got stuck somewhere." 

Coltrane stepped up beside her, scanning the warehouse as if 
looking for Mulder. "I don't see Spooky anywhere. What do 
you think happened?" he asked, glancing at Scully, his tone 
full of mockery. 

Scully decided not to react to that one. She didn't like 
Coltrane for one obvious reason. He didn't like Mulder and 
he abused every opportunity he had to make that clear to 
Mulder. 

"What's the deal, Mrs. Spooky? Too high-nosed to talk to me? 
We're all fellow agents here," Coltrane went on, making it 
increasingly difficult for Scully to keep her mouth shut. 

"Back off, Coltrane," Johnson said good-naturedly. "Can't 
you behave for even one moment? Let's just find Mulder so we 
can go home. My wife's throwing a big bash tonight." 

"It's just so typical Spooky to have to mess it all up for 
the rest of us," Coltrane sighed, glancing around 
indifferently. 

Pursing her lips, Scully tried hard to keep her temper at 
bay. Funny how sensitive she was on Mulder's behalf. "Let's 
just find him," she finally said, starting to walk forward. 

"Maybe he saw a little green alien and followed it," 
Coltrane mocked with a snide grin. 

Scully rolled her eyes as she came to a stop with a sigh. 
"First of all, Coltrane, they're grey," she told him as she 
turned around, effectively wiping the grin of his face. "And 
secondly, Mulder has a much better conduct under raids like 
this than you do. So back off." 

Johnson put a hand on her shoulder. "Ignore him, Dana. You 
know what he's like when Mulder is around," he told her 
quietly. 

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "Let's just find him. Maybe he 
banged his head on something." It was an idea. Not a very 
appealing one, but it was a whole lot better than something 
else which was trying to worm its way out of her 
subconscious mind.

Thirty minutes earlier Mulder had, as Scully had said, been 
among them right up until the signal was given. When the 
other agents rushed out of their hiding places, followed 
closely by the swat team, he however had not moved. And 
there was a perfectly good explanation for that. Seconds 
before, something cold and sharp had been pressed against 
his neck, right under the base of his head. "Don't move," a 
voice had whispered. "Don't move or I'll sever your spinal 
cord from your skull." There had been a distinctly amused 
undertone to that voice. "Hand me your gun over your left 
shoulder," the voice insisted. The noise of the arrest had 
drowned out any chance of anybody but him hearing the 
whispered words from behind him. 

He had done as he was told, the prick of the knife against 
his neck too serious to ignore. He didn't know who he was up 
against or what his chances might be of getting away from 
that person, so he had decided to comply, slightly baffled 
that anybody would try this in a building full of Federal 
Agents. "You're taking an awfully big risk here," he had 
told the aggressor quietly. 

"Shut up. I'll tell you when to start talking," the voice 
had responded, still in a whisper. A hand reached over his 
left shoulder and took his gun. "We'll have a long 
conversation later," the voice went on and there was 
definitely laughter in it now, "Foxy."

That nickname was one he had never tolerated from anybody. 
He hated his first name and nobody had called him that for 
years. Except for one person whom he'd rather forget he had 
ever met. The identity of the person behind the voice hit 
him like a ton of bricks and he felt cold sweat break out on 
his forehead. Then he was slugged heavily across the back of 
the head and the world went black. 

The shape-shifter squatted down next to her unconscious 
victim and listened to the rumble further ahead. The agents 
would be more than pre-occupied for a while yet. Moving 
quickly, she tied the unconscious man up with duct-tape, 
loaded him easily over one shoulder and walked out without 
being seen or heard. 

9.30 p.m.

Assistant Director Skinner was not happy. He had arrived at 
the scene twenty minutes after Scully had called him and he 
was furious to say the least. 

Looking from one to the other, he barely kept himself in 
check. "How the hell could this happen?" he demanded. "How 
the hell can one agent disappear in the middle of all this 
and nobody saw anything?" 

"Maybe he got abducted by aliens," Coltrane suggested with a 
grin. 

Skinner glared at him. "You secure that shit," he snarled, 
angry beyond reason. Coltrane almost winced at the way his 
supervisor was staring at him. "When you have something 
constructive to say, you let me know. Otherwise I advise you 
strongly to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?" 
Coltrane nodded, not looking at Skinner. "As for the rest of 
you, the arrest went very well and I commend you all on it. 
But the fact that one of your colleagues can vanish right 
under your noses makes me wonder." With a heavy sigh, he had 
to admit to himself that he had feared something like this 
might happen one day. If it had been anybody but Mulder, 
this would probably not have happened. "Get whatever 
information you can get from this place and get back to the 
office. Scully, I want to see you in my office as soon as 
you're done here. I want you on this case." 

Scully nodded, worried sick already. Johnson put a hand on 
her shoulder, leaning in. "Take it easy. We'll find him," he 
whispered. She smiled, grateful that at least one of them 
cared. 

Skinner left again, returning to the office, while the rest 
of the team, now fronted by a forensics team, went over the 
warehouse inch by inch. Scully headed straight for the last 
place she had seen her partner and took a look around. A few 
drops of fresh blood on the floor confirmed her suspicions. 
Squatting next to the droplets on the floor, the still fresh 
blood on the tip of one finger, she looked around her. 
"Where are you?" she whispered.

J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Washington, D.C. 
10.45 p.m.

Scully went straight to Skinner's office after riding back 
with Johnson. Skinner asked her to sit down, then fell 
silent for a moment, not looking at her. "Scully," he 
finally said. "Nobody knows what happened to Mulder three 
months ago other than you and myself. If we put anybody else 
on this case, we will necessarily have to inform them about 
it." The alarmed look on Scully's face made him raise his 
hands. "However," he soothed her, "I'm going to give you a 
chance to track him down on your own. I hope you have some 
idea where to start. I'm giving you the statutory 
forty-eight hours to come up with a lead before I will have 
to put other agents on the case. If it comes to that, I want 
to know from you which agents you want to work with. I'm not 
assigning anybody to this case that might use it against 
Mulder afterwards. And I think we both know who I'm talking 
about." 

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Scully countered. "I'll come up with 
something. And I don't think we have to worry about a big 
investigation if he doesn't turn up over the next two days." 
It pained her to have to admit this, but it was a fact. If 
they didn't find him soon, he would probably be dead. The 
likelihood of finding him alive after two days was 
increasingly small. 

Skinner didn't look happy about that. "I hate to admit it, 
but you're right," he agreed. "So, you better get on it and 
find him. Whatever resources you need, just ask." 

Scully nodded and rose again. "Sir..." she started, not 
certain how to finish. They both had the same idea about who 
had done this and neither was really willing to admit it. 

"I know," he countered, sparing her from having to put her 
thoughts in words. "Just find him, Scully. Find him before 
it's too late." 

She nodded and left the office again. Life would be 
stressful for the next few days and the thought that she 
might not find him in time made her stomach cramp up. She 
had a few leads she wanted to follow up on and there were a 
few people she needed to see. She opened the door to the 
office and was instantly assaulted by the heavy aroma of 
cigarettes in the air. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at 
the tall man standing with his back to the door, staring at 
Mulder's favorite poster. He turned around when the door 
opened. 

"Agent Scully," he said. "I am here to see Agent Mulder. He 
isn't with you?" he inquired, glancing past her for a second 
before his eyes again settled on her. 

Scully almost snapped at him, but got a grip on herself. His 
odd obsession with Mulder could be used to her advantage 
right now. "No. He wouldn't be, would he?" she countered, 
testing the waters to see if he knew anything. 

The smoker looked rather perplexed by her reply. "Is there 
something I should know?" he asked, his usual manner a 
little subdued. 

Scully stared at him, her expression tense. "Agent Mulder is 
missing in action," she said tersely. "As if you didn't know 
that." 

That caused a definite reaction. He stared at her, unwilling 
to accept what she had just said. "Is that so?" He tried to 
stay calm, but found it oddly difficult to do so. "And how 
has he gone missing?" 

Aggravated, Scully took a step closer. "Don't tell me that 
this is news to you," she said, her voice icy. "The 
stake-out and subsequent arrest of drug dealers this evening 
created a perfect backdrop for his disappearance. We found 
blood on the floor, which means he's hurt. I have 
forty-eight hours to find him, but if I don't find him 
within the next twenty-four..." she went on, but trailed off 
again, leaving the rest to his imagination. Shaking her head 
in annoyance, she took a step back again. After another 
scowling look at him, she turned around and hammered the 
door shut behind her as she walked away. It would be no 
surprise to her if he started his own investigation and in 
general, that was what she had hoped to achieve. 

The smoker looked after her, suddenly deeply concerned. He 
justified it to himself by thinking that it would be a bad 
thing if Mulder vanished in the middle of everything. He 
decided to take things into his own hands once again in an 
attempt to aid Scully in her search for Mulder.

Location unknown 
Time unknown

He woke up with a pounding headache. It was completely dark 
where he was, which for a moment made him wonder if he had 
gone blind. His legs were numb and his shoulders felt as if 
they had been pulled from their sockets. Shifting a little, 
he tired to figure out why that was. Then he realized why he 
felt that way. His wrists and ankles were tied up, with 
duct-tape as far as he could tell. And not only that. His 
ankles and wrists had then been tied together behind his 
back, which accounted for him feeling the way he did. 
Groaning, he gingerly flexed his fingers, hissing silently 
at the stinging feeling that created in his hands and lower 
arms. "Damn," he grumbled under his breath, gave the whole 
thing a good yank and managed to at least break the 
connecting tape between he wrists and ankles. Carefully, he 
stretched his legs out and winced when his right leg almost 
cramped up. He eased more carefully into the stretch and was 
finally able to roll over on his side and raise his aching 
head. There wasn't much sense in that, though. He couldn't 
see anything. With an effort and a spasm-like cramp in his 
right shoulder, which drew a sound of suffering from him, he 
managed to sit up. Keeping his shoulder still for a moment, 
he concentrated on relaxing the muscles there, then 
carefully rolled both shoulders a few times. 

Before he had a chance to realize what was going on, a boot 
hit him quite hard right between the shoulder blades, 
throwing him forward onto the floor. His chin connected 
squarely with the concrete floor, clicking his teeth 
painfully hard together. Holding his breath, he waited for a 
second attack, but nothing happened. Groaning, he gingerly 
rolled over on one side and slowly sat up again. He blinked 
into the darkness, trying to hear the other person. His 
headache had increased with the sudden attack and he briefly 
allowed himself to close his eyes in an attempt to 
concentrate on reducing that pain. 

At that very moment, the second attack came. A fist was 
hammered hard against his right temple, throwing him back 
down on the floor, the so far thudding pain in his head 
exploding in an inferno of noise. Moaning, he decided he 
didn't want to try and sit up again. Whoever his tormentor 
was, that person obviously didn't want him to sit up. He 
pressed his forehead against the cool floor, his eyes 
closed, hoping against hope that the attacker would leave 
him alone. 

No such luck. Suddenly, fingers wrapped themselves into his 
hair; right over the gash he had received when he had been 
knocked out. The grip was quite tight and he flinched at the 
pain, having no other option than to follow that hand when 
it started pulling his head up. The movement stopped and he 
realized too late what was going on. His head was suddenly 
shoved down with such force that he didn't think he would 
have been able to stop the movement even if he had been 
prepared for it. His forehead collided with the concrete and 
the darkness once again engulfed him completely.

Some time later, he woke up again. Blinking heavily, he 
winced at the pain in his head which had tensed up his 
neck-muscles so much, he could barely move his head. A 
concussion. He knew the signs and this was definitely it. 
The slight nausea, the swimming feeling, the general feeling 
of discomfort. To his surprise, he realized that his hands 
were free. He shoved them under himself and pushed up, 
moaning when his stomach protested that kind of movement by 
lurching all over the place. Swallowing hard a couple of 
times, he let himself sink back down on the floor, giving up 
on the immediate inclination to get up again. Something had 
changed. At first he couldn't figure it out. His head was 
hurting too badly. Then he realized that it was no longer 
dark. He could see the room he was in. He carefully rolled 
onto his back and closed his eyes again for a minute, trying 
to get the swaying feeling under control. Then he looked up 
at the ceiling of what he could only consider to be a 
basement room. He had no idea where he was, but he had a 
pretty good idea who his attacker was.

J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Washington, D.C. 
March 28 
09.00 a.m. 

A.D. Skinner stared ahead of himself for a moment, the 
report on his desk making him very unhappy. The three guys 
they had arrested the previous night, who had brought the 
drug into town, had sworn that the shipment had been of ten 
pounds exactly. That made Skinner wonder where the remaining 
one pound had vanished to, since they only had retrieved 
nine pounds of the drug. Shaking his head, he didn't want to 
know the implications of that. He knew what Crystalstar 
could do to people and that it was highly addictive. So 
highly that people got addicted to it after one shot. The 
drug they had repossessed was so concentrated, that it could 
kill in small doses. In general, he figured they had for 
about ten million dollars of that drug on their hands and 
the fact that one pound of it was missing made him very 
concerned. 

And then there was that thing about Mulder. He didn't like 
the implications of what Scully had more or less suggested, 
but he had to agree that the possibility existed. Thinking 
back to that evening when that woman had come to the cabin 
made him frown. He had known how to kill her because he had 
received specific written instructions on it. A typed page 
with no indication of where it had come from but for a faint 
smell of cigarette smoke which had made Skinner realize its 
origin. He just didn't understand why. Except for the 
obvious yet odd fact that the Cigarette Smoking Man was 
protecting Mulder. Not effectively, but he was doing his 
share to keep the younger man safe.

Skinner leaned back on his chair, folded his hands and 
frowned. If he was reading this right, the Cigarette Smoking 
Man might even help them find Mulder this time around. 
Pursing his lips, he figured that even that kind of help was 
better than no help. He just hoped that nobody was being 
held accountable for it afterward. He himself had learned 
his lesson. He would never ask the Smoker for a favour 
again. Although it had paid off in the end, he was far from 
certain that it had been his involvement that had saved 
Scully. More likely it had been Mulder's relentless search 
for a cure that had eventually saved her life.

The basement office 
09.35 a.m. 

Dana Scully pulled her reading glasses off and pinched the 
bridge of her nose. She had been working all night, trying 
to find a clue to where Mulder could be. But, so far, she 
had come up with nothing. And her hope to find her partner 
alive was dwindling with every passing hour.

A heavy sigh escaped her as she leaned back, stretching some 
of the fatigue out of her limbs. In the process, she turned 
her chair a little and glanced toward the door. Something 
she had not previously noticed was lying on the floor. A 
folded piece of paper.

More than a little surprised and yet eager to find out what 
it was, she got off her chair and grabbed the page. An 
address was written on the top corner and that was it. 380 
Oak Hill Drive, Oak Hill, Virginia. Frowning, she wondered 
if that was where Mulder was or if this was a place where 
she could get information about it. She grabbed the phone, 
dialed an internal number and picked up a pen. "Yes, hi, 
Frank. It's Dana. Listen, could you help me out here? I've 
got an address and I don't have a name to go with it." She 
tapped the pen on the desk. "Yes, it's 380, Oak Hill Drive, 
Oak Hill, Virginia. --- Sure, I'll hold." Her eyes never 
left the paper and she didn't notice the shadow under the 
door, which briefly lingered there, then vanished again. 
"Yes? --- Nobody, huh? How long has it been empty?" She 
heaved a deep breath. "Okay, thanks, Frank. You've been a 
big help." With that, she hung up again. So nobody was 
living in that house, huh? She would believe that when she 
saw it. Determined to get there as fast as possible, she 
almost forgot one important issue. She would have to inform 
Skinner of her plans.

Location unknown

Mulder had stared up at the ceiling of the basement room 
until his eyes hurt. Nothing happened and he felt fairly 
okay as long as he didn't move too much. Longing for some 
water, he slowly turned his head, trying to see if there was 
anything to drink in the area. But he saw nothing but dull 
grey walls and dull grey floor and dull grey ceiling. And 
the door, of course. Moving as slowly as he could, he sat 
up, ready to drop back down if his stomach showed the 
slightest sign of getting upset. But so far, all he got was 
a low rumble because he was actually hungry.

He had barely sat up before the door opened. Standing there 
in the open doorway with a porcelain pitcher in one hand and 
a glass in the other was a woman he didn't recognize. 
"Thirsty?" she asked, her tone of voice concerned. She was 
beautiful with a head full of blond hair and the most 
amazing blue eyes he had ever seen. He gingerly nodded his 
head and she came over to him and squatted down, her eyes 
regarding him thoughtfully. She poured him a glass of water 
and handed it over. "Boy, that's one hell of a bump you've 
got there," she said, inspecting his bruised forehead.

"It hurts, too," he countered after having taken a sip of 
the water. "Where am I? How did I... get here?" he wanted to 
know.

"You were brought here. By her," she replied, nodding toward 
the open door. There was nobody there.

Mulder frowned and winced at the same time as he glanced 
toward the door. "Who her?" he asked and started to get up.

"Me, silly," she countered. She had turned her head toward 
the door and now she turned it back, that snide grin on her 
lips. Her features changed, her hair colour changed. Her 
eyes didn't just change colour, though. The pupil also 
changed shape, becoming star-shaped. "You know, Foxy," she 
said, her tone suddenly deep. "I thought I'd lost you. But 
here you are, back again." With that remark, she whipped the 
pitcher toward him.

It connected squarely with the side of his head and 
shattered into a thousand pieces, drenching him and 
restoring his headache to new heights. He hit the floor 
again, grabbing his head with both hands, moaning in pain.

"What's the matter, Fox? Can't take a little abuse?" she 
cooed. "You know, I thought I'd done you as much harm as I 
possibly could, but it seems that I have not. You don't 
cower in fear before me." Sighing, she put her hands on her 
hips, staring down at him. Her pupils expanded and 
contracted with every heartbeat, giving the impression of a 
pulsing star. With venom in her eyes, she hammered the toe 
of her right cowboy boot into his mid-section, causing him 
to loose what remaining air he had in his lungs in one great 
gasp.

He fought for a moment to regain his breath while the pain 
was pulsing and pounding away inside his skull and now also 
in his stomach.

"You disappoint me, sweety," she said, shaking her head in 
annoyance. "You know, I think I've got something that can 
rectify this situation quite elegantly. Don't go anywhere. 
I'll be right back," she said, walked around him and stabbed 
the toe of her boot into the small of his back with enough 
force to almost paralyze him with pain.

After a few seconds that seemed like years to him, he 
finally managed to gulp down a dearly needed breath of air. 
Gasping, he eased into a stretch and finally managed to pull 
himself together enough to get up on his hands and knees. 
Keeping his head down for a moment, he tried to estimate if 
the damage was only superficial or if she had harmed him 
internally with those kicks. It didn't seem like it, 
although it felt that way right now. What he most needed 
right now was to get up so he could get the drop on her and 
get out of here. The faster, the better. He managed to get 
to his feet. Doubled up in pain from both his back and his 
mid-section, he had grabbed his knees to keep from keeling 
over again. He forced air into his lungs and then slowly 
rose, frantically blinking away black spots swirling in the 
air in front of his eyes. With every breath he took, they 
diminished. Staggering a little, he started toward the door, 
reaching out for the doorknob.

The door opened with enough force to knock him off his feet. 
He hit the floor on his back and was able to avoid the first 
attack by rolling out of the way. The next one hit him hard 
on the left shoulder, a fire spreading rapidly down through 
his arm from where the metal-baseball bat had hit him. The 
third hit she never managed to administer. He pushed himself 
around and hammered both feet into her abdomen, throwing her 
backwards, making her drop the bat. Mulder was on his feet 
in a flurry, grabbed the bat and raised it. And that was 
when her shape-shifting abilities got in his way. She had 
shifted again and although he knew the now eight-year old 
girl cowering on the floor wasn't who his eyes told him it 
was, he just couldn't hit her. Pale as a ghost, he lowered 
the bat and stumbled a few steps backward, staring at the 
shivering form on the floor with hate and sadness fighting 
for dominance inside him. "God damn it, what did I ever do 
to you?" he wheezed, holding his left arm against his body. 
His shoulder was hurting too badly for him to move it. It 
was probably broken. But the physical pain he was in was 
overshadowed by the mental pain she was causing him by 
posing as his sister. His strength was ebbing away quickly 
and eventually, his legs gave in and he dropped down on his 
knees, leaning heavily on the bat.

She shape-shifted back to her original form and stared at 
him. "You're just such a good victim, Fox," she said as ways 
of explaining why she was putting him through hell. "You've 
always been a victim. All your life. First your mother's 
resentment toward you, then your father's, then everybody's. 
You suffer so well. If that was taken away from you, you 
would be nothing."

Exhausted from the pain and the constant pounding in his 
head, he closed his eyes for a second. "Fuck you," he 
growled and raised his head. "What the hell have I ever done 
to you? Why did you pick me? Did you just wake up one 
morning and decided to make my life a living hell?"

She grinned. It was an evil expression. Obsessive, 
possessive and full of foreboding of the worst kind. 
"There's that suffering bit again," she said, slowly getting 
up. "You should know by now, Fox, that you can't hurt me 
without jeopardizing your own life. You've been subjected to 
the retrovirus before. You remember what it was like. Don't 
you?"

He struggled back to his feet, wanting nothing more than to 
lie down and just sleep until it all went away. He was so 
tired, so exhausted. "I don't care anymore," he said, 
raising the bat threateningly when she took a step toward 
him. "I've been pushed around enough and I don't give a shit 
anymore. Just leave me the hell alone." The latter he yelled 
although it hurt his head. He obviously could not get his 
point across in any other manner.

Her shoulders rose at the same time as she lowered her head 
a little and that gave her a predatory look. "But you care 
about Dana, don't you?" she asked sweetly. "Dana is on her 
way here. Once she's here, I'll teach her some real 
suffering. I'll make her suffer so much it'll drive her 
mad." His anger was obvious to her. She didn't need to hurt 
him physically to administer pain. "I'll tip her over the 
edge and she'll end her life in an institution, completely 
off her rocker. Too dangerous to set free and too well to 
kill. She'll end her days where she fears to end them the 
most. Among psychotics. I read her mind when I knocked her 
out in your apartment."

He let out a half-hearted sound of anguish, his face twisted 
in pain. "You won't touch her," he snarled, threw the bat 
aside and lunged for her throat. It was only at the last 
second that he realized his mistake. She had provoked him 
and had made him forget how dangerous she was for a second. 
Enough time for her to bring out a syringe that she embedded 
in his left shoulder the second he collided with her. The 
force of his forward motion helped her inject the pink 
liquid in the syringe into him before he had a chance to 
stop it. Staggering back, he yanked the needle out of his 
shoulder again and stared at her. "What the hell was that?" 
he wanted to know.

"Oh, just about ten cc's of Crystalstar. You're a junkie 
now," she said with a satisfied smirk. "Just for good 
measure I'll beat the crap out of you before your precious 
Dana turns up here. She won't know that anything's wrong 
until you start getting the withdrawal symptoms and by that 
time, it'll be too late. She'll have to supply you with more 
of the drug to keep you sane."

Mulder stared at the syringe in his hand, then managed a 
wavering smile. "You don't become an addict from one doze," 
he said, looking up to meet her eyes.

"Of this stuff, you do. Haven't you read the paperwork?" she 
asked and with a smile shape- shifted into one of the newest 
members of Skinner's team. She hadn't been a part of the 
stakeout, but she had been there at the meetings. "You see, 
Fox? You can't hide from me. I've been keeping an eye on you 
for the past month. You never knew it was me, did you."

Mulder had read the paperwork on this new drug, but he had 
been the first to refuse to believe that the drug would make 
an addict out of anybody this fast. Shaking his head, he 
took a step backward, the syringe falling out of his hand. 
It shattered on the floor. "No," he whispered and swallowed 
hard. The world was slowly taking on a strange focus.

J. Edgar Hoover building 
9.55 a.m.

Skinner looked up when Scully stepped into his office. 
"Anything?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, sir. I've got an address. I'm going there right now," 
she said.

Skinner frowned immediately. "Where did you get that address 
from, Agent Scully?" he demanded, already knowing what she 
would say.

"I'm not sure. It was lying just inside the door this 
morning. But I think it's from... him. I ran into him in our 
office last night and I hinted that Mulder was missing. He 
seemed upset about it, so I told him what had happened, 
strongly suggesting that he was involved. And then I find 
this piece of paper on the floor," she explained, handing 
the paper over.

Skinner took it and stared at the address for a moment. Then 
he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think you're right. It must 
be from him. I take it you've checked on the address 
already?" Scully nodded. "And nobody lives there," he added. 
With that, he got up, grabbed his suit jacket and shrugged 
into it. "I'm coming with you. You're not going out there on 
your own. Just in case."

Scully stared at him, not liking the implications of his 
words, but grateful that she did not have to go alone. Just 
in case.

380 Oak Hill Drive 
Oak Hill, Virginia 
10.15 a.m.

The shape-shifter watched as her victim dropped back down on 
his knees, blinking frantically to get his vision back under 
control. All the while, he tried to keep her in his line of 
sight.

Grinning, she got to her feet and slowly approached him. 
"What's the matter, Fox? Can't see straight?" she cooed and 
hammered a fist into his face, thereby knocking him 
backwards. "You're going to hurt, my friend, and once this 
stuff kicks in, you'll hurt real bad. It intensifies every 
feeling you have, yet makes you rather impassive." 
Explaining this to him made no difference right now. She 
knew that. She wasn't even sure she had gotten it right how 
the drug worked, but that didn't really matter. She was 
enjoying herself immensely.

For the next half-hour, she beat the crap out of him. 
Partially using her fists and feet and partially the bat, 
which she had picked up again, she nearly battered him into 
oblivion, virtually thriving on his cries of pain. 
Eventually, she took a time-out to catch her breath, the 
thrill of hurting someone making her body tingle. She just 
stood there for a moment, staring down at the writhing heap 
of human misery and smiled. The ultimate high she always got 
from this was when she killed them, though. Although it 
hadn't been her plan to kill this one, she was too tempted 
to put an end to his suffering right now. Inhaling deeply, 
she raised the bat up over her head, ready to bring it 
crashing down on his head. He might survive the blow, but he 
would never again be able to use his mind for anything 
interesting. He moaned, trying desperately to get beyond the 
debilitating pain so he could get out of her way, but he 
just couldn't make his limbs move. She saw his feeble 
attempt to save his life and the smile widened into a grin. 
"Sorry, Fox. I didn't intend for it to end like this, but I 
just get a kick out of killing. Can't help it," she told 
him.

Her attempt to bring the bat down on his head was stopped, 
though. It seemed to be stuck on something. She pulled at it 
and it was yanked out of her hands pretty brutally. 
Surprised, she turned around to face a dark-haired woman 
about her height, dressed completely in black, standing 
behind her with the bat in one hand. "What are you doing 
here?" she demanded, her expression showing nothing of the 
glee she previously had been feeling.

"You better start running, Shael," a deep, slightly hoarse 
voice told her. "And run fast. You know I can catch up with 
you." Under a mane of erratic dark-brown curls a pair of 
deep, brown eyes were staring hatefully at her. "Run, girl," 
she repeated. Shael did not have to be told twice. With 
obvious fear in her eyes, she rushed out the door and was 
gone.

The newcomer squatted down next to Mulder and reached a hand 
out toward him. He flinched back, but she merely brushed 
blood-soaked hair away from his bruised brow. "Easy," she 
whispered. "Your friends are on the way, Fox. They'll be 
here soon. They'll take care of you." With that, she rose 
again. "I've got myself a freak to catch," she added darkly, 
turned around and left.

Ten minutes later, Skinner stopped the car in front of the 
abandoned house of 380 Oak Hill Drive. It looked pretty new, 
but the garden surrounding it was a wilderness. With their 
guns drawn, Scully and Skinner approached the house, keeping 
their senses alert for any disturbance. But everything was 
quiet. Scully grabbed the doorknob and opened the front 
door. The house was quiet when she stepped inside. Glancing 
at Skinner, she moved forward. The house wasn't that big and 
consisted only of the ground floor and the basement. After 
checking the ground floor, Scully moved toward the stairs 
leading down to the basement. It was still quiet and the 
ground floor showed no signs of inhabitants other than the 
fact that the dust had been disturbed recently.

Scully moved slowly down the stairs, ready for the worst, 
but reached the end of the stairs without incident. 
"Mulder?" she called, hoping that he was here. A groan 
reached her, which made her freeze for a second. "Mulder?" 
she tried again, a little louder. She walked toward the only 
open door and stopped short. There he was. She completely 
forgot all safety regulations when she holstered her gun and 
closed the distance between them, dropping down on her knees 
next to him. "Oh my God," she whispered. He was a mess. 
"Skinner," she yelled and heard him come down the steps. 
"Take it easy, Mulder. We'll get you out of here," she 
soothed her half-unconscious partner.

Skinner turned up in the doorway, glanced around the bare 
room, then focused on Mulder. A brief twitch at the corner 
of his mouth was the only thing disclosing how he felt about 
the situation. He, too, holstered his gun, dug out his cell 
phone and called for the paramedics. While they waited, he 
surveyed the scene. There wasn't much here except for the 
bloodied baseball bat. In the backyard of the house, up on a 
wooden fence, the dark-haired woman was sitting, watching 
the house. When the ambulance came and the paramedics ran 
inside, she slipped down on the other side and walked toward 
a parked car. She sneered like an animal when she saw the 
flat tires. So her little friend had decided to try and 
delay her. Tough luck. She could still outrun her. Her deer 
brown eyes glittered in the morning sun, her expression one 
of utter concentration, as she stared across the field which 
stretched for almost a mile toward the horizon. Then she 
smiled and started running, moving more like a cat than a 
human being.

NorthWest Georgetown Hospital 
Virginia 
2.30 p.m.

After a painful and nearly fatal trip to the hospital and 
the subsequent rush to save his life, Mulder was finally 
left alone. With a major concussion, a broken left shoulder, 
three broken ribs and almost every inch of his body bruised, 
he briefly wished they would just let him die. But, the 
worst had probably been when they had re-located his jaw. 
One of the hits of the baseball bat had squarely pushed his 
jaw out of the joint. It had hurt at the time, but it hurt a 
hell of a lot more when the doctors shoved it back where it 
belonged. His right jawline had swelled out of proportions, 
making it almost impossible for him to speak, let alone open 
his mouth. The constant thudding in his head with every 
heartbeat nearly drove him insane, but he knew somewhere in 
the back of his head that they couldn't give him any 
medication for any of it before they knew he was over the 
hill. He had almost died in the ambulance and only Scully's 
insistent demands that he should stay with her had held him 
back.

Scully sat next to the bed now, watching him. She was tired. 
That was obvious. But she would not allow herself to rest 
until she knew he was out of the woods. She took his hand 
and gave it a light squeeze, not wanting to cause him 
unnecessary pain. "Look at you," she almost whispered. He 
blinked heavily at her, wishing by God that he didn't hurt 
so much. "You're a mess."

He wanted to respond to it, but he could barely keep himself 
awake. He knew he had to due to the concussion, but it was 
so hard. He just wanted to sleep so badly. To close his eyes 
and just drift away. Besides, his jaw sent a burst of pain 
through him every time he even moved his tongue. His eyes 
slid shut almost against his will.

"Mulder, you have to stay awake," Scully urged him. "Come 
on, you can do it. You're tough." Brushing a hand through 
his hair, she smiled when he opened his eyes again, the pain 
in them obvious. "I know it's hard, but you have to try. 
You're not out of the woods yet."

March 30 
08.30 a.m.

Mulder woke up after having been out for nearly two days. He 
felt awful in every sense. And there was no release from the 
pain. His jaw hurt like hell, his shoulder was sending 
pulses of debilitating pain through him with every beat of 
his heart. He believed he could feel every bruise, every 
scratch on his body. And his head felt like it was going to 
explode. Groaning, he moved his head a little and froze when 
that only increased the pain. He wanted to grind his teeth 
together, but even the thought of what that would do to his 
jaw made him flinch. Only one thing was going through his 
head. He wanted to pass out again, to slip back into the 
comforting darkness.

"Mulder?" Scully leaned over him, smiling when she found he 
was awake. "How are you?" she added, then noted the glassy 
sheen to his eyes. "Are you in pain?" she wanted to know, 
glancing away for a second. He nodded weakly and flinched 
painfully. That brought a frown to her face. "You shouldn't 
be. You're on some pretty heavy pain killers." She 
straightened up and checked the drop, then the bag and found 
that none of it was faulty. Not at all happy about this, she 
decided to take it up with his doctor once the man had the 
decency to appear. "Just take it easy. I'll just see if I 
can't find your doctor."

"Scully," he managed in a weak whisper. She stopped moving 
and leaned closer again. "Crystal.... star," he added 
hoarsely, blinking heavily at the pain these words caused 
him to speak.

The frown on her face deepened. "What about Crystalstar?" 
she wanted to know.

"On.... it."

Her confusion was hard to ignore. She stared at him for a 
moment, unable to respond to that. "You're on it?" she then 
asked, wanting to confirm what she had just heard. "What do 
you mean, you're on it? Mulder, you don't do drugs," she 
went on with a shake of her head.

"No," he breathed, too tired and too much in pain to 
actually talk. "Forced." He could only manage so much and 
the flaring pain in his jaw made him close his eyes hard, a 
single tear trickling from the corner of his eye. It hurt so 
bad it made him cry.

"You were forced?" Scully asked, deeply concerned. Weakly, 
he nodded once. "She gave you an injection? She stole that 
extra pound that was missing and gave you an injection?" 
Again, a vague nod was the only reply he could give. 
Pressing a hand over her mouth, Scully sat down on the chair 
she had already spent so much time on. This was very bad. 
After thinking about it for a moment, she grabbed his hand. 
"Don't worry. We'll deal with it," she assured him, not 
certain they could. According to what she knew about this 
drug, the addicts went through hell when coming off it and 
she wasn't so sure her partner would survive that. Not in 
his present state. It would be hard enough to get through if 
you were fairly healthy. But he had almost died two days 
ago. Needless to say that he would not be able to handle 
coming down from the high the drug was necessarily giving 
him. And if it was as highly addictive as was claimed, 
Scully feared for his future.

10.15 a.m.

Skinner slowed down when he neared Mulder's room and saw 
Scully sitting outside. She looked worried, deeply troubled. 
Stopping next to her chair, he looked down at her for a 
moment, slowly becoming aware that she had not noticed him. 
"How is our patient today?" he finally asked.

Scully jerked, then looked up at him. "Oh, I didn't see you 
there," she said, sounding a little flustered. "He's... 
uhm... not doing so good."

Skinner sat down next to her. "What is that supposed to 
mean? I thought his vital signs had stabilized," he 
countered, slightly concerned now.

"Well, both yes and no. He's in terrible pain. I was rather 
confused about this when I found out. He's getting enough 
painkillers to knock out a rhino, but he's still in pain. It 
turns out that this... female gave him an injection of 10 
cc's of Crystalstar."

Staring at her, the Assistant Director found that rather 
hard to fathom. "10 cc's? That's... a lot," he commented, a 
little taken aback.

"Yes, it's a lot. Why he hasn't O.D.'ed on it I don't know. 
He should have been dead. Fact is, though, that he's not and 
this drug is obviously enhancing sensitivity when it's 
working its way out of the system again. He was tripping 
when we found him. As it was his first doze of the drug, it 
has taken his body rather long to get off the trip again. 
And now he's crashing. He feels everything twice as strong 
and that puts him in a world of hurt no matter what we do to 
subdue it. The only thing that has worked so far is sedating 
him so strongly that he virtually passes out. But it's not 
good for his system. It's not good for his heart. I'm afraid 
of the consequences. Of the permanent damage it can do to 
him." Staring ahead of herself for a moment, she could not 
help thinking of the one solution to all this. "He can't 
deal with both getting over this attack and getting off the 
drug at the same time. It's just not humanly possible. And 
he's still not out of the woods. If this pain he is in 
increases..." She shook her head, not sure how to say what 
was on her mind ".... he could very well go into cardiac 
arrest in no time."

"In other words, you think he's dying," Skinner compensated. 
Scully nodded solemnly. "Damn," he mumbled.

"Yes," Scully agreed. "And I think that the fact that she's 
still out there also has an influence on him wanting to live 
or die."

Skinner pursed his lips for a moment. "That's just the 
thing. We have eyewitness accounts from the area that a 
dark-haired woman beat the life out of her with a branch of 
some kind. One guy, who wanted to help her, died of the 
retrovirus. And the dark-haired woman apparently vanished 
back into the woodwork after making sure that this... female 
was dead. She supposedly disintegrated into a green slush."

That piece of information didn't do much for Scully. "So, 
another one of them is dead. We still don't know if there 
are more out there."

"I don't think there are," Skinner cut in. "Our 
Cigarette-Smoking friend turned up in my office this 
morning. He was pretty damned upset about losing his 
precious clones. He virtually said as much. I asked him what 
the hell he was talking about and he clamped up and 
retreated again. I got the distinct impression that he was 
the one who has sent this... thing after Mulder."

Frowning, Scully tried to find head or tail in all this. "It 
doesn't make sense. I think he was the one who gave me the 
address. Why would he do that if he didn't want us to kill 
that woman? I mean, we didn't. But someone sure did."

Leaning back on the chair, Skinner stared thoughtfully at 
the wall across from them. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

02.00 p.m.

The concept of pain had always been awkward to him. He 
didn't like pain. Not the physical kind and not the mental 
kind. He knew there were some people who got off on being in 
pain, on suffering, on being dependent on others, but he 
didn't share that sentiment. He hated being dependent on 
others. He hated being in pain. He had been there often 
enough, but this time it was different. Apart from the pain, 
which no painkiller could subdue successfully, he knew he 
was also hooked on that drug. The mere thought that he would 
become an addict after just one shot of it, no matter how 
big that shot had been, was a mystery to him. One he however 
spared fairly little time thinking about at the moment. His 
mind was a blur. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. 
Nothing in the world mattered other than the steady, 
pulsing, burning pain. For the first time in his life, he 
could honestly say that he wanted to die. He didn't know how 
much longer he could take the pain which was renewed with 
every heartbeat, every breath he took. His jaw hurt worse 
than anything he had ever experienced and due to that his 
jaw muscles cramped up and that increased the pain even 
more.

A light shiver ran through him with every beat of his heart 
and he felt incredibly hot. And somewhere in the back of his 
head, he knew he could seek release from at least some of 
the pain. But he had no way of getting to the drug. No way 
of getting out of this bed. Moaning silently, he closed his 
eyes, trying to concentrate on other things than the pain 
and the need he felt.

J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Evidence room 
03.35 p.m. 

Skinner stood there in front of a door he very rarely went 
through, staring ahead of himself for a moment, deep in 
thought. What he was about to do, on the insistence of 
Scully, was highly irregular and definitely illegal. He 
didn't like it, but he had seen her point. It was a 
necessary evil they had to go through if they wanted Mulder 
to survive this latest clash.

He grabbed the doorknob and opened the door, stepping 
through to the corridor and the office beyond. The caretaker 
of the evidence room looked up, a little startled at first 
to see Skinner here. "Sir, good afternoon," he said, getting 
up from behind his desk and approached the office window.

"Winston," Skinner replied with a nod. "I need to take a 
look at the evidence from our latest bust. Somebody told me 
there might be more than a pound of that Crystalstar-stuff 
missing."

Winston Frank was an elderly man. He had known Skinner for a 
long time and he knew something was up when the Assistant 
Director himself came to check something like that. 
"Inside-job?" he asked and Skinner nodded absentmindedly. 
"Not good, that," he went on and dug out the paperwork. 
"According to this there should be nine pounds. It was 
weighed and tagged by... " he ran a finger over the list 
"... Agent Coltrane."

"That's what I figured," Skinner said, nodding solemnly. 
"Give me a minute to check it out. Do you have a scale?"

Winston handed over a scale, not at all happy about the 
possibility that his paperwork could be wrong. He didn't 
like that one bit. "Want some help?"

"No, I've got it," Skinner said and continued down the 
corridor to the evidence room.

03.50 p.m.

Winston looked up again when Skinner returned fifteen 
minutes later and handed over the scale. "Just as I thought. 
You've got eight and a half pounds of that stuff in there. 
Not nine. Correct it in your file, Winston. I'll take care 
of Coltrane."

Skinner's expression was tense, angry, and Winston couldn't 
blame him. "Sure thing, sir," he countered.

"And not a word of this to anybody, you hear? I want to know 
if this was a mistake first. I don't want a lot of false 
accusations floating around here. We've got enough of that 
as it is." With those words, he strode back out, giving 
Winton no chance to ask for a signature.

Winston felt a little flustered at the whole thing, not 
certain he would be able to explain this to anybody, but 
then again, usually he had to explain himself to Skinner 
when somebody tried to pull a fast one on him. And he found 
it highly unlikely that Assistant Director Skinner would 
have done anything illegal. Content in his opinion of the 
other man, Winston returned to his desk and his newspaper. 
There was no sense in getting all worked up about nothing.

NorthWest Georgetown 
05.30 p.m.

Scully looked up when Skinner stepped into the room. Mulder 
was out cold. He had been out cold for a few hours now, 
heavily sedated to give him a little peace. Skinner waved 
her over and when she reached him, he pressed a package into 
her hand. "Do whatever you think you have to do, Scully. But 
let it be noted that I'm not happy about this," he told her 
quietly.

"Neither am I, sir, but I don't see any other option right 
now. I wish there were another way to do it. But if he keeps 
on hurting like this, he'll die," she countered.

Staring tensely at her, he tried to estimate the result of 
all this and found that he couldn't. "I hope you know what 
you're doing, Scully. This goes against everything I believe 
in. I've been on drugs. It was fun at first, but it quickly 
became a living hell. As soon as he's out of the woods, 
Scully, I want him admitted into a detox-programme. And I 
don't care how much he dislikes the idea."

Scully nodded. "I don't think he'll put up a fight there. 
Mulder's view on drugs is the same as yours. He'll go 
willingly," she assured him.

Skinner glanced over at Mulder and thought his own somber 
thoughts on that subject. He knew from experience how much a 
person could change under the influence of mind-altering 
drugs. And as far as he could assess, Crystalstar still had 
a lot of side effects that were undocumented. "Let's hope 
so," he said. "I'm going back to the office. Call me if 
there's any change."

March 31 
08.30 a.m.

When it came down to it, Scully hesitated. As long as Mulder 
was out cold, there was no sense in giving him the drug. But 
she knew it wouldn't last. As soon as he woke up, she knew 
he was in over his head. Mainly because of the way he woke 
up.

For almost an hour he had been moving restlessly, moaning 
under his breath, jerking every time he tried to move either 
his jaw or his left shoulder. The shoulder was still too 
swollen to be put in a cast and the bandage didn't do much 
to keep it still. A sudden cease in movement made Scully 
rise from the chair and lean over him to check his signs. 
Making a face at his bruised and battered visage, she 
reached a hand out to brush her fingers over hair, but froze 
when his eyes suddenly snapped open. He stared up at her for 
a long moment, not moving at all, and she could tell that he 
was in pain. Bad pain. And then he started shaking. It came 
like lightning from a clear sky. He whimpered, unable to 
control the convulsive fit that shook his body violently. 
His left hand suddenly grabbed Scully's wrist and the 
pressure became almost unbearable when his fingers cramped 
up spasmodically. His jaw muscles cramped up immediately 
after that and that pushed him over the top. He screamed. 
Unable to open his mouth, it sounded pitiful.

Scully pressed a finger against the call button several 
times, then tried to hold him down while also trying to 
disengage her left wrist from his painfully hard grip. "God 
damn it," she hissed through clenched teeth at the sheer 
power she had to put into holding him, then turned her 
attention to the door as it opened and two nurses came 
rushing in. "Get over here," she snapped. One of nurses took 
one look at the scene and ran for more help and to call the 
doctor. The other came over to help Scully hold Mulder down. 
The bed was vibrating with the force of his convulsions.

For half an hour, they fought to subdue him and finally 
managed to do so. The convulsions became less violent and 
eventually subsided entirely. He was breathing shallowly, 
his eyes closed, tears oozing out from behind closed lids. 
Scully grabbed a handkerchief and dabbed the tears away, 
then brushed a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, pushing 
it away from his forehead. She wanted to help him more than 
anything in the world right now. But before she could do 
anything, she had to hear the verdict of his doctor.

Doctor Styles stood at the foot of the bed, staring at his 
patient with a frown. "The blood tests came back positive on 
the drug test we did, although we don't know what kind of 
drug he's on," he finally said to Scully, turning his head a 
little to look directly at her.

Scully stared at him for a moment, then returned her 
attention to Mulder. "He's on Crystalstar. Is that what 
caused the convulsion?" she wanted to know.

Dr. Styles heaved a deep breath and sighed. "He convulsed 
because he's crashing at the moment. I've had a few of the 
first cases of drug addicts dependent on that stuff and it's 
never a pretty sight. How long has he been on it?"

Scully kept on stroking his hair, her left hand holding his 
in a firm grip. His fingers twitched weakly now and again, 
giving her a much-needed sign that he was still with them. 
"He received an injection of 10 cc's against his will. 
That's all," she countered, glancing at Styles.

Styles in turn raised an eyebrow. "He should have been 
dead," he mumbled, surprised. "Agent Scully. Can I have a 
word outside?"

Scully looked at him for a second, then leaned closer to 
Mulder. "I'll be right back. Don't worry. I promised you 
we'd deal with this and we will," she whispered to him. A 
brief tightening of his fingers around her hand made her 
smile sadly. "It's all right. We'll beat this. I'll be with 
you every step of the way. I promise." With that, she 
released his hand and followed the doctor out.

Styles didn't look happy. Not at all. "Agent Scully," he 
said, shaking his head in regret already. "I'm afraid that 
he won't be able to survive another attack like that. Due to 
the heavy sedation and the stress he's been under, his vital 
signs are unstable to put it mildly. Another convulsive fit 
like that will kill him. Is there any next of kin you want 
to notify?"

Scully stared at him, unable to believe that they would just 
give up on Mulder that easily. "Excuse me, Dr. Styles," she 
said, her tone of voice conveying her disappointment. "There 
must be something you can do."

Styles shook his head. "I'm afraid not. None of the 
conventional painkillers can subdue the kind if pain he's in 
due to the drug he's on and the heavy painkillers are, as 
you very well know, not good for his system. If we give them 
to him, his heart will weaken and you know yourself where 
that will lead him. He will go into cardiac arrest and we 
will have to hook him up to machines to keep him alive. As 
far as I know, that's not what he wants according to his 
will. If we don't give them to him, the pain will wear him 
out and eventually kill him. And all because a person 
addicted to Crystalstar feels everything twice as strongly 
when they crash. I'm afraid our options are very limited and 
they will both have the same result. Death."

Having it tossed in her face like that made Scully angry. 
She didn't like being told that there were no chances. 
Especially not when it came to Mulder. "What if," she began, 
not looking at him but rather at a spot on the floor, "we 
gave him another injection of Crystalstar? Would that tide 
him over until his injuries are dealt with?" She raised her 
head and looked up at him with a frown.

Styles stared back at her, turning the idea over in his 
head. "You said yourself that he's been made an addict 
against his will. Do you think he would want that?" he 
countered, treading carefully.

"If it saves his life, yes. If it's the only way he will get 
over this, yes. I have no doubts that this is what he would 
choose." She did have doubts, but she would not jeopardize 
his life under any circumstances. And if this was the only 
choice...!

Styles looked a little intrigued by this. He wasn't hip on 
the idea. Supporting a man's drug addiction was not his idea 
of being a good doctor, but on the other hand, if it meant 
saving the man's life, it was worth a try. "Well... if 
that's the way you see it..." he said. "But I have no idea 
where to get that stuff from. And he may have another attack 
before we get it," he added.

Scully shook her head at herself. She couldn't really 
believe that she was doing this. Reaching into her pocket, 
she retrieved the packet that Skinner had given her. "Here 
you go. Half a pound of Crystalstar. It's highly 
concentrated so it should be enough to tide him over until 
he's out of the woods. And then we put him on a 
detox-programme and hopefully, he will be clean within a 
short time."

Styles stared at the packet in her hand for a second, then 
heaved a deep breath and sighed. "Very well. But I want to 
have it in writing that we're not being held responsible for 
his drug addiction. Just in case he can't get off it."

Scully nodded curtly. "Don't worry. We're not going to hold 
you responsible. Just don't tell anybody about what you're 
doing here." With that, she turned around and went back into 
Mulder's room and closed the door behind her.

Styles stared at the packet, then sighed again. "Don't 
worry, Agent Scully. I won't," he mumbled, turned around and 
headed to the nurses station to prescribe a new medication 
to Agent Mulder, which was to be administered immediately 
and thereafter at any time it was needed.

Location unknown

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man stared up at the woman standing in 
front of his chair in the library of the lodge of the 
Consortium. The look on her face was hard and unyielding. 
"Are you certain that you got them all?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, sounding slightly indifferent.

He sighed, lit a cigarette and eyed its glowing tip for a 
moment. "Good. Too bad that this batch went so wrong. They 
had potential," he said, then looked back up at her. "No 
surviving witnesses?" he asked on.

"None," she countered. "Except for Mulder, Scully and 
Skinner, of course," she added.

"Ah, yes. Not a good thing, that," he mumbled, more to 
himself than to her. "Forget about them. They won't do 
anything about it anyway. You can take off now. I won't need 
you any more today," he added to her.

She nodded once, turned around and strode out the door.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man looked after her, a frown on his 
face. There was something not quite right about her. He knew 
this female very well and he could tell that there was a 
slight difference in her behaviour. Something which worried 
him. But only slightly. Not enough to make him act on it. 
Not yet, anyway. Thoughtfully, he dragged at the cigarette 
and blew out the smoke again, thinking that he ought to 
visit Mulder in the hospital. He had heard that Scully had 
once again been resourceful in her attempts to save Mulder. 
That made him smile. She was resourceful and he was happy 
that he had decided to keep her around. Otherwise Mulder 
might have been dead and that would have been rather 
unfortunate.

April 3 
03.30 a.m.

Mulder opened his eyes and saw colours. Frowning up at the 
ceiling, he wondered about it for a moment, then lost 
interest. It was none of his concern. As nothing else was. 
He felt oddly disconnected from everything. He didn't bother 
about anything. His jaw hurt, but he didn't really care 
about it. It wasn't like he wanted to tell anybody anything. 
Letting his eyelids slide shut again, he uttered an annoyed 
sound because something kept bugging him. He didn't want to 
be bugged. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep 
and not worry about anything.

04.54 a.m.

Again, he woke up. This time, his mind was clearer. He 
remembered the incident from before, the colours and 
wondered more intently about it. His jaw was sore, but the 
previous pain was gone. His whole body felt numb to a 
certain extent. Obviously they had finally found a 
painkiller that could take the pain away.

Laboriously, he turned his head and saw Scully sitting on a 
chair, asleep. The fact that she was here made him smile a 
little. "Scully," he managed to whisper. Speaking was hard. 
His throat was dry. But she had obviously heard him.

She stirred, opened her eyes and blinked sluggishly at him. 
Then she smiled. "Hi," she said, yawned heartily and glanced 
at her watch. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he replied, staring at her.

"How's your jaw?" she asked on and took his hand.

"Better," he countered and cleared his throat. "Saw colours 
before," he added, not sure it would mean anything when it 
came down to it.

"Pardon?" Scully looked a little confused. "You saw colours 
before?" He mumbled a yes. "When?"

"Don't know. Earlier," he said. He gingerly moved his jaw a 
little and hissed weakly at the tenseness. The pain was 
almost gone, though. "Tired," he added, his eyelids becoming 
too heavy to keep open.

"Go back to sleep. You need your rest," she said and brushed 
her knuckles over his cheek. It made him smile lazily as he 
drifted off again. She leaned back again, staring at him. If 
he saw colours, he was high. Now he obviously didn't see 
them any more. Which meant that the drug was losing effect. 
And it was happening faster now than the previous days. "Oh 
no," she whispered.

5.30 a.m.

He woke up with a start, completely clear and fully aware of 
the pain. Groaning, he tried to move, to attract attention 
to himself, but he could barely think of moving without 
hurting. He felt awful. Cold and hot at the same time. His 
skin was itching, but he couldn't move his arms. Scully was 
no longer in the room and he couldn't reach the bell because 
he couldn't move. He shifted nervously, trying to understand 
what was going on. This wasn't normal. He wasn't just in 
pain. He was uncomfortable. One thing he did notice was that 
the pain wasn't as potent as it had been previously and that 
at least was a relief.

Then the door opened. A nurse came in, a syringe in one 
hand, and smiled at him. "Hi there. Are you in pain?" she 
asked quietly. He managed a weak yes. "Okay. Hold on. I'll 
give you something for it. You'll be fine in a jiffy," she 
said, reached out for the tube connected to his right arm... 
and dropped out of view. Right behind where she had been, 
another woman stood, her expression cool. "Yeah, you'll be 
fine in a jiffy," she said, mimicking the nurse's words but 
not her tone of voice.

With a brutality that shocked him into silence, she ripped 
the drop from his arm, almost tearing the skin in the 
process. With an effort he had not thought possible moments 
before, he managed to push himself toward the far side of 
the bed, but that did him fairly little good. She was fast 
and she was definitely strong. Moaning in fear, he raised 
his right arm, trying to ward her off, lagging the strength. 
She grabbed him and hauled him out of the bed. The movement 
sent a scream of pain through him from his shoulder and he 
whimpered, desperately trying to stay conscious. But his 
vision blurred and darkened and seconds later, he had passed 
out.

The woman loaded the limp body over one shoulder, went up to 
the door and glanced out into the corridor. Not much action 
this time of the morning. His protector was somewhere down 
the hall, getting something to drink, which meant that the 
coast was clear. She looked either way once more, then 
walked briskly toward the end of the corridor and the 
service elevator shafts.

5.40 a.m.

Scully walked slowly down the corridor toward Mulder's room 
after having had a chat with his doctor about his treatment, 
content in the knowledge that the nurse she had contacted 
earlier had given him the injection and thereby freed him of 
any pain he might be in. Yawning, she rubbed the back of her 
neck with one hand, holding a coffee cup in the other. She 
reached for the door and pushed it open and stepped into the 
room. The second she cleared the door, she stopped short. 
The coffee cup dropped out of her hand and shattered on the 
floor as she stared at the empty bed, the drop that was 
leaking onto the floor and the unconscious nurse lying next 
to the bed.

6.20 a.m.

Skinner paced the floor of Mulder's room, now and again 
stopping to stare at the bed, then resumed his pacing. "Damn 
it, Scully. How could this happen?" he demanded for the 
umpteenth time.

Scully, who was sitting on her chair next to the bed, rubbed 
a hand over her face, looking as unhappy as he felt. "I 
don't know. I left the room for ten minutes tops. When I got 
back, he was gone. The nurse has a concussion and doesn't 
know anything. She didn't see or hear anything. She said she 
came in to give him the injection, reached out for the tube 
and that's it. Nothing else. Nobody saw anything. Nobody 
heard anything. I'm starting to get very fed up with this. 
It seems to be some kind of personal vendetta against Mulder 
and I don't understand it. I just don't understand it."

Skinner stared at her for a moment, then turned his 
attention to the window, his jaw set. "When we find him 
again, I'm putting him in protective custody. And, come hell 
or high water, he will stay there until we know what the 
hell if going on. I'm inclined to agree with you. It seems 
to be some kind of personal vendetta. But from whom? And 
why?" He was frustrated, angry because he had not done what 
had obviously been necessary three months ago. Mulder should 
have been in protective custody from the very beginning. An 
idea popped into his head and he turned back to face Scully. 
"I'm going to talk to the Smoker about this. I want to know 
what the hell is going on," he told her.

"Sir, is that wise?" Scully countered. "What if he demands 
something in return?"

Skinner's expression became even more tense if that was 
possible. "I'll beat it out of him if I have to. I've had 
enough of this charade. This has to end. Right now."

J. Edgar Hoover building 
8.00 a.m.

Skinner looked up when the door to his office opened. His 
eyes narrowed as he watched the Smoker saunter into the 
room, the statutory cigarette between his lips.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man smiled. He didn't know why exactly 
Skinner wanted to see him, but he would find out soon 
enough. "You wanted to see me?" he asked casually and sat 
down on one of the chairs in front of Skinner's desk.

Skinner stared at the man, trying to guess if he knew 
anything about this. "Yes. We have a problem on our hands 
and I can't help thinking that you might be responsible," he 
countered, staring at the other man with steel in his eyes.

The Cancer Man raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's not good, 
then. And what seems to be the problem?" he wanted to know, 
sounding utterly indifferent.

"Two hours ago, Agent Mulder was removed from his hospital 
room," Skinner said, eyeing the Cancer Man for any reaction. 
"By force," he added.

He didn't let it slip, but this was bad news. Staring back 
at Skinner, the only sign outwardly that displayed that he 
had any opinion about this was that the smile was gone. "I 
see," he said. "And what do you expect me to do?"

Slowly, Skinner rose from his chair. "As I believe that you 
are involved, you and your cohorts, I expect you to see to 
it that he is returned. Alive! Or I'm going to place a call 
to a certain Native American who will be more than willing 
to tell a certain story to the press." The reaction from the 
Smoker, though not very obvious to the untrained eye, made 
him smile grimly. "I'm going to bury you five foot under if 
you don't return Mulder unharmed, you son of a bitch. Do you 
understand?" he added calmly.

The Cancer Man stared at him for a moment, seemingly unfazed 
by his words. Inside, though, he was more than ready to get 
up and tell this man that he had nothing to do with the 
abduction of Mulder. But he could not let his calm exterior 
slip. It would not be good for business. So he didn't speak 
until he was certain that it came out right. "Mr. Skinner," 
he said calmly, briefly eyeing the tip of his cigarette 
before looking back into those furious eyes. "I have no idea 
where Mr. Mulder is," he eventually said. "But I can make 
some inquiries as to his whereabouts." He got up, too, his 
eyes never leaving Skinner's. "I'll see what I can do," he 
added with a smug smile, turned around and walked out.

Skinner heaved a deep breath and dropped back down on his 
chair, not at all certain this had been a good idea. But, on 
the other hand, he was getting utterly fed up with these 
people lashing out at Mulder. Obviously, Mulder was too 
close to something they wanted to protect. Whatever that 
was. Thoughtfully, he turned his chair around and looked out 
at the brightening sky, wondering when this would end. If 
ever. He was most inclined to believe that Mulder's nine 
lives were about spent. The man had been in so much trouble 
over the years he had worked for Skinner, it would surprise 
the A.D. greatly if he got away from this alive and intact.

Shaking his head at this dilemma, he pulled his glasses off 
and ran a hand over his face. He was tried. Not just 
physically, but mentally as well. Somehow, he felt he needed 
a break. A vacation would be good. Just somewhere away from 
all this, alone on a deserted island where he could think 
over the din of other people and traffic. He quietly 
promised himself that he would get away for a week or two 
once this business was dealt with. Whatever the outcome.

Location unknown

The dark-haired woman dumped her burden on the floor of a 
bare room and knelt down beside him. The incision in his 
right arm where she had removed the drop was bleeding badly. 
She pressed her thumb down on it for a moment and when she 
removed it again, the wound was gone. She then wrapped both 
hands around his jaw and held them there for a moment 
longer. After dealing with his most life threatening 
injuries, she got up and walked out of the room, closing and 
locking the door behind her. 

It took Mulder another half-hour to get back into the world 
of the living. Once he was there, he slowly opened his eyes 
and marveled at the fact that he was no longer in pain. His 
left shoulder was numb and when he gingerly tried to move 
it, it moved without pain. Shifting his jaw brought no pain, 
either and his broken ribs were not bothering him any more. 
Feeling a little dizzy, but without the thundering headache, 
he sat up. Apart from not feeling any pain anymore, he felt 
like shit. He discovered that the moment he sat up. His 
stomach virtually cramped up. Moaning, he huddled up for a 
second until the worst of it had passed. Then he carefully 
straightened and took a look around. He could vaguely 
remember being forcefully removed from the hospital room.

Frowning, he inspected the bare room he was in now. The 
floor was wooden and the two windows were big. With an 
effort, he got to his feet and groaned at how he felt. 
Slowly, each step measured, he made it over to the window 
and found himself on the third floor of a country estate of 
some kind. A well-kept garden, which looked more like a 
park, stretched as far as the eye could see. Hugging 
himself, he actually had to admit to himself that he 
relished the sight of the greenness down there. Slowly, he 
turned back to the room. It was a big room. Nice, too, if it 
had been furnished. But as it were, there wasn't anything in 
the room. Rubbing his utterly dry tongue against the roof of 
his mouth, he sighed deeply and sank down on the floor, his 
legs too weak to carry him. He was also painfully aware that 
he was wearing nothing but the hospital shirt he had spent 
the last few days in. Or however long he had been in the 
hospital. He cleared his throat and winced at the dry 
sensation.

Moments later, the door opened and the dark-haired woman who 
had removed him from the hospital came in. Mulder's 
reaction, though weak by most standards, was to stare at her 
in horror and press back against the wall and the lower part 
of the cool windowpane behind him. His heartbeat quickened, 
his breath came in shallow little gasps while he stared at 
her, certain that she would beat the crap out of him. She, 
however, stopped short at seeing him up, her brown eyes 
utterly indifferent, then she dumped a bundle of clothes on 
the floor, set down a pitcher of water, turned around and 
left again. The door clicked shut behind her and he heard 
the rattle of the key as she locked it, too.

It took him a while to calm down again and he was slightly 
baffled that she had not said anything or done anything to 
harm him. It was with a certain amount of dread that he 
realized he expected this kind of behaviour from her. 
Staring at the door for a moment longer, he fought a dizzy 
spell brought on by the hyperventilation. There were certain 
things he would tell her next time she came in, though he 
simply did not have strength enough to speak yet, let alone 
try and get out. With the immediate threat out of the way, 
his eyes wandered to the pitcher sitting next to what he 
could only identify as a sweat suit. Swallowing hard, he 
could almost taste the water. He slowly, laboriously, got 
back to his feet and shuffled over to the pitcher and the 
clothes. He sank down on his knees and reached out with 
shaking hands for the water. His fingers felt awfully numb 
to him as he wrapped them around the cool neck of the rustic 
pitcher and he found that he couldn't raise it. He simply 
didn't have the strength. Bemoaning the fact that he could 
not raise a pitcher of water when he was parched, he flexed 
his fingers weakly, trying to get some strength back into 
them. He sat back on his heels and repeated the movements, 
also bending and stretching both arms in an attempt to get 
the numbness in his limbs to go away while he stared with 
almost fanatic fascination at the pitcher.

It took some work and a lot of frustration before he was 
able to finally raise the pitcher to his lips and drink. He 
sipped the cool liquid and made a face at the taste of it. 
Whether it was just a bad taste in his mouth or something in 
the water he didn't know, but the bitter, almond-like taste 
made him grimace. But he drank anyway. He needed the water 
so badly, it hurt. And, of course he overdid it. He could 
virtually hear Scully's voice telling him to sip the water, 
to take it slow, but he was so awfully thirsty, he craved 
the water. All of it. So he downed the half-gallon of water 
in nearly one go and this resulted in an almost immediate 
stomach cramp. The pitcher dropped out of his hands, 
spilling the tiny remainder of water onto the floor as he 
curled up, cursing himself for not having more control.

A couple of deep breaths and sheer concentration eased the 
discomfort after a while. He was thankful that he hadn't 
thrown up. At least the water would come to good use now. 
Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes and tried to wish 
himself away.

J. Edgar Hoover building 
April 4 
09.30 a.m.

Dana Scully sat on her chair in her office and stared at 
Mulder's favorite poster on the wall. "I want to believe," 
she whispered, staring hard at it as if just staring at it 
could conjure him up. After a while, she closed her eyes. 
"How many lives do you have, Mulder?" she asked the silent 
room quietly. How many times could he get away from 
experiences like this with his life and mind intact? There 
was no indication of his whereabouts, no indication of who 
had taken him and why. She had a theory, one she didn't want 
to think too much about. His condition when he had vanished 
had been so severe, that she could not imagine that he would 
survive without medical help. The thought of him alone, 
hurting in perhaps a basement somewhere, made her open her 
eyes again. She did not like the mental picture that thought 
created. With a heartfelt sigh, she turned the chair back to 
her desk and stared down at a profile he had begun not too 
long ago. His sharp wit and mind virtually jumped off the 
pages, his theories and thoughts bringing a smile to her 
lips. A sad one. For the first time in the years she had 
known him and rescued him from life threatening situations, 
she did not feel that he was still out there. She knew that 
her feelings on the matter were based on her medical opinion 
about his health and general well-being, but she thought she 
would know if he was still out there somewhere. At the 
moment, she was here, in the office, just waiting for that 
call which would ask her to come to the local morgue and 
identify him. "Damn it," she whispered, closed the folder 
and leaned back again.

When the phone suddenly rang, her heart was in her throat 
immediately. She stared at the ringing contraption for a 
second; not wanting to pick up in fear of the news she might 
receive, then did pick up. "Scully," she said.

"Dana? It's Bill."

She let out an almost audible sigh of relief. No bad news. 
"Hi, Bill," she finally said.

"Are you okay, Dana? You sound upset?" Bill countered.

She briefly considered telling him the reason, but figured 
he would make some kind of remark she definitely wasn't up 
to hearing right now and therefore decided not to tell him. 
"It's nothing, Bill. What's up?" she wanted to know, trying 
hard to sound cheerful. It came out all wrong.

Bill was quiet for a moment and she could almost hear him 
brooding on the other end. "Uhm... Tara and I were wondering 
if you don't have a vacation coming up any time soon. We'd 
really like to see you," he finally said. "I mean, you must 
be up for a vacation," he added with a somewhat uncertain 
chuckle. He could sense her mood and was slightly confused 
about it. He had a theory on why she might be upset and it 
all went back to that partner of hers.

Closing her eyes, she scolded herself silently for not 
having seen that one coming. She knew her brother well 
enough to know he had a habit of making inane requests in 
the middle of a crisis. Not that he knew there was one, of 
course. "Bill, I really can't think about vacation time 
right now. We've got a bit of a crisis on our hands here and 
there is no way I can take off in the middle of it. I 
wouldn't want to." She knew how it sounded, but she didn't 
really care. "I'll have to get back to you on this, okay? 
So, if you'll excuse me? I've got a lot of work to do."

"Isn't that partner of yours doing his share of the work?"

It had to come. She knew it had to come, but she was still 
not in the mood for it. Closing her eyes, she told herself 
silently to be calm. "He's doing more than his share, Bill. 
He's missing in action and we're currently trying to find 
him. I don't have time to chat right now, okay?" She 
couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.

Bill was silent again for a moment; aware he had just 
overstepped the line. "I'm sorry, Dana. I didn't know," he 
defended himself. "Call me when this is over, okay? Or if 
you just need to talk."

Keeping her eyes closed, she nodded. "Okay, I will. I have 
to go. Tell Tara hi and give that unruly kid of yours a kiss 
from me." With that, she hung up. Shaking her head sadly, 
she fought tears back for a moment. "When this is over?" she 
whispered. "I'll probably be going to his funeral when this 
is over," she added and bit her lower lip in a fit of 
depression.

The Consortium Lodge 
46th Street 
New York City 

The Cancer Man stared intently at the woman, who had 
previously informed him of the death of the clones. "You 
told me that they were all dead," he said.

"They are," she replied, still utterly indifferent.

"Then why is Agent Mulder missing again?" he wanted to know 
tersely.

"Because he is dependent on Crystalstar," she countered.

The Cancer Man stared at her. "Crystalstar?" he almost 
snapped. "Where the hell did he get that from?" Shaking his 
head in annoyance, he couldn't help thinking about that 
hellish stuff one of the scientists had extracted from the 
Royal Jelly of these special killer bees carrying the small 
pox virus. Dried and powered it became a drug equal to 
Heroin but with an addiction rate never seen before. And, of 
course, it had gotten out. As far as he had been able to 
determine, the scientist who had developed it had also tried 
it on himself and had become an addict immediately. 
Naturally he had been relieved of his burden forever. But 
ten pounds of the stuff had been made and had been missing, 
too, until it turned up in a warehouse in Washington and was 
impounded by the F.B.I. He would have seen to it that it was 
removed from there and destroyed. There was no sense in 
having something like this lying around.

The dark-haired woman cleared her throat, attracting his 
attention. "The last clone I terminated had this on her," 
she told him and dropped a package into his outstretched 
hand. "One pound of it. The rest is in the hands of the 
F.B.I. Except for half a pound which has been turned over to 
Mulder's doctor at the hospital," she added and dumped a 
second, smaller package into his hand, too. "I have no 
access to the FBI's storage department and if Mulder finds 
out where it comes from, there will be hell to pay." Her 
tone of voice did not convey any kind of emotion other than 
perhaps slight boredom.

The Cancer Man almost smiled. This one was resourceful. She 
thought on her own. Which meant that she wasn't the one he 
usually dealt with. "Let me deal with the F.B.I.," he said. 
"Which one are you?" he subsequently asked her.

"We are one," she countered, the general reply to that kind 
of question.

They were clones and not able to distinguish between each 
other. They thought alike and he sometimes had them 
suspected of having a collective mind. Actually, he was 
quite certain that they did. This one, however, overstepped 
her boundaries. That could mean only one thing. She was 
self-aware without the others. A new twist to the whole 
thing. He kind of liked it. "Does that mean that you took 
him or one of your sisters?" he asked on, knowing that she 
would not volunteer information unless he asked her 
directly.

"I took him," she countered.

"Where?" he asked, staring into her eyes and seeing nothing 
there.

"To the house," she told him.

"What about his injuries? I understand they were quite 
severe." Once he knew what he needed to know, he would tell 
Skinner to back off and put a lid on this.

"They have been dealt with. All he will have to deal with 
now are the side effects of the drug. He is weak. But I 
think he will survive it," she said, her eyes briefly coming 
alive.

The Cancer Man still smiled. She was definitely developing a 
mind of her own. Quite interesting. "Good. Go back and stay 
with him. Tide him over if he needs it, but don't tell him 
anything. The less he knows, the better. Once he's free of 
the drug, return him to his apartment and leave."

She nodded once. "I'm feeding him this liquid sustenance in 
the water as instructed. I think he knows it's in there, but 
he drinks the water anyway." With that, she turned around 
and left again.

His smile stayed on for a while. It had been a long time 
since he'd had help he could depend on. This one did what he 
said without question. He was intrigued by her ability to 
develop, though. The others had shown no sign of that. None 
of the clones created from human tissue and alien DNA had 
shown any such potential. This one, however, was created 
from a human ova. There seemed to be a difference. He would 
have to investigate this potential and try to estimate the 
outcome, but so far he liked what he saw.

Location unknown

Mulder was feeling lousy. Hot one moment, cold the next. 
He'd had another cramp attack like the one in the hospital 
and it had completely drained him of whatever strength he'd 
been able to build up. Although it had not lasted nearly as 
long as the first one, he had passed out afterward and when 
he came to again, it was dark outside. He had changed into 
the sweat suit the woman had provided for him and felt 
marginally better wearing clothes, but it still didn't give 
him an inkling of a clue about where he was or why he was 
here. She had returned twice, with a new pitcher of water 
ever time, but his attempts to get her to say something had 
been in vain. She had simply set the pitcher down on the 
floor, grabbed the empty one and left again, closing and 
locking the door behind her. It was actually more 
frustrating that she didn't speak to him than if she had 
beat him up every time she came in. Her lack of response was 
driving him crazy. He demanded, he pleaded for her to say 
something, but she didn't.

With a sigh, he took a swig of the water, sitting 
cross-legged on the floor. He had discovered a small 
bathroom connected to the room, which had given him a sense 
of relief. The water coming out of the faucet had smelled 
bad, though, and that had given him an idea why she was 
providing water in a pitcher. He probably shouldn't drink 
the stuff from the faucet. The water in the pitcher still 
tasted bitter and he had arrived at the conclusion that 
something was added to it. His first thought had been that 
they were poising him, but that made no sense. Why would 
they want to do that? They could just kill him. Feeling 
restless but too weak to move around too much, he settled 
down next to the low-set window and was staring out at the 
night sky, at the stars. And all the time he kept wondering 
what would happen to him.

Although he was tired enough to drop, he couldn't sleep. The 
restlessness increased and the numbness in his limbs 
returned after a while. He couldn't sit still, couldn't find 
a position that was comfortable. Having a fairly good idea 
about what was causing this, he started being afraid. The 
discomfort was increasing and he had heard about how 
difficult and painful it could be to get out of a drug 
abuse. Not that he would call his particular case drug 
abuse. He had received one injection of it against his will 
and, as far as he remembered, one or two more in the 
hospital. Scully had told him what they would do. He had not 
liked it, but had seen the need for it at the time. And this 
was definitely it.

To concentrate on something else for a while, he tried to 
remember some of the things he had read about Crystalstar in 
the report everybody had received before the bust. The drug 
was new, definitely not tested in any way or manner. The 
addicts, the few that had money enough to buy this stuff, 
reportedly saw odd shapes and colours, some of them claiming 
they had seen a different universe. He could go with that 
one. The colours, at least. He had seen them in the 
hospital, for a brief moment. But apparently, one thing that 
was not documented was that when the addict was tripping on 
the drug, matters of importance became insignificant. He 
remembered how little the pain had meant to him while he had 
seen the colours. How little it had mattered that he was 
hurting. It was as if it was happening to somebody else. He 
could sense the pain, but it was too far away to matter in 
any way. Almost like getting the laughing gas at the 
dentists. The sensation was the same. A kind of indifferent 
detachment from everything.

This could not be said for how he was feeling now, though. 
He wanted more of the drug. Every fiber of his body was 
craving it. It wasn't yet unpleasant enough to drive him out 
of his head, but it was nagging him. It was keeping him from 
sleeping. Groaning in despair, not certain what the next few 
hours had in store for him, he wrapped his arms tighter 
around himself and returned to staring out at the stars, 
hoping that he could distract himself enough to override the 
need he felt.

An hour later, he was in a frenzy. The physical discomfort 
was so strong that it bordered on pain and he was up and 
pacing until his legs would no longer carry him. Sitting 
down hard on the floor in the middle of the room, his arms 
still wrapped tightly around himself, he tried in vain to 
suppress the shudder that ran through him. So far he had 
been able to keep himself from begging for someone to help 
him. He had a feeling that nobody would. Obviously there was 
something about this drug that the Consortium wanted to 
suppress. There was no doubt in his mind that they were 
behind this. Whether they did this to teach him a lesson he 
did not know. He could not come up with any plausible reason 
for them doing this to him. But, then again, there didn't 
seem to be much reason in anything they did. Grinding his 
teeth together, he fought the craving for the drug for as 
long as he could.

But before the sun rose, he was trying to break down the 
door in an attempt to get to the drug. His subconscious mind 
kept nagging him about his behaviour, but he had reached the 
state where he just didn't care. At first he raged, 
hammering his fists against the door until the skin was raw 
and bleeding. Then he begged. Finally he slid down the door, 
too exhausted to move much any more and sobbed at the 
unfairness of his existence. Everything that had ever gone 
wrong in his life came tumbling back down over him, 
threatening to suffocate him, making him wonder why he had 
thought that life was worth living. There was nothing in the 
world right now that could make him love life.

And then the hallucinations started up. For more than an 
hour, he relieved Samantha's abduction over and over again 
until it nearly drove him insane. The scene never changed, 
he never managed to save her. Lying curled up on the floor, 
his back against the door, his arms wrapped tightly around 
his head, he cried. He cried like he hadn't in many years. 
When that abduction scene finally faded, he sobbed with 
relief. Thinking that the worst was over, he froze in panic 
when another suddenly replaced it. He moaned in anguish, 
grabbing his head and closing his eyes, but the scene 
unfolded before him anyway. Although he had not been present 
when Scully had been taken, he saw the scene, saw how Dwayne 
Barry had broken the window and attacked her. He saw how she 
reached for the phone, trying to call him, to beg for his 
help. And again he could do nothing but stand by and watch. 
This scene repeated itself on a loop like Samantha's 
abduction had and at one point he started screaming, unable 
to stand it any more. A thought wormed its way out of his 
subconscious mind, a wicked little voice telling him how he 
could make it end.

Annapolis 
Dana Scully's residence 
April 6 
02.36 a.m.

Scully jerked awake and sat up in her bed, blinking in 
confusion. The dream she'd had, had torn her out of her 
sleep. Breathing heavily, she pulled her knees up to her 
chest and wrapped her arms around them after having turned 
on the light. Yet the scene from the dream kept playing over 
and over in her mind. She had dreamed of Mulder. He had been 
caught in something and had been reaching out to her, 
begging for her help. But she couldn't move, couldn't get to 
him. "Oh my God. Are you still alive?" she whispered. Unable 
to justify this feeling, her initial intention to reach for 
the phone and call Skinner subsided again. She couldn't wake 
him up in the middle of the night to tell him she'd had a 
dream about Mulder. He would think she had lost her mind. 
But the feeling was as strong as the time when she thought 
he had died on that Indian reservation. Stronger, even. He 
was in need. He needed her. And she didn't know where to 
start looking. An idea, which actually made her laugh out 
loud in disbelief, came to her like lightning from a clear 
sky. Go back to sleep. Dream on. That was what she was 
thinking. Could it be possible? Could she find Mulder in a 
dream and then go to him in reality? The helpless laughter 
overcame her again. This was insane. This was something 
Mulder would believe in. No, she decided. It was just a 
dream. Frowning, she reached out and switched off the light, 
the nagging doubt not letting go. Was he really dead? Or was 
he out there somewhere, in dire need of help? She feared the 
first and wanted to believe the second. And in between there 
was that dream.

Location unknown

The dark-haired woman stepped into the room after the end of 
his third week there and looked around. At first she didn't 
see him, then spotted him in the furthest corner from the 
windows. She had checked on him regularly and had made 
certain that he was okay despite the terrible attacks he 
went through. Most of them were painful only to his mind. It 
was dark in the room due to the heavy cloud cover outside, 
announcing another storm. Squinting in the gloom, she slowly 
walked toward him, aware that he might still be lost in some 
kind of imaginary world. She squatted down in front of him, 
her eyes scrutinizing his face.

Swallowing weakly, his lips parted as he tried to form words 
without being able to speak and his eyes focused on her. A 
weak movement of one hand indicated that he wanted something 
from her. She eyed his hand for a moment, then looked back 
up at his face. "How are you feeling?" she asked after a 
moment, her tone of voice as indifferent as ever. It was the 
first time that she spoke to him since his arrival. He just 
stared at her. "Any hallucinations?" He weakly shook his 
head to let her know that he hadn't had hallucinations in a 
while. "Any cramps?" Again, he merely shook his head no, his 
eyes never leaving her face. "Do you feel any hunger for the 
drug?" Once more he shook his head in denial. "Good. I think 
it's about time you went home," she said, staring at him.

He stared back, no indication of recognition in his eyes. 
But inside him, something was happening. The word home 
stirred him to life. Slowly, sluggishly he started thinking 
again.

Quantico 
April 29 
3.35 p.m.

Dr. Dana Scully dismissed her class for the afternoon. Since 
the Bureau without hesitation had pronounced her partner 
dead long before that time when it was officially legal, and 
had reassigned her to a teaching position at Quantico, she 
had spent her days telling young people how to cut cadavers 
open, how to determine causes of death. And all the while, 
she kept dreaming of her partner, the same dream over and 
over again. By now, she was as certain as she could be 
without tangible proof that he was still out there 
somewhere, but all her resources to find him had been cut 
off. Skinner had stood powerless when the brass had decided 
that this was official business. They had even reprimanded 
him for not putting other agents on the case and told him he 
should be happy to still have a job. Scully's mind had 
rebelled when he had told her about her re-assignment, but 
to the outside world, she had seemingly accepted her fate. 
Her occasional contact to the Lone Gunmen was held in the 
strictest confidence and although she had given them all the 
information she could, they had not been able to find even a 
single trace anywhere.

Scully had naturally been in charge of telling Mulder's 
mother about his disappearance and the fact that the F.B.I. 
had closed the book him. Mrs. Mulder had taken the news the 
way she took any news, calmly, but with a kind of silent 
despair in her eyes. She had, however, refused to let 
anybody touch his apartment and was willing to continuously 
pay the rent until they found a definite sign that her son 
was gone. Due to her own belief that he wasn't dead, Scully 
supported Mrs. Mulder in that action and went over there a 
few times a week to feed the fish.

Scully shrugged out of her lab coat, grabbed her things and 
headed for her car. She was in no mood to talk to her 
colleagues, although they had arranged a small get-together 
this afternoon where all were invited. She was fed up with 
hearing snide remarks about her missing partner, about how 
everybody had expected this to happen sooner or later. For 
who could think that Spooky Mulder wouldn't go AWOL at one 
point? Once behind the wheel or her Ford Taurus, she paused 
before turning the key in the ignition. Looking out at 
Quantico, she remembered how many times she had been here in 
the past. Both on her own and with Mulder. To think that she 
would never hear his silly comments on things again made her 
close her eyes briefly. "Oh God. I wish I had the strength 
of your beliefs now, Mulder. I wish I could be one hundred 
percent certain that you're still out there." She shook her 
head, her defeat complete. She had so wanted to stay in 
Washington so she could further her attempts to try and find 
her missing partner and friend, but nobody had listened to 
her. Nobody had paid attention to her needs, her wishes. She 
had told Skinner about her dreams, but he had shrugged, 
obviously very burdened by the whole thing, and had told her 
to forget about it. Unless Mulder resurfaced, alive or dead, 
there was nothing more he could do. His channels were 
blocked, he had told her. Nothing could be done. Scully 
couldn't help wondering what the Cancer Man had threatened 
him with, for there was no doubt in her mind that his 
helplessness stemmed from that corner.

Alexandria 
Fox Mulder's residence 
6.30 p.m.

He woke up slowly, his face buried in an unyielding, 
familiar smelling mass. He inhaled the scent and very slowly 
raised his head, staring down at the black, comfortable 
surface beneath him. Then, slowly, he turned his head, 
running his eyes over his own living room as if he had never 
seen it before. Weak to a point where he could hardly move, 
he managed to shift himself around so he was lying on his 
side on his couch, the familiar scents of his home 
bombarding him. He let his eyelids slide shut again and drew 
in a deep breath, savoring the feeling of being home again. 
He'd been gone for a long time. He didn't know how long, 
though. Through the threshes and the pain, the subsequent 
hallucinations and his increasing weakness, he had lost 
count of the days and nights he had spent in that place. But 
all that didn't matter now. What mattered was that he was 
home. He felt weak, but there was no pain and the horrible 
urge for that drug had subsided a few days ago. He felt no 
need whatsoever to ever stick his nose into something like 
this again. If he never heard of a drug addict again, it 
would be too soon.

Running his tongue over the roof of his mouth, he noted the 
fact that he was thirsty. A glass of water stood on the 
coffee table next to him and he couldn't help smiling. It 
was a sarcastic little smile. Life sure had been a mess 
lately. Reaching out weakly, he grabbed the glass and drank 
a few sips of the water, noting that the almond taste was 
gone. Just plain water.

He settled back onto the couch, placing the glass on his 
chest, and stared up at the ceiling. Then a thought popped 
into his head. Scully. He had to call Scully and let her 
know he was okay. With an effort, he managed to push himself 
up on the couch and reached for the phone conveniently 
positioned on the coffee table as well. Not a place he would 
keep it, he mused. With shaking fingers, he pressed the 
speed-dial button and raised the receiver up to his ear.

Annapolis 
Dana Scully's residence 
7.10 p.m.

Scully had settled down on her couch with a bowl of soup, 
not really hungry but forcing herself to eat. She had lost 
weight over the last month and needed to regain some of it 
before she wasted away. Heaving a deep breath, she sighed 
and shook her head. "I'm starting to be as obsessed about 
things as you are, Mulder," she said, unable to shake the 
rock-steady yet for odd conviction that he was still out 
there.

The phone rang, causing her to close her eyes in annoyance. 
"Bill! It's a guess," she told herself, put the bowl of soup 
aside and got up to grab the receiver. Her brother had 
called her on a regular basis, trying to get her to come out 
to visit so she didn't have to go through this tough period 
on her own. The thing was, she knew what would happen once 
she got there and got settled in. Bill would start telling 
her that she was better off and although he had never wanted 
for Mulder to die, he certainly had not approved of him 
being a part of her life. Shaking her head, she raised the 
receiver to her ear. "Yes?" she asked, certain to hear her 
brother on the other end. A patch of silence followed that.

"Scully, it's me."

Her eyelids slid closed and she barely managed to contain an 
almost anguished sigh as she brought a hand up to cover her 
mouth. Although his voice was weak, barely audible, she 
would recognize that voice anywhere. "Oh God," she 
whispered. "Mulder?"

"Yeah! Scully, I need you," he breathed, sounding ready to 
drop.

"Where are you?" she demanded, her own voice taking on a 
strength she had not been able to display over the past 
month.

"At home," he countered and laughed weakly. "Ironic, isn't 
it?"

"I'm coming over," she said, ignoring that last remark. 
"Just... stay where you are," she added as if on second 
thought.

"Oh, I don't think I'll be going anywhere any time soon," he 
countered.

The connection broke again and she stood there with the 
receiver in her hand, staring at it, wondering if this had 
just happened. Maybe she had finally gone insane, she mused. 
Then she shook her head, put the receiver down, and went 
into her bedroom to get some decent clothes on and left the 
apartment fifteen minutes later.

Alexandria 
Fox Mulder's residence 
7.45 p.m.

Scully unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, 
immediately sensing another presence. She closed the door 
and walked through to the living room only to stop at the 
sight of him. He was thin. Had lost a lot of weight over the 
past month. There were dark patches under his eyes and his 
face in general had a hollow expression to it. But he was 
smiling at her and she could not recall ever having seen 
anything better in her whole life. Leaning her head to the 
right, she sat down on the edge of the couch, staring at him 
with a smile of her own. Without further ado, she leaned 
over him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him hard. 
He in turn slipped his arms around her, attempting to hug 
her back, but his arms lacked the strength.

"Scully," he breathed after a moment.

She just kept on holding him, savoring the feel of having 
him near. "Yes?" she whispered.

"You're squashing me," he told her, a smile in his voice.

With a slightly rueful smile on her lips, she let go and 
leaned back, her hands on his arms.

"I seem to be a little... uhm... undernourished," he said.

"You do, yes," she countered, inspecting his face 
thoughtfully, her mind already in doctor-mode. "Let me have 
a look at you," she added, taking his right hand and 
inspecting that, too. "Do you feel sick?" she asked, turning 
it over. The skin on his hand was dry, rough.

"No," he countered weakly. "Just tired. And awfully hungry," 
he told her, smiling at the way she was scrutinizing him. "I 
could go for a burger right now," he added and swallowed 
hard at the thought of food.

Scully met his eyes and smiled. "A burger?" she asked and he 
nodded. "I am going to make sure that you get something to 
eat, but a burger is not going to be it. You need something 
that can give you your strength back. Something that can get 
you back on your feet in a hurry. I do not like seeing you 
like this. But you don't seem sick. Just thinner." Staring 
at him, her smiled faded. "Where have you been for the past 
three weeks?"

He returned her stare for a moment, then closed his eyes and 
sighed. "Has it been that long?" he countered. "I don't 
know. A house out in the country. I... couldn't get out."

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, then traced his 
jawline, searching for the injuries he'd had when he had 
disappeared. The dislocated jaw should be okay by now, 
providing he had been treated right, but his broken shoulder 
and ribs should still be bothering him. Her fingers slipped 
down over his left shoulder, touching and poking it.

"I'm okay," he told her. "Don't ask how. I woke up in that 
place and was okay."

"The broken ribs?" she wanted to know and he nodded his 
head. "You have no bruises anymore. Most of them should be 
gone by now, but still. There should still be signs. How's 
your head?"

He smiled weakly at her concern. "Light. I feel very... 
light-headed."

J. Edgar Hoover building 
May 25 
8.30 a.m.

It had taken him a little over three weeks to get back on 
his feet. His strength was building daily and both his 
complexion and figure had returned to normal. Outward there 
was no sign of what had happened to him. Inside, Scully 
wasn't so sure. She had watched him closely and had noticed 
something. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but 
there was something going on in that head of his. What it 
was she didn't know, though. All she knew was that he was 
keeping things from her. Things that might be important.

There had been a lot of questions, a lot of confusion about 
his disappearance and subsequent return. Skinner and Scully 
seemed to be among the only ones who saw it as something 
good that he had returned. To questions about where he had 
been for the past month, he had replied with the same 
explanation he had given Scully. A country estate somewhere, 
he had no idea where or how long he had been there. He knew 
nothing of his abductor other than that she had taken him 
away, gotten him off the drug, and had subsequently returned 
him to his apartment. And he patiently repeated it over and 
over again. To Scully's great surprise, nothing seemed to 
faze him these days. He didn't get upset about the 
questions. He didn't get that set look to his jaw when 
somebody made fun of him. He in general didn't seem to care. 
It was like water off a duck's back. Nothing got to him.

She draped her coat over the back of her chair and smiled at 
him, receiving that odd weak smile back that he had acquired 
since returning, when he briefly glanced up at her. He 
hardly made any jokes, which she of course didn't expect him 
to, either. It was just odd to be with him at the moment. To 
her utter and complete confusion, he seemed to lean heavily 
on her opinion about things now. She had not heard him come 
up with one single remark on anything supernatural. 
"Mulder," she said, easing down on her chair without taking 
her eyes of him.

"Yeah?" he replied, looking up from the paperwork he was 
going over.

"Are you okay?" she wanted to know, a standard question she 
asked him every morning when she came in since his return to 
work.

He smiled. There was something overbearing about that smile. 
As if he gladly tolerated silly questions about his health. 
"I'm fine," he countered. "Why? Shouldn't I be?"

A diversity from their usual routine. It gave her hope. "I 
don't know, Mulder. I don't really know you any more. I'm 
aware that you've been through hell and it would be nothing 
short of a miracle if you had gotten away from this without 
some kind of... after-effect. But you're behaving oddly."

For a moment, he just stared at her, his expression calm and 
unemotional, then he pulled his reading glasses off and 
leaned back on his chair, the look in his eyes suddenly far 
away, his expression tensing up. "I have a better 
understanding for certain things now. Like what a drug 
addict feels when trying to become drug free. I understand 
how difficult it is." Focusing on her, the seriousness in 
his expression did not escape her, the way he frowned, the 
dark look in his eyes. "I don't ever... ever want to go 
through that again. If ever somebody forces me to take drugs 
again, I'll stay on them."

She was taken aback by his statement. She knew from medical 
reports and the few times she had seen drug addicts in the 
throws of their need how difficult it could be, but 
something had happened to him while he had been away which 
had left him utterly shaken. "That's a pretty hefty comment, 
Mulder," she said, as serious as he was.

"Yes, I know. But that's how I feel. If ordinary drugs put 
you through even half of what I went through, I'd rather die 
than try and get off them." Again his eyes drifted and his 
expression revealed his inner turmoil. "It was horrible. No 
nightmare I've ever had could compete with what I saw." He 
closed his eyes and sighed lightly, pinching the bridge of 
his nose. "It was so real."

Her heart constricted at his words. This was something he 
had to live with every day of his life. On top of all the 
other heart-wrenching episodes of his life. She just sat 
there, staring at him, unable to find any words of comfort. 
Because she didn't know how horrible it had really been.

THE END