FAILSAFE

By Caroline (xqv37@dial.pipex.com)


Rated: 15 or maybe a mean 18 - depending on what mood the BBFC are in - for 
liberal splashes of blood (mostly Scully's so no real surprises there <g>) and 
perhaps a naughty word or two. I was only a wee child at the time of writing, I 
swear a whole lot more now... That's an R cert btw, for any Americans who may 
have stumbled onto here. 

The story assumes knowledge of The Erlenmeyer Flask and End Game with a bit of 
Dod Kalm thrown in for good measure. It was also written when I still believed 
Mulder was at all worried about finding his sister and I gave Scully her own 
desk because, just because. Confused yet? You will be :-)

Any character you recognise belongs to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. 
(Christ, this must have been written in the days when I still had respect for 
them!) Any that you don't belong to me. No similarities to anyone living or dead 
intended. Please don't sue me, I'm poor, unemployed and have a kitten to feed.

Comments/flames welcome at xqv37@dial.pipex.com





Failsafe.



He listened as the echo of the scream faded into the darkness. His hand held the 
knife with the firm, unyielding grasp a surgeon would employ, moulded and 
steadied through years of practice, maintaining a professional distance from 
those who found themselves under his blade.

He was the same.

Distanced.

But only from the emotions of his victims. The intense pleasure he gained from 
the gradual exploration of their bodies, the sensation of the flesh parting 
smoothly, the blood that ran out in a steady stream, were his to covet and 
investigate. He looked down at the face of the woman, her eyes wide with terror, 
almost disbelief at the manner in which her life had been terminated. Smiling 
softly to himself, he wiped the knife clean before placing it onto the tray.



FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 28th July. 9am.

Dana Scully walked briskly from the elevator to the basement office that doubled 
as her second home. Her no-fuss navy suit, no fuss hair, and yes I can balance 
on these heels thank you very much shoes portrayed a woman with more confidence 
and authority than her slight stature would at first suggest. On this occasion, 
however, her appearance was deceiving. Scully was tired and far too hot. 

For over a week now, Washington, D.C. had been sweltering in an uncomfortably 
humid heat wave, and for over a week Scully had been trying to badger FBI 
maintenance into fixing the basement air conditioning. She shook her head 
ruefully as she opened the door and a fresh wave of warm air greeted her.

"And Good Mornin' Agent Scully!"

Scully turned towards the voice, smirking slightly at the sarcastic radio 
announcer's intonation her partner had used. Fox Mulder was sitting in his shirt 
sleeves, the back of his shirt already sticking to him, and his tie 
unceremoniously screwed up into his jacket pocket. Be thankful for small 
mercies, Scully thought, as she marvelled at the pattern gracing the tie: it was 
possibly even more tasteless than the one with pink pigs on it that Mulder wore 
only on "very special occasions". He had obviously been awaiting her arrival; an 
empty coffee cup and various configurations of sunflower seeds and discarded 
shells adorned his desk.

"So Scully, what brings you in here at this early hour?"

His partner did not dignify him with a reply, instead busying herself with 
hanging her jacket up, dropping her briefcase and preparing a much needed cup of 
coffee. As she sat down behind her desk, she noticed for the first time the 
brand new file that had been left there. As she opened it, Scully waited for the 
steady monotone to tell her exactly what he was getting them into this time. 

Her eyes widened as she was confronted by the black and white photograph 
preceding the report completed by the local officers initially assigned to the 
case. Mulder began to speak.

"Linda Kavner. Age forty two, married with three children. Disappeared four days 
ago after leaving her restaurant shift at 11pm. Her body was discovered last 
night by a man walking his dog."

Scully held up her hand to stop Mulder in his tracks. Closing the file, she 
picked up from where he had left off:

"Over a period of three days, Mrs Kavner was repeatedly tortured. Her body was 
found to have a number of deep incisions, on limbs, chest and back. This trauma 
was not substantial enough to kill her. Her throat was eventually slashed. 
Evidence of sexual assault but not rape. All cuts were administered with a 
surgeon's blade and dexterity. Around the wound that resulted in her death an 
as-yet unidentified substance had been injected into the tissue."

During this monologue, Scully had reached into her briefcase, pulled out her own 
file and handed it to her speechless partner. She resumed her seat to conclude. 
"The manner of death and torture are identical to those found in three previous 
murders, all occurring in or around the D.C. area. So far, any connection 
between the victims remains unknown and local law are, quite frankly, at a 
loss."

Scully took a sip of her coffee and relaxed back into her chair, smiling at the 
quizzical look Mulder was giving her. Mulder waited, allowing her to savour the 
fact that, for once, she had him totally at a loss. 

"I got a call at three this morning from Alan Bryce. He and I used to work 
together at Quantico. He said that he had this weird case that we might be 
interested in. I spent the rest of the night doing the autopsy on Linda Kavner."

For the first time since she had arrived at the office, Mulder took the time to 
actually look at his partner. Her eyes had heavy, dark smudges under them, and 
her hair had been arranged in a hurry.

"You OK, Scully?"

Scully met her partner's eyes and saw both the concern and the unspoken apology. 
She smiled at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine, she was just a mess. One of the junior pathologists fainted so 
Alan and I had to finish it on our own. The toxicology reports won't be in till 
later today, but if they are anything like the results for the other three 
deaths then they aren't going to tell us anything. They just don't know what the 
substance is, or even if it contributed to the cause of death."

Scully gestured back to the file Mulder had left for her. "Where did you get 
that?" 

"It came down from Skinner," Mulder grinned, "too spooky for anyone else, and 
besides, there's something you may not know about the way each body was 
discovered..."

Scully shrugged. "A man walking his dog found Kavner; what's so strange about 
that?"

She saw the look, the one that said, Scully, you are not going to like this, but 
I absolutely love it. Mulder's grin broadened. 

"According to the young paper boy who found the second body, it just appeared in 
front of him, out of thin air."

Mulder was right, Scully didn't like it, but he did not give her the chance to 
argue. He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to launch her complaint.

"Pardon me for saying so, but you look like hell, partner."

Scully nodded wryly. She was tired beyond belief, the autopsy having been a 
particularly harrowing one that had left them none the wiser, which was 
frustrating and only added to her exhaustion. Mulder stood and handed her her 
jacket.

"Come on, breakfast is on me; then we have to see a paper boy about a corpse."



Mike's Diner. 10.13am.

The greasy spoon just around the corner from the FBI Headquarters was a rundown, 
decidedly murky establishment, but it also served the best pancakes in D.C., and 
the proprietor - who oddly enough was called Pat - was a firm believer in all 
that was weird in the world.

"Hey Spooky!" The soft Irish lilt in the man's voice was a dead give-away, and 
Mulder could not suppress his smile as the restaurant owner made his way towards 
them.

"How's it going, Pat?"

The two men shook hands, then Pat turned his attention to Scully. Mulder was 
well aware of Pat's none too subtle affection for his partner and he enjoyed 
watching her fend off his advances.

"Y'know, you really shouldn't hang around with this fella. He's bad for your 
image."

Mulder chuckled, trying to picture Scully hanging around with Pat instead. 
Scully took it all in her stride.

"Yeah, well, he's buying, otherwise I'd have left him in the basement."

Mulder feigned distress and followed Pat to their table. Pat hurriedly wiped the 
table clean and handed the two agents their menus.

Five minutes later, Mulder heaped the pancakes onto Scully's plate and gasped at 
the amount of syrup she poured onto them.

"A moment on the lips..." he whispered to her. She poked her fork in his 
direction, but could not think of a retort quickly enough. As he drowned his own 
stack, her thoughts turned back to their case.

"Mulder, this paper boy, how old is he?"

Mulder swallowed half a pancake. "He's twelve and he is completely convinced of 
what he saw."

"A twelve year old child discovering a murder victim is going to experience some 
considerable stress. It's likely that in order to cope with this he is putting 
the trauma into a scenario he can understand. I mean, maybe it's easier for him 
to give it this fantastical element to detach himself from the real horror of 
what he's been through."

Mulder nodded, spearing another pancake. "That sounds reasonable enough, but it 
doesn't account for the fact that Jody Clark, the woman who reported the first 
body, claims exactly the same thing."

Scully shook her head and stabbed her pancake: it was a poor stand in for her 
partner. He always did this to her. He would give her a percentage of the 
information, allow her to attempt to rationalise it, then crash her theory into 
the dust with a final detail he had conveniently omitted.

"Come on, let's go." Mulder's voice roused her from her introspection and she 
drained her cup as he headed for the counter with the check.

"Take care of her, Mulder." The teasing tone was no longer evident in the Irish 
man's voice, and Mulder nodded to him as he guided Scully towards the door.



Walker residence. Washington, D.C. 11am.

"D'ya wan' a piece?"

Scully shook her head with a smile as Jason Walker thrust the Tootsie Roll in 
her direction. Mulder accepted gleefully and sat down on the sofa in the 
Walker's living room. Jason Walker filled his mouth with the candy and squatted 
cross-legged in front of the two agents. Scully looked at the boy,  a slight 
child with blond hair and no front teeth, who did not seem at all fazed by their 
presence.

"So, you want to know how I found that guy?"

At Mulder's confirmation, Jason began to recount a story he had obviously told 
many times to various people. His delivery was flat and his eyes distant as he 
played with the wrapper of the candy. 

"I was on my way home from my morning round. I took a short cut through the 
field. Mom always told me not to go that way, but it saves a lot of time and I 
was going for a swim after my round. I must have walked for about five minutes 
when this guy just appeared."

Scully noticed the tremble in the boy's voice, but she did not want to interrupt 
to offer reassurance, as she had a feeling that any disruption to his story 
would leave him unable to carry on. Jason steadied himself with a small, 
impromptu coughing fit, then continued.

"His face was all cut up and he was still bleeding and..."

The small face looked up, met Scully's eyes then turned to Mulder. "I'm not 
making this up. I keep on dreaming about it and it's always the same, he's just 
there in front of me."

Mulder leaned forward and placed his hand on top of Jason's. "I believe you, 
Jason. We don't think you're crazy, OK?" He was rewarded with a small nod which 
encouraged Mulder to continue. "Is there anything else that you can remember? 
Did you hear or smell anything strange?"

"No. I don't think so. Am I done? I'd like to go out and play now."



11.47am.

Mulder pulled out of the street and rejoined the main stream of traffic. Scully 
tried in vain to operate the air conditioning in the car, then gave up and 
opened the file on her lap. Mulder tapped out the rhythm of the blues song 
playing on the radio, marking the time until Scully began the questioning.

"Mulder...?"

He stopped the drumming and glanced at Scully. "What?"

She seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. "Jason. What did you 
think?"

Mulder shrugged neutrally. "He seemed like a nice kid, bit on the jumpy side but 
that's understandable. He reminded me a bit of me when I was that age, the look 
in his eyes, that 'I know I'm telling the truth, why the hell won't you listen 
to me' look." Mulder turned his attention back to the traffic and tried to keep 
his mind on the present case instead of an unsolved one from twenty-three years 
ago.

Scully swallowed, watched the freeway. In her heart, she wanted to tell Mulder 
that she had believed everything that Jason had said. Sometimes it was draining 
always to have to offer the plausible explanation. But she couldn't turn her 
back on everything she had been taught, and, as Mulder turned into the parking 
lot of the FBI building, it was to science that she turned, seeking an 
explanation within the realms of possibility for a case that seemed to be 
defying the rational at every junction.

~~~~ She watched them from a safe distance, sensing their confusion. The tall 
man was trying to erase a memory that persisted in plaguing him: a girl in a 
night-gown drifting from his reach, the sound of her cries ringing in his ears 
as he struggled to hold his father's gun. The auburn-haired woman beside him was 
fighting with a different demon, one that she had confronted often and usually 
succeeded in subduing: a desire to believe. Well, she might just get her chance. 
The unobserved spectator chuckled sadly then choked back a pained gasp. She knew 
that the woman would be the hardest to convince; she also knew that she didn't 
have an awful lot of time to waste worrying about it. ~~~~

FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 12.15pm.

"So what happens now?"

Scully threw her briefcase down beside her desk and ran her fingers through her 
hair, trying to ignore the perspiration that had gathered by her hairline. 

Mulder was attempting to open a packet of sunflower seeds whilst simultaneously 
switching his computer on and manoeuvring the mouse into the necessary position. 
He was not having the best of luck. Scully watched him, amused, and debated 
helping him before deciding against it: he was having too much fun on his own. 
She opened her mouth to repeat the question when he finally registered the 
original inquiry.

"We speak to Jody Clark, see what she has to say, and wait for the tox reports 
to get back from the last victim." His flippant tone masked the irritation he 
was experiencing. He hated being at a dead end, hated the feeling that he was 
dependent on other people to do their jobs before he could continue with his.

Scully had seated herself behind her desk, preparing to go through the files on 
the victims again. Mulder flexed his fingers and launched himself into the task 
of profiling the... he hesitated to think of the perpetrator as a person when it 
was difficult to conceive that a human could have been responsible for such 
atrocities. Mulder paused as he remembered Pfaster: no-one had been willing to 
accept that a human could have defiled the women in the way he had. The reality 
had been a bitter pill to swallow. Mulder chanced a glance at Scully, who 
continued to read, oblivious to the thoughts that had brought her partner out in 
a cold sweat. Brutally forcing his mind to concentrate, Mulder looked at the 
screen of his computer and began to type. 

"X-File. 1118 2X08.

"After reviewing the evidence presented so far in this case, I have arrived at 
the following conclusions. The five victims have ranged in age from nineteen to 
fifty five, three males and two females. The age and size of the male victims 
lead me to conclude that the killer is most likely to be an adult male, 
estimated age early thirties. The bodies have been discarded almost immediately 
after death, usually in a public place, suggesting that they had been held 
captive close to that location, but searches of the surrounding buildings have 
revealed no evidence of this.

"Each of the female victims had been sexually assaulted but not raped, the 
tearing and bruising recorded during the post-mortems suggesting a forced 
examination as opposed to intercourse.

"Post-mortem analysis reveals that similar injuries were suffered by each of the 
victims. Each appears to have been subjected to a series of tortures over a 
number of days (average: three). Wounds are knife wounds, precise and varying in 
severity. A substance found in the surrounding tissue has so far defied 
identification and no weapon has been recovered. Agent Scully believes that the 
killer is using surgical tools and may have training or experience in this 
profession.

"The killer seems to harbour a fascination with the biology of his victims. The 
wounds are inflicted to cause pain but not instantaneous death. The torture 
appears to be without motive (none of the cases involving ransom demands or 
similar threats), with the victims selected arbitrarily. No connection has so 
far been established between any of the deceased. The cold disregard for human 
life points me towards the consideration that the perpetrator is inhuman, 
whether figuratively or literally. It is unclear at this stage whether the 
victims died as a result of exposure to the unidentified substance or as a 
result of their cumulative injuries. The random nature of the victims renders 
establishing any pattern or predictions futile. The manner in which witnesses 
have described discovering the bodies leads me to suspect the possibility of 
extraterrestrial involvement, a conclusion that Agent Scully would vehemently 
oppose. It is my opinion that the most important factor in this investigation is 
the substance which is still undergoing analysis. Further conclusions will be 
possible once the origin and structure of this element have been ascertained."

Mulder stared at the computer screen, read and reread the report, then printed a 
copy for Scully to go through. She was still immersed in the files, her brow 
furrowed in concentration as she searched for clues they might have missed. 

Mulder jumped as the phone rang. Scully raised her head querulously, the 
insistent noise shattering her train of thought. Mulder snatched the receiver 
up.

"Mulder."

Scully watched as her partner's face first drained of all its colour then became 
animated with an expression of surprise.

"You're absolutely sure?...And this is the same for each victim?...No! No! Don't 
do that. Agent Scully and I will come over and arrange the transfer. Thank you. 
Goodbye." Mulder put the phone down and turned towards Scully. "You're not going 
to believe this, Scully."

His smile told her he thought it was the greatest thing since the launch of 
Celebrity Skin.

"What?"

Mulder paused for dramatic emphasis.

"The substance that they found in the bodies... they brought in someone from 
Boston, someone who had worked with a Doctor Anne Carpenter. The substance, 
Scully - its design and structure are almost identical to that found in the 
Erlenmeyer flask."



4.35pm.

Mulder drove in silence, the radio switched off, no tapping on the steering 
wheel to distract his racing imagination. Scully stared out of her side window. 
Few words had been exchanged since the phone call, just a simple agreement to go 
to the lab at Georgetown. Scully, almost subdued, had followed him to the car 
without question. The scenery passed unnoticed, Scully's mind intent on a 
memory: "Under any other circumstances, my first call would have been to the 
Government." Scully had resisted the conclusion that what she had experienced 
during that case was indeed connected to tampering with something 
extraterrestrial in origin. Denial was the easiest solution to something for 
which she had no plausible explanation. Deep down, Dana Scully consciously 
admitted fooling herself. The evidence was overwhelming and continued to mount. 
The experiments in Wisconsin. The bounty hunter viciously hurling her against 
the wall, the dazed pain as the face of her partner shifted into that of someone 
she did not know. 

Mulder heard Scully exhale sharply and knew what was troubling her. He rarely 
gloated, opting instead for self-deprecation to try and make her more at ease 
with phenomena she longed to refute. He wanted to tell her that he understood; 
he would have said anything to break the tension in the air, but he found 
himself lost for words. First time for everything, right, Mulder? Instead, he 
contented himself with finding a parking space. Then, still without speaking, 
they made their way to the laboratory.



Georgetown University Microbiology Department. 5.50pm.

"Dana, thank you for coming."

Scully shook hands warmly with the small man who greeted her from the other side 
of the laboratory. 

"Alan Bryce, this is my partner, Fox Mulder."

Mulder nodded, shaking Bryce's hand and simultaneously trying to get the measure 
of the man of whom Scully spoke so fondly. Bryce was not much taller than 
Scully, with a haggard face, black shadows running deeply beneath bloodshot 
eyes. The stress evident on the man's face had aged him considerably, and Mulder 
was left to wonder exactly what the man had discovered that had taken such a 
toll. Scully, too, looked worried. She exchanged a few hushed words with Bryce 
then approached Mulder.

"Simon Stave, the man who knew Anne Carpenter, will be here in about five 
minutes. He'll be able to tell us more about what's going on." She turned 
towards her friend. "Alan, meanwhile, is going home to get some rest. Doctor's 
orders." 

Her tone gave no outlet for debate, and Alan nodded his assent. Scully kissed 
him lightly on the cheek, smiling at Mulder's raised eyebrows. "Give my love to 
Helen."



5.57pm.

Simon Stave was not the cheeriest of men. If anything, he acted even more 
highly-strung than Alan had, his hands shaking as he consulted his notes.

"Er...PCR and DNA sequencing by fluorescent in-situ hybridisation have proven 
conclusively that the substance found in the victims is an amalgamation of the 
Erlenmeyer fluid and a retrovirus of unknown origin. The behaviour of the 
substance is unpredictable, but it does appear to be inhibited by cold 
temperatures."

Scully felt her face flush as she spun around to look at Mulder, who was 
standing equally as stunned. Stave cleared his throat.

"You've encountered this before?" 

Mulder smiled at the man's unintentional irony. Yeah, he'd had a pretty damn 
close encounter with it before.

"Y'know, I'm risking my job just telling you this. Doctor Carpenter lost her 
life dealing with something like this." Stave's voice had risen an octave. "The 
bodies should be transferred to a Government safe-hold for further examination, 
but Bryce...he said that I should call you guys first."

"Doctor Stave, we work for the Government. This is our case and you were 
absolutely correct in calling us. Now, do you think we could have a closer look 
at the data?" 

Mulder fervently hoped that he had sounded calm and in control. Stave was 
obviously scared to death and he knew it was only a matter of time before this 
information would get into the wrong hands and mysteriously disappear. If he and 
Scully were going to make any progress they needed to act fast.



8.05pm.

Scully stared at the electron microscope's screen. The recognition flooded her 
senses as she gazed at a sample for which there was no earthly origin.

"It looks similar to the Erlenmeyer fluid. The appearance is almost identical 
apart from these smaller cells which are the retrovirus."

Mulder peered over her shoulder.

"Scully, we have no evidence of what we found in Berube's lab."

Scully frowned as if he had wasted time by stating the obvious.

"The extra nucleotides have been detected. We still have your blood samples in 
your medical files. We don't need a comparison sample, this does not..." 

Exist in nature. Scully lowered her eyes. "Look, more work needs to be done, but 
I think the results so far are pretty conclusive. What we have to figure out is 
why the hell we are finding such a thing in murder victims all over D.C."

"Why weren't these results found in the autopsies?"

It was a good question. The blood around the wounds had congealed in a manner 
consistent with the hyper-viscosity syndrome that had almost killed Mulder, but 
something had slowed down the process. Scully gave it her best shot.

"It's my guess that the substance was introduced posthumously. If the bodies 
were cold at the time then the reaction would have been delayed."

Mulder whistled softly. "More experimentation?"

Scully's voice was sickened. "That's what it looks like."

"Jesus." 

Mulder spoke in a hushed whisper. Scully turned her head sharply in her 
partner's direction. She could almost hear the cogs whirring as his mind 
accelerated smoothly into a gear she could never hope to fathom. He saw the case 
files of each victim, his eidetic memory recounting every minute detail of the 
victims, their families and their lifestyles. There hadn't been a connection 
purely because this was the connection. Each of the victims was vastly different 
either in race, gender, build or age, almost as if a cross-section of the 
population were being sampled. What better way to study the machinations of the 
human body? 

Mulder felt nauseous. Was this the work of alien curiosity? He thought of Sam, 
taken as a child and he remembered the bodies that had been found, the bruises 
and scars on the women. Tears filled his eyes, threatening to fall, and he dimly 
heard Scully's cry of alarm as he swayed in front of her. Her steadying grip on 
his arm allowed him to focus.

"Mulder, what the hell was all that about? Are you OK?"

He looked down into her concerned face and took a deep breath.

"Yeah, sure."

He motioned to her to sit down. He didn't think that she should be standing up 
while he told her what he had just been considering. It was more than a mere 
consideration, though: call it instinct or just a gut feeling, Mulder knew his 
conclusions were not too far from the truth. He also knew that Scully was going 
to fight them every step of the way.

It was testament to the exhaustion Scully was feeling that she could not even 
attempt to formulate an argument against what Mulder was telling her. She 
reluctantly acknowledged that much of what he had said actually made sense, 
which gave Mulder a clear indication that she really did need to get some rest.

Mulder stood up and held his hand out to her.

"Come on, Scully, I'll drive you home. We can fight this out tomorrow. I don't 
like having you at such an obvious disadvantage."

The grin on his face was contagious, and despite the strain of the case Scully 
smiled with him, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. As he 
steered her towards the door she turned, stifling a yawn.

"Tell Stave to send a copy of the tox results to the office. I'll be in first 
thing to go over them."

Mulder continued to usher her to the exit.

"Scully, I promise those results will be waiting for you, but you're not going 
to be doing anyone any good if you can't think straight."

Scully thought of the amount of sleep Mulder usually got in a night, but bit 
back the retort amidst another yawn, leaving her partner to revel in the last 
word as usual.



Scully's apartment. Annapolis, M.D. 10.18pm. 

Scully pulled back the comforter from the bed, trying to decide whether to have 
a shower or just collapse and worry about it in the morning. Personal hygiene 
triumphed and she set the water running while she gathered her toiletries. A 
sudden noise behind her made her start: it was not loud, more of a faint 
scuffling, but past experience had taught her that home was not exactly a safe 
place, and she reached for her gun. Walking stealthily from her bedroom to the 
darkened room where her computer sat idle, Scully could hear her heart pounding 
inside her chest. Forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly, she walked 
through to the kitchen towards the place where she had heard the noise...

The light flashed brilliantly in her eyes and she gasped, squinting against it 
and trying to locate the source. She aimed her gun in the direction of the 
intense beam, but the rays were too strong and she felt herself weakening. The 
kitchen floor rushed up to meet her and the last thing she felt was the cool 
surface of the tiles pressing on her cheek. 

From the midst of a nightmare, Scully heard a voice calling her, beckoning her 
back from the void, but it was not a voice that she recognised. 

"Agent Scully, can you hear me?"

Scully groaned as, through cracked lips, she managed to whisper; "Yes, where am 
I?"

The voice was not threatening. Instead it filled her with a feeling of calm, and 
Scully relaxed slightly.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully, but there was no other way that I could contact you. 
I'm not going to hurt you; you just have to listen to what I have to say, and 
believe it. That will be the hardest part for you."

Scully could see a figure now: it was faintly outlined and it approached her 
with hands outstretched in supplication. It appeared to be a female with wispy 
brown hair and a wizened, kind face, but the eyes were not those of a human. 
Scully shuddered as a cold hand touched her, helping her to sit up and steadying 
her as she regained her bearings. She looked into the eyes of the creature.

"This is just a dream," she murmured to herself, "working with Mulder... it's 
warping my mind." But a nagging thought in the back of her memory recalled the 
light from her kitchen, and fear threatened to consume her once again.

"Don't be afraid, please, we need your help, you and your partner. We can't do 
this alone."

A thousand questions circled Scully's mind but she contented herself with asking 
just the one.

"Who exactly are 'we'?"

The creature sighed and settled down at Scully's side.

"The case that you and your partner are working on, the murderer is one of us. 
We came to this planet to study, much as you examine the animals and plants 
here. Our work involved humans."

The fear nestling inside Scully's stomach seemed to be there for a lengthy stay.

"You killed and experimented on humans?"

The reply she received was so forceful that Scully leaned back, trying to shield 
herself from the creature's anger and pain. 

"NO! Our tests were benign; the subjects knew nothing of them and were returned 
without harm. It was him... he turned everything. We need your help to bring him 
to justice."

Dana Scully stared, mouth open. This was just too much to try and swallow, and 
she found herself shaking her head. The creature smiled ruefully.

"We knew that you would be the hardest to convince. That is why we chose to come 
to you and not to Mulder." 

"How do you know his name?" Scully's head was beginning to ache. She closed her 
eyes, but found herself being bombarded with images: images of a knife slicing 
through the air and the screams of a woman, the cries of a man, then finally, 
sickeningly, the sobs of a child. Vials of fluid were stacked in a basement and 
a faceless being worked on a body lying on a table. Scully knew the face of the 
body; it was Linda Kavner.

"He has betrayed everything we stand for and he has to be stopped. He takes 
pleasure from killing, from taking the life that we can only envy and observe."

"Why can't you find him and stop him yourself? Why do you need us?"

The face was fading before Scully's eyes.

"We cannot survive here any longer. Our time here was complete. I am the last 
remaining and I am dying now."

Scully could hear the strain of whatever passed for respiration in the creature 
and knew she was speaking the truth. 

"All we know is that he was going by the name of Logan, Paul Logan. We lost 
him... Please, Agent Scully, stop him."

Scully winced as she was assaulted by another array of images: the anonymous 
face of a child weeping and choking for air.

"He knows no restrictions, could never grasp the concept of guilt. We should 
have been able to see it. Agent Scully, he's reached the children."

Scully looked down at her hands, tightly clasped together, and onto them the 
creature pressed her own. Their eyes met and Scully saw an unfathomable depth of 
sorrow, and of hope, hope in her. She didn't know what else to do. Nodding her 
head slightly, biting back her own tears, she whispered, "I'll tell Mulder. 
This, he is just going to love."

The creature smiled wearily and stood up.

"You do have the ability to believe, Agent Scully. Don't hide from that need all 
your life. Admitting to yourself is the easy part. Telling him is what you have 
to work on."

The faint light that the creature had been emitting dissipated. Scully had no 
time to contemplate what she had just witnessed before the darkness claimed her 
once more. 



10.35pm. 

Scully moaned against the hand that was trying to shake her back to 
consciousness. She could hear Mulder's voice somewhere above her, but could not 
for the life of her summon up the energy to open her eyes. Besides, she had gone 
home to get some rest, so why was he here bothering her? Why did her head feel 
like she had been hit by a truck? And why the hell was she lying on her kitchen 
floor?

Scully forced her eyes to co-operate and stared foggily into the anxious face of 
her partner.

"Jesus, Scully, what happened here? Are you all right?"

She nodded tiredly. Placing her hand on her forehead, she felt the congealed 
blood there and realised that she had hit her head when she had fallen. That 
seemed to spark a memory and her mind reeled suddenly as the events of the past 
few - she checked her wrist watch - minutes, came rushing back to her.

Mulder helped her to sit up, his hand firmly resting on the small of her back as 
she fought back the nausea.

"I... I heard a noise in the kitchen, and..."

"Someone attacked you?"

"No! She..." Scully's voice trailed off and she hauled herself to the sink, 
retching quietly.

"Come on, let's get you to the hospital." Mulder tried to take her arm but 
Scully resisted.

"I'm OK. We have to talk, Mulder."

Mulder filled a glass with water and handed it to his dishevelled partner. She 
accepted it gratefully and sipped at it as she made her way slowly into the 
living room. Mulder rooted in a cupboard and emerged with a first aid kit before 
following her.

"Are you sure that you're all right, Scully? You know doctors make the worst 
patients."

Scully smiled briefly. You think I'm concussed now, just wait till I tell you 
all about this. But she sat patiently as Mulder cleaned the gash on her forehead 
and covered it with a piece of gauze. When he sat back to admire his handiwork, 
she gestured to him to take a seat. Hesitating only for a second, she began to 
explain what had just happened.



10.56pm. 

Mulder leaned back into the armchair and whistled softly between his teeth. He 
brought himself forward in his seat and looked directly into the eyes of his 
usually composed and sceptical partner. At the moment she looked anything but; 
her face was pale and her hands were clenched viciously, but the fire in her 
eyes told him that she absolutely believed in what she was saying.

He didn't know whether to be afraid or triumphant. He moved over and sat beside 
her on the sofa.

"Scully, do you realise what you are saying?" Mulder was just beginning to, and 
his heart was pounding fiercely against his rib cage. Scully looked into his 
hazel eyes, shaken by what she had had to recount.

"I know what you must be thinking, but it happened, Mulder. Would I make 
something like this up?"

Mulder shook his head, a smile playing on his lips at the very thought. "So what 
happens now?"

"We try and locate Paul Logan. It's the only way to prove this thing." And my 
sanity, Scully mused ruefully. She looked back at Mulder sharply. "What are you 
doing here anyway? Exercising your sixth sense?"

This time it was Mulder's turn to try and explain the seemingly inexplicable.

"I don't know, Scully. I just found myself heading back here. When you didn't 
answer your door, I let myself in." He shrugged, acknowledging the flimsiness of 
the explanation. "Maybe you weren't the only one they touched tonight."

Scully yawned in spite of herself, and Mulder could see her practically falling 
asleep where she sat. He moved over to her and helped her to her feet, ignoring 
her protests as he steered her towards her bedroom. He drew the comforter 
further down the bed and Scully lay down, sighing gratefully as he placed the 
covers over her and turned to leave.

"Mulder?"

Scully's voice sounded unusually small and Mulder realised that she was probably 
still in shock from whatever she had experienced earlier.

"Yeah, Scully?"

"Um, you know that my couch is just as comfortable as yours is..."

Mulder grinned in the half-light from the open doorway.

"Well, seeing as all my fish are dead anyway..."

"Spare blankets are in the closet," Scully mumbled, as Mulder quietly shut the 
door and made his way back into the living room. 

29th July. 6.12am. 

The shrill ring of a phone roused Mulder from an uneasy doze.

He initially reached over to try and kill it, and when that failed he attempted 
to answer it before it disturbed Scully.

"Schmulder." Fox Mulder was not a man renowned for coherence first thing in the 
morning. What he heard from the other end of the connection soon kicked the 
lassitude from his mind.

"I'll tell her. We should be there in about forty minutes."

Scully appeared in the doorway, her hair still tangled and her eyes drowsy.

"What was it?"

No reply.

"Mulder, what was it?"

Mulder forgot to be coy about the fact that he was staring at his partner whilst 
dressed only in a pair of leave-nothing-to-the-imagination boxer shorts.

"That was Bryce. The body of a seven year old girl was discovered this morning. 
Same distinguishing marks as previous victims, body discovered in the same 
manner. He wants you to assist with the autopsy."



FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia. 7.07am. 

"Subject is a Caucasian female. Seven years of age." 

Scully willed Bryce not to see the tremble in her hand as she removed the sheet 
from the tiny body of Emily Patterson. The child's eyes were closed as if in 
sleep. Her hair, dark and matted, framed the thin face, making its pallid tone 
all the more apparent. Snow White snatched from her fairy tale. Scully began to 
examine the body, her voice concisely registering the trauma to which the child 
had subjected. 

"Bruising and contusions around the throat suggest strangulation with a rope or 
chord. Larynx has been crushed but this is only a possible cause of death. 
Injuries may have been inflicted posthumously." 

Manoeuvring herself around Alan Bryce who was silently taking X-rays and 
photographs, Scully collected fibres from the body using something not 
altogether dissimilar to a miniature vacuum cleaner. The incongruity of such a 
description never failed to give Scully the creeps. 

"Several deep knife wounds about the torso, varied in both depth and length. 
Blood has congealed around the wounds, taking on an almost jelly-like 
consistency. Samples have been sent for further analysis, but it is my opinion 
that the results will concur with those taken from previous victims. Time of 
death is, as yet, unknown, but should be compared with the results from the 
blood tests. The advanced nature of the viscosity suggests that the cause of 
death may have been the introduction of the virus into the bloodstream, 
something that is anomalous with the previous cases." 

Scully took a deep breath, and, after confirming with Bryce that he had 
completed his tasks, she made the first Y-shaped incision about the small neck. 

After four hours, Scully knew enough about what Emily Patterson had been through 
during the three days of her captivity to fuel her nightmares for weeks to come. 


The child's stomach had been empty. Five of her ribs had been shattered. The 
skin had been rubbed from her wrists, suggesting heavy restraints, and there was 
a fracture along her skull severe enough to have rendered her blind. 

Scully peeled the blood-streaked gloves from her hands, and waited until Bryce 
had untied the apron from around her waist before returning the favour. 
Wrenching the septic cap from her hair, she splashed water onto her face, trying 
not to watch as the morgue technicians endeavoured to make the child's body 
presentable enough for an open casket. Bryce had already left, making his way 
down to the labs to supervise the blood analysis. Scully picked up the small 
cassette onto which she had been dictating and without a backward glance left 
the autopsy suite. 



FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 12.42pm. 

The mood in the X-Files' basement office was sombre. Mulder was slumped at his 
desk, peering at photographs taken only a couple of hours previously by Alan 
Bryce. Scully was methodically typing her report into her computer. Both were 
waiting for news from the offices of The Lone Gunmen, whose mission it was to 
try and locate a Mr Paul Logan. 

Scully took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked over 
to Mulder, sensing what was bothering him. He clenched a photograph between his 
fingers, staring intensely at the image indelibly preserved for some perverted 
concept of posterity. The similarities between Samantha Mulder and Emily 
Patterson were unmistakable, and while Scully knew that Mulder's pursuit of the 
X-Files was no longer exclusively linked to the abduction of his sister, she 
also knew that, in cases such as this one, her partner had a persistent struggle 
not to become personally involved. Saving the work she had completed, Scully 
sipped at a bottle of iced tea as she walked over to Mulder's desk and perched 
herself on the edge of it. Mulder snapped himself from his reverie to meet her 
seeking gaze. 

"Don't say it, Scully, please. I know that she isn't my sister. It's just... 
They promised me they wouldn't harm Samantha." 

His voice trailed off as Scully touched his arm gently, searching for the right 
words and failing miserably. 

"Mulder, you can't think like that. We have no proof that these crimes are being 
committed by anyone other than a psychotic with a penchant for exotic chemicals. 
What I thought I saw last night and Patterson's death could have been a 
coincidence." 

Mulder couldn't help but smile. Give Scully a few hours and she could 
rationalise anything into a plausible occurrence. But the defeat in her eyes 
acknowledged the inadequacy of her words. Mulder was planning a sneak attack on 
Scully's iced tea when the phone jarred him from his battle strategy. 

"Mulder. No, Langley, I still don't think that the current climate is due to a 
secret Government contract with the manufacturers of sun block. And no, Frohike, 
Agent Scully is not wearing a bathing suit. What have you found?" 

Mulder snatched up a pencil and swore as the lead snapped on impact with the 
paper. Scully thrust her pen into his hand and craned her neck around in an 
effort to see what he was scribbling. 

"PAUL LOGAN. Prev arrest for suspected arson. Skip bail. Six weeks ago. Last 
known address: Apt2, 33 Gateslock Road, Baltimore. Searched, no trace. Employ: 
Factory worker; Jame's Surgical Appliances. LTD" 

Mulder placed the receiver back into its cradle. 

"Scully, what would you say to a trip to Baltimore?" 



3.53pm. 

Scully squinted against the sunlight coming in through the windshield of the 
Bureau car. It was late afternoon and the temperature had not had the decency to 
dip below eighty degrees. Scully had insisted on driving, arguing that Mulder 
could go over the file on Paul Logan that had been faxed through to them by the 
Baltimore PD. In truth, she was uncertain as to whether Mulder was actually in a 
fit state to try and concentrate on driving, and he had given in to her request 
without a fight. 

Scully slowed the car down as she approached a set of traffic lights, and 
glanced over at the mugshot of Logan resting on Mulder's knee. The man was small 
but well built, with a shock of dark brown hair and eyes that seemed 
transparent, their colour not registering on the print. He had been arrested for 
burning down a large abandoned factory; the police had never ascertained a 
motive. Scully had her own suspicions of what he had been attempting to destroy. 
He held his criminal number with disdain, smirking for the benefit of an 
unappreciative audience. Despite the heat, Scully suppressed a shiver. 



33 Gateslock Road. Outskirts of Baltimore. 5.25pm. 

The street was quiet. The sound of a car door slamming shut behind Mulder seemed 
to be the first noise to interrupt the silence in years. Scully waited for him 
at the side of the road, and they made their way towards the house together. It 
was a detached house, uncared for and apparently deserted. The entire area 
looked to be abandoned. Dust blew across the dirt track that served as an access 
route and a haze of heat shimmered, illuminating the ruins of what had 
apparently been a profitable estate at some earlier time. A dog howled 
disconsolately in the distance and Mulder twitched involuntarily. 

"After you, Agent Scully." 

Scully knocked at the door of number thirty-three, not expecting an answer. She 
did not receive one. Pushing the door gently, she took a deep breath as it 
opened. Both agents drew their weapons, and, after silently communicating their 
strategy, entered the house. 

Apartment two was as nondescript as the rest of the building. A small dingy 
room, barely penetrated by the rays of sun, displayed nothing that would have 
suggested a recent occupant. Coughing slightly against the dust, Scully moved 
the mattress aside, wincing as it crumbled beneath her fingers. 

"Mulder, no one has been in here for years." 

Mulder turned towards her, holding a filthy toothbrush between gloved 
fingertips. 

"Well, the housekeeping certainly leaves a lot to be desired. We should run this 
through for prints." 

A slight noise suddenly caught his attention, and he whirled around to try and 
identify the cause. Scully had heard it too, and she walked quickly over to her 
partner. "What was that? Water?" 

Mulder mumbled something inaudible and dropped to his knees beside the grimy 
sink. A thin trickle of water ran from the piping underneath the bowl. Mulder 
gingerly lifted the lid of the toilet and, holding his sleeve over his nose, 
peered inside. Through the filth and the stench there was a slight smudge of 
brownish red. His stomach fluttered as he leaned closer to try and confirm what 
Scully already suspected. 

"Blood?" 

Her voice seemed to come from miles away, as Mulder scraped away the substance 
into a sterile evidence bag, sealing it shut quickly as if that alone would 
remove the horror and leave him untainted. 

"We should get that to the lab and come back with a back-up unit to go over this 
place top to bottom." 

Mulder nodded his assent. Reluctant as he was to leave the scene, he also 
admitted to himself that he was uneasy. Something wasn't quite right about all 
this, and Mulder realised that he was afraid. There was an ominous air to this 
place which he had felt before in a different apartment in Baltimore, one 
located at 66 Exeter Street. A presence, spirit, no description seemed adequate, 
but whatever it was, Mulder was more than willing to go back to D.C and return 
with a little more in the way of firepower. 

Scully watched her partner as he placed the bag in his pocket and stood up to 
his full height. His face looked pale in the gaunt sunlight and she motioned him 
towards the door. This place, that smell of decay and desperation, was making 
her stomach churn. Donnie Pfaster's face loomed large in her imagination; the 
almost gentle way that he had taken hold of her bound hands, raising them to 
inspect her fingernails. The visions that she had experienced then had haunted 
her sleep ever since and an identical fear threatened to consume her as she 
stood in that room. 

"Come on, Scully, I'll drive." 

Walking to the door, Scully took a last glance backwards, her brow furrowed in 
puzzlement as she tried to remember Mulder shutting the lid of the toilet. She 
could have sworn he had left it open. 



It was a relief for the two agents to escape back into the sunshine. Scully 
could feel the tension leaving her body as they made their way back towards the 
car. Mulder was taking deep breaths of the stifling air; anything was preferable 
to the smell of that room. He unlocked the door for Scully and moved around to 
the driver's side, refusing to look at the house as he started the engine. 



7.30pm. 

Mulder turned the car back out onto the highway. Beside him, Scully tried to get 
comfortable, hampered by the seat belt as she wriggled about, attempting to find 
a sleeping position. Mulder reached over and held the belt out as she snuggled 
down in the seat, then allowed it to rest over her again. 

"Thanks, Mulder." 

"Well, you did pay for dessert." 

He returned his attention to the road, fighting the satisfying full feeling in 
his stomach that demanded he either go for a jog or imitate his partner. He 
turned the radio on, humming tunelessly along to the music. Dusk had fallen 
quickly, leaving the sky in that nowhere stage between absolute darkness and 
fading sunset. Mulder checked his speed and accelerated slightly. The road was 
quiet; they were passing through countryside, a roundabout route Mulder had 
selected to avoid the rush hour traffic. Scully muttered softly in her sleep, 
something about chocolate muffins and cream, and Mulder stifled a laugh. 

He didn't see the car behind them until it was too late. 

Scully was jerked awake by Mulder's swearing. She felt the gentle impact of the 
pursuing car as it urged them forward, sensed her partner struggling to keep 
control of the wheel. The radio hissed wildly, spitting static. There was no 
time for her to do anything but brace herself before their car was sent hurtling 
from the road. A tree looming large pre-empted total black.



Location unknown. 7.51pm. 

There was a terrible pain in her right arm, forcing her back to lucidity. Scully 
tremulously raised her head. She was still in the car. It was then that she 
realised she had only been unconscious for a matter of seconds. Biting back the 
stabbing ache in her head, she looked over to her partner. 

"Mulder?" 

Her voice was hoarse. As she spoke, she heard a car door slamming behind them 
and footsteps quickly approaching. 

"Mulder, we've got to get out of here." Her voice trailed off as she saw the 
amount of blood on his forehead. He had hit the steering wheel hard. Cursing the 
Bureau viciously for not providing cars with air bags, Scully reached for her 
gun with her left hand. 

She was not quick enough. 

Her door was wrenched open and a hand grasped her wrist. Scully had no time to 
struggle. Her assailant unbuckled her seat belt and dragged her from the car, 
throwing her roughly to her knees. Scully looked up into the beam of the 
flashlight, squinting against the glare, trying to make out the identity of the 
man. With a sinking feeling, she admitted to herself that she already knew who 
he was. 

Scully lowered her head and closed her eyes. She was halfway through the Lord's 
Prayer when a blow from her own weapon brought the darkness back.



Location unknown. 9.17pm. 

Scully knew she was dead. She had to be. No one feeling as cold as this could be 
alive. The weight of the chains around her wrists and the very real need to 
vomit told her otherwise. Opening her eyes cautiously, Scully was met with a 
seemingly impenetrable blackness. The pain from her arm effectively masked the 
dizziness caused by the blow to her head, as, gritting her teeth, Scully felt 
around for her partner, trying not to think what she would do if he wasn't 
there. As her eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom, she was able to 
distinguish a dark shape slumped off to her left. She reached over, gingerly 
feeling her way up the person's body, letting out a choked sob of relief as she 
realised that it was Mulder. She gently placed her fingers on his throat and 
found his pulse, racing but strong. 

"Mulder? Mulder, come on, you've got to wake up." She took a deep breath. 
"Please wake up." 

Scully tried to keep her voice steady, shuddering as she remembered the amount 
of blood there had been on the steering wheel. She rested her hand on his 
shoulder, keeping her injured arm close to her body. She had been bound in 
chains, thicker and heavier than handcuffs but also permitting a greater degree 
of movement. 

How long she remained like that, Scully could not tell. Her entire body was numb 
with cold, and she had to fight to remain conscious. After what seemed an 
eternity, she felt Mulder stir. Scully's heart skipped as he moaned softly. 

"Ssh, Mulder, it's OK. Don't try to get up." 

He was struggling against her grip, attempting to sit. Scully made her voice 
firmer. 

"Mulder, lie still. You're going to make yourself sick." 

It was too late, Mulder turned quickly to one side and graciously emptied his 
stomach. 

"Shit." 

Scully kept her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. "You never listen 
to me, do you?" She could just see his weak grin. "You're probably concussed. 
You've been out for a while." 

Concentrating on medical facts was keeping Scully's mind off their situation. 
Mulder, on the other hand, was just beginning to realise what had happened. 

"Logan?" 

He ran his tongue around his mouth, trying to get rid of the bitter taste. 
Scully nodded, then calmly filled him in on the details of what had happened 
since the crash. Mulder's face turned an even paler shade of grey. "Are you 
hurt?" 

Scully briefly considered lying, but instead, nodded again. "I think my arm is 
broken. Other than that..." She shivered involuntarily. "What the hell are we 
going to do?" 

Mulder had no idea how to answer that. They were injured, unarmed and close to 
freezing to death. That was without  mentioning a surgically trained psychotic 
from this earth or elsewhere who was holding them hostage. The odds were not 
exactly stacked in their favour. 

Scully was shivering freely now, a combination of fear and the cold. Mulder 
managed to sit up. 

"Come here." 

Scully looked at him, tried to smile. "I don't think this is exactly the right 
moment." 

She moved slowly until she was sitting close beside him. He had been bound in 
the same manner. Looping his arms over her head, he pulled her close to his 
chest. Scully tensed, then relaxed into the warmth of his body. Taking care not 
to hurt her, Mulder wrapped his arms around her. 

"Mulder?" 

"Hmmm?" 

"Don't go to sleep." 

"I'm not going to sleep. I know I have a concussion, Doctor." 

That was not the reason he was not going to sleep, but he didn't say anything 
else. Despite her fear, Scully was exhausted. She felt reassured somehow by the 
knowledge that Mulder was there, tried not to consider the reality of both of 
them dying. 

Mulder listened as her breathing became steady, her breath warm on his chest, 
and he was suddenly overcome by a feeling of terror. They were going to die 
here. Silent tears coursed down his cheeks, leaving trails through the dried 
blood, and fell into Scully's hair. She stirred uneasily in her sleep, her left 
hand tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. Mulder placed his hand on her 
forehead, stroking a steady rhythm through her hair, driving the nightmares 
away. 



30th July. 5.48am. 

They had eventually agreed to sleep in shifts. Scully was awake now, listening 
to Mulder's soft snoring, still enveloped in his arms. She wondered why they had 
been left alone, then decided not to tempt fate; the longer they were alone, the 
longer they remained unharmed. She closed off her memory, shutting out the 
images of the bodies she had so recently examined. 

Scully arched her neck around. From what little she could identify, they were in 
a basement of some description. Water dripped solemnly from some unknown source. 
The floor was concrete, as were the walls, and there was a silence as still as 
death. But it was the smell that made Scully shudder inwardly: decay and 
desperation. They were back at Gateslock Road. The certainty of her conclusion 
made her pulse race. The Lone Gunmen had given them the address, so all they 
needed to do was hold on until they got nervous. If she had been thinking 
rationally, Scully would have realised that the Lone Gunmen probably had other 
things on their minds, a Global conspiracy or two. Mulder was not in continuous 
contact with them, and they did not demand regular updates on all of his cases. 
But Scully needed to be able to grasp a slender thread of hope to kept the fear 
manageable. 

Mulder shifted position slightly, inadvertently jarring Scully's broken arm. She 
yelped plaintively and he opened his eyes quickly. 

"Scully, you OK?!" 

She was trying to look at her arm, untangling herself from Mulder's hold. "I'm 
all right, it's just..." She winced as she moved, the chains rattling in a 
frightening melody. She slumped forward, exhausted by the effort. Mulder 
steadied her with his hand on her back.

"It hurts." Her voice was small, laden with tears. "I'm so scared, Mulder." 
Scully was gulping for air, her breath harsh and heavy. She had, for so long, 
maintained a pretence of being in perfect control. She hated the thought of 
Mulder perpetually having to take care of her, even though she knew the spoils 
were equally divided in that department. Somehow, having admitted her fear, 
Scully felt absurdly relieved. Mulder's hand circled her back in a smooth 
routine, and when he spoke his voice only just reached her ears. 

"So am I." 

She looked around at him and fixed his eyes with hers. Neither needed to 
elaborate. Scully touched his hand, feeling the strong fingers encircle her own; 
they were ice cold, but warmth flooded through her. It was at that moment that 
she knew she could not let him risk his life for her. Even if he ignored 
everything she was about to say, she had to tell him. Keeping a firm grip on his 
hand, Scully turned to face her partner. 

"Mulder." Gone were the tears. Scully had set her course and would not be 
deterred. "The women... the bodies I examined. You know what he did to the 
women." 

"Scully, don't..." 

"I have to, Mulder. You can't do anything. Please, promise me, if he tries..." 
The tears forced their way back and she struggled to form the words, to keep the 
panic from her voice. He wasn't listening to her. "I don't want you to get hurt 
trying to protect me. Mulder, look at me." 

He obeyed reluctantly. Even in the dark he could feel the crystal blue of her 
eyes burning into his soul, pleading for his consent. 

"Maybe if we hold on long enough someone will find us. If it's only you that 
they find..." 

Mulder was shaking violently, trying and failing to hold back his protests. 
"No!" 

"Mulder, please..." 

"No! I can't promise you that, I won't. You're asking me to just sit back and 
watch? Scully, I saw those pictures, I read the reports. I can't just let him 
hurt you, any more than..." 

Scully finished his sentence for him, "I could do nothing whilst he hurt you." 

Despite the weight of the restraints around his wrists, Mulder lifted his hand 
to her cheek, and with his thumb he wiped her face clean. She closed her eyes 
against his touch, sighing in resignation 

"Mulder?" 

"What?" 

"You're telling Skinner about this one." 

"OK. Deal." 

They fell back into a companionable silence, with nothing to do but wait. 



8.18am. 

They had searched the room inch by inch and eventually concluded that they were, 
indeed, in a basement. A flight of stairs on one side of the room led to a 
locked door. There was an assortment of tables and boxes scattered at random, 
and nothing else. The search had been a slow one. Mulder still complained of 
dizziness and could not stand for more than a few minutes at a time, while 
Scully was hampered by the injury to her arm. She had located the source of the 
dripping water and deemed it safe to drink. That had quenched their thirst. For 
the moment, their hunger was merely inconvenient. 

"Hold still, Mulder." 

Scully used the damp handkerchief to clean the wound on his forehead. How long 
ago was it that he had performed the same task for her? Scully wiped the blood 
from his cheek; the wound needed to be stitched but there was not an awful lot 
that she could do about that. 

Mulder was more concerned about his partner. Her movements had become sluggish 
and he could hear her grinding her teeth in an effort to control the pain. When 
she had finished fussing over him, he made her rest, his anxiety heightened by 
her weary acquiescence. They huddled side by side, not feeling obliged to talk, 
comforted by the close proximity of each other. 

"Think Skinner will have missed us yet?" Scully's voice was slurred by the onset 
of sleep. 

"He's probably enjoying the peace and quiet." Mulder had been wondering the same 
thing though. Almost as an afterthought, he looked at his watch and shook it 
gently, scrunching his face with a grimace as the chains bit into his flesh. Not 
surprisingly, it had stopped, not broken during the crash but affected by 
something else. Mulder kept his discovery to himself; Scully had enough to worry 
about. 

"I was going to call Mom this weekend, invite her over for Sunday." 

Mulder squeezed her hand gently, his mind reeling; is this what condemned men 
think about? Their mistakes? The people they love? Their regrets? Mulder 
inevitably thought of his sister. The recent revelations regarding her abduction 
had served to ease some of the guilt he had borne since childhood, but this only 
made it harder for him to accept that, with the possibility of his own death 
imminent, he still had not found her. Mulder was afraid to die, to leave so many 
things still unfinished. He looked down at his partner - now sleeping quietly - 
and he remembered her words of comfort the last time they had stared death in 
the face. "As certain as I am of this life, we have nothing to fear when it's 
over." She had never told him more about what she had experienced whilst lying 
comatose, but those words replayed themselves over and over as Mulder listened 
to her gentle breaths, and he felt oddly at peace until the key turned in the 
lock.

The harsh sound pierced the silence, jerking Scully awake with a start. Mulder 
tightened his arms around her instinctively, as a thin beam of light seared 
through their prison. The two agents watched the steady progress of the beam as 
it descended the stairs, both trying to remain composed in front of the other. 

With a silent touch, Scully disentangled herself from Mulder's grasp. With their 
diminished physical strength, they were less vulnerable apart. He reluctantly 
allowed her to sit beside him, but he maintained a tight grip on her hand. The 
light swept around the basement and, for a fleeting second, Mulder and Scully 
were able to discern their surroundings. With a sinking heart, Mulder saw that 
the tables were the sort used in hospital emergency rooms, and that the boxes 
had hospital identification stamps on them. All Scully saw was the blood on the 
walls and the floor. Mulder shielded his eyes as the flashlight played over 
them. Scully blinked but remained motionless. A shapeless silhouette stood 
before the agents. 

"Agent Mulder, I don't believe we have been properly introduced. I don't hold 
much with names, but for now, Logan is as good as any." 

Mulder nodded noncommittally. 

"I'm sorry I took so long to get back to you, but there were a few things that 
needed to be taken care of. None of which really concern you. The Bureau may be 
a little pissed that you wrecked yet another car. That's if they ever locate 
it." A rough laugh. "I suppose that is the least of your worries at the moment, 
though." 

As the light was lowered from their eyes, the agents were able to distinguish 
Logan's features. His appearance was disarmingly ordinary, slightly small in 
stature with unruly, dark hair. It was his eyes that gave the only indication of 
his true nature: they shimmered, seeming to change colour and depth at the 
slightest alteration of his position or mood. For an instant Mulder saw them 
vanish from his face completely leaving only vacant hollows behind. 

Logan smiled as he watched Mulder. 

"You are perceptive, Agent Mulder - I know you don't like to be called Fox - I 
am afraid that my time here on your glorious planet is destined to expire 
shortly. We never could quite create eyes that would endure until our departure. 
But at least I will be leaving behind a legacy." 

"Is that what we are?" Scully's voice was tinged with anger. "Your legacy? What 
about all the other people you have murdered, what were they? Rehearsals?" 

In two short strides, Logan was by Scully's side. He crouched down to her level 
and spoke in a whisper next to her ear. 

"They were recreation, Agent Scully. They were the opportunity to hone my 
talents and to truly experience human life." 

"By taking it away?" 

Scully was a doctor, trained and educated to preserve life. The cold-blooded 
murderer whispering insanity into her ear defied everything she considered 
sacred. 

"We were studying life, studying the workings of the human body. But it was 
dull, formulaic." He remained close to Scully, his harsh breathing making her 
recoil. "Agent Scully, have you ever killed anyone? Of course you have. Remember 
the feeling? The rush pumping through every part of our body? The exquisite 
feeling of power and intoxication? It can be quite addictive." 

Scully turned her face from his, seeking an escape and finding none. "You are 
sick." The words forced themselves, unbidden from her tightened throat. 

The effect they had on Logan was immediate. Grabbing hold of her broken arm, he 
hauled Scully to her feet. She managed to stifle her cry of pain, determined not 
to give him that much satisfaction, steeling herself for whatever he was about 
to do. Mulder tried to move towards her and was rewarded with a swift kick to 
the stomach, propelling him back against the wall, momentarily stunned. 

Logan held Scully to his chest, keeping her upright with his arm tight across 
her collarbone. Mulder raised his head to meet her terrified gaze, the look in 
her eyes pleading with him not to do anything stupid. 

"Your partner is very beautiful, Agent Mulder. They promised me she was pretty, 
but she has surpassed even my expectations." 

Mulder's naturally paranoid imagination charged into overdrive. Who was he 
referring to? Cold dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach but fear for 
Scully took precedence over his analytic confusion. 

Logan ran his fingers down Scully's cheek, moving them lower to brush her 
breast. She closed her eyes, unable to look at Mulder as he watched helplessly. 
Please God, if you are going to let him do this, don't let Mulder be here. She 
could feel Logan rummaging for something, and opened her eyes tentatively. A 
glimmer of light teased its way over the blade he now held in his hand. Shifting 
his hold on her slightly, Logan pulled Scully's bound hands away from her chest. 
Mulder opened his mouth and his hands began to move forward, but he knew he 
would be too late. With a bark of laughter, Logan kicked out at Mulder, catching 
him beneath his jaw, sending him to the floor. Without pausing for breath, Logan 
slashed the knife across Scully's chest and abdomen. She cried out with fading 
consciousness, as two long gashes opened up, the blood quickly staining her 
blouse. Dropping her with disdain, Logan turned to Mulder. 

"Tell her she was lucky this time." 

Mulder coughed, dragging himself towards his motionless partner, Logan's words 
barely registering. He heard the door slam and the key rattle in the lock, but 
his focus was on the small body curled up in front of him. 

"Scully? Oh Jesus." There was a lot of blood. "Scully, come on, don't you dare 
give up on me now." He turned her onto her back, unbuttoning her blouse, as her 
eyes flickered open. She turned her head quickly, searching for Logan. 

"It's OK, Scully, he's gone. Take it easy." Her left arm was trying to push 
Mulder away. "Scully, I need to look, hold still." 

He pulled the blouse loose from her trousers and carefully wiped the excess 
blood away with it. To his relief, the wounds were not too deep. Scully moaned 
as he tried to clean them. Despite the cold, her face was covered by a thin 
sheen of perspiration; she was slipping into shock. With an effort, Mulder 
managed to rip his own shirt free, tearing it into strips to wrap tightly around 
her torso. That seemed to staunch much of the bleeding and he allowed himself to 
breathe more easily. 

"Not bad, Mulder." 

Scully's voice was weak, strained, but to Mulder it was the sweetest sound. 

"Ssh, save your strength." 

Scully nodded, relaxing a little. Mulder moved behind her supporting her in his 
arms. 

"Mulder?" 

"What?" 

"Do you think we were set up?" 

He clenched his teeth, feeling the ache in his jaw. 

"Yes." 

FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 30th July. 10.05am. 

Assistant Director Walter Skinner sighed with impatience as he listened to his 
secretary inform him, once again, that neither Mulder or Scully had been into 
the office, and that neither was responding to calls made to their own phones. 
He dismissed the woman curtly, pulling his chair closer to his desk and taking 
out his reading glasses. 

Skinner's experiences, both at the Bureau and whilst in Vietnam, had taught him 
never to scoff at his own intuition. Right now, that intuition was telling him 
that something was very wrong. As far as he was aware, no permission for travel 
or requests for accommodation expenses had been submitted by the two agents: 
they were working on a homicide case based in D.C. 

A man named Bryce had contacted the Bureau when he had been unable to reach 
Scully. It was the first time that Skinner had been told of their assignment. 
Bryce had been surprised: hadn't Mulder said that Skinner had given him the 
case? It was at about that time that Skinner began to smell a rat, a large and 
distinctly nicotine scented rat. Bryce had admitted to asking for Scully's help. 
Skinner concluded that someone had set Mulder up as a failsafe, in the event 
that Scully had refused to co-operate, Mulder's innate curiosity would have been 
unable to resist. 

So where the hell were they now? 

Records from the car pool indicated that a car had been provided the previous 
afternoon, which was the last time they had been seen. Skinner collected his 
jacket and left his office. 

"If you hear from Agents Mulder or Scully, I want to know immediately." 

The woman bristled at the no bullshit tone. 

"Yes sir." 



10.32am. 

Skinner opened the door slowly, feeling like a snoop. This office was not his 
territory. Things went on in here that he had never, and would never, be privy 
to. This, and the nagging worry, conspired to make him extremely uneasy. The two 
desks bore the hallmarks of two contrasting personalities. One neat and the 
other strewn with just about every conceivable piece of junk. It was to the 
latter desk that Skinner turned his attention. After digging through the 
discarded coffee cups, sharpened pencils and a catalogue that made him raise 
more than an eyebrow, Skinner began to sift through the files stacked 
precariously to one side. He had no idea what he was looking for. None of the 
files seemed to have any correlating details to the case that Bryce had 
described. To all intents and purposes, the only cases occupying Mulder had 
concerned a sighting of a large Neanderthal in Auburn, MA, and an overgrown 
lizard terrorising citizens in a New York suburb. 

Skinner wiped the perspiration from his eyes, cursing the air conditioning and 
making a mental note to ensure that it got repaired. He was about to cross to 
Scully's desk when his cell phone rang. 

"Skinner. Thank you. Have a car ready for me in five minutes. Yes, I will be 
going in person." 



1.10pm. 

The process was an agonisingly slow one. The pulleys attached to the car were 
stretched to their limit as it was gradually dragged from its sodden grave. 
Skinner cleared his throat, looking at the car finally swaying freely in the 
air. 

Not like this, not like this. The crane swung around before lowering the vehicle 
to the ground. Skinner felt as if his feet were trapped in the mud below his 
shoes, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as the rescue services swarmed towards 
the car. He heard the crunch of metal and a ripping sound, jarring his already 
frayed nerves, as one of the doors was wrenched open. Skinner lifted his eyes 
expecting to see a sad shake of the head from the man emerging from the car. 
What greeted him was a puzzled frown, a shrug of the shoulders . 

"There's no one in here." 

Galvanised, Skinner hurried towards the man. "Check the trunk." 

More wrenching. 

"Nothing. It's empty." 

"We got something here." Skinner moved around to the driver's side, blindly 
following the voice. The small gathering of men parted to allow him access . 
Although the car had been submerged for some time, the current of the water was 
slight and had not managed to erode the stains of blood from the steering wheel. 
Skinner established from the position of the seat that Mulder had been driving. 
A glint of metal from under the seat caught his eye and he bent to retrieve it, 
holding it precariously with a pen. 

"Standard FBI issue. Think that belonged to one of your agents, sir?" 

Mulder's gun felt heavy in Skinner's hand as he answered with an affirmative nod 
. 

"Seal off the entire area. I want it going over inch by inch. You don't find 
anything, you go over it again. Same with the car. Keep me informed of any 
progress." 

Skinner did not wait for anyone to contradict his orders. He made his way to his 
car, heading back to Washington. 

Scully's apartment was the closest. 



2.25pm. 

Mulder watched his partner struggle to catch her breath, her asthmatic wheezes 
magnified a hundred times by the blunt echo of the basement. If she was 
frightened, she was doing a damn good job of hiding it. 

"It's just the cold, Mulder, don't worry." 

Mulder was not convinced. The near-freezing temperature, the blood loss and 
shock had weakened her considerably. He rested the back of his hand on her 
forehead; she was too warm. 

Leaving her side reluctantly, he soaked the bottom of his T-shirt with water, 
cupping some in his hands to bring back to her. Scully sipped the water 
gratefully, feeling it cool her throat, easing the irritation there. With a 
creative bit of manoeuvring, Mulder bathed her face with his shirt. Scully 
quietly allowed him to administer to her, well aware that if Mulder believed he 
was helping, he would not have time to think what the consequences of a 
full-blown case of pneumonia would be. Leaning back heavily against the wall 
Scully tried not to make her breath sound too obvious. Lethargy was working its 
way into her muscles, her cheeks burned and her thoughts were muddled. 

"Mulder...?" 

He turned sharply. "What's wrong?" 

"I'm so tired." 

He wondered if she remembered him using those words, the gentle gesture she had 
closed his eyes with. "You should sleep."

No, she shouldn't. 

"Scully, stay awake. You hear me? You can't sleep right now." Mulder shook her 
shoulder, making sure she was listening to him. "Talk to me." 

"About what?" Her voice sounded stronger. 

"I don't know. Favourite film, what you were like at school, first boyfriend..." 


Even in the dark, Scully could see him waggle his eyebrows at her. "OK. I get 
the idea, but anything I say stays in this room." Scully blushed at the inanity 
of her last comment, and she heard a desperate snort of laughter from Mulder as 
he drew his arm around her. 

"Yes, Ma'am." 



Mulder's apartment. Alexandria, V.A. 5.02pm. 

Skinner approached the door of number 42, the skeleton key from the landlord 
dangling loosely in his hand, Margaret Scully's words still playing back. After 
a fruitless search of Scully's apartment, Skinner had accessed the messages 
stored on her answering machine. There had been two from her mother. Skinner had 
called her, hearing the weary acceptance in the woman's voice as she listened, 
once again, to someone telling her that her daughter was missing. It was no 
compensation whatsoever that Mulder was missing with her.

Skinner picked up the pile of assorted newspapers and flyers gathered in front 
of Mulder's door. He smirked at a copy of The Lone Gunman, the cover of which 
was graced by a non-too flattering portrait of Clinton being abducted from a 
corn circle. Placing the pile to one side, Skinner pushed open the door. 

The apartment was gloomy and deathly quiet. The luminescent fish tank, devoid of 
all fish, threw an atmospheric glow from the side of the couch. If it had been 
in a movie, it would have been a cool effect. Unnerved slightly, Skinner pressed 
on the light switch, exhaling as he looked around at the room. Tables and chairs 
were upended, papers scattered ticker-tape fashion across the floor. Whoever had 
been there had known exactly what they were looking for. 

Stepping cautiously through the debris, Skinner reached Mulder's computer, 
listening to the soft hum of the modem as he launched a doomed attempt to access 
the agent's e-mail. Skinner failed the three guesses at the password, 
floundering for another access route and being politely but firmly denied. 
Frustrated, he turned to leave. Throwing a parting glance around the room, he 
saw the red light on the answering machine demanding his attention. 

"Mulder." The voice was unfamiliar to Skinner, formal, but at the same time, 
jokingly so. "Thanks for the TLG subscription, better late than never, right? 
Frohike wanted to know if Scully had reconsidered, says she won't find better 
bedtime reading. Are you still on for the conference a week Saturday? Let us 
know when you get back." 

Skinner's gut tightened. "Let us know when you get back."  Who the hell were 
these guys? Replaying his actions mentally, his gaze strayed to the door. 
Striding over with renewed purpose, he threw it open and rifled through the 
newspapers until he found the magazine. "Thanks for the TLG subscription." He 
snatched up the magazine and thumbed through it, searching for a clue as to the 
writers' whereabouts. It was after a couple of pages that Skinner realised he 
was perusing possibly the most paranoid piece of literature ever published. 
Tracing these men to their headquarters was not going to be an easy task. 
Skinner was not familiar with the specific details of Mulder and Scully's case, 
but that unfailing gut instinct told him he was working to a deadline. 



5.45pm. 

"Dad thought Jack was too old for me, which only made me all the more determined 
to date him." 

Mulder chuckled softly, imagining two Scully tempers at odds.

"At least he cared enough to want to interfere, Scully." 

He felt her nod in agreement. In a little over three hours, Scully had opened up 
a side of herself to him that Mulder had rarely had the privilege to see. They 
had spoken casually about their personal lives before, but never with this 
amount of intensity or detail. 

She was tiring now; he could hear it in her voice, and the bouts of coughing 
were becoming more frequent. Mulder wondered how they could both remain so calm. 
But were they calm or resigned? The constant ordeals that they had both been 
forced to endure through their work on the X-Files had not only sapped their 
strength, but also their ability to take anything for granted. As they sat 
huddled together in their cold prison, Mulder acknowledged that maybe, if they 
were honest, they had both been expecting something like this to happen. 

Scully felt her partner shiver, goose flesh rising on his bare arms. She didn't 
know what he had just been thinking about, and before she could ask him she 
heard the keys rattle the lock. The light sliced through the basement. 

"Oh God. " Mulder felt the bile rising in the back of his throat. Scully kept 
her hand on his arm, a restraint and a comfort. 

"How we all doing?" 

Scully could feel her knees weaken, the light sensation that accompanies sheer 
elation or outright terror. She forced herself to look at Logan but could not 
formulate a reply. 

"Oh, Agent Scully, you don't look so good." 

She looks a damn sight better than you though. Mulder squinted closely at 
Logan's face. It seemed to be decaying by the second. Part of the flesh had 
already been eaten away, leaving a mess of red and green traces across his 
visage. The lips were peeling and his teeth were coming loose from his gums. The 
sight was not a pleasant one. 

"Let's have you over here, shall we?" 

He bent towards Scully and pulled her up to stand beside him. Mulder remained 
motionless, not wanting to provoke a further attack. Scully swayed unsteadily, 
willing herself not to faint. Logan half dragged her over to a table, leaning to 
fasten a bulb into a small angle-head lamp. Scully saw a hook on the wall, saw 
the blood on the floor and bolted. Jerking herself away from Logan's grasp, she 
pushed at him. Caught by surprise, he fell awkwardly to the ground. Struggling 
blindly, Scully tried to run back to Mulder, who was sitting open mouthed with 
shock. With a quick shake of his head, Mulder scrambled to his feet. He could 
see Logan picking himself up, could see Scully, panic stark in her eyes. She 
wasn't going to make it. 

But she failed in slow motion. 

He watched as Logan hit Scully from behind, sending her to the floor, cursing 
under his breath. With an effort, Mulder snapped out of his stupor and launched 
himself at the man. Logan turned from Scully and braced himself for Mulder's 
onslaught. Side-stepping neatly, he drove a double fist into Mulder's back, 
driving him onto all fours, a kick in the chest effectively quashing the 
rebellion. 

"Now, where were we?" 

Panting slightly, Logan caught hold of Scully's chains and linked them over the 
hook in the wall. She slumped forward on her knees, resting her head on the 
clammy concrete. Waiting. She sensed Logan move away from her and realised that 
he was going back towards Mulder. There was a silent pause before the sound of 
dull thuds filled the basement, Scully heard her partner groan quietly. Hot 
tears streamed down her cheeks as she listened, helpless to do anything but wait 
for her turn. 

It seemed like hours. Her arms, fastened above her head, went numb. She could 
hear herself repeating a plea to Logan to stop hurting her partner. 

Then the pounding stopped. 

The sound of Logan panting from exertion filled her senses. There was no sound 
from Mulder. She could not see Logan standing with his hands on his hips, trying 
to catch his breath. She could not see the satisfied grin as he looked at 
Mulder, but she knew it was there. 

"Agent Scully, looks like we get to spend some time alone." 

He was moving towards her, his steps measured, almost jaunty. He entered her 
line of vision. A thick, green slime glistened on his forehead, a bizarre 
manifestation of perspiration. Scully raised her eyes to meet his, with a look 
of disgust that made her lips thin and her eyes blaze. 

"You really are a sick bastard." 

For all Scully knew, this thing had just killed her partner; her best friend. 
She was not going to give him the pleasure of seeing she was afraid, or how much 
she was hurting. 

With a smile, he moved from her sight, rustling in a box, mumbling to himself. 
He appeared again with a small tray of surgical instruments in one hand and a 
clipboard in the other. Scully was too dumbfounded to be scared; this was like 
every bad B-Movie Mulder had ever made her sit through. Logan flipped through 
the pages attached to the board. 

"Makes for pretty interesting reading, this. But I don't suppose you'll ever 
find out what's in here. Was it three months you were missing for?" 

Scully would not let herself react. He's lying, he's lying, but her little inner 
voice sounded hollow. 

"I was asked to do a spot of extra research for my colleagues. They thought it 
would be easier this way, less attention drawn to them, you see. So, let's get 
started, shouldn't take too long." 

He put the file to one side and knelt down beside her. Scully felt her arms 
tremble, her breath wheeze from her lips. In a swift movement, Logan ripped the 
back of Scully's blouse, sniggering derisively as he saw Mulder's makeshift 
dressings. A thin blade tore the shreds of cloth from around her torso, leaving 
her back exposed. She felt the cool tip of the blade against her skin, her 
breath escaping in a barely smothered moan as the metal pierced her flesh and 
drew a line through it. As the scalpel was withdrawn, Scully fainted. 

~~~~ 

"Agent Scully? Agent Scully?!" 

There was no pain, only an overwhelming tiredness and a feeling that, however 
momentarily, she was safe. 

"Can you hear me?" 

She recognised the voice but her dry lips would not reply. She nodded. It took 
an effort to lift her head from the ground, but she managed it. Squinting into 
the glare that surrounded the figure, her dull thoughts concluded that she had 
last had this dubious pleasure on the floor of her kitchen. 

"I know you're angry, Agent Scully." 

That's an understatement

"I know that. We're sorry for getting you into all this. We had no idea Logan 
was working to someone else's agenda." 

Scully was finding it difficult to distinguish between speech and thought. 

Do you know who he is working for?

"We cannot survive here long enough to find out." 

Then why are you here now? Even Scully's thoughts sounded defeated. Can you help 
us? Is Mulder alive? It had slipped through before she was able to stop it. She 
was not sure she would be able to cope with the answer. 

"He was alive when Logan finished with him." 

Scully screamed suddenly, her entire body convulsing as it was wracked with an 
unbearable pain. The figure in front of her faded then gradually strengthened. 
What's happening to me? The pain was abating slowly. Her fists clenched and 
relaxed. 

"You almost regained consciousness. Stay with me, Agent Scully. You have to hold 
on. We are doing our best to take Logan. The decay you saw - we are making that 
happen, but we can only do it a piece at a time. We thought you would be able to 
manage, that we could reclaim him in our own time, but none of us knew exactly 
what we were trying to fight."

Can you help us?

The creature leaned down to her, placed a hand on the crown of her head. A 
warmth infused Scully's body, a promise of safety. Scully slipped back into a 
dreamless sleep, the words of the creature scant comfort.

"You have to hold on."



FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 30th July. 7.15pm. 

He had always hated this office. As a junior agent in the Bureau, he had spent 
countless hours behind this desk, reading through case files in the inadequate 
light. Now it was a place where he felt secure, sure that he could not be 
listened in on or observed. Skinner had based his team here, a small team of 
agents he had worked with through some of his toughest assignments and whom he 
trusted implicitly. There were usually five agents who fulfilled that criteria; 
today that number was down to three. The office was cramped, designed to 
accommodate one man, not four. The barely contained frustration seeping into the 
atmosphere was not helping. No detail of Mulder's assignment could be located, 
no results from any of Scully's forensic work. A man by the name of Stave had 
disappeared completely, while Alan Bryce and family had been placed in 
protective custody. The originators of The Lone Gunman remained elusive; waiting 
for them to contact Mulder seemed to be the only way that they were ever going 
to be traced, and Skinner knew that they did not have the time to waste hoping 
for that to happen. The absolute silence Skinner had insisted the case be 
surrounded by was limiting the resources that they could access, hindering work 
that needed to be accomplished quickly. 

"Sir, we might have something here." 

Skinner made his way towards the two men hunched over a copy of The Lone Gunman. 
Special Agent Anthony Charles handed the magazine to his superior and passed him 
a magnifying glass. 

"Down in the bottom left hand corner of the page. It looks like some sort of 
coded contact number." 

Skinner whistled softly between his teeth. The number was barely perceptible to 
the naked eye, visible only to people who knew what they were looking for. It 
was not a phone number - well, not immediately so. 

"Get this down to the code breakers. No, call Al at the department, tell her to 
get down here with whatever equipment she'll need." 

He did not need to say any more than that. Charles made the phone call, 
divulging the barest of details, and reported that Al Davis was on her way. 
Skinner flipped open his cellular phone. 

"I need to speak to Doctor David Easton. Yes, that's right. Well, could you page 
him as soon as he finishes in surgery. Tell him Walter needs to speak to him 
urgently. Yes, thank you." 

A sharp rap on the glass panel of the door greeted Skinner as he placed the 
phone back into his pocket. 

"Come in." 

Charles rushed to help the slight woman as she staggered in through the door 
with a laptop and huge bag. 

"Somebody want to fill me in on what the hell is going on...?" She caught 
Skinner's eye. "Sir." 



7.27pm. 

It was no specific pain that roused Mulder. Every part of his body registered an 
identical, throbbing ache. The energy necessary to raise his head eluded him, 
and it had taken all of his strength just to open his eyes. He was lying on his 
side, facing the wall, still curled up into the foetal ball that had failed to 
protect him from Logan's beating. He was beginning to isolate the parts of him 
that hurt the most. His face was a dull mess; touching it gently, he ascertained 
a considerable amount of swelling, his fingers coming away sticky with blood. He 
could feel his ribs on his left side grating together and the small of his back 
complaining every time he moved. 

"Scully?" His voice was ragged, his mouth dry with blood. "Scully?" 

Steeling himself for the effort, he dragged himself up to a sitting position, 
leaning against the wall for balance. Through swollen eyes he scanned the 
basement, his gaze resting on a small, dark mass on the opposite side. How the 
hell did she get over there? A second concussion was not aiding Mulder's memory, 
but fragments of information filtered through to piece the events together. 
Scully being dragged away from him, the sound of a scream shattering the 
silence. Terror masked the injuries that had kept Mulder stationary. Standing 
slowly, he wavered before staggering over to his partner. 

"Scully?" 

His voice cracked then deserted him, giving way to a quiet rage and tears that 
pushed their way down battered cheeks. She was still chained to the wall, her 
body hanging limply, the hook the only thing keeping her up. Her blouse hung in 
tatters from her shoulders, framing a criss-cross pattern of wounds in her back. 
Mulder's legs gave way beneath him, bringing him unsteadily to her side. She was 
still breathing, a raspy, irregular wheeze. Mulder was afraid to touch her, 
afraid that she would give up her tenuous hold on life if he did. The cuts were 
identical to the ones he had seen in previous victims, a range of depth and 
size. 

Regaining his composure, Mulder took hold of Scully's bonds and unhooked them. 
As he cradled her to the floor, a sharp smell stung his eyes. 

"No!" 

Mulder had encountered a similar smell twice before, once in the attic of a 
doctor's house, and more recently in the Arctic. He turned Scully onto her side. 
Despite the lack of illumination, he could see a faint tinge to two of the 
deepest wounds. The blood around the outside of them had already begun to 
thicken. Mulder knew that her heart would fail as the chemical passed into her 
bloodstream. 

Quiet futility washed over him: there was nothing that he could do for her. He 
shivered fiercely, trying to pull the remnants of Scully's blouse over her to 
keep her warm, then stopped himself. The temperature in the basement might be 
the only thing that she had working to her advantage. They were both freezing; 
maybe it was cold enough for the virus to be inhibited. 

There was no one there to tell him whether he was doing the right thing, but 
Mulder turned Scully onto her back, leaning her down onto the cold floor, 
concluding that an infection from the dirt there was the lesser of two evils. He 
winced on her behalf as he settled her, resting her head in his lap, almost 
relieved that she was still unconscious. Closing his eyes wearily, he stroked 
his hand through her hair, the sound of her laboured breathing punctuating his 
rhythm. 



FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 7.52pm. 

The code-breaking program had been in operation for about fifteen minutes before 
the agents began to see any signs of progress. The data was being processed 
through an elaborate set of diagnostic devices, each working to decipher the 
pattern of the numbers used and to establish their significance. Under Skinner's 
instructions, Agents Charles and Anderson were organising a quick response unit, 
each man approved by Skinner and prepared to move out at the shortest notice. 

Skinner hovered over the shoulder of Al Davis, not making sure that she was 
doing her job properly but just trying to reassure himself that progress was 
being made. 

"OK. So far we have area code 703. That puts them close by." 

"Figures. How long do you think the rest will take?" 

Davis shook her head, feeling responsible for every second of the delay. "The 
first part came up pretty quickly, but the rest of the number has been scrambled 
using a different code. It could be minutes...could be days." 

"Just do your best." 

The chirp of Skinner's cell phone interrupted Davis' response. "Skinner... 
David... It's not been long enough in my opinion, well, on a professional basis 
anyway. Yes, I need your help, do you think you could come over to the Bureau? 
I'll have one of my men meet you... It is an emergency, yes... No, no, you don't 
need to bring anything. I'll be able to tell you more when you arrive. And, 
David?... Thank you." 

Agent McFee was already on his feet. At a confirmation from Skinner, he left the 
room to wait for Dr. Easton.

"It's coming through!" 

Al Davis was barely able to stifle a yell of delight. Skinner strode over to the 
desk. 

"We have access to the code, so the numbers should be finalised in about a 
minute." 

Skinner let out his breath slowly, watched Davis make the final alterations to 
the tracing equipment.

"Here it is...703 695 1777." 

Skinner dialled the number as Davis relayed it, holding his breath as the dial 
tone skipped around, before, finally, a ringing could be heard. The recording 
device began to tape the call. Skinner raised his eyebrows as a pre-recorded 
message began to play . "Congratulations! You have successfully broken this 
month's code. A free year's subscription to TLG is now yours. Leave your name 
and address after the tone and your first issue will be on its way soon." 

A cold sweat broke out on Skinner's forehead. Would they be able to trace this? 
He decided to gamble. 

"This is the Assistant Director of the FBI. If anyone is receiving this call, I 
need to speak with you urgently." 

The silence was deafening. 

"I don't need to meet with you, this is a call for your assistance. Agents 
Mulder and Scully have gone missing. You may be the only people who know where 
they are." 

The tape recorder continued its slow revolutions, a panel display blinking 
vacantly: no trace possible. Skinner looked at Davis. She avoided his eyes, 
studying the desk top instead. Skinner was at a loss. 

"They need your help." 

There was a sharp click at the end of the line, an exhalation of breath. "How do 
we know you are who you say you are?" 

The relief in the room was palpable. Davis sat down quickly, her legs shaking. 
Skinner gestured for her to watch the recorder, and when he spoke his voice was 
controlled, full of authority again. 

"You don't. A copy of your magazine was discovered at Mulder's apartment, and a 
message that you left implied that you knew where they had been sent. They have 
been missing for over twenty-four hours. I have reason to believe that their 
involvement in their case was not accidental, but all traces of exactly what the 
case entailed have been eradicated." 

Skinner heard a faint swearing in the background and the voice at the receiver 
changed. 

"Agent Mulder asked us to locate a man suspected of a series of murders. He did 
not offer any other details. We didn't ask. The man was identified as Paul 
Logan. Last known address 33 Gateslock Road, Baltimore. As far as we are aware 
they left for that address immediately." 

Despite the fact that the message was being recorded, Skinner scribbled the 
information down. "Thank you. When we find them, no doubt Mulder will be in 
touch." 

"Yes sir. You tell him to bring the lovely Agent Scully along as well." 

Skinner's eyebrows almost arched off his forehead 

"And, sir?" 

"Yes?" 

"Be careful." 

The line went dead. 

Davis was already on the phone, notifying the convoy of men, telling McFee to 
get his "butt back down here" as soon as Easton arrived. Skinner took hold of 
his jacket, checked the clip in his gun. 

"Let's go." 



8.22pm. 

Scully had been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time. The burning 
sensation blazing across her back was not exactly tempting her to make the 
effort to wake up. Mulder watched as her eyes opened again, blinking hazily up 
at him. 

"You're a mess, Mulder." 

She sounded drugged and he hoped that was how she was feeling. He placed his 
hand on her shoulder and she shivered at his cold touch. 

"What did he do? My back... he had a knife." She watched his face again as if 
that alone would drive the images away. "Mulder, I saw her again." 

"Scully, you need to rest." 

Mulder had heard what she had said, but he had also seen the state of mind that 
she was in. There was no way that he would raise her hopes by encouraging her to 
trust what could have been little more than a delusion. 

"She said that they were trying to help us, that they were taking him a piece at 
a time." 

She was attempting to sit up, her congested lungs desperately needing her to. 

Mulder's hold on her shoulder kept her firmly on the floor. 

"I'm cold." Her voice was small, it took all of Mulder's willpower not to gather 
her into his arms. He could not look at her face. 

"Scully, he injected you." 

Her eyes widened, realisation dawning on her. 

"The colder you are, the more time..." He choked off the sentence. 

Scully seemed more in control than her partner was. She bit down on her lip to 
mask the pain shooting through her body. 

"They're trying to help us, Mulder." 

He desperately wanted to believe that was true. 



FBI Headquarters. Washington, D.C. 8.25pm. 

"David, good to see you again." The handshake between the two men was warm. Dr. 
David Easton had been Skinner's physician for years. He regarded the tall man in 
front of him quizzically. Walter Skinner had always been a composed man, his 
natural expression appearing stern to the stranger. Easton noted the obvious 
lines of fatigue on his face; an unfathomable weight seemed to be bearing down 
upon shoulders that usually held the appearance of being able to endure the 
greatest of pressures. Skinner's cordial greeting revealed a man relieved to 
recruit another ally.



"So, are you going to tell me what is going on?" 

Easton kept his tone light, allowing Skinner to take all the time he needed. 
Skinner nodded, grateful to be able to advance the proceedings and grateful for 
his friend's consideration. He gave Easton an efficient synopsis of what was 
known of the case. Alan Bryce had discovered his office torn to pieces by 
unknown intruders, but his anecdotal evidence was the only knowledge Skinner had 
of the investigation. 

"I need you to assemble a team of medics, and whatever equipment that may be 
necessary. Agent Charles and Agent McFee will accompany you to provide the 
authorisation." 

Easton looked at his friend with an expression of shocked comprehension. "You 
really think that they are still alive?" 

Skinner finished fastening his jacket around his bullet proof vest. "I have to 
believe that, David." 



9.32pm. 

They were waiting for a miracle now. 

From outside the basement, scattered sounds could be distinguished. Boxes being 
dragged, papers being torn to shreds. At one point, Mulder distinctly heard a 
second voice in conversation with Logan. He was preparing to leave, covering his 
tracks and handing over the 'research'. The faint smell of burning infiltrated 
the basement and Mulder fought to overcome an age old phobia, one that he had 
never managed to completely subdue. 

Scully stirred restlessly, her lips moving but making no noise. Mulder leaned 
down towards her, his back screaming in protest and being ignored.



"Mulder..." Her voice was no more than a whisper. "I can't breathe...have to sit 
up." 

She was in a no-win situation. 

"OK, but only for a minute." 

Trying not to cause either of them any further pain, Mulder helped Scully to sit 
up. Her face was deathly pale, a blue tinge to her lips just visible. She 
coughed, a wracking cough that left her limp with exhaustion. Scully lay down 
again of her own volition, leaning her head on Mulder's thigh with a grimace of 
determination that Mulder had seen many times before but never so immutable. 

Seconds later, Mulder felt her body convulse. It was only a slight twitching of 
her limbs at first, but the spasms soon became more pronounced. With a vague 
recollection of medical training, Mulder turned her onto her side, making sure 
she could not choke. The seizure subsided as quickly as it had begun, but not 
before Mulder noticed the green blisters surrounding the two deeper wounds on 
her back. He did not recognise this stage of the virus, but realistically it 
could only signify the progression of the infection. 

Shuddering, Mulder placed her onto her back. There was a trickle of blood on her 
chin where she had bitten through her lip during the attack. 

"I'm just going to clean you up a bit, Scully." 

Talking to her as he wiped her mouth allowed Mulder to look into her vacant eyes 
without falling to pieces. His self-assurance was short-lived. Her eyes stared 
at him, but they were void of anything of Scully. Unable to bear it any longer, 
he closed them, the finality of the gesture making him nauseous. He picked up 
her right hand in his; a faint warmth was still there, reminding him that she 
was also running a temperature. Mulder was too tired to be angry, too scared to 
feel futility. Overcome by the need to rest, Mulder shifted himself until he was 
curled around Scully, her head on his arm. 

"Y'know Scully, after this concrete, I don't think futons are ever going to hold 
the same attraction." 

He did not receive an answer. 

In a matter of seconds, the sound of two people breathing and a steady dripping 
of water were the only noises in the dark. 



9.43pm. 

Skinner looked over his shoulder again, craning his neck around to check whether 
anyone was following their car. 

"Sir, you're going to put a crick in your neck if you're not careful." Anthony 
Charles was driving. "There's no one behind us." 

He was right. The small country road that they were hurtling along was deserted 
apart from four rental cars and a van, travelling approximately five minutes 
behind each other. Skinner was in the lead car, while the van containing the 
medical equipment and technicians was bringing up the rear. The convoy would 
re-establish itself at Gateslock Road, something that would involve a 
considerable amount of nail-chewing for Skinner as he waited for the trailing 
cars to catch up. He glanced down at the file on his knee, the same information 
that had been faxed through to Mulder: Logan's criminal record. The man's fixed 
stare had the same effect on Skinner that it had had on his two agents, but at 
least he knew who he was looking for now. Skinner had successfully shut his mind 
off from the other details that Bryce had been able to give him; he had not 
needed to see the evidence of these crimes to imagine the results. To maintain a 
rational perspective on the operation, Skinner refused to consider what Mulder 
and Scully might have been put through. 

"Walter?" David Easton's voice cut in. 

"Go ahead, David." 

"I just got word through from Bethesda. I have a team on standby there, no 
questions asked." 

"How the hell did you manage that?" 

David may have been based at the Naval hospital in Bethesda, but that was still 
a considerable accomplishment. "Friend owed me a favour. He, luckily, had a 
friend who owed him one too." Skinner sensed the grin in the man's voice. 

"Well, I think we deserved a break." Skinner paused, hoping he was not thinking 
too far ahead, or too optimistically. "That's quite a trek, though." 

"Walter, let's cross that bridge when we come to it." The doctor's tone was more 
guarded. 

"Agreed. Over." 

Skinner checked his watch as the connection went dead. They were making good 
time. His stomach fluttered with anticipation, a bizarre combination of 
adrenaline and trepidation that had dominated his time in Vietnam. This was a 
different kind of combat, a different kind of strategy, but as he sat, weapon 
nestled in the palm of his hand, he wondered whether the enemy had changed. 



10.12pm. 

Mulder was jerked awake by a crashing outside the basement door. A thin scream 
reverberated through the air and the door was thrown open, slamming back against 
the wall. Logan stood framed by the back light, nothing more than a shifting 
outline. Mulder did not have the energy to raise his head far off the floor. He 
could barely see Logan, the tangle of Scully's hair surrounding his face forming 
a barrier between the two men. Mulder leaned down close to his partner. She was 
barely breathing, tiny exhalations of air brushing his cheek, and she remained 
unconscious, something for which Mulder had never thought he would be grateful. 

Logan walked quickly down the stairs towards them, his progress seeming 
graceless, clumsy 

Biting hard on his lip, Mulder sat up, but not with the best will in the world 
could he stand. Logan reached them and stood over Scully. For a second a mock 
smile of sympathy passed over his ruined face. 

"I just got word from one of my associates. Apparently a rescue mission is being 
staged, and my colleague is worried that I will have left some evidence behind. 
Namely, you." 

Mulder saw a faint glow behind Logan, an ebb of light that abruptly disappeared, 
making the darkness all the more formidable. For the first time, Logan seemed 
less sure of himself. 

"It also appears that I won't be around for too long now." The glow caught his 
eye again and a strange murmuring sound rattled across the room. Logan took a 
deep breath, his feet moving closer to Scully's prone body. "Guess we should get 
it over with." 

The murmuring was increasing in volume. Logan was becoming more and more 
agitated. Mulder watched, hardly daring to breathe, not wanting to hope for what 
he thought might be about to happen. 

A cool breeze swept across Mulder's face making him shiver. Logan swirled 
around, turning his back on his captives, trying to locate the source of his 
torment. 

"I'M NOT..." His words were ripped from his throat in a throttled cry, his 
defiance not being given the opportunity to articulate itself. With a roar of 
agony, Logan moved back towards Scully, only to find Mulder bracing himself for 
the onslaught, crouching in front of his partner. Logan laughed, scorning what 
he saw to be a pitifully heroic effort which did not deter him for a second. 

Mulder was feeling anything but heroic. He was half doubled over in pain, a cold 
sweat beading his forehead, blinding him as it trickled into his eyes. 

Logan kicked out at him, catching Mulder in the shoulder, forcing him off 
balance. "Is that what you want, G-Man? For me to kill you first? Maybe then 
your girlfriend will last till help gets here, is that the plan?" 

That was the plan. 

Mulder laid both hands in front of himself, trying to muster up some semblance 
of strength. He winced at the sudden brightness of the glare coming from behind 
Logan. The disembodied voices raised themselves into a tumult, pounding Mulder's 
ears, hammering the air from his lungs.



Logan wailed, a primal cry, as his body was torn by the force of his origins. 

It was too difficult for Mulder to remain upright. Curling himself onto the 
concrete, he drew Scully close to him, burying her head in his chest in an 
attempt to shield her from the tempest. A soft voice reached the periphery of 
Mulder's hearing, a promise of protection and silent gratitude. He could feel 
himself slipping away, a great gulf opening up between himself and harsh 
reality. Despite his stubborn resistance, Mulder lost consciousness. 

He did not hear Logan's final howl as his body was ripped apart, the dazzling 
display of light and sound washing harmlessly over the two agents. The remnants 
of Logan's body were efficiently gathered by invisible hands; justice would 
later demand their reconstruction, but that was the concern of a separate 
existence. 

A sad caress touched the two sleepers, a final apology and a farewell. 



Gateslock Road. Outskirts of Baltimore. 10.18pm. 

The shockwave of light and the lamenting cacophony that accompanied it submerged 
the deserted street in a miniature maelstrom. The chaos provided a spectacular 
welcome for Assistant Director Skinner and the two open-mouthed agents 
travelling with him. 

"What the fuck?" 

Agent Charles was a man of few words. He stopped the car a discreet distance 
from number thirty three, gaping at the rubble-strewn street briefly illuminated 
by an impossibly bright light. 

As the wind died down, Skinner opened the car door. 

"Sir, we should wait for our back-up." 

The statement was a mandatory warning from Charles. Skinner glanced at the 
younger agent, nodded in acknowledgement and checked his weapon. 

"We don't go in there right now and there might not be any need for back-up." 

The street was cooler now, a biting wind nipping at the faces of the three men, 
forcing a shiver from Charles. An efficient moment of silence elapsed as the men 
organised themselves into an assault formation and walked stealthily towards the 
house. 

"Looks empty." 

Charles' voice was hushed. His flashlight played over the lock on the front door 
and revealed it to be broken. On a count of three, he pushed the door gently and 
stood to one side, allowing Skinner to enter. Their movements were fluid and 
unrushed. A steady sweep of the house revealed scant but recent signs of 
habitation and a hurried departure. As Skinner stood in the kitchen of apartment 
two and kicked at a pile of ash, small black flakes leapt into the air and 
dispersed across the floor. He brushed his hand along the counter top, removing 
it quickly when he felt the heat there. He turned as Charles and Anderson came 
through the apartment. 

"Anything?" 

"Nothing seems to have been affected upstairs. Whatever the disturbance was, it 
looks like it was confined to this floor." Charles watched as Skinner prowled 
around the room. 

"We're missing something." 

Charles did not voice his misgivings, his doubt over the reliability of the Lone 
Gunmen, his suspicion that they might have been sent on a wild goose chase. 
Instead, he scoured the apartment, searching for hidden compartments, rooms they 
might have overlooked . Skinner was in the bedroom when he heard it. The 
faintest of noises, a slight rattle of metal and a distant voice. 

"Charles! Anderson! Get in here." Skinner was moving towards the sound, holding 
his hand up to prevent the agents from speaking. They stood transfixed, 
straining to identify the direction of the noise and only succeeding in 
amplifying the pounding of their own hearts. 

Skinner looked at the floor; there was no trap door, but the sound was coming 
from beneath him. 

"Dammit, where are they?" 

He began to walk around the room, running his hands over the walls, feeling for 
any discrepancies in the design. Following his example, Charles and Anderson did 
likewise, tapping gently, applying pressure to the dank covering. 

"Holy shit." 

Skinner turned to see Anderson wrestling a large piece of panelling from the 
wall. A chill swept over the three men, bringing with it a sickly smell of 
decay. 

Skinner checked his watch: the second car should have been arriving any minute. 

"Anderson, wait for the next car and get them in here A.S.A.P. Keep radio 
contact." He looked down into the gaping darkness. "If that's possible." 

Anderson left Skinner and Charles with no small relief. He did not know what was 
down there, what could cause that kind of smell, and he was not at all sure that 
he wished to find out. 



10.25pm. 

Skinner went first, feet slipping on the slimy staircase. His eyes widening as 
he reached the bottom, he waited for Charles to join him. They were in a room, a 
large, cavernous room where various tables and benches had been arranged into 
some sort of laboratory. Most of the equipment was destroyed. Glass splinters 
made the floor shimmer and crunch underfoot, the stench was unbearable and the 
noises were closer. 

A man's voice. Skinner recognised it now; he had heard it so many times before, 
raised in anger or frustration, or quiet with grief. Mulder. A metal door 
beckoned the two men, slightly ajar and filtering Mulder's voice through to 
them. 

Breaking into a run, Skinner reached the door and, gun steady, waited for 
Charles to open it fully. The cautious approach was swiftly abandoned as Skinner 
realised Mulder was sobbing. 

"Agent Mulder?!" 

Skinner shone his torch around the basement, resting it on a dark shadow on the 
far side. A face that Skinner barely recognised raised itself into the beam. 

"My God." 

Mulder blinked, shielding his eyes from the glare, uncomprehending. "Help her." 

His voice seemed to come from miles away as Skinner followed the direction of 
Mulder's plea and saw the small bundle on the floor. 

"Go! I'll get the medics in." 

Skinner heard Charles leave as he ran down the steps towards the two agents. The 
sound of Charles' fading footsteps was replaced by that of Mulder desperately 
trying to rouse his partner. Skinner knelt by her side. She did not seem to be 
breathing. With a gentle but firm hold, he removed Mulder's hands from her 
shoulders. Her body was ice cold as Skinner placed his fingers on her neck 
searching for a pulse. 

"Mulder...what happened?" 

There was a faint throb of movement beneath his fingertips. He searched Mulder's 
eyes, slowly absorbing the bruises and lacerations on his face, the 
discoloration of his chest and the shackles around his wrists. Skinner took his 
jacket off and placed it around the younger man's shoulders. 

"You're going to be all right. Can you tell me what happened to Scully?" 

It was evident enough what had happened to her. The thin lace bra did not 
disguise the angry lacerations across her torso, and her arm was distended 
crookedly around the restraints. Skinner saw a small cut running towards her 
back, and with a mounting feeling of dread he turned her onto her side. 

"Son of a bitch." 

He heard a muted sob escape from Mulder's throat. The flesh on Scully's back was 
swollen and blistered, a gruesome collage of wounds which emitted a faint and 
indistinguishable smell. 

"Keep her cold, she has to be cold." Mulder was trying to place her down on the 
floor again. His hands were shaking with the effort to remain alert. "Don't let 
them warm her." He leaned back against the wall, holding her hand tightly. 

"Mulder, listen to me." Skinner was keeping a hand on Scully's pulse, preparing 
to move if she stopped breathing. "Stay with me just a little while longer, OK? 
I need to know what he gave her." No response. "What did he give her, Agent 
Mulder?" 

"Arctic... I don't remember the name." 

That was enough for Skinner. Mulder's long recuperation following his trek 
across the ice had caused a near breakdown for Scully, as she endeavoured to 
keep him at his desk and away from active duty. The virus he had been exposed to 
had been buried in medical files somewhere, but Scully had been able to offer a 
detailed account of its effects and even had a copy of his blood tests that she 
had smuggled from the hospital. Couple that with Bryce's information and Skinner 
had a good idea what they were facing.

Mulder was aware of Skinner's questions, but he could not assimilate his 
presence into any kind of logical conclusion. He was shivering so hard and he 
just wanted to leave now, to lay down his head and sleep. He heard footsteps 
approaching, voices calling out to Skinner, and his superior's urgent reply. 

Men ran down the steps towards them, arms full of equipment, torches blazing. 
Despite the fact that each man was a hardened professional, they were all 
shocked by the sight that confronted them. Mulder heard horrified comments and 
exclamations; the delay they caused seemed to last forever, but only a couple of 
seconds actually elapsed before the men moved forward to help. 

David Easton had been thorough in his briefing of his medical team. A quick 
consultation with Skinner having confirmed what they were dealing with, the 
doctor gently lifted Scully onto a cooling blanket before examining her. His 
proficient hands carefully probed and assessed her injuries. "Pulse is 
thready... oh shit..." 

The thin wail of the heart monitor sliced through the nerves of everyone in the 
room. Mulder pushed the medics away from him, watching as Easton pounded on his 
partner's chest as a second man fed her breaths through a face mask. 

"One and two and three and four. Breathe. One and two and three and four. 
Breathe." 

The litany seemed to continue for an age before a faint bleep on the monitor 
signalled Scully's willingness to fight. 

As he watched her take a small gasp of air, Mulder began to tremble, his entire 
body convulsing with relief. He distantly felt a steadying hold on his shoulder, 
then the sharp feel of a needle in the back of his hand, and a flood of warmth 
through his body, followed by blackness. 



11.18pm. 

It was the unremitting rumble of the van's tyres and a whispering of gas that 
woke Mulder. He gathered his bearings slowly, moving his head groggily to try 
and see more. He was lying on a low gurney and he felt sick. 

"Agent Mulder, can you hear me?" 

Mulder nodded, groaning as his head pounded. He reached up to the mask covering 
his nose and mouth, pulling it down around his neck. "Where's Scully?" 

It was little more than a croak, but it was enough to make David Easton stop 
trying to put the oxygen mask back onto his patient. Shifting slightly to the 
side, he gestured to Mulder. Mulder turned his head painfully, trying to pay 
attention to what he was being told. 

"We had to intubate her before we could move her. It was difficult but we 
finally managed to stabilise her."

Difficult was a slight understatement, Easton shuddered as he remembered trying 
to force a tube down a throat swollen by an unknown infection.



"Will she make it?" 

Easton was sitting too close to Mulder to be able to feed him any false hopes. 

"She's holding her own at the moment, but she is very ill. We're keeping her 
body temp low and that seems to be delaying any further progression of the 
virus. If we can get her to the hospital and onto dialysis, she'll have a fair 
chance of pulling through." 

Mulder watched the respirator feeding air into Scully's lungs, hearing the 
whistle as it passed back out. Skinner was by her side, holding two IV bags and 
her hand. "You need to rest, Agent Mulder. We should be at the hospital in about 
two hours. Are you warm enough?" 

Mulder nodded again and closed his eyes. He felt another blanket being placed 
over him and the gas brushing his face again, before the rocking of the van 
lulled him back to sleep. 

Skinner waited until Mulder's breathing indicated that he was asleep. "David?" 

His question was ably pre-empted by his friend. 

"I told him the truth, Walter. If she makes it to the hospital then she has a 
chance. We don't really know what the hell we're dealing with, though, and she's 
in bad shape already. How she survived this long, with these injuries..." 

David shook his head; he did not want to think about that, concerning himself 
instead with checking the vital signs of his two patients. Still stable. 
"Scott?" 

The driver of the van cocked his head slightly. 

"Yeah, doc?" 

"Get on to Bethesda. Tell Doctor Connor to have a double isolation unit 
prepared, with dialysis facilities on standby." 

Skinner raised an eyebrow. David smiled. 

"Just in case." 



Bethesda Naval Hospital. Maryland. 31st July. 1.22am. 

The doors to the high containment unit swung open to admit the two hand-held 
gurneys. Medical personnel immediately swarmed around, shouting instructions and 
details, taking charge of equipment, guiding the team into an examination 
facility. 

Skinner stood abandoned. He had no place in there, would only be in the way, but 
that did not help make him feel any the less useless. The unit was a glaring 
white, making him squint after the hours of torch light. He wondered how it 
would affect Mulder and Scully when they woke up, not even considering that that 
might never be an issue. 

There was nowhere to sit, the unit being separate from the main hospital, away 
from prying eyes and uncomfortable questions. Skinner finally squatted in the 
corridor, a minute amount of the tension draining from his limbs; they had got 
this far, they had a chance. Feeling in his pocket, he removed his phone and a 
small black book. Flipping through the pages he found "S" and paused only for a 
moment before dialling Margaret Scully. 



Bethesda Naval Hospital. 4.36am. 

"Walter?" 

Skinner rose stiffly to his feet as he heard David Easton's voice echoing 
through the septic corridor. 

"How are they?" His initial fears were allayed slightly by his friend's 
expression. 

"They're both stable and in isolation, which'll help limit the number of people 
permitted access to them. You can go through if you want. It'll be easier for me 
to explain there." 

Skinner followed Easton down to the intensive care room, where he was outfitted 
in surgical scrubs and a face mask before entering. His brow creased in sympathy 
as he looked at the damage inflicted on two of his most valued agents.

"We have Agent Scully on dialysis and we are monitoring her temperature 
according to her response to this. She had a nasty break to her arm and getting 
those chains off was a nightmare, but we managed it without causing her any 
further damage. We irrigated the knife wounds before stitching them, so 
hopefully she won't have too many scars." 

The mass of machines surrounding Scully made her look tiny. They had tried to 
elevate her to take the pressure off her back, and she seemed suspended in an 
unnatural pose. David watched Skinner's face carefully. He knew how protective 
he was of this couple and how deeply he admired them. He lowered his voice, 
trying to offer some sort of comfort. 

"We'll keep her on the respirator until we have the pneumonia under control and 
she is strong enough to manage on her own. She's held on this long, I can't see 
her quitting on you now." He laughed quietly. "She wouldn't dare." 

Skinner's smile did not reach his eyes. 

"What about Mulder?" 

Easton was injecting a further sedative into Mulder's IV. 

"This should keep him out for a while. Whoever that bastard was, he really knew 
how to hurt people without actually killing them." He closed the port on the IV 
and placed the syringe onto a tray. "We had to put a chest drain in; his lung 
collapsed soon after we got him in here - there's always a danger of that with 
broken ribs and your man here has five. He has a severe concussion and bruising 
that hopefully will not cause any internal haemorrhaging. He's going to have one 
hell of a headache, though. Add to that, dehydration and hypothermia, and you 
have an extremely lucky man." David shrugged uncomfortably. "Relatively 
speaking." 

He looked at Skinner, not sure if he was even hearing him. "Do you want to stay 
for a while?" 

Skinner gratefully pulled a chair up between the two beds, sinking into it and 
resting his head back. 

"What a mess." 

David finished adjusting the dialysis machine . "I'll let the guard know that 
you're staying. Don't piss my nurses off though. If you're nice, they might even 
get you a cup of coffee." 

This time Skinner did manage a smile . "Thanks, David. For everything." 

David gave a loose salute. 

"I think we're finally even, Skipper." 

Skinner reiterated the gesture, his smile broadening at the use of a nickname he 
had not heard for a long time. Shifting awkwardly in the unyielding plastic 
chair, he began his vigil. 



Isolation Room 7. Bethesda Naval Hospital. 31st July. 5.12am. 

Skinner knew that voice. He turned his head towards the door, seeing the faint 
outline of a petite, dark-haired woman standing outside the scrub room. There 
was a man beside her, his hand on her arm preventing her access. 

"It's all right, David." 

Skinner's commanding tone startled them both; neither had heard him approach. 

"This is Margaret Scully. Dana's mother." 

David looked sheepish, but given the condition her daughter was in, he was not 
at fault for missing the family resemblance. 

"Where are they? " Her tired eyes sought Skinner's for an answer. 

Skinner looked over his shoulder, then back at the woman in front of him. Afraid 
that his composure would fail him, he looked to his friend for guidance. 

"I think Doctor Easton should tell you a few things before you go in and see 
them." 



5.30am. 

The two men stayed at the door of the isolation room, respectfully allowing 
Margaret Scully to be with her daughter without their interference. Despite the 
warnings from David Easton, nothing could have prepared her for what confronted 
her. 

"Oh, God, Dana.." 

She walked slowly over to her daughter, then took her hand from beneath the 
cooling blanket and held it tightly, trying desperately to infuse it with 
warmth. The tears ran unchecked down her cheeks as Skinner pulled a chair over 
for her. He did not know what to do. For all he knew, Margaret held him 
responsible, not just for this, but for everything her family had been put 
through recently. He realised that his fears were unfounded when Margaret turned 
to face him; he saw no recrimination in her eyes, only an intense sorrow. 
Skinner tentatively put his arm around her, uncertain whether he was doing the 
right thing and not really caring. He held her close as David explained the 
treatment and prognosis for both agents. He was finally able to be more hopeful. 
Scully was responding slowly to the dialysis and they were gradually increasing 
her body temperature. It would be a lengthy procedure but she was making steady 
progress. David turned to the nurse sitting at the desk in the corner of the 
room. 

"Can we see if there are a couple of comfortable chairs anywhere?" 

Skinner shook his head. 

"I have to get back to the Bureau, give them some sort of an explanation. Is 
there anyone else you would like to call?" His question was addressed to 
Margaret. 

"No, thank you. I'll be fine." 

"If you need anything, anything at all, use this number." He scribbled down his 
personal cell phone number and handed it to her. 

David walked with him to the door. 

"I'll call if there are changes. Good luck." 

Skinner pulled his face mask down revealing a sly grin. "I'm gonna need it." 

9.30am. 

That bleeping noise was driving him crazy. An incessant little chirping noise 
that was not alleviating his headache. The worst thing was, there were two of 
them, working in tandem to reinforce his misery. 

He must have groaned, because a soft female voice told him that he was safe and 
not to try and move. The voice was familiar. 

"Scully?" 

"Close, Fox, but not quite." 

Mrs Scully. He opened his eyes, peering through a drug-induced fog, to see 
Margaret Scully's hazel eyes smiling down at him. He blinked sleepily, trying to 
clear his thoughts. The irritating noise was coming from EKG monitors, so he was 
in a hospital, and there were two separate monitors... 

"Scully?" 

His throat felt like it had a clamp set around it. When he tried to push himself 
upright, nothing would co-operate. 

"Fox. Stay still." 

"Where is she?" 

In an identical gesture to a previous one that David Easton had made hours ago 
in a cramped van, Margaret Scully moved to one side and allowed Mulder to see 
his partner. 

He stared at her numbly, watched the lights on the machines winking, animating 
her pale complexion with hypnotic flashes. 

"What did the doctors say?" 

Margaret stroked his hair gently, trying to assuage some of his anxiety. "She's 
holding on, Fox. They're doing all they can." 

There was nothing else she could tell him, except to repeat the words that must 
have been used a thousand times in hospitals, elusive words that were not quite 
promises and never offered a guarantee. 

Mulder licked his dry lips. He was having difficulty focusing. A nurse checked 
his vital signs and told him Doctor Easton would be there to see him soon. 

All Mulder wanted to do was forget. Every part of his body ached, it hurt to 
breathe and he was terrified of closing his eyes again. Unwelcome tears welled 
up and trickled down his cheeks. Margaret wiped his face clean, not knowing how 
else to comfort him because she could in no way imagine what they had endured. 
He cried for a long time, an outpouring of fear and frustration that left him 
exhausted. Margaret held him until she felt him quieten, surrendering to a far 
from peaceful sleep.



Bethesda Naval Hospital. High Containment Unit. 1st August. 2.15pm. 

It was raining. The heat wave had finally been driven away by a ferocious storm 
and the air was clear of humidity for the first time in weeks. Skinner shrugged 
off his long overcoat in the corridor of the unit, tucking it under his arm as 
he retraced a now familiar path to room 7. He had somehow found the time to 
visit three times since he had first left for Washington yesterday morning. A 
lot of people had suddenly become extremely interested in his activities. 
Shadowy men lurked in obscure corners, and unmarked cars following his every 
move, ensuring that Skinner never travelled without a companion, preferably one 
who was armed to the teeth and not afraid to lose his temper. 

He had not been summoned to give an official report of what was still only a 
rumoured incident. Skinner knew that certain parties at the Bureau were familiar 
with every single detail, and were keeping a close eye on the progress of Mulder 
and Scully. The only information that had been released to the public spoke of a 
case that had resulted in the "regrettable hospitalisation" of two agents. 
Skinner suspected the regrettable part came from the fact that they weren't 
headed to the morgue instead. 

There was nothing more than Skinner could do; anecdotal evidence was never going 
to be enough for a prosecution, and who the hell would they prosecute, anyway? 
Skinner's own personal choice would be the nameless smoking man who had been 
conspicuous by his absence for the past couple of days. Perhaps his superiors 
were punishing him for his failure. If this was the case it would probably be 
the only justice he would ever know. 

Skinner's musings were interrupted as he reached the scrub room. The danger of 
infection now abated, he bypassed the gowns and tapped lightly on the glass 
door. Margaret Scully smiled as he entered, gratefully accepting the bag of 
clothes he offered. 

"Did you have any trouble finding them?" 

"Not at all, your neighbour was very helpful. As for the other two, I doubt that 
Mulder has ever owned a pair of pyjamas, so I brought him some sweats. Dana had 
a night-shirt by her bed." 

He was uncomfortable discussing her daughter's personal effects. The trip to her 
apartment had been a fleeting one, time enough to throw some toiletries into a 
bag and leave. 

"There are sandwiches in there somewhere. Hospital catering leaves a lot to be 
desired." 

Margaret Scully smiled her thanks. 

"Any change?" 

"Fox has been awake on and off. They keep sedating him and he's been having the 
worst nightmares." She stroked the back of her daughter's hand lightly. "Doctor 
Easton said she's doing as well as he expected." A gentle touch to her forehead. 
"I'm not used to seeing her this quiet." 

Skinner could not help but laugh in agreement. 

"Neither am I." 

They sat side by side. He tried to reassure her that her daughter would be safe 
should she return to work, and he hated himself for making hollow promises, 
certain that he could not convince her if he remained unconvinced himself. 



4.20pm. 

It had taken a long time, but when Mulder opened his eyes, his thoughts were as 
clear as his vision. His attempts to sit up brought Margaret and the nurse to 
his side, Skinner having departed for Washington only a few minutes earlier. 
Taking note of the determined expression on his face, the two women helped to 
prop him up against the pillows. He peered optimistically over at Scully. 

"Come on, partner, time to wake up." The steady hiss of the respirator was the 
only response. He shrugged painfully. "She never was one to take orders." 

Margaret squeezed his hand. 

"She'll do it in her own time, Fox." 

The nurse, who introduced herself as Kerri, helped Mulder to take a few sips of 
water and ordered him not to talk too much. 

"I want to get up." 

"What?!" 

Kerri was a senior nurse and she had handled her fair share of awkward patients, 
this was just plain insanity. It's the drugs, try and be reasonable, maybe he'll 
go back to sleep.

"I have to get up." 

"Agent Mulder, you can't, you'll hurt yourself." 

"You don't understand. I need to be there when she wakes up. I can't leave her 
on her own now." 

There was something in his voice that sent a chill through the nurse's blood. 
The enforced separation that the hospital beds dictated was tearing him apart. 
She never wanted to hear that desperation spoken from her own lips.

His stubborn gaze burned into her and she sighed a martyr's sigh. 

"I'm not getting my ass kicked for this. I have a witness that this is your 
fault." 

Mulder nodded vigorously, more than willing to take the blame. After a couple of 
minutes, a male orderly entered the room pushing a large, padded wheelchair and 
shaking his head at what he had been summoned to help with. Mulder heard 
snatches of a heated consultation between the man and Kerri. 

"Yes, I know he should stay in bed." 

"If he passes out, you can catch him." 

"If we don't help him, he'll do it himself." That was the turning point. They 
made their way over to Mulder and began to untangle the wires and tubes that 
enmeshed him. 

About half way through the process, Mulder began to wish he had kept his mouth 
shut. Sweat chilled his body as he was lifted from the bed to the chair. He 
shifted into a position that allowed him to breathe without wanting to faint and 
gratefully received the warm flannel with which Kerri bathed his face. 

"You ready to steer this thing?" 

Mulder hoped she was joking and gripped the arm rests as he was pushed over to 
Scully's bedside. Once the accompanying paraphernalia had been safely stowed, 
Mulder was finally able to take hold of Scully's hand. His own hand trembled as 
his fingers closed around hers, but he steadfastly refused to cry. 

"Don't you leave me, Scully." 



2nd August. 

The grass was cool under her bare feet, beads of dew playing over her toes as 
she ran after the auburn-haired girl in front of her. 

"Missy, come on, slow down." 

The older girl turned and grinned widely. 

"You never could keep up, sis." 

Dana took the hand that was offered to her, her own small hand grasping that of 
her sister's with a fierce strength. This was the summer Melissa had sat making 
a daisy chain, stringing the flowers together and murmuring something about 
being able to talk to the pixies if you wore it under a full moon. Dana giggled 
as she listened. She was only nine, but even she knew there were no pixies. 
Melissa finished the necklace and placed it around Dana's neck. The sun caught 
the yellow centre of the flowers and they gleamed as brightly as gold. Dana 
watched the dancing light, which reminded her of something. 

"I have to go now, Dana." 

Melissa's voice seemed different, more refined, as she rose to her feet. Dana 
looked up at her, noticing for the first time a small boy standing just behind 
her sister. 

"Missy, do you know him?" 

Dana could hear the boy sniffling. Melissa pulled her younger sister to her 
feet, leaning down close to whisper in her ear. 

"He wants his friend to go with him, that's why he's crying." 

With a child's simplicity, Dana nodded her head . "Ohhhhh, right." She gazed up 
at her sister. Melissa was taller, older somehow, and she kissed Dana tenderly 
on her forehead. 

"He'll look after you. I have to go." 

"Missy, wait! Don't leave me here, please." Dana could feel her eyes burning as 
she watched Melissa begin to walk away, pointing to the boy. Dana stared 
mesmerised, her face crumpling with grief and sudden fear as she held the 
flowers around her throat and wept. She felt the boy slip his hand into hers. 
His touch was soothing and her sobbing quietly subsided. Lifting her free hand, 
she wiped her face, leaving streaks of dirt across her cheeks. 

The boy smiled, his hazel eyes kind but sad. 

"Come on." 

His voice barely reached her; it seemed to come from a great distance, but she 
knew she was responding. Shyly, he touched her necklace, his finger stroking the 
central flower, and her eyes met his with curiosity. He watched her patiently as 
her breathing calmed. When he squeezed her hand he felt the pressure returned.



Isolation Room 7. Bethesda Naval Hospital. 2nd August. 8.08am. 

It was only a twitch at first. A small movement of her fingers within his. A 
movement so slight, it could easily have been dismissed as an involuntary spasm. 
But, for the man sitting next to her, the wave of hope that flooded through him 
in response was paralysing. His throat constricted and his lips suddenly refused 
to function. All he could do was watch her face, searching for some indication 
that she really was coming back to him. 

He felt her hand move again, a delicate tickling of her fingers against the ones 
that surrounded them. This time, he swallowed heavily, forced himself to provide 
the encouragement that she needed. The words croaked out, so that he could 
barely hear them himself. 

"You're safe, Scully, just open your eyes for me." It was like coaxing a child 
to come out of a hiding place. "I know you can do this, Scully." 

Mulder saw her eyes flutter and his heart seemed to take permanent residence in 
his throat. He looked around, terrified in case she should need help, but 
Margaret Scully had been taken to a spare room for a decent night's sleep, and 
the nurse had left to prepare their medication. A desperate prayer was in the 
process of forming itself beneath his breath when she coughed weakly and opened 
her eyes. 

Mulder stared at her, convinced this was not actually happening, then her eyes 
fixed on his and he knew that she really was seeing him. He blinked as a shy 
smile spread across his face. 

"Welcome back, partner." 

The respirator precluded any response on her part, her lips moving ineffectually 
around the tube. 

"Take it easy, don't try and talk." 

He could feel his voice growing heavy with emotion and he willed himself not to 
break down in front of her. She was slowly taking in her surroundings, but her 
gaze continuously returned to rest on Mulder. He vaguely heard the nurse return 
to the room, her call on the telephone a distant intrusion. Scully moved her 
hand to her throat, touching the cross that rested there, then took hold of 
Mulder's hand again. The soft noise that choked from her released something 
inside of Mulder, and he held her hand to his cheek, letting his tears wash over 
it. 



Isolation Room 7. 3rd August. 9.20am. 

"Is that a bit more comfortable?" 

Scully nodded thankfully. Despite the removal of the respirator it still hurt 
too much to speak. Her mother kissed her softly on the forehead. "I'm just going 
to call your brothers, sweetheart." 

Mulder sat quietly, watching as the medical staff turned Scully onto her side, 
steadying her with pillows to allow the wounds on her back to heal. He had told 
her the snatches of information that he could actually recollect, that request 
having been the first thing that she had scribbled down after waking. The second 
had been a "Go back to bed" order which her partner had conveniently ignored. 
She was too groggy to argue with him, and he knew that she was unwilling to let 
him out of her sight, something which worked to the advantage of both of them. 

Mulder winced in sympathy as Scully tried to take a sip of water. He remembered 
how much that hurt. She licked her lips, gulping to catch her breath. 

"Mul..." She looked surprised by the scratchy whisper to which her voice had 
been reduced. 

Mulder leaned down close to her, brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

"Take your time, Scully, it gets easier." 

She swallowed and tried again, concentrating on feeling the words form, 
determined to persevere despite the discomfort. 

"Th...thank you." 

Mulder looked away, unable to meet the intensity of her gaze. "For what? For 
helping to get you into this mess in the first place?" 

His voice was a rough mumble as he studied the ID bracelet around her wrist. He 
did not know what he felt guilty about. The case had been an elaborate trap from 
the outset, but it was her entire involvement with the X-Files that he still 
held himself accountable for, and she had lost so much as a result. Scully 
reached up with her hand and touched his chin lightly, raising his eyes to look 
into hers. 

"No, for helping me back." 

It took a lot to make Fox Mulder blush, but the unmistakable pink flush that 
spread across his cheeks delighted his partner. She grinned sleepily. "That's a 
good colour for you, Mulder." 

He squeezed her hand as she drifted back to sleep. 

"I had the strength of your beliefs." 



Fox Mulder. Journal Entry 213. 5th August. 

"I finally managed to get three hours of non-drug-induced sleep last night, 
something of a record. Skinner came in for a couple of hours today. There has 
been no sign of Logan, and he believes, as I do, that further continuation of 
the search would be futile. My memory of the time Scully and I spent as 
prisoners is still elliptical, but my conviction that Logan was a manifestation 
of an alien race remains firm. Scully is generally too tired to argue with me 
and we have not spoken in detail about the events of the last week. I know she 
is suffering from nightmares; she tries to hide the fact, but when you wake up 
screaming every night there isn't much you can deny. I hear her typing 
sometimes, early in the morning, tapping the keys with her one free hand. She is 
probably keeping her own record. It does help to write things down, but I hope 
there will come a time when we are both able to talk about what happened. 

"I wonder how much more we will be able to take, whether we will ever be assured 
of safety. I would rather give up the X-Files than see Scully put through 
something like this again, but I also know that she would have no qualms about 
putting another bullet in me if she ever found that out. Frohike called in 
earlier. I owe those guys a beer, well, lots of beer. Scully gave in and offered 
to subscribe to TLG. I blame it on the medication myself, but it was good to see 
her smile."



Dana Scully Journal entry: 7th August, 6.17am. 

"I woke Mulder up again. He calls out to make sure that I am alright, then 
pretends to go back to sleep. He was sitting by my bed yesterday, waiting for me 
to wake up. When I did, we talked for hours about what had happened, what we 
remembered. For me, everything after the first knife attack is hazy, but 
snatches of what happened during that time return through nightmares. Talking to 
Mulder helped. Putting abstract images into words makes them less frightening 
and this is the latest I have slept since they discontinued the sedation. 

"Mulder is able to hobble around now. Thank God Mom managed to get him a change 
of clothes; they don't make hospital gowns in his size, which seems to suit the 
nurses just fine. I had my final dialysis session last night. Glad to see the 
back of the cooling blanket as well. Mulder ate the ice cream mom brought in, as 
I'd been cold enough for long enough.

"I can see the effort it is taking for him to resist being overprotective 
towards me, but that particular instinct works both ways. I usually have to bite 
my tongue to stop myself quizzing the nurses about every aspect of his 
treatment. I guess this is something we both need to work on. I can hear his 
breathing from here, and it sounds like he really did go back to sleep this 
time. I can close my eyes and listen to that and feel safe. Would I ever tell 
him that? I think he already knows."



X-File 1118 2X08. 

"Despite extensive searches by a team of Federal Agents, the man known only as 
Paul Logan has eluded capture. No evidence of the reported crimes could be 
salvaged from the house at 33 Gateslock Road where Agents Mulder and Scully were 
held captive. Their individual testimonies would most likely be declared invalid 
due to the severity of the injuries they sustained. The autopsy results and 
scientific data were never recovered following their theft from FBI Headquarters 
and Georgetown University. 

"The families of the alleged victims have refused repeated requests to exhume 
the bodies for further examination, therefore making the construction of a 
viable case next to impossible. Alan Bryce and his family have been relocated 
under the FBI's Witness Protection Program, and the whereabouts of Simon Stave 
remains unknown. 

"Agent Mulder was discharged from Bethesda Naval Hospital on the 16th August. 
Agent Scully continues to make a gradual recovery from the virus to which she 
was exposed. It is my hope that the study of this virus will clarify some of the 
aspects of this case that currently defy reason. 

"As of August 18th, the status of X-File 1118 2X08 is unsolved.

"Officer of Record: W.S. Skinner."



Walter Skinner saved the report with no small amount of frustration. How the 
hell do you two stay sane, doing this week in, week out? But he knew they would 
continue to search, continue to defy an unseen enemy intent on chiselling away 
at their resolve and their commitment. 

Skinner took a deep breath, his spirits lifted enormously by the lack of 
pollution in his office. He turned a small card over in his hands, the message 
inside simple: "Thank you for not giving up on us." 

Bending it slightly in the middle, Skinner slipped the card into the back of his 
FBI identification wallet. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.

It seemed appropriate somehow. 

As he pulled on his jacket and prepared to drive to Maryland, Skinner wondered 
if he had crossed that fine line one time too many. But as he looked back at his 
office, the intimidating desk and the stern portraits were dwarfed by the flag 
of the country he served, and he knew that he was willing to live with his 
decisions regarding this case for as long as they would let him. 

---------Fin---------- 



And that is just about that :) If there is anyone who dared to read this far, 
I'd love to hear from you at xqv37@dial.pipex.com. This whole new, spankin' 
version is dedicated to Cat, who can have my lurve socks any time, and to the 
Gals on UX. Thanks also to Stef for original posting honours.