TITLE: Russian Roulette
AUTHORS: Obfusc8er and bcfan
FEEDBACK: aobfuscata@hotmail.com or bcfan@shaw.ca
DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer, and Mulder in Jep. All others please let 
one of us know first.
SPOILERS: Tunguska/Terma
RATING: PG-13 for graphic imagery
CLASSIFICATION: V, MA/MT, Terma fill-in
KEYWORDS: none
SUMMARY: Mulder finds a shred of hope while in the gulag.
DISCLAIMER: We do not own Mulder. Just borrowing.

The gray stone floor is an unforgiving cradle to his wounded body.  Dark, 
slimy walls conceal the outside world.  In the time before, whip and 
nightstick had fallen sharply, one after the other.  Mulder breathes in 
panting gasps, the freezing air stabbing his lungs.  He can’t prevent the 
low rumble of pain from escaping his raw throat.  He feebly attempts to 
raise his head and get his bearings, but no – his moans are a signal for the 
guards’ return.

Fingers scrabble in the dirt as he is turned onto his stomach, his arms 
pinned spread-eagle under rough work boots.  Mulder’s back arches in 
reflexive spasm as the whip cracks down hard, and his hands clench 
ineffectively at the air. Lines of fire eat at his skin as the whip flays 
his shuddering back. He feels warm, wet rivulets lazily trace the outline of 
his ribs and he screams in pain.  His captors appear as white smiles in the 
gloom. They seem to be admiring their work and savoring the desperate tears 
running down his face.  Mulder strains to hear shouted questions he can’t 
begin to answer.  His world begins to gray like the walls of his cell.  He 
feels himself sinking, hopeless.

At the dim edge of consciousnes, Mulder sighs as the beatings pause.  He 
feels his hair grabbed and pulled back, but he loses track of the 
procedings.  Mulder is dropped to the ground in an untidy heap.  The last 
guard to leave spits in his direction, then leers.  Their crude jokes echo 
inside his head.

****************************************

The next time he awakens, Mulder bites his lip hard to keep silent, but he 
can’t prevent the shakes.  His stomach quivers with fear. His ribs are 
prominent, his ashen skin clammy with pain sweats.  He closes his eyes and 
smells his own acrid sweat and blood.  He knows he’s in trouble. He might 
not make it, but this thought is strangely distant.  He feels himself 
sinking into apathy.  When he forces his eyes open, they are glazed and 
unfocused from long-term sleep deprivation.

Suddenly the cell door is thrust open, and Mulder shudders even more 
violently, shouting, “No, don’t...” as they jam a needle full of viscous 
fluid into the back of his neck. The hot, stinging drug travels throughout 
his body, paralyzing his limbs. The guards lift him up and carry him 
awkwardly out of his cell. Mulder's arms and legs dangle down, swinging, as 
he sees the ceiling of the hallway scroll past. A trail of saliva runs down 
the side of his face.

He feels so empty, so insignificant, that he’s ashamed of himself.  He knows 
Scully would want him to resist with everything in him, but he is just too 
weak this time.  He cannot imagine what they have waiting for him.  Mulder 
regrets coming to this place, but he finds some reassurance in the knowledge 
that Scully is safe, far away from here.  He cares for her above all else, 
and he could not stand to see this happen to her, too.  That would be 
unbearable.

The pounding of his guards' boots slows as he is brought into large, 
high-ceiling room. The smell of fear permeates the air, and he hears the 
screams and cries of men echo throughout the cavernous space. The guards 
drop him onto a raised slab. The cold surface raises goose bumps on Mulder's 
bare skin. His field of vision is covered by a hexagonal grid as they pull 
wire fencing down tight over his vulnerable body. He is immobilized, and can 
see the shadow of others out of the corner of his eyes.  His heart fills 
with dread as an evil laugh floats down upon him, followed by a dark, thick 
substance that pours onto his face. He squints and gags as it invades his 
mouth and nose. He feels some of it crawling deeper inside him. The viscous 
intruder will not let him breathe. The indistinguishable lights on the 
ceiling are slowly covered by a black veil.

Muscles strain against unyielding bonds and his feet kick futilely.  He 
panics with the sensation of drowning in the oily liquid. His fingers 
twitch, and his vision begins to swim. Before succumbing to darkness, a 
whispered word escapes his lips...

"Scully."