From: Ally112038 <ally112038@aol.com>
Date: 05 Apr 2001 19:18:15 GMT
Source: atxc

Genesis 9/30 

46th Street, New York City. 2:51a.m. 

The streets of New York were quiet. The 
last of the late night revelers had long 
since gone home, and now the only signs of 
life came from the occasional sighting of a 
yellow cab, trawling the streets looking for 
business. The pavement was slick from the 
rain that had fallen almost continually for 
most of the day, and the streetlights 
reflected back up from it like glowing 
orange orbs, standing out against the 
darkness of the surrounding buildings. 

One building, however, still sported the 
muted tones of a light behind tightly drawn 
blinds, it was a building that never 
completely slept, having as it did at least 
one man on duty there to gather any 
information that might be forthcoming from 
any of the hundreds of operatives scattered 
across the country. 

Tonight though the man was not alone. His 
companion sat serenely in one of the large 
leather armchairs, staring out across the 
room, looking at nothing in particular, 
content to wait for the news he suspected 
would come in to the office any time soon. 
He was a patient man, in his line of work he 
had to be. 

He removed a crumpled pack of Morley 
cigarettes from his jacket pocket, removed 
one and lit it without even looking at it. 
Noxious blue smoke swirled around him 
briefly, before the overhead fans dispersed 
it. The smoke disappeared as if by magic, 
but the tenacious odour of the Smoking Man's 
almost constant chain smoking clung to every 
surface, a persistent reminder to those who 
would subsequently use this room, that he 
had been there, waiting for a message to say 
that he could proceed with his plans. 

His mind drifted, as it often did recently, 
to Fox Mulder. He found it incredible that 
after all this time, he would still view the 
young FBI Agent as such a threat, especially 
knowing that Mulder could never be allowed 
to succeed in his quest for the truth. 

The Smoking Man suspected that Mulder had 
been spared only because he was now high 
profile enough to cause questions to be 
raised should he meet with an unfortunate 
"accident". Maybe two years ago they would 
have gotten away with it, but not now. Too 
many others would now take up the cause 
where Mulder left off, not least of all his 
partner. 

Life was full of ironies, he decided, as he 
took another pull on the cigarette which 
rested loosely between his thin lips. The 
idea to pair Mulder with a partner who would 
invalidate his work had been his own 
suggestion, and it had been he who had 
painstakingly trawled the FBI records until 
he had settled on Dana Scully as the most 
likely candidate to debunk Mulder's work on 
the X-Files. 

At the time she had seemed like the perfect 
choice. Young, ambitious, inexperienced. 
In short, easily manipulated to their way of 
thinking. It had been the biggest 
miscalculation of his life, and one which he 
had paid dearly for allowing to happen. 

Almost immediately she had shown that she 
had a definite mind of her own, and even 
worse a fierce sense of integrity that only 
matched her loyalty to her new partner. 
Instead of debunking Mulder, she had begun 
to defend him. By the time the error was 
noticed, it was already too late. The 
damage had been done. 

Several attempts had been made to limit that 
damage, but all had been thwarted by Mulder, 
who had repaid her loyalty a thousand fold 
by risking his own life to save hers, and 
now, in a strange way, the Smoking Man 
actually found himself admiring them both. 
The way they had managed to prevail in the 
face of so much adversity, how they had 
refused to be beaten despite all attempts to 
break them. 

The Smoking Man had come to view them as 
the powerful adversaries he had always 
suspected they could become, and he had 
learned the hard way that neither one of 
them should be underestimated. Despite this 
though, he was also aware of their 
weaknesses, the Human frailties that when 
exposed, could be turned to his own 
advantage. 

Mulder had only one Achilles heel as far as 
he could tell, in that he cared about one 
individual above all others, a person who's 
life he valued more than his own. 

Mulder had already demonstrated his lack of 
regard towards himself, on more than one 
occasion when he had been approached 
regarding a possible shift of allegiance, 
but the Smoking Man still had one more 
card left to play, a card which if dealt at 
the right moment would crush Mulder's every 
reason to continue. 

He dropped the Cigarette in to the ash tray 
which rested on the arm of the chair, and 
was in the process of reaching for another 
when the phone began to ring. The younger 
man who was seated at the desk, answered it 
even before the ring had a chance to fade, 
and after listening for a second, he handed 
it to the Smoking Man. 

"Yes?" 

The familiar voice greeted him with the news 
he had been waiting for. 

"Mulder's out of the way. I have a man on 
route to Agent Scully and the woman. Do I 
tell him to proceed as planned?" 

The Smoking Man nodded. "Yes." 

"And the child?" 

"The child stays where she is . . . until 
the time is right to let Agent Scully see 
what she desperately needs to see." 

"And afterwards?" 

"Afterwards the child will be surplus to 
requirements. She will be disposed off in 
the usual manner. You know what to do." 

There was a slight pause as the figure on 
the other end digested the information, 
then, "Our source at the Bureau. Can he be 
trusted?" 

"Oh yes." The Smoking man allowed himself 
just the ghost of a smile. "I think you'll 
find he can be trusted implicitly." 

"How can you be sure? You've made mistakes 
in the past." 

The Smoking man's facial expression did 
not change, but his knuckles whitened as he 
gripped the receiver more tightly. "Mistakes 
which I might point out, resulted from some 
momentous instances of misinformation 
directed at myself." 

"So you've said." 

"May I remind you that if it weren't for me, 
the Mulder problem might have continued to 
escalate. As it is, we now have an 
opportunity to end it once and for all, and 
I intend to do just that. I suggest you 
concentrate on your own obligations apropos 
that outcome and let me do the same." 

Without waiting for a reply from the younger 
man, he replaced the receiver abruptly, 
conscious not for the first time that not so 
long ago, he would not have tolerated being 
spoken to in such a manner, nor would he 
have expected it. 

Oh yes, his mistakes had cost him dearly. 

This, though, would erase all memories of 
those past discretions. The elimination of 
Fox Mulder would once more elevate him to 
the position within the group that he not 
only deserved, but one which he felt was 
rightfully his. He didn't allow himself to 
consider the consequences of failure. This 
time failure was not an option. 

Continued chapter 10/30

Genesis - 10/30 

E-Z 8 Motel. Route 49, San Diego.   
3:17a.m. 

Scully's eyes snapped open as she became 
instantly alert.  Her reflexes finely honed 
by years on the job, she was never 
completely relaxed even in sleep.  She was 
surprised to find that it was past three, 
and realised that despite her best 
intentions, she had succeeded in dozing off 
almost immediately she had settled in the 
chair.   

The room was quiet, and Scully could just 
make out the sleeping form of Christine 
Stevens on the bed.  Obviously, whatever had 
woken Scully had not infringed on her 
slumber.   For a second, Scully wondered if 
she had been dreaming, and had simply awoken 
with a start, but then she heard it.  The 
faintest sound of someone knocking at 
Mulder's door, and accompanying it she felt 
a sharp pang of worry as she realised that 
he had not yet contacted her. 

Without switching on the light, Scully rose 
slowly from her seated position, but kept 
her body crouched low as she fumbled in the 
darkness for her gun.  Her hand closed over 
the leather holster which she had left on 
the side table, and reassured by it's 
familiar solidity, she began to move towards 
Mulder's room.  As she did so, it suddenly 
struck her that she would look pretty stupid 
if the late night caller turned out to be no 
one more sinister than her partner, but then 
again, it was unlikely that if he had 
forgotten his key that he would be knocking 
at his own door. 

The connecting door between the rooms 
creaked as she pushed it gently inwards, the 
sound cutting through the silence like a 
knife, and Scully held her breath.  She was 
not yet inclined to let her presence be 
known to whoever stood on the other side of 
the room's door, at least not until she had 
determined whether they were friend or foe. 

The door itself was equipped with a peep 
hole, and Scully reached up on tip toes to 
press her face to it.  Her eyes widened as 
she recognised the distorted features of 
John Wickham, and for a second she was 
unsure as to how to respond.   

Common sense told her that, as her superior 
Agent, she should let him in, but at the 
same time, the niggling feeling of unease 
returned to plague her.  Why was he here? 
And more to the point, where was Mulder? 

Her hand hovered over the door handle, but 
she was saved from making a decision when 
she heard the sound of a key being inserted 
in the lock.  Dropping like a cat, she 
crouched to the left of the door, her body 
pressed against the wall, gun drawn and 
ready to fire. 

She tensed as the door opened and Wickham 
stepped hesitantly in to the room, his back 
to her as he squinted in to the darkness, 
obviously looking for something - or 
someone. 

"Agent Scully?" His voice was hoarse with 
the effort of whispering, and a heavy sigh 
followed it as he realised she was not in 
the room.   

He moved as though to turn, but froze as 
Scully finally spoke.

"Don't turn around.  Get you hands where I 
can see them.  I have a gun pointing at you 
right now." 

Obediently, Wickham raised his hands and 
laced them behind his head, hardly daring to 
breath as he recognised the strain that was 
all too evident in Scully's voice.  He had 
enough experience of situations such as this 
one to know when the fastest way to get 
yourself killed was to start arguing.  It 
wasn't an error he intended to make. 

He heard the metallic click as she cocked 
the weapon, and he felt the hairs on the 
back of his neck begin to stand on end. 
"Stay cool, Dana.  It's not what you think, 
OK?" 

"You have no idea what I think," she said 
tersely.  "Now move forward slowly to the 
chair and sit on your hands." 

Wickham blinked as she snapped the overhead 
light on and brightness flooded the room, 
but without hesitating he complied with her 
request, getting his first good look at her, 
as she moved around him, sitting on the edge 
of the bed, gun pointed straight between his 
eyes.  Her grip, he noted, was rock steady; 
her blue eyes like twin chips of ice, 
unwavering, unyielding. 

"Why are you here?" she asked.  "Where's 
Mulder?" 

Wickham chose his words carefully, needing 
to make her understand, but at the same time 
trying desperately hard not to aggravate 
what was already an inflammatory situation. 

"Mulder collapsed at my apartment just over 
an hour ago.  He's in the hospital.   He 
told me to come here, to come get you.   He 
said something about you needing 
protection." 

Scully narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "How 
do I know you're not lying?" 

"You don't.  But Mulder trusted me enough to 
send me here to get you.  To protect you. 
Not that I'm thinking you need protection, 
Agent Scully.  You seem perfectly capable to 
me." 

He stopped mid sentence as he saw Scully's 
expression relax in to something almost 
resembling a smile, and she slowly lowered 
the gun.   

Wickham looked visibly relieved. "Thank you, 
Dana.  I thought for a minute there I was 
going to wear my brains as a hat." 

"I'm sorry." 

He waved away her apology. "Hey, after what 
Mulder told me, I expected as much.  That 
was some story he told." 

At the mention of her partner's name, a 
fresh wave of fear gripped Scully. "You said 
he was in the hospital? Why?" 

Wickham wiped a bead of sweat from the end 
of his nose, and tried to find words which 
would break the news to her gently, all too 
aware of the fear he saw displayed in her 
eyes.  He was pretty sure that the 
relationship between this woman and his one 
time colleague went much deeper than merely 
a professional partnership, and his earlier 
conversation with Mulder had only served to 
strengthen that belief.   

He also suspected that Scully was teetering 
on the edge emotionally at the moment.  He 
didn't want to be the one responsible for 
pushing her over.  Nevertheless, she was a 
trained Medical Doctor, and she would learn 
the truth soon enough anyway. 

"Like I said, he collapsed at my apartment, 
and although he was lucid for a while, by 
the time the ambulance showed up, he was in 
a pretty bad way.  By all accounts he went 
in to full cardiac arrest on the way to the 
hospital.  They managed to bring him back 
but it's pretty touch and go right now.  
They were still working on him when I left 
to come get you." 

Scully shook her head numbly, her expression 
gone alarmingly blank.  Her mouth worked for 
a few seconds as she struggled to regain the 
control she needed to speak. 

"But . . . but he was fine, I examined him 
myself.  It was the flu; nothing more than 
that. I don't understand." 

Wickham got to his feet and gently rested 
his hand on her shoulder, feeling the 
tension there. 

"It's not the flu, Dana." 

She shrugged his hand off angrily. 

"Then what?" 

"They're not sure yet," he sighed, 
delivering the final blow and hating himself 
for it.  "They need to run more tests to 
make a definitive diagnosis, but early 
indications suggest a massive viral 
infection, possibly meningitis.  They're 
waiting on the results from the spinal tap.  
I'm sorry." 

"I need to go to him."  She headed for the 
door, but Wickham called her back. 

"Dana, wait.  You can't just leave.   Mulder 
sent me here for a reason, remember?" 

Sudden understanding halted Scully in her 
tracks as she recalled her purpose for even 
being in San Diego.  Torn as she was by the 
need to get to Mulder as quickly as she 
could, she also knew that she had an 
obligation to the sleeping woman in the next 
room, that it was her duty to keep her safe.  
She turned back to Wickham and nodded 
reluctantly. 

"What do you suggest?" she queried. 

Wickham sighed. 

"When I phoned Mulder earlier, it was for 
the express purpose of covering my own ass.  
After hearing his story, hearing what you've 
both been through and the reasons for it. . 
." he scratched his head.   "Hell, I don't 
know what to think anymore.   I've known Fox 
for a lot of years.  Although I don't assume 
to understand every detail of what he's told 
me, or the reasons behind it, I know him 
well enough and respect his judgement enough 
to know that if he maintains that this woman 
is in danger, then I'm not about to contest 
that view.  I believe that rightly or 
wrongly, we have to get Christine Stevens in 
to some kind of protective custody right 
away.  I'm kind of hoping you'll be able to 
direct me from there, because quite frankly, 
I haven't got a clue on how to proceed." 

"I'll go wake her, explain things to her."  
Scully headed for the connecting door, but 
before she disappeared through it, she 
turned and flashed Wickham a brief smile of 
gratitude. 

"Thanks." 

"For what?" 

"For believing us," she said simply, before 
disappearing from view. 

Continued chapter 11/30

Genesis - 11/30


Mercy General Hospital, San Diego.   
6:29a.m. 

It had taken all of Scully's powers of 
persuasion to convince Christine Stevens to 
accompany SAIC Wickham away from the 
relative safety of the Motel and in to 
protective custody.  Whilst Scully could 
understand her misgivings after everything 
she had been through, she had found herself 
losing the little bit of patience she had 
left. 

Eventually though, Christine had conceded, 
perhaps realising that she would achieve 
nothing by staying where she was, and was 
finally, after much red tape, ensconced 
within one of the Bureau's local safe 
houses. 

It was only then, that Scully was able to 
get away, and ignoring Wickham's gentle 
suggestion that she should get some rest, 
had instead headed straight for the hospital 
to see her partner. 

Information on his condition had been scant 
at best, and when she called them up, they 
had stood by their strict policy of refusing 
to give out any details over the phone, a 
policy that as a doctor herself, she both 
understood and appreciated.  It didn't 
lessen her anxiety though, especially since 
she also knew that when the medical 
profession clammed up it was usually because 
the news was not good. 

It was fortunate for her that the early 
morning streets were still quiet, because 
she made the drive to the hospital at 
breakneck speed, taking full advantage of 
her excellent reflexes to keep her out of 
trouble.  She had managed the journey in a 
little under ten minutes.  On arriving, she 
had wasted no time on formalities, bypassing 
the front desk, and instead heading straight 
for the I.C.U. where she quite literally ran 
in to the doctor in charge who grabbed at 
her arms to stop her proceeding further 
along the corridor. 

"Whoa, where do you think you're going?" 

Scully shook off his hands, breathing 
heavily from her exertions. 

"You have a patient here.  Fox Mulder, he 
was brought in early this morning." 

"And you are?" 

Realising her mistake, Scully reached in to 
the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled 
out her badge, flipping it open in front of 
the doctor's face." 

"I'm his partner." 

The doctor relaxed visibly, and Scully 
lowered the badge. 

"What's his condition?" 

Her heart sank as the doctor once again took 
a hold of her arm, applying moderate 
pressure in order to steer her forward, away 
from the nurse's station, towards the 
visitor's lounge. 

"Let's talk in here," he suggested. 

The room was empty, the blinds drawn against 
the rising sun, and on another occasion 
Scully might have appreciated it's soothing 
decor.  But not today.  Not now.  Following 
the Doctor's lead, she perched on the edge 
of one of the hospital issue chairs that 
lined the room, and waited for him to begin.  
He smiled at her soothingly. 

"My name is O'Brien.  I'm currently the 
physician in charge of your partner's care.  
I attended to him initially he was brought 
in, in view of the seriousness of his 
condition." 

"What is his condition?" Scully repeated, 
already dreading the answer. 

"Well, I have to admit that we're slightly 
at a loss.  Mr. Mulder arrived here in an 
extremely serious condition," he consulted 
his notes, "he was in full cardiac and 
respiratory arrest, which to a lay person 
means..." 

"I know what it means.  I'm a doctor." 

"But you're an FBI Agent. . ." 

"That too.  How is he now?" 

O'Brien shook his head. "We managed to jump 
start him again, but his condition is 
currently giving us some cause for concern.  
We have him on a ventilator, at present he is 
making no efforts to breathe unaided.  He is 
extremely tachycardic which thankfully we 
are managing to keep under control.  He is 
deeply unconscious and isn't reacting to 
external stimuli.  He has dangerously low 
blood pressure, and his temperature . . . 
well, see for yourself."  

Scully accepted the proffered notes, and 
quickly ran her expert eye down the lists of 
figures.  Her mouth dropped open. 

"105.6? . . . but that's not possible.  Are 
you sure that's an accurate reading?" 

O'Brien nodded. "Absolutely accurate.  We 
took three separate readings using three 
different instruments.  The results were the 
same.   We've had your partner on a cooling 
bed for the past two hours and it's had no 
effect at all on his basal temperature.   
I've never seen anything quite like it." 

"But I was told that a viral infection was 
the cause, that you suspected meningitis." 

"Yes that's right," agreed O'Brien, "but I 
got the results of the spinal tap an hour 
ago.  It was completely clear.  No 
abnormalities at all." 

"Did you run blood work?" 

"Extensively." 

"And?" 

"Same result.  Nothing there.  A slight 
reduction in the red blood cells, but 
nothing that would suggest anything more 
than a low grade infection, a cold, the flu, 
something along those lines." 

"Did you run a Toxicology screen?"  Scully 
broke in. 

"No, I didn't.  Not yet anyway." 

"I'd like you to run one immediately." 

O'Brien looked confused, "What am I looking 
for exactly? I mean, a Tox screen won't 
explain why he's like this." 

Scully fixed her blue eyes on him, not yet 
willing to voice the suspicions that were 
formulating in her mind, especially not 
until she had something to back them up.

"I don't know yet.  Maybe nothing, but it 
can't hurt to explore every possibility.   
There has to be an explanation, and we have 
to find it." 

"Agent Scully, do you have information that 
I should know?"  O'Brien narrowed his eyes 
suspiciously, but Scully held his gaze. 

"All I know is that six hours ago, my 
partner was suffering from nothing more than 
a nasty case of the flu.  I examined him 
myself, it was a diagnosis which any first 
year med student would have made, and now, 
if what you're telling me is correct, he's 
fighting for his life.  That didn't just 
happen for no reason, and I need to know 
what that reason is.  I think you do too."  

She got to her feet, indicating clearly that 
the conversation was over. "Now, if you 
don't mind, I'd like to see him." 

O'Brien shook his head, "I'm sorry.  That's 
not possible right now.  We have him in 
isolation, no visitors." 

Scully was not impressed by O'Brien's 
attempts at authority. "OK.  Then I would 
like to speak to someone in charge." 

"Agent Scully, I don't think you understand 
the gravity of the situation here." 

Scully drew herself up to her full height, 
preparing to deliver her trump card.

"No, Doctor O'Brien, I think it's you who 
doesn't understand.  If you would like to 
check Agent Mulder's medical records, you 
will see that I am listed as both his next 
of kin and his chosen physician.  Do you 
need me to spell out to what that means?  
Because you're wasting time standing here 
arguing and I won't tolerate that.  So you 
have a choice, either take me to him, or 
accept that I will exercise my right to 
remove him from your care and the care of 
this hospital.  Don't make me waste my 
time." 

For a second, they glared at each other, but 
finally O'Brien dropped his eyes, knowing 
that he was in a no-win situation, that if 
he stood his ground, she would do exactly as 
she threatened. 

"All right, Agent Scully.  Against my better 
judgement, I'll allow it.  But you must 
ensure that full isolation procedures are 
followed.  Until we know what this thing is, 
I refuse to take any chances, especially 
with your life."  

Scully softened slightly, appreciating the 
reasoning behind his gruff words. "I 
understand.  Thank you." 

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

10:13 a.m. 

Scully glanced at her wristwatch wearily, 
and rubbed a hand across her eyes in an 
attempt to wake herself up.  She was 
painfully aware that it was now forty eight 
hours since she had experienced anything 
resembling normal sleep, and the dull ache 
behind her eyes was a constant reminder that 
she was pushing too hard.   

She desperately needed coffee, a shower and 
food, in that order, but she couldn't bear 
to leave Mulder alone for even a few 
minutes, and to add to her burden, she was 
counting down the minutes to Skinner's 
arrival. 

She had phoned him shortly after receiving 
the news of Mulder's collapse from Wickham, 
and after a brief conversation, Skinner had 
informed her that he would be getting the 
next available flight out.   

She had mixed feelings regarding his 
decision, needing and wanting his support, 
but at the same time knowing he would want 
answers, answers that she simply didn't have 
at the moment.  Just to compound things 
further, she also found that she couldn't 
rid herself of a nagging feeling of guilt, 
that she should somehow have prevented this, 
that she hadn't taken Mulder's symptoms 
seriously enough at the beginning.   

She knew it was absurd to be thinking like 
that, having gone over and over the events 
of the last two days in her mind.  Nothing 
she had seen at the time, or that her 
partner had described could account for the 
seriousness of his condition right now.  
Scully was becoming more and more convinced 
that an outside influence had been brought 
in to play, that something had been done to 
him during the early hours of the morning, 
after his departure from the motel.   

She shouldn't have let him go alone, and nas 
her eyes settled on him once again, she sent 
up a silent prayer now that her error come 
back to haunt her, like so many others had 
done.   

Beside her Mulder lay as if dead, the steady 
rise and fall of his chest a direct result 
of the ventilator tubing which was taped to 
the corner of his slightly open mouth, 
rather than from any normal respiratory 
effort on his part.  His temperature 
remained abnormally high, and though it had 
fluctuated slightly over the past three 
hours, it was still high enough for his body 
to be bathed in a constant sheen of sweat.  
He was naked apart from a towel draped over
his middle torso and despite the cooling blanket
beneath him that circulated a constant cycle
of cold water around it, Scully could still 
feel the heat from him radiating towards her.   

Despite his high temperature though, his 
complexion was sickeningly pale, his parted 
lips seemed cracked and dry against the 
whiteness of his skin, his dark hair wet 
with sweat and plastered against his 
forehead. 

The myriad of tubes and wires attached to 
him made any kind of close contact difficult 
at best, the life support systems which 
monitored his condition clustered like high 
tech sentries around the bed.  Scully's 
medical training made them easily 
identifiable to her. She constantly checked 
their readings, all too aware that Mulder's 
condition was not improving in the 
slightest, despite the high grade 
antibiotics that were being fed regularly in 
to his system through one of the two 
canulars which had been inserted in to his 
arm.   

The other contained nothing more than saline 
solution, essential in maintaining his fluid 
levels as his temperature continued to rage 
and the sweat poured out of his every pore.  
She knew that dehydration was a dangerous 
reality in cases like this, and one which 
Mulder didn't need right now, because 
weakened as he was it would kill him in a 
matter of hours. 

During her time at his side, she had been 
able to do little more than hold his hand 
and murmur soft words to him, not really 
knowing whether he could hear her, but 
needing to do something to let him know she 
was there, that he wasn't alone. 

She had seen his life threatened before, had 
spent more hours than she cared to remember 
pacing hospital corridors or by his bedside 
waiting for him to wake up but this was 
different somehow.  Back then there had at 
least been a reason for him to be there, 
something she could grasp hold of to give 
her hope.  Now though, there was nothing to 
explain it, and nothing she could do to help 
him.   

Scully sighed and brought her partner's hand 
up to her cheek, and rested it against her, 
her eyes never leaving his face as she 
searched for even the tiniest signs of life, 
but there was nothing, no response to let 
her know he was still with her. Feeling 
helpless, she closed her eyes and let her 
head drop until it rested on the bed beside 
his arm.  Her fingers remained tightly 
curled around his, and even as she finally 
succumbed to the exhaustion that overwhelmed 
her, her grip never loosened, unwilling to 
let him go, even in sleep. 

Continued chapter 12/30

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Genesis 12/30

"Agent Scully?" The familiar voice, although 
his words spoken from some distance away, 
were enough to rouse Scully instantly out 
of sleep.  
Her eyes snapped open immediately, and she 
guiltily raised her head from it's position 
on Mulder's bed, eyeing her superior warily 
as she did so.  He was standing, fully gowned
and protected, just inside the door that led 
to a small anteroom off Mulder's room.   

"What time is it?" 

"Just after eleven."  His eyes flicked to 
take in Mulder, a frown creasing his brow as 
he recognised immediately the seriousness of 
his condition.   

He had not expected to be confronted by 
this, although Scully had furnished him with 
only scant details of Mulder's admittance to 
the hospital, and now he felt at a loss as 
to what to say in response to the sight in 
front of him.   

He chose to concentrate instead on Scully, 
who in truth, wasn't looking much better 
than her partner, and it was clear to 
Skinner that she was exhausted despite all 
her attempts to hide the fact. 

"How's he doing?" he asked. 

"It's not looking good,"  she replied 
heavily.  "They have him on an aggressive 
anti-viral treatment, but it seems to be 
having little or no effect, and without a 
definitive diagnosis it's proving impossible 
to find a way forward.  I'm waiting for the 
results on the Tox screen.  Maybe then 
we'll have a clearer idea as to what we're 
dealing with and an avenue of treatment." 

"And you?" 

Scully looked puzzled. "Sir?" she queried 
uncertainly. 

Skinner gestured in front of him. "I mean 
how are you doing, Agent Scully." 

"Oh.  I'm fine." 

"You don't look fine." He narrowed his eyes, 
"When did you last sleep? I mean 
adequately?" 

Scully considered lying, but quickly 
dismissed the notion.  Like Mulder, Skinner 
had the uncanny knack of recognising when 
his Agents were being less than straight 
with him.  It was easier simply to tell the 
truth and to subsequently plead her case. 

"Two days ago, before we flew out." She 
admitted, uncomfortably aware of his 
unwavering gaze. 

He nodded curtly, not surprised in the 
slightest by her admission, and without 
hesitating, he curled his finger, beckoning
her to join him. 

"Come here."

Sighing, Scully complied, easing herself
up from her seated position by Mulder's bed
and crossed the room to where Skinner 
stood.  
He pulled her into the room and scrutinised
her, arms crossed before finally pulling
her coat down from where she had hung it
earlier in the day.

"Here." 

She made no move to take it and Skinner 
recognised the set determination on her 
face.  Nevertheless he stood his ground. 

"Take it." 

"Where are we going?" she asked warily. 

"You need to sleep, but first you're going 
to tell me just what the hell's been 
happening here.  You can do that on the way 
back to your motel.  Now move." 

Scully shook her head defiantly. "I'd rather 
stay." 

"I don't care what you'd rather do, Agent 
Scully, because what I'm telling you is that 
you're coming with me.  Right now."  

His voice softened slightly as she turned 
her stricken expression back to her partner 
and he rested his hand lightly on the back 
of her neck. 

"He's not going anywhere and you need to 
take care of yourself." 

His words had the desired effect, and she 
nodded slowly, the movement only barely 
perceptible beneath his touch, and he 
dropped his hand away.  Scully lifted her 
head slightly. 

"Can you give me a minute?" 

Skinner did not need to question the reasons 
behind her request, nor did he deny her the 
time alone with her partner that she 
obviously needed. 

"I'll see you outside, Okay?" 

Scully didn't turn around, but instead turned
around and re-entered Mulder's room.
On reaching his bed she leant forward and 
brought her lips to Mulder's forehead, 
tasting the salt on his burning skin as she 
remained there, eyes closed, as if 
transferring her strength in to him, willing 
him to fight, to come back to her.   

She eventually straightened up, tenderly 
brushing the fallen strands of hair away 
from his face and letting her fingers trace 
the line of his jaw.  Her medical training 
told her that he couldn't possibly hear her, 
but she felt compelled to give him some kind 
of reassurance that she wasn't deserting 
him. 

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll be 
back soon Okay?" 

She was aware of the tears which filled 
her eyes but blinked them back before they 
could escape their confines, knowing that 
to show weakness now would only serve to 
enervate her position with Skinner.  
So instead, she drew herself up to her full 
height, and without a backward glance, 
proceeded out of the room where her superior 
waited patiently for her. 

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

E-Z 8 Motel. Route 49, San Diego.  
1:40p.m. 

Skinner had insisted on stopping at a 
small diner on route to the Motel where
he had disappeared for a few minutes, 
leaving Scully in the car.
She had been dozing on and off for most
of the journey and Skinner surmised that
if he were to reasonably expect her to 
recount the details that had led her and
Mulder here, he first had to ensure she at
least made an attempt to put some 
nourishment inside her.

He had returned to the car and placed
a brown take-out bag in her hands, not
speaking as she closed her eyes, savouring 
the mouth watering scents of the toasted
cheese sandwiches and home-made soup it
contained.

On their arrival back at the Motel he had
insisted that they eat first, talk later.

And to his surprise Scully had not only
acceded to his request, but had finished 
everything he had placed in front of her
without question.

Finally when he was satisfied, he inclined
his head to indicate she should start.
Skinner had absorbed Scully's narrative 
without question, allowing her to furnish 
him with the facts and events that had led 
up to Mulder's current condition.  As 
thorough as always, despite her fatigue, she 
left nothing out, and she was aware of how 
crazy her story sounded, even to herself.   

On the occasions she allowed herself to 
glance across to her superior, she saw 
nothing in his expression that suggested 
anything other than a deep scepticism for 
her words.  She got the uncomfortable 
feeling that as she heard the desperation in 
her voice, that she was beginning to sound 
like Mulder. 

Skinner sat opposite her, loosely holding 
the case file in his hands, as he listened 
to her and for a considerable length of time 
after she had finished, did not speak.  
Finally though he raised his head. 

"So let me get this straight."  He held up 
the photograph of Charlotte Stevens.   
"You're telling me that this is your child?" 

Scully sighed. "Biologically, yes." 

"And there have been others?" 

Scully had also related to him for the first 
time the events that had transpired over 
eighteen months ago:  her discovery and 
subsequent loss of Emily.  She was painfully 
aware that in not sharing the information 
with him sooner, she had broken just about 
every rule of protocol in existence.  Her 
only saving grace was that the case had 
officially fallen when she was on leave, but 
even so, she had been acting under the 
jurisdiction of the Federal Government, and 
she knew that the excuse was flimsy at best. 

The decision not to involve any higher 
authorities had been hers alone, and 
although she was aware that Mulder had an 
X-File sequestered somewhere deep in his 
filing system, her partner had not 
questioned her decision to bury the case.   

He had appreciated the fact that, in 
reality, the decision had been hers to make, 
and also that to investigate it further 
would only serve to cause her more damage. 

That all seemed immaterial now though.   

The damage had already been done, and not 
just to her. 

"Yes." 

"Well, what are we talking about here, 
Scully?" Skinner barked harshly.   "One? . . 
. ten? . . . more?" 

"I don't know, sir.  Maybe hundreds." 

"And you have no insight in to who's behind 
it?" 

Scully leveled her tired gaze at Skinner. 
She didn't want to be doing this right now, 
especially without Mulder by her side, but 
she knew that Skinner needed answers in 
order to help them, and painful though it 
was to furnish him with the details, she had 
to keep a hold of herself.  It was becoming 
more of a challenge by the second as a 
combination of guilt, worry and numbing 
fatigue threatened to turn inwards. But 
Scully knew that to succumb would be 
disastrous, not least because Skinner would 
have her on the next flight back to 
Washington or worse, would temporarily 
relieve her of her duties until such time as 
he felt she could cope with the rigours of 
the job.   

She forced herself to remain coolly 
professional as she answered him. 

"We found connections to a pharmaceutical 
company called Pramgen.  A man named 
Calderone was working out of the facility 
and apparently in sole charge of Emily's 
treatment.  He refused to speak to us and so 
Agent Mulder surveilled him, following him 
to a private rest home for the care of the 
elderly.  Once inside he found evidence of a 
massive cover up.  He also discovered the 
identity of Emily's birth mother." 

Skinner raised his eyebrows as Scully 
continued. 

"She was a seventy-nine year old woman named 
Anna Fugasi.  And she wasn't the only one.  
We turned up conclusive proof that out of 
the twelve women in the facility, nine were 
listed as having given birth during the 
previous three years, six to healthy baby 
girls, three to boys." 

"And you're maintaining that these children 
are genetically yours?" 

"Yes.  Mulder found charts that contained, 
amongst other things, my name and dates 
which corresponded to my being taken.  A 
time when the procedures were performed on 
me that would render me unable to conceive, 
a time when the creation of these children 
was already in progress . . ."  

She trailed off as she saw the expression on 
Skinner's face. 

"I know how crazy it must sound," she 
admitted quietly. 

Skinner shook his head. "Aside from the 
obvious, Agent Scully, what I'm having a 
hard time with, is why you didn't come to me 
with this information earlier.  Why you and 
Agent Mulder chose to withhold such a 
potentially serious set of circumstances, 
and why even when news of a second child was 
brought to your attention, you still saw fit 
to come down here with essentially no backup 
and no support." He paused then, all too 
aware that in the past he had often given 
them cause to leave him in the dark, but 
after everything that he'd done for them, he 
had hoped that they no longer felt they had 
to go behind his back. 

Giving them free reign on the X-Files was 
one thing.  Allowing them to risk their 
lives was something else altogether. 

"Why didn't you come to me? I could have 
helped you," he said softly. 

"We couldn't," Scully replied.  "We had no 
evidence.  Whoever was behind it had made 
sure of that.  Within hours of Emily's 
death, whatever connections there might have 
been had been erased.  We had nothing to 
support our findings and no one to 
corroborate our story.  Who would have 
believed us?" 

"I would," stated Skinner flatly. 

Scully shook her head. "Would you?" she 
challenged softly, forcing Skinner to drop 
his eyes guiltily, as he realised that in 
all probability, he would have used the same 
arguments for not pursuing the case as 
Scully had just cited, lack of evidence. 

"With all due respect, sir," she went on, 
"Even if by some miracle you had taken us 
seriously, what could you have done? Gone to 
the Director and requested a full 
investigation? You'd have been laughed out 
of the building.  And believe me, Agent 
Mulder and I both know what that feels like.  
Going public with what we'd uncovered would 
have achieved nothing other than to draw 
even more attention to ourselves, and 
possibly even mark the total cessation of 
the project, a plot to bury the truth so 
deeply that it would never be uncovered." 

Skinner considered her words carefully, 
comprehending her reasoning, and if he was 
totally honest, he would have to admit that 
everything she said was true.  He sighed 
heavily, noting, not for the first time how 
pale and tired she appeared.  He suspected 
she was hanging on by the barest thread 
right now, and one Agent in the hospital was 
quite enough for him without driving another 
one down the same path.   

Nevertheless, he needed to know one more 
thing. 

"And the situation with Agent Mulder?" 

Scully took a deep breath before answering, 
knowing that she was about to voice some 
serious allegations with nothing to back 
them up. 

"I believe that Agent Mulder has been 
exposed to some kind of outside influence 
that has resulted in an unknown illness, an 
illness that cannot be identified, and which 
is I believe, a direct result of our 
involvement in this case.  Someone, 
somewhere doesn't want us here, and they 
will eliminate anything that gets in their 
way.  Including us." 

An expression of alarm briefly crossed 
Skinner's face. 

"If that's the case, Agent Scully, then 
you're as much at risk as Agent Mulder, and 
shouldn't be here."  He waved his hand 
vaguely around the room.  "You should be in 
protective custody until we determine just 
what the hell is going on here, and you 
should let someone else handle this case." 

Scully got to her feet, a sudden vision of 
her partner, lying prone and lifeless in his 
hospital bed flashing unbidden in to her 
mind, and not for the first time she 
wondered just how much of the responsibility 
for his condition lay at her feet.  She owed 
him more than simply hiding away at the 
first sign of trouble, and if she never 
convinced Skinner of anything else again, 
she had to make him understand. 

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I can't 
do that." Skinner opened his mouth to argue, 
but Scully held up her hand, determined to 
say her piece. 

"This is not a case that you can just hand 
off to another Agent and expect to get to 
the truth," she said desperately. "And with 
Agent Mulder in the hospital, there isn't 
anyone qualified to handle the investigation 
other than me.  If I walk away now, then 
they'll just start to bury it all over 
again.  I can't allow that to happen.  Not 
now.  Not when I have a second chance to 
find these men, to make them accountable for 
their actions." 

Her eyes pleaded with Skinner to come to the 
right decision, needing him to understand 
that to remove her from the case would be 
the worst possible determination he could 
ever make.  She also knew that despite her 
respect for her superior Agent, if he were 
to make an unfavourable judgement, she would 
disregard him and go her own way. The 
consequences for such actions would be 
severe, but she would face that eventuality 
only when the time came, so it was with a 
palpable feeling of relief when Skinner 
finally nodded slightly, regarding her 
through narrowed eyes. 

"All right, Agent Scully.  Against my better 
judgement I will allow you to pursue this 
case.  However, for the remainder of today, 
I don't want to see your face.  You have 
to promise me you'll try to get some sleep
and then we'll begin again in the morning,
Okay?" 

Scully nodded gratefully, prepared to 
agree to his conditions, to reach the 
compromise in order to remain on the case. 

"I promise." she whispered, both grateful
and touched by his almost fatherly concern.

She watched as he rose to his feet and 
picked up his topcoat. 

"Where will you be?" she asked. 

Skinner paused. "I'm going to need to speak 
to Agent Wickham.  I need a full background 
on this Stevens woman and her daughter.  
When I'm finished there I'll be at the 
hospital with Mulder.  I'll phone you." 

He crossed over to the door, but instead of 
opening it, he turned back to face her. "I 
meant to ask you something." 

"Sir?" 

Skinner coughed awkwardly. 

"When I pulled up Mulder's personnel record 
to contact his next of kin regarding his 
current condition, I saw that you are 
listed.  Why is that? Why not his mother?" 

Scully swallowed, torn between her duty to 
answer, and a loyalty towards her partner's 
personal life.  She settled on the safest 
option. 

"I'm not sure about the details, only that 
Agent Mulder has become estranged from his 
mother.  He asked me some months ago if I 
would be willing to be listed and I agreed.  
Why? Is that a problem?" 

Skinner shook his head quickly. 

"It's an unusual situation, Scully, but no, 
it's not a problem.  I was just curious."  

He once again reached for the door handle. 

"Anyway, I'll see you later.  I'll be on my 
cell if you need me." 

He didn't wait for a response, just left and 
closed the door quietly behind him, leaving 
Scully perched on the edge of the bed.  
Wearily she got to her feet and closed the 
drapes, blocking out the California sunshine 
and returned to the bed.  She was so tired 
she felt as though she could sleep for a 
year, and after pulling back the covers, she 
lowered her fatigued body on to the cool, 
crisp sheet.   

The fact that she was still fully clothed 
seemed like a mere technicality, although 
she did pause for long enough to kick off 
her shoes before sinking her head in to the 
softness of the pillow and closing her eyes.  
Sleep came almost immediately, and she 
relaxed, unaware of the hostile eyes that 
watched her from across the forecourt, 
assisted in no small way by the high powered 
binoculars held up to them.   

The man had cursed when she had pulled the 
drapes across, but had quickly chided 
himself.  He knew she was in there.  He knew 
she was alone.  All he had to do now was 
wait for the order and she would be his. 

Continued chapter 13/30

Genesis 13/30 

E-Z 8 motel.  Route 49, San Diego CA.  
11:21p.m. 

Scully had only awoken once from her deep 
sleep, a result of her body's need for food 
which had been pretty scarce over the past 
couple of days.  She had tried to ignore it 
and go back to sleep, but found herself 
unable.  Instead, she had got up, showered 
and changed in to jeans and a sweatshirt, 
and ordered a pizza.  While she waited for 
it's arrival, she put in a call to the 
hospital to inquire on Mulder's current 
condition, and was relieved to discover 
that, although he remained largely 
unchanged, his temperature had dropped 
slightly during the course of the afternoon, 
and was now hovering around the 104 mark.  

She had attempted to gain information 
regarding the results of the Tox screen, but 
the hospital had refused to share the 
information down a phone line, so Scully had 
given up.  She had then phoned Skinner on 
his cellular, and was further mollified to 
discover she had caught him on route to the 
hospital.   

They had spoken briefly regarding his 
meeting with Christine Stevens, and then 
Skinner had repeated his earlier 
instructions that she rest, that he would 
handle things for her, and after assuring 
him that she would comply, Scully had hung 
up and waited for the pizza guy to arrive. 
She had spent the remainder of the evening 
curled up in a chair watching T.V.   

It was something she did only rarely, 
neither having the time nor the inclination, 
but after eating, she had found it 
impossible to go back to sleep and had 
instead attempted to do some work.  She had 
nixed that idea pretty quickly when she had 
found her mind drifting from the job in hand 
and settling all too often on her partner, 
so had instead opted to simply empty her 
mind by focusing it on mindless game shows 
and an unlikely mini-series. 

The comforting blurb emitted by the TV had 
slowly had the desired effect, lulling her 
in to a state of relaxation that allowed her 
to drift back to sleep, to escape from her 
problems for a while.  The relaxation 
though, didn't last for long, before the 
sharp trill of her cell phone caused her to 
sit bolt upright in the chair.  For a second 
she let it ring, strangely wary of answering 
it and facing more bad news, but also 
because she couldn't help remembering 
Skinner's earlier words.   

Alone in the motel room she felt suddenly 
vulnerable, and she mentally scanned the 
list of people who would have access to her 
number, and also who would call her at 
eleven o'clock at night.  The list came up 
pretty short, and it was with some 
trepidation that Scully palmed the phone and 
depressed the call button. 

"Scully." Despite herself, she was gratified 
to hear her voice come across as strong and 
even, not a hint of nerves were displayed, 
and she visibly relaxed as she recognised 
the voice on the other end. 

"Scully, it's John Wickham.  Sorry to call 
you so late, but something's just happened 
that I thought you should know." 

Scully tensed. "What have you got, John?" 

The voice on the other end disappeared 
suddenly as a burst of static swallowed the 
connection, but Scully caught the tail end 
of Wickham's words.  She swallowed dryly, 
her heart beginning to pound, and she forced 
herself to remain calm. 

"Say again, you broke up back then." 

This time the words came to her strong and 
clear, verifying what she had heard. 

"I said we've found the girl.  I'm sending 
one of my guys to pick you up and we'll meet 
you there, OK?" 

For a second, Scully found herself unable to 
respond, and then Wickham's voice, urgent 
now. 

"Scully? Did you hear what I said?" 

Scully pulled herself together. "Um, yes.  
Does A.D. Skinner know?" 

"I called him.  He's on his way here now." A 
muffled voice in the background, then, 
"Look, Scully, I've got to go.  My guy'll be 
with you in about ten minutes.   Be ready." 

The soft purring of the dial tone replaced 
Wickham's voice and Scully placed the phone 
back on the table, trying to get her 
thoughts in some kind of order.  For some 
reason she felt the first stirrings of a 
general undeniable unease, but she pushed 
the thoughts in to the background as she 
began to get ready to go. 

Whatever personal feelings she had towards 
this case, she knew she had a job to do, a 
role to play as she had done so many times 
in the past.  She was sure that whatever 
misgivings she may have were in part at 
least a direct result of that personal 
involvement.  It was something she would 
have to deal with later. 

The knock on the door came just as Scully 
was reaching for her coat, and although it 
was expected, the sound made her start 
slightly.  She shook her head, annoyed at 
herself for being so jumpy, but almost 
unconsciously, her hand rested lightly on 
the holster which held her gun at her hip as 
she went to the door. 

Unlike Mulder's room, hers was not equipped 
with a spy hole, so she stood slightly to 
the side of the door to verify the identity 
of the caller. "Who is it?" 

The voice that answered was slightly 
muffled, masked by the wood which separated 
them. 

"Special Agent Walsh.  California Bureau.   
I was sent to get you by SAIC Wickham." 

Knowing that she had only one way to verify 
his identity, Scully eased the door open 
cautiously, and relaxed when the first thing 
she saw were his FBI credentials.  She 
scrutinised them carefully, to the obvious 
bemusement of the younger Agent, who shifted 
uncomfortably before her. 

"Um, is there a problem, Agent Scully?" 

Scully raised her head, and smiled for the 
first time since his arrival.  Too many 
years spent with Mulder she thought 
ruefully, noting that suspicion was one 
thing.  Outright paranoia, now that was 
something else altogether, something that 
was usually to be found in her partner, but 
rarely in her.   

She stepped out of the door and shut it 
behind her. "No," she assured him, "there's 
no problem." 

It was clear by Agent Walsh's expression 
that he remained unconvinced, but he wisely 
let the matter drop and instead gestured 
towards a dark blue Ford Sedan that was 
parked a few yards away.   

It was, Scully noted, a standard issue 
Bureau vehicle, it's very design rendering 
it indistinguishable from the thousands of 
other such cars on the American highways and 
making it indispensable as a surveillance or 
pursuit tool.   

In short, the car was just too damn normal 
to belong to the FBI and it was just such a 
misconception which had led to the arrests 
of many unscrupulous, dangerous 
perpetrators, which of course was the point 
exactly.  If there was one thing that Scully 
had learned during her eight years as a 
Special Agent it was that the Bureau had a 
reason for everything, from the weapons they 
carried to the cars they drove.  Although 
over the years, FBI Agents had become 
something of a joke amongst other law 
enforcement agencies with regards to the 
strict dress code forced upon them, and many 
had surmised that the easiest way to spot a 
Fed was to look for the suit. 

Scully glanced down at her jeans and 
sneakers and smiled ruefully.  Being over 
dressed for the occasion wasn't something 
she could be accused of tonight.  The casual 
cotton jacket she slung over her shoulders 
only served to reinforce that image, and 
were it not for the powerful automatic 
weapon resting comfortably against her side, 
she was totally indistinguishable as an FBI 
Agent.   Mulder, never one for keeping a tie 
on for long, would have been proud, she 
decided as she lowered herself in to the 
passenger seat of the car. 

She glanced across at Agent Walsh who wore 
the uniform with all the arrogance of a 
newly recruited Agent, and tried to remember 
a time when she herself had looked like he 
did.  She failed miserably.   It was a long 
time ago.  Too much had happened to get in 
the way. 

"So where are we going?" she asked when the 
younger Agent made no move to start the 
engine. 

"Agent Walsh?" 

He did not respond, simply sat staring out 
of the window in to the darkness beyond.  As 
Scully fixed her eyes on his reflection, 
something in the set of his face caused her 
heart to painfully skip a beat and with a 
lurching feeling of dread, she realised that 
all her instincts had been correct. 

Blindly her hand reached out to grab the 
door handle, knowing even in her panic that 
her only chance was to exit the vehicle, to 
get away from it's confines, but there was 
nothing there, only the feel of soft vinyl 
where the car had been customised to prevent 
such an escape.   With her free hand she 
pushed her jacket aside and went for her 
gun, but even as her fingers brushed the 
grip, the cold steel she felt at the base of 
her neck caused her to freeze.  She didn't 
need to be told what it was, or that to go 
any further would be akin to signing her own 
death warrant.  

Slowly, she let her hand fall back in to her 
lap, her eyes travelling back to the window 
which now clearly showed the reflection of 
the second man in the back seat, the one who 
held a gun to her head, and who was smiling 
mirthlessly back at her.  Scully had never 
seen him before, of that she was certain, 
but she had seen his expression a thousand 
times reflected in other adversaries she and 
Mulder had encountered along the years.  He 
had the face of a killer. 

"Who are you?" she managed finally, after 
they had stared at each other for what 
seemed like an eternity.   

The man tutted softly. 

"Names are not important, Dana.  They get in 
the way don't you think?" 

Beside her Walsh was fiddling with 
something, but he remained just out of her 
field of vision.  She found herself unable 
to shift her gaze away from the man behind 
her, his eyes had mesmerised her like she 
was a rabbit caught in the glare of 
headlights, needing, wanting to escape, but 
unable to command frozen limbs to move.   

"How do you know my name?" she asked. 

"Oh, I know everything about you, Dana.  You 
and your partner.  About where you've been . 
. . where you're going.  I've studied you, 
learned what's important to you, and now I 
own you.  You belong to me." 

Scully felt a shiver work it's way up her 
spine as she listened to his voice, absorbed 
the meaning of his words, and despite her 
fear, she was still thinking coherently 
enough to realise that she had reached the 
end.  That this man had been sent to kill 
her, and that no matter how many resources 
were made available, that she would never be 
found, she would simply disappear.  An image 
of her partner flashed before her eyes, and 
with it the knowledge that by killing her, 
they would also kill him, and she was 
powerless to prevent it. 

The man fell silent, and Scully heard 
nothing aside from the beating of her heart 
which seemed to fill her very being, and 
every fibre was focused on the feel of the 
gun against her skin, waiting for the 
inevitable shot to ring out.  Would she hear 
it before she died? Or would everything 
simply cease? She had often wondered about 
whether a violent and sudden death would 
impinge on the conscious mind before it 
succumbed, although she had hoped never to 
find out first hand.   

"Time to go, Dana." The whispered words 
pierced Scully's soul as the survival 
instinct inside of her screamed out that she 
fight, run, do anything she could to escape 
her fate.  But instead she did nothing, 
knowing that it would be pointless, 
squeezing her eyes shut to block out the 
face in front of her.  She did not want it 
to be the last thing she ever saw, 
preferring instead to see blackness, and she 
waited for the inevitable to happen.   

She did not have to wait for long before the 
confined space of the car exploded in a 
barrage of sound.  The act was so violent 
and sudden that, for a second, Scully did 
not register the pain in the back of her 
neck as she opened her eyes and focused on 
the blood which had splattered across the 
upholstery and was still pumping out of 
Walsh's chest.   

She tried desperately to make sense of it, 
but within a few seconds, she had slumped 
sideways, her body covering that of the dead 
man as she succumbed to the darkness that 
enveloped her, not registering the sounds of 
the body being removed from the car, nor 
herself being transferred tenderly into the 
back seat.   

The killer quickly disposed of the gun and 
climbed in to the driver's position, knowing 
that he had scant minutes to escape the 
scene before it would be crawling with cops.  
He couldn't afford to fail now.  Not now he 
was so close to claiming all that rightfully 
was his.  He allowed himself the luxury of 
glancing back to study the inert form of the 
woman behind him, absorbing the image that 
had haunted him for many long nights as he 
prepared for his assignment, knowing that 
for now at least, he had spoken the truth, 
that she belonged to him.  The thought made 
him smile, and he was still smiling as he 
piloted the car out on to the highway and in 
to the night. 

Continued chapter 14/30


Genesis 14/30 

FBI Field office.  San Diego, CA.   1:01a.m. 

Skinner negotiated his way along the 
twisting maze of corridors that made up the 
Bureau's California office.  He moved 
purposely, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he 
concentrated on the task in hand.   Despite 
the lateness of the hour other Agents milled 
around, but no one questioned his right to 
be there.  No one dared.  They simply moved 
out of his way, knowing that if they failed 
to do so that they were in danger of being 
trampled on.   

Skinner's usual demeanour was stern at the 
best of times.  Tonight he looked downright 
frightening. 

The call had reached him a little more than 
thirty minutes ago.  The voice at the other 
end appraising him of the fact that Agent 
Scully was missing was enough to make him 
drop everything and head on over here.   

He had not given the caller a chance to 
fully inform him of the facts surrounding 
her disappearance.  He had instead simply 
barked out a series of orders, issuing his 
expectation that there would be a full team 
of experienced Agents waiting to greet him 
when he arrived at the office.  He assumed 
that those individuals who now chose to give 
him a wide berth were here as a direct 
result of that, but this fact did nothing to 
improve his mood. 

He finally rounded a corner and found 
himself outside the office of John Wickham, 
a man he had met briefly earlier in the day 
when he had asked to be appraised of the 
reasons why Mulder and Scully had been 
called down here in the first place.  He had 
found Wickham to be courteous and helpful, 
and, in Skinner's opinion, a very worried 
man.  He hadn't been able to put his finger 
on exactly why, just a general feeling that 
all was not well in the man's personal 
universe, and that if he wasn't actually 
withholding information, then he was most 
certainly glossing over certain facts 
pertaining to the case.   

Skinner had taken the decision not to push 
too hard.  Now he could only wish that he 
had, because maybe he wouldn't now be in 
this position, and maybe his Agent wouldn't 
be either.  He wasn't usually a man who 
wasted time on personal recrimination, 
viewing it as both a waste of time and 
energy, but despite his every attempt, he 
couldn't let go of the nagging feeling that 
this was somehow his own doing.   

It wasn't a nice thought, but he swallowed 
it, at least in part, as he entered 
Wickham's office.  He didn't bother to knock 
and his sudden appearance visibly startled 
the younger man who tried unsuccessfully to 
appear as though he had been expecting him 
to enter in the way he had. 

Forgoing any pleasantries, Skinner declined 
the offer of a seat, leaning instead on 
Wickham's desk, his looming presence and 
body language designed to intimidate and 
unsettle.  This time he wasn't prepared to 
take any crap.  Not now the stakes were so 
much higher. 

"What happened?" he barked unceremoniously 
as Wickham seemed to visibly relax, safe in 
the knowledge that this at least was a 
question that he could at least answer, if 
only in part.   

He took a moment to compose himself before 
answering. 

"The details are pretty sketchy, sir.  But 
we have a deposition from an eye witness."  

He reached across the desk and picked up a 
manila folder, offering it to Skinner.   
Skinner's eyes though remained locked on to 
him, and Wickham's hand trembled slightly as 
he noted the expression on his superior's 
face. 

"I'd rather hear it from you," he said 
softly. 

Wickham paled slightly, swallowing nervously 
before he managed to speak. 

"As I said, sir, the details are sketchy, 
but from what we can gather Agent Scully 
left her motel room at approximately 
11:30p.m. and was seen accompanying a man to 
a waiting car.  They both got into the car, 
and a couple of minutes after that a shot 
was fired.  The car exited the forecourt at 
speed, leaving behind the body of an 
unidentified male.  He had been shot in the 
back of the head and according to the 
emergency services, died instantly.   The 
police arrived on the scene almost 
immediately, but no trace of the vehicle or 
Agent Scully were found.  That's all we know 
at this point in time.  As I said, we only 
have one witness and he viewed the scene 
from some distance away." 

"This man.  The witness.  Who is he?"  
Skinner asked. 

Wickham's eyes dropped to scan the statement 
sheet in front of him. 

"His name's Barney Sinjin.  He's the motel 
manager.  He was doing his final rounds when 
Scully was taken, which is why he saw what 
he did.  He was also the one who radioed the 
call in to the police." 

"Does he have a description of the man seen 
with Agent Scully?" 

"Um..." Wickham cleared his throat 
uncomfortably before continuing.  "It was 
dark, sir.  He didn't get a real good look 
at him.  All he can be clear on is that he 
was around six feet tall and wearing a dark 
overcoat." 

"What about the car?" Skinner barked. 

"Again, sir, he's vague.  Some kind of 
sedan.  Quite new.  Dark in colour, maybe 
black, maybe blue." 

"Great," muttered Skinner darkly.  "One of 
my Agents is missing, possibly dead, and all 
we've got to go on are vague details and 
assumptions.  What about the dead man? 
Anything on him?" 

"No nothing.  We've ran his prints through 
the N.C.I.C. database, but nothing's come up 
on him so far.  No ID on his body." 

Skinner absorbed this fact, his sense of 
unease growing sharper by the minute.   This 
was altogether too convenient, and although 
not a particularly paranoid man by nature, 
he couldn't help but wonder just how much of 
this had been predestined.  A plan hatched 
before Mulder and Scully even left 
Washington, by the very same adversaries who 
had threatened their lives so often in the 
past.  It was all falling in to place.  Get 
Mulder out of the way and strike when they 
were at their most vulnerable.  It all made 
perfect sense and Skinner could only now 
marvel at his own blind stupidity.   

How in God's name had he not seen this 
coming?  How could he have left her so 
unprotected? 

The thought caused him to raise his head 
sharply as he visualised Mulder laying inert 
and unresponsive back at the hospital.  He 
glared at Wickham and issued what would be 
the first of many orders during the next 
twenty-four hours.  Orders that would, by 
their very tone be impossible to question or 
to ignore. 

"I want a 'round the clock guard on Agent 
Mulder's room.  No one but myself and 
recognised medical personnel are to enter.   
I don't care what their reasons are.   
Anyone who tries to do so will be assumed to 
be a threat and will be shot on sight.   Is 
that understood, Agent Wickham?" 

Wickham nodded and reached for one of the 
three phones which jostled for space on his 
overflowing desk.  Before picking one up 
though, he lifted his troubled green eyes to 
lock with those of his superior Agent. 

"There's something else, sir.  Something I 
haven't told you, that's included in the 
statement from the motel." 

His voice trailed off as though he couldn't 
bear to go on, but Skinner's patience at 
this whole sorry situation was fast running 
out.  He didn't have time to play games. 

"And?" he queried abruptly as Wickham 
faltered. 

The younger man swallowed heavily. 

"Mr. Sinjin was unsure regarding many 
details of what he saw, except relating to 
the shot fired.  In that respect, he is very 
specific.  I'm sorry, sir, but he is citing 
Agent Scully as firing the kill shot, and 
that there did not appear to be any kind of 
struggle immediately before the shot was 
fired.  His exact words led along the lines 
of it being in cold blood, and that Agent 
Scully also pointed her weapon at him before 
driving off in the car." 

Skinner shook his head. 

"That's impossible.  I refuse to believe 
that she is capable of such an act." 

"Um, Agent Mulder hinted that she had been 
under some emotional strain of late.   Maybe 
that could be a . . ." 

Skinner banged his fist down hard on the 
desk making the younger man jump visibly. 

"No! If, and I do mean *if* Agent Scully 
fired that shot, she would first have had to 
have had ample justification to do so.  If I 
were in your shoes, Agent Wickham, then I 
would muster every available resource I had 
at my disposal to find her, so we can then 
begin to ascertain exactly what that 
justification was." 

The tone of his voice brokered no room for 
further argument, and satisfied he had made 
his point, Skinner nodded curtly and made 
for the door, pausing only once before 
exiting.  He inclined his head towards the 
phone handset still held by Wickham. 

"Shouldn't you be making that call we 
discussed? Before another of my Agents 
brought down here at your request disappears 
under suspicious circumstances?" 

Wickham blanched at his words, but 
nevertheless, tried to appear unruffled as 
with shaking hand he began to punch out the 
numbers on the phone, holding his breath as 
he tried to quell the beating of his heart, 
lest it be heard and betray his nervousness.  
Only when he heard the sound of the door 
shutting did he begin to relax.  He savoured 
the moment whilst he could, knowing that 
now, things could only get worse, that 
somehow, some way, the situation had gotten 
out of control.  That despite his careful 
planning, it had all gone to Hell. 

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

Mercy Hospital

3:51a.m. 

On rounding the corner of the corridor which 
led to Mulder's hospital room, Skinner was 
at least mollified slightly to see that his 
orders had been followed to the letter. 

The two men stationed on either side of the 
closed door wore no uniform, but their 
matching dark suits and no nonsense 
demeanours made them instantly identifiable 
as law enforcement of the FBI variety.  They 
stiffened momentarily as Skinner approached, 
adopting the hand on hip stance which 
enabled easy access to the weapons concealed 
out of sight beneath the suits.  As Skinner 
produced his credentials from his inside 
pocket, they relaxed once more, affording 
the newcomer the respectful gaze that his 
position commanded as the bigger of the two 
men shifted position to allow him entrance 
to the room. 

Skinner however paused for a few seconds 
before entering in order to appraise the men 
more completely, an action that was 
instantly understood by them, and without 
being asked they simultaneously removed 
their own ID's to be scrutinised by their 
superior. 

No words had thus far been exchanged.   None 
had been needed, but now Skinner felt bound 
to emphasise the seriousness of the 
situation, a situation that he knew all too 
well would not have been adequately 
explained to the two men guarding Agent 
Mulder.  Bureau protocol was such that 
Agents took assignments without question 
but, in his experience, Skinner knew that 
the more information they had, the more 
likely it was that every precaution would be 
taken in order to follow the assignment to 
the letter. 

"Who placed you on this assignment?" he 
queried. 

The two men glanced uneasily at each other 
before the taller of the two answered for 
both of them. 

"It was SAIC Wickham, sir.  He told us that 
there was some urgency regarding we get down 
here." 

"What else did he tell you?" 

The Agent shook his head in confusion, 
unsure as to what exactly Skinner was 
driving at. 

"Um, just that Agent Mulder was in some kind 
of danger and that no one be granted access 
to him unless it was on the basis of 
specific instruction," he faltered 
uncertainly, dubious as to where the line of 
questioning was heading. "Is there some kind 
of problem that we should be aware of, sir?" 

Skinner shook his head slowly. 

"I hope not, Agent Rich.  I hope not," his 
voice trailed off and the young Agent tried 
again. 

"Do you have new orders for us, sir?  
Regarding Agent Mulder?" 

The question seemed to strike a chord with 
Skinner and he looked up sharply.  It was 
something he had not expected to be asked.  
He knew that by answering it and overriding 
the direct order of another Agent, even one 
who was lower in rank than himself without 
good reason, he was at best, breaking 
several rules of protocol if not actual 
Bureau operational policy.   

He weighed up his options in a split second, 
but the decision was an easy one to make.  
He cleared his throat. 

"Yes.  From here on you take your orders 
only from me.  You let no one in to this 
room aside from authorised medical personnel 
unless I specifically allow you to do so, 
you don't leave this position without my say 
so, not for any reason.  I don't care who 
tells you otherwise.   Anyone who has a 
problem with that you send to me," he paused 
to allow his words to sink in. "Is that 
understood, Agents?" 

The two men nodded instantly, accepting the 
weight of his position.  His status within 
the Bureau did not allow for argument, and 
as Skinner listened to their spoken 
affirmation he wondered that in issuing the 
order, just how many enemies he would make 
for himself.  He swallowed the thought 
though as he slipped past the men and 
silently entered the anteroom where he 
repeated the same process he had performed
earlier of washing up and donning the gown
and mask supplied to him by the medical
staff.  

He had spent time here earlier on in the 
evening, but the sight of Mulder's inert 
form laying motionless on the bed amidst the 
tubes and wires that seemed to snake from 
every available part of his body still sent 
a shiver down his spine.  He had over time 
come to regard Mulder as almost invincible.  
He had seen him fight time and time again 
against the most powerful adversaries, had 
watched him pick himself up when all seemed 
hopeless, but he had never seen him like 
this.  It brought home to him how frail the 
Human state really was, and thatlike others 
who appeared to be unconquerable, Mulder was 
in reality made of flesh and blood, as 
easily destroyed as anyone else.   

But Skinner was also aware of the one trait 
which did set Mulder apart from those around 
him - his ability to fight for what he felt 
was right no matter what the consequences.  
It was that ability that Skinner put so much 
faith in to pull him through this.   

He sat by Mulder's bed and hoped against 
hope that his faith was not misplaced, 
because he knew that without Mulder's 
insight to help him fathom this thing out, 
the chances of finding Scully alive were 
minimal. 

He sighed and opened the manila folder he 
had brought with him from the San Diego 
office.  Contained inside it was the case 
file that had brought his two Agents down 
here in the first place, the one that had 
landed on Mulder's desk just three short 
days ago.  He had requested the file from 
Wickham shortly before coming here and the 
Agent had been happy to oblige.  If he had 
viewed the rest of the folder's contents, he 
would in all probability been less happy, 
for after leaving the field office Skinner 
had put in a call to Washington requesting 
all the available information regarding John 
Wickham be scanned and E-mailed to him 
immediately.   

With typical efficiency, the files had 
reached him in less than thirty minutes, and 
in answer to the nagging feeling of doubt 
inside of him, Skinner settled down in the 
hard backed chair to absorb these first. He 
sincerely hoped his doubt was misplaced.  
His years of experience told him it wasn't.  
If Agent Mulder held one of the keys to 
unravelling this whole mess, then SAIC 
Wickham was surely holding the other.  The 
difference was though, that Skinner knew 
which side of the fence one of the men sat 
on, the other, he held far different views 
on. 

Continued chapter 15/30


Genesis 15/30 

7:16a.m. 

Scully was cold.  She wasn't exactly 
conscious of the thought, or even if it 
could be called a thought at all.  It was 
more of a general feeling that pushed itself 
up through the murky darkness she had found 
herself to be imprisoned by, acknowledged 
only by her body's in built survival 
instincts as she groaned softly and pulled 
her knees tighter towards her.   

The surface she was laid on was hard and 
unyielding and her clothes felt damp against 
her skin, adding to the chill she felt 
invading her to her very core.  She was 
vaguely aware of this fact, but her mind as 
yet refused to co-operate sufficiently to 
rationalise the thought in to action.   

She was aware of one thing though, in fact 
she had been aware of it for quite some 
time, how long exactly she couldn't be sure, 
but so intense was the feeling that it 
overrode all others, did not allow room for 
denial or acceptance.   It was simply there.  
It existed in her consciousness and no 
matter how hard she tried she couldn't block 
it out, in fact even before she could 
conceive it in her mind, she had cried  
throughout the night.   

Again and again, the tears that accompanied 
it escaping from the confines of her closed 
eyes and running down her cheeks to collect 
in a salty pool by her on the cold stone 
floor.  It was like a demon inside her head, 
bringing with it a pain so intense she 
wished that she might die.  She had never 
known hurt like it, it invaded every part of 
her body only to centre in the back of her 
neck, stabbing her with such ferocity that, 
had Scully been capable, she would surely 
have sought to end her own suffering in 
whatever way she could.   

The drugs that had been fed in to her at 
least gave her some respite, rendering her 
incapable of even recognising thought or 
feeling, and she had welcomed the oblivion 
they afforded her as she slipped away during 
the night.   

Initially she had fought them, the survival 
instinct within her not allowing her to slip 
in to nothingness lest it be her final 
condition.  Finally sheer fatigue and 
hopelessness had overcome her and she opened 
herself to them willingly, grateful to be 
able to escape the pain even for a short 
time.   

As the hours dragged by though, these 
periods of respite had become less and less 
as she entered in to this strange state 
where she hovered somewhere between 
wakefulness and repose.  Her body becoming 
more alert even as her mind remained in 
limbo, and deep inside of her she knew the 
time was approaching when she would be 
forced to open her eyes to confront the full 
horror of her situation.  It was something 
she wanted to delay for as long as was 
humanly possible, and so, she continued to 
let her mind drift, unwilling as yet to defy 
her instinct to ignore what was fast 
becoming impossible to disregard. 

"She's beginning to wake up." 

"Yes." 

The two men centred their gaze through the 
one way glass that afforded them a murky 
view of the room beyond and the woman held 
within it's confines.  They had stood for a 
long while, the only spectators to Scully's 
night within the prison they themselves had 
created for her, had listened to her feeble 
cries without so much as a flicker of 
emotion or guilt.   

Guilt was a luxury and a hindrance they 
could ill afford, especially now that their 
plan was coming to fruition, and they viewed 
her with all the detachment that one might 
expect from a scientist viewing a lab rat.  
To them she had ceased to be a person and 
was now seen as simply a means to an end. 

The taller of the two men turned his 
attention away from the glass and reached 
casually in to the pocket of his jacket, 
withdrawing a crumpled packet of cigarettes 
and tipping one in to his hand. 

The long night had taken it's toll on him, 
reminding him that he wasn't so young 
anymore, and he needed the boost that the 
nicotine would bring him.  It was a boost he 
sought often, and over the years his intake 
had grown considerably.  As a young man he 
had abhorred the mere act of smoking, having 
lost his mother to terminal lung cancer when 
he was little more than a boy, and he often 
wondered whether things might have turned 
out differently for him had she still been 
alive.  He remembered her as being a gentle 
woman, firm but fair, and although he tried 
not to think of her too often, he knew that 
she would have been horrified by the paths 
he had chosen for himself, and for those 
held in his not inconsiderable power.   

To wield this power in the way he did was 
not without it's downfalls, and for years he 
had battled with the guilt such actions 
brought with them, but now he could distance 
himself from it, disregard the consequences 
to their lives as he had come to disregard 
his own. 

The path had been chosen.  He would walk it 
until the day he died and he held that 
knowledge with a weary acceptance of one who 
knows that freedom of choice was a precious 
commodity that few could boast. 

He brought the lighter flame to the tip of 
the cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding on 
to the noxious fumes for longer than was 
strictly necessary before exhaling slowly.  
The blue smoke swirled around the close 
confines of the small room and hung like a 
mist in the damp air, causing the second man 
to blink in an effort to take the sting from 
his eyes.  He had expected some kind of 
response from the Smoking man in respect to 
his observation regarding Scully, and the 
silence of the man unnerved him slightly.  
He had played his part well, securing 
himself a future within the Consortium and 
in the very future of Humankind itself, but 
his responsibilities were not yet finished 
and he still had much to do. 

He was well aware that time was running 
short and that if Scully were allowed to 
awaken before all was put in to place, 
everything he had sought to do would be in 
vain.  Although he certainly hadn't been 
present at the time of her removing, he had 
been instrumental in it's planning.   

The Smoking man's apparent disregard of this 
fact irked him slightly. 

"Shouldn't we be moving her?" he prompted a 
little more forcibly, "Because if she wakes 
up before . . . " 

The Smoking man turned his attention back 
towards the glass, a small smile beginning 
to play across his face as the sounds of 
Scully's piteous whimpering once more 
reached his ears from inside the tinny 
speakers which lined the walls. 

"She's not going to wake up for a while 
yet." He assured the second man, the smile 
on his face becoming almost fatherly as he 
observed the woman who had haunted his 
dreams for over five years.   

It seemed strange that in all that time he 
had never really allowed himself the luxury 
of actually looking at her.  She had always 
been just an extension of Fox Mulder, a 
worthy adversary in her own right, and, he 
had thought, just as invincible.  Time and 
time again she had beaten him, but this time 
it would be different.  This time he would 
be the winner, just as he had foretold it to 
Mulder so long ago, only this time he was 
going to win in style.  It would be a 
victory that no one would ever forget.  

The man standing beside him watched the 
Smoking man's face with something akin to 
revulsion as the smile grew ever wider.   He 
knew the man was living out some personal 
vendetta against the two Agents, and it was 
this knowledge that had almost prompted him 
to decline to become involved.  Greed had 
overtaken him at the last minute though, and 
despite his best intentions he had been 
sucked in far deeper than he had ever wanted 
to go.  His involvement should have begun 
and ended in the enticing of the two Agents 
down from Washington, but somehow events had 
spiraled out of control and he now found 
himself in way beyond his depth.  It was far 
too late though to get out now.  To do so 
would be to sign his own death warrant.   

He knew these men, of their capabilities, 
and it would be all too easy to put a bullet 
through his brain and orchestrate it in such 
a way as to divert attention away from their 
group should he opt to go his own way. 

Watching the smug expression filter across 
the older man's face, he wondered if 
becoming like him was to be his fate.  It 
was not a pleasant thought and suddenly the 
confines of the small room became almost 
unbearable, the need to escape overriding 
his every thought and action, and he 
stumbled toward the door. 

"I'm going outside for some air." 

The Smoking man nodded sagely without 
turning, but the threat was clear as he 
spoke softly. 

"Don't get lost out there." 

The words themselves were innocent enough 
but they caused the second man to pause, 
gripped suddenly by the eerie feeling that 
somehow, the Smoking man had been granted 
access to his thoughts and fears, that he 
had been able to look straight in to his 
head and see all the weakness that lay 
within it.  He knew that such insight was 
impossible, but nonetheless, it took several 
long seconds before he was able to still the 
trembling inside himself in order to leave 
the room.  Finally though, good sense once 
more prevailed, and it was with more than a 
little relief that Special Agent John 
Wickham exited the cheerless room and 
escaped outside in to the sweet, clean air 
of the Californian day break. 

The Smoking Man observed his exit 
expressionlessly.  It did not surprise him 
in the least that Wickham was getting cold 
feet regarding his recent escapades, in fact 
it was a reaction he had seen time and time 
again when suddenly these men found the 
stakes becoming ever higher in what was 
expected of them.  Most got over their 
initial misgivings when they were faced with 
the realisation that whatever choices they 
had made they had made them for life.  Some 
foolishly attempted to bow out gracefully, 
deeming the potential consequences for their 
actions as outweighing the rewards.  None of 
these men had lived to tell the tale.  They 
had simply been removed by the Consortium 
who viewed such desertion in a very dim 
light.   

Total unbending loyalty was the key to 
survival amongst these men.  Anything less 
spelled disaster for them. 

He dropped the spent cigarette to the floor 
and ground it with the toe of his highly 
polished shoe and fixed his shrewd grey eyes 
once again on Scully.  Despite the 
assurances he had given Wickham to the 
contrary, by observing the small fluttering 
movements coming from her, it was apparent 
that the sedatives administered to her were 
lessening in their effects.  If their plans 
were to come to fruition, it was imperative 
that she be moved from here as quickly as 
possible. 

He allowed himself a small smile as he 
reached inside his jacket for his cell 
phone.  So far the complexity of the 
operation which had taken Mulder and Scully 
from Washington and away from each other had 
been mere child's play compared with what 
was to come.  A plan so ingenious in it's 
very simplicity, it would render both the 
Agents incapable of even existing within the 
worlds they had left, and more prudently, it 
would effectively split the partnership 
forever. 

He had tried and failed to destroy them so 
many times before he had come to the logical 
conclusion that only by turning them on each 
other could he ever hope to win. 

The smile grew wider as he imagined Scully's 
reaction when told of her *betrayal* 
regarding her partner.  It was a sight he 
had only dreamed about until now, but one 
which was now close enough for him to almost 
taste it. 

He stiffened slightly as the cell phone 
connected. 

He did not confirm his identity.  He did not 
need to.  He simply spoke the two words 
which would put the wheels of deceit in 
motion. 

"It's time." 

Without waiting for a response, The Smoking 
Man ended the call and slipped the phone 
back in to his pocket, glancing at his watch 
as he did so, aware that with every minute 
that ticked by, he was one step closer to 
the confrontation he had awaited for so many 
years.  The knowledge that within forty-
eight hours he would witness the destruction 
of Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully at 
their own hands. 

Continued chapter 16/30

Genesis 16/30

Mercy Hospital.  San Diego. CA.  9:01a.m. 

Skinner had had no real intention of 
spending the remainder of the night at 
Mulder's bedside, but during the course of 
that night, subtle but pointed changes had 
occurred in the younger man's condition.   

For a start, Mulder's temperature had 
undergone a steady decrease until it hovered 
as it did now at just slightly above normal.  
The respirator had been detached as hour by 
hour his vital signs improved sufficiently 
to nullify the need for the artificial 
breathing aid.  He had begun to make a 
concerted effort to breathe unaided.  Aside 
from the oxygen mask which still covered his 
face, he looked almost back to normal, his 
chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm 
which almost matched the monitors that still 
surrounded him as a precaution should his 
condition suddenly worsen as rapidly as it 
had improved.  

Skinner knew by the reactions of the doctors 
who had tended his Agent through the long 
night that they were as mystified by 
Mulder's quick turn around as they had been 
to the reasons for the onset of his 
condition.  They had been wary of discussing 
too much with him, but the general consensus 
of opinion seemed to rest heavily on the 
high grade antibiotics which had been fed 
regimentally through Mulder's bloodstream as 
having played the major part in his 
recovery.  They refused point blank to 
speculate exactly what Mulder was actually 
recovering *from*.   

The Toxicology screen results had finally 
come back and they suggested the presence of 
a pathogenic substance which had invaded his 
bloodstream. 

Skinner was no doctor but, having heard 
Scully's account of how her partner was 
already suffering from a low grade viral 
infection, it did not take a genius to 
figure out what kind of consequences such an 
invasion would cause.  For someone who's 
immune system was already battling against 
the flu virus, any introduction of a foreign 
substance spelled disaster. 

Skinner had voiced this opinion but had 
found to his intense irritation that he had 
not been taken seriously.  This theory, he 
had been informed loftily, belonged in the 
pages of a science fiction novel, and not in 
the real world.  What he was suggesting was 
impossible, not just because of the complex 
make-up such a pathogen would require, but 
also because it would be almost an 
impossible task to introduce it to a subject 
in such a way as to render him inactive in 
such a short space of time. 

Skinner had listened to their objections in 
silence, unwilling to push his argument 
further for fear of sounding as paranoid as 
he had so often accused Mulder of being.  
But the offhand manner in which he had been 
dismissed had given him a unique insight as 
to how his Agent felt most of the time, and 
the thought had continued to trouble him 
throughout the night.  It was in part this 
judgement that had prompted him to remain 
where he was, but he was also painfully 
aware that no fresh news of Scully had been 
forthcoming from the San Diego Bureau 
despite regular phone calls from him to 
various Agents.  It seemed as though she had 
simply disappeared off the face of the Earth 
and even during the short time immediately 
following her abduction the trail had 
effectively gone cold. 

Skinner had fought against the crazy 
compulsion to get in his car and go find her 
himself, knowing that it was simply a knee 
jerk reaction to his own tightly controlled 
emotions after everything that had happened 
and that the most valuable person right now 
was Mulder.  Skinner suspected that when 
Mulder woke up he would have a tale to tell, 
one which would at least shed some light on 
to how he had come to be here.  When that 
time came, he was determined to be the first 
one to hear it, to decide on what action to 
take from there. 

But now as he continued to sit staring at 
the younger man, he was beginning to suspect 
that the time for that might never come.  
Mulder was showing no signs of waking up 
anytime soon, and Skinner couldn't quell a 
nagging feeling of doubt that for Scully, 
time could very well be running out.  He 
sighed heavily and reached for his coat.  
Ten minutes away from this room couldn't 
hurt he decided, and besides which he was 
beginning to desperately feel the need for a 
strong cup of coffee and a shave in that 
order.  He had already witnessed two of his 
Agents nearly fall apart on this case.  He 
didn't feel much like adding himself to the 
list, especially since he already suspected 
that he would need to rely sharply on his 
years of training and savvy to get him 
through the following few days.   

He also had no doubts as to exactly who he 
was dealing with here, and that if they held 
true to form, that they were more than 
capable of crushing him underneath their 
encompassing might.  It was not a pleasant 
thought. 

He exited the room quietly, nodding slightly 
at the two Agents still posted on either 
side of the door.  He was aware of their 
eyes on him as he continued down the 
hallway, painfully conscious that he 
probably looked like he had the weight of 
the world resting on his broad shoulders, 
but not knowing how to dispel his fears.   

It was a new experience for him but he 
embraced it gladly, knowing that his 
knowledge might, just might pull them all 
through this. 

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

9:23a.m. 

John Wickham groaned softly and cradled his 
head in his hands wearily.  It had been a 
long night, not just in terms of hours, but 
also in the mental transition he had been 
forced to make as he confronted his feelings 
of guilt in the part he had played not only 
the removal of Scully, but also in the 
incarceration of Mulder to the Mercy 
Hospital. 

He had carried out his orders efficiently, 
believing fully at the time that he was 
acting in the best interests of the 
Consortium and of the American people in 
general.  Indeed, when he had initially been 
approached, he had felt a great sense of 
patriotism towards his country as he pledged 
his allegiance. 

The idea had been planted easily in his 
head, made all the sweeter by the promise 
that the rewards for him would far outweigh 
the risks, and he had slipped easily in to 
the role of willing conspirator. 

He had expected that his years of FBI 
training would have numbed him to the 
responsibilities his actions would bring, 
but he had found the reality to be somewhat 
different. 

For one thing he was quite unable to rid 
himself of the image of Mulder's trusting, 
genial expression when they had met up again 
after so many years apart, not least because 
of his absolute respect for the man and his 
work.  He had followed Mulder's career with 
a certain amount of detached interest over a 
number of years.  Although he could quite 
understand just how Mulder had managed to 
become something of a laughing stock amongst 
his peers, he also knew the man well enough 
to appreciate the absolute commitment he had 
shown to his quest.  Betraying him on such a 
gargantuan level had been difficult in the 
extreme.   

There had been a fleeting moment, when 
Mulder arrived at his apartment, that 
Wickham had considered backing out of the 
deal and telling Mulder of the real reasons 
he had been lured down here.  It was only 
the thought of the consequences to his own 
family that such a revelation would bring, 
that he had continued within his role.  Such 
an action would have been a death sentence 
to everyone he cared about, and besides, he 
had been assured by the men that no actual 
harm would befall either his old friend or 
Agent Scully, that their discomfort would be 
limited to a minimum. 

He now knew that assurance to be false and 
that to inflict harm was practically the 
only possible outcome of this whole sorry 
mess.  He also knew that he had no way out 
and no where to turn.  That he would have to 
continue this thing through until the bitter 
end - whatever that might be.  

He had watched with mounting horror as 
Scully was moved from the dark prison in 
which she had been captive through the night 
and installed in more comfortable 
surroundings, the sound of her anguished 
cries still reverberating around his head as 
the pain relief given to her began to wear 
off and she became more aware of every 
movement inflicted on her already tortured 
being. 

He was not entirely sure what had been done 
to her during that time.  He had watched 
from a distance as clandestine figures in 
white coats hovered around her and 
administered more drugs to her system, 
stilling the sounds that emitted from her 
and reducing them to a series of pathetic 
cries.   

He had questioned why the unknown procedure 
had to be carried out whilst she was 
semiconscious and obviously in great pain as 
a result, and had received no assurance 
other than that Scully would eventually 
awaken with no memory of what had occurred 
and that she would have no lasting 
discomfort.  Wickham had found himself 
unable to believe their words, knowing that 
these men made it their business to trade in 
lies, and had left the room in disgust lest 
his expression of revulsion betray too much. 

He knew that he still had a major part to 
play, and that the time for him to confront 
his own feelings regarding that role was 
fast running out.  He was to be the first 
recognisable person whom Scully was to be 
faced with on her awakening, and it would be 
him who was to plant the first seeds of 
doubt in to her vulnerable, confused mind. 

It was something he felt totally unprepared 
for, and something that was coming ever 
closer.  He had looked in on her only thirty 
minutes ago and found her to be sleeping 
peacefully, a state he had been told was the 
final stage of the process that had lasted 
through the night, and from which she would 
shortly awaken.   

The sight of her, warm covers tucked around 
her had reminded him sharply of what he had 
done, and despite his involvement with the 
Consortium and the way he had discussed 
Scully with them prior to her coming down 
here, meeting her had been somewhat 
different. 

Mulder had often spoken of her and, despite 
his obvious feelings for her that he tried 
unsuccessfully to hide, he had painted her 
very much as an independent spirit.  Tough, 
professional and absolutely committed in her 
career.  He had therefore been unprepared to 
be confronted with her when she had trailed 
after Mulder in to his office when they had 
first arrived in town.  It was then that the 
first seeds of doubt had been planted in his 
mind as to whether he was doing the right 
thing. 

He had been furnished with sketchy details 
of her incarceration in the Antarctic, and 
of Mulder's subsequent rescue and he had 
understood then just why he had been asked 
to do what he had.  To allow them to remain 
together was now impossible, but the men 
responsible were too cowardly to risk the 
reprisals that their removal would bring, 
and so a course of action had been decided 
upon that would solve the problem once and 
for all.  It was a decision that Wickham had 
embraced wholeheartedly but when he had 
been confronted by them both together and 
had seen the way they acted towards one 
another, he had questioned his decision to 
become involved at all. 

Watching them that day in his office, he had 
seen something he had never seen before 
during his years with the Bureau.  It 
radiated from them both like a beacon, in 
the way they looked at each other, the way 
that they stood side by side, exhibiting 
body language so subtle it could easily be 
misconstrued.  But he had seen and 
understood it immediately.  It was blind 
trust.  Plain and simple.  A trust which far 
exceeded normal boundaries, a trust which 
would enable them quite without question to 
give their life for the other and one which 
had kept them together for so long.   

Wickham had then immediately understood his 
role in all this, more so than he had 
previously during all the conversations he 
had had with the shadowy characters 
governing his every move.  His role was 
simple.  It was up to him to sever that 
trust so completely that it could never hope 
to be regained, and he knew then that the 
men had lied to him when they said that no 
one would get hurt.  The plan was elegant in 
it's simplicity.  Destroying their trust in 
each other would ultimately destroy them, 
without any blame being centred around those 
who really deserved it. Wickham sighed, 
knowing that the time was drawing near when 
he would have to begin the process . . . and 
he hated himself for it.  

Continued chapter 17/30


Genesis 17/30

Mercy General Hospital.  10:13a.m. 

The first tangible thought that filtered in 
to Mulder's conscious mind was that his 
throat hurt.  It wasn't the kind of hurt 
that came from being too long asleep, or 
even from a virus of some kind, but more a 
gritty discomfort that no amount of 
swallowing would ease.  It almost felt like 
his throat was scratched or bruised in some 
unfathomable way but he could think of no 
reason why this should be so. 

He was aware of sounds around him, an 
incessant bleeping which cut through his 
escalating headache like a scythe.  He 
fought against the need to sink back down in 
to the sweet oblivion of sleep in order to 
block it out, answering instead to the small 
voice inside of him that demanded he wake up 
fully.  He had been mindful of the voice for 
a considerable length of time, and he had 
struggled to obey it's commands, willing his 
eyes to open and throw off the bounds that 
held them closed.  Something inside of him 
told him over and over that he was needed, 
that to sink back in to the abyss would be 
disastrous for all concerned, especially 
himself, and it was this all encompassing 
need that forced him finally to come back in 
to a state of full awareness. 

Slowly, painfully, Fox Mulder opened his 
eyes. 

He was more than a little surprised to find 
himself focusing on the stark brightness of 
a fluorescent light and for a few seconds he 
felt an overwhelming sense of fear as he 
realised he was in alien surroundings.   

As his mind cleared, however, he was able to 
identify the slightly antiseptic scents that 
assailed him and put two and two together.  
He was in a hospital.  The how and why would 
follow shortly, and for the present time 
they didn't really concern him.  Instead he 
focused on the light above him, willing and 
able to wait until he felt more together 
before asking himself questions he couldn't 
answer. 

The sound of a door being opened somewhere 
to the left of him prompted him to attempt 
to lift up his head, but the slight movement 
caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him 
as his equilibrium struggled to cope with 
the sudden rush of blood.  A hand on his 
chest ceased his efforts, and beyond the 
roaring sound in his ears a familiar voice 
reached him. 

"Take it easy, Mulder." 

The damage though had already been done, and 
Mulder's last waking thought before lapsing 
back in to brief unconsciousness was 
surprisingly lucid. -- Why was Skinner in 
San Diego? -- and the answer came right 
alongside it, that whatever the reason was 
it was bad . . . very bad.  

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

"So how are you feeling now?"  

The man had earlier identified himself as 
being called O'Brien, and from what Mulder 
could gather, he had been overseeing all of 
his treatments over the past twenty four 
hours, and was now continuing along that 
same vein. 

Mulder's earlier lapse in to unconsciousness 
had been brief and he had awakened once 
again to find Skinner gone and this man in 
his place. 

He had allowed himself to be thoroughly 
checked over, and had attempted to furnish 
the doctor with some kind of explanation for 
his recent illness.  He also knew by the 
man's guarded expression that he was still 
at a complete loss as to how to give any 
kind of definitive reason for Mulder's 
condition. 

Mulder too was unable to piece together 
anything that could be of much use.  He 
remembered hazy details of his being in San 
Diego and the reasons for it, but beyond the 
vaguest of recollections, his mind was a 
complete blank.  The headache was still 
there, pounding away in his skull and, 
despite the pain relief the medical staff
had administered, was not abating at all. 

Mulder forced himself to rise above the pain 
in order to arrange his thoughts in to some 
kind of distinct pattern that would enable 
him to make sense of why exactly he was 
here, and more importantly why Skinner had 
chosen to fly half way across the country to 
be here too.  His instincts told him it 
wasn't simply out of concern for his health. 

He eyed O'Brien as the doctor jotted some 
more notes on to the chart that hung at the 
bottom of the bed and voiced the question 
which had been buzzing uncomfortably around 
his head since his awakening. 

"Is my partner here?" 

His tone was casual, but the words hung in 
the air as O'Brien busied himself with his 
writings.  The seconds ticked by as Mulder 
waited patiently for a response, and when it 
became obvious that he was not going to 
answered he tried again. 

"Agent Dana Scully.  Is she here?" 

O'Brien raised his head, and although he 
attempted to keep his expression neutral, 
something about the way he shifted his eyes 
away caused momentary panic to surge through 
Mulder. 

"Dr. O'Brien?" 

"Um . . . no.  She's not here."  He replaced 
the chart in to it's slot and turned away, 
abruptly ending a conversation he did not 
feel equipped to handle.  Mulder's unease 
edged up another notch, and he struggled to 
remain calm. 

"I think you should talk to Mr. Skinner, 
Agent Mulder, that is if you feel up to it." 

Mulder nodded numbly, not trusting himself 
to speak as the doctor raised his eyebrows 
in an unspoken query, wondering just exactly 
he was about to hear from his superior, but 
knowing that what ever it was it was 
unlikely to be good news. 

O'Brien pivoted quickly and Mulder, from his 
prone position on the bed, heard rather than 
saw his exit from the room, just as he was 
aware of Skinner's sudden presence before he 
actually saw him appear above him, the 
concern on his face was unmistakable. 

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder did not answer immediately, waiting 
for Skinner to take a seat beside him, 
dismissing his question as being irrelevant. 

"Where's Scully? Why isn't she here?" 

Skinner closed his eyes briefly, knowing 
that he could not escape answering, but at 
the same time knowing that Mulder was in no 
shape to confront the realities of his 
partner's situation until he was stronger.   
He briefly considered lying, but dismissed 
it when he realised that weakened or not, 
Mulder would no doubt see right through him.  
He finally decided that optimistic honesty 
would be his best course of action for the 
time being. 

"Agent Scully is missing." 

"What?" Mulder's voice came out strong and 
clear as his natural defences for his 
partner's well being kicked in and Skinner 
held up his hand in an effort to calm him 
down and also to prevent him from struggling 
in to a sitting position too quickly. 

Mulder though was having none of it, and 
despite Skinner's best efforts he raised 
himself up, closing his eyes as a wave of 
nausea overwhelmed him.  He felt Skinner's 
hand on his shoulder and he opened his eyes. 

"What do you mean missing?" 

Skinner removed his hand. 

"Agent Scully hasn't been seen or heard of 
since late last night.  There was an 
incident at the motel you were staying at.   
A man was fatally wounded." 

Mulder narrowed his eyes. 

"And?" he prompted. 

Skinner sighed as he realised that honest 
optimism had flown out the window.  Only the 
truth remained, as elusive as ever. 

"A witness has identified Scully as firing 
the shot, that it was an unprovoked attack.  
She hasn't been seen since driving from the 
motel." 

"And you believe it?" Mulder's voice was 
heavy with cynicism, and Skinner eyed him 
levelly. 

"Can you give me a good reason not to?" 

The expression on Mulder's face made Skinner 
instantly wish the choice of words back in 
to his mouth, especially in light of his own 
deep misgivings regarding the case.  But he 
did not have the luxury of reiteration.  The 
words had been said.  He couldn't take them 
back. 

"You're kidding, right?  This is Scully 
you're talking about here.  Do you really 
believe she's capable?" 

Skinner opened his mouth to speak, to be 
allowed to put things right but Mulder threw 
him one more disgusted look before pushing 
back the covers and swinging his legs over 
the side of the bed.  The action pushed the 
words from Skinner's head as concern for the 
agent in front of him overrode that of the 
one in his thoughts. 

"What are you doing, Mulder?" The question 
was irrelevant since he already knew the 
answer, and he wasn't surprised when Mulder 
did not respond.   

He watched as the younger agent struggled to 
his feet, only moving when it was obvious 
that Mulder was in no state to be standing 
up.  He grabbed his arm and applied just 
enough pressure to let Mulder know that he 
wasn't kidding, and Mulder in turn allowed 
himself to be pushed back in to a seated 
position. 

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" 

Mulder didn't flinch in the slightest. 

"I'm checking out.  I need to find her." 

Skinner laughed, the sound hollow and 
totally without mirth. 

"And how exactly do you propose to do that? 
E.S.P? Don't be an idiot, Mulder." 

He allowed his voice to soften slightly as 
he regarded the stricken expression on the 
younger man's face, needing him to face 
facts. 

"Take a look at yourself, Mulder.  How long 
do you think you'd last before you wound up 
right back in here?  You're in no shape to 
be going anywhere, and misplaced heroics 
aren't going to help Agent Scully." 

"How are you helping her? You shouldn't be 
here, you should be out there finding her." 

Skinner sighed. 

"Mulder, I have half the San Diego Bureau 
trying to find her and the other half 
figuring out ways to *help* find her.   
Believe me, I've got it covered, and what I 
don't need is another of my Agents going 
missing, especially one who has no business 
walking around.  It won't help you, it won't 
help me and it won't help Scully." 

He waited a few seconds for his words to 
register, and it was with a certain amount 
of relief that he watched Mulder relax 
slightly, knowing that for the time being at 
least he was having a measure of success, 
before carrying on. 

"What I need from you, Agent Mulder, is a 
narrative.  Everything, anything you can 
remember that might help.  I don't care how 
trivial it might seem, I need to hear it." 

To his intense relief, Mulder nodded 
slightly. 

"You're right.  I'm sorry, I just . . . I 
don't know what to think any more. . ." 

"It's OK." 

Mulder closed his eyes, the weariness 
showing all too clearly in his face. 

"I need some time."  

Skinner observed the unhealthy pallor of his 
Agent, and was reminded sharply of how ill 
Mulder had been.  The last thing he needed 
right now was to be pushed too hard, 
especially in light of everything that had 
happened, and Skinner was smart enough to 
realise that a couple more hours would 
hardly make any difference either way.  He 
made the decision to leave quickly. 

"Get some rest.  I'll come back later." 

He waited a few minutes until Mulder was 
sleeping, and then quietly left the room, 
taking the opportunity to grab some much 
needed food and a change of clothes. 

He returned to the hospital ninety minutes 
later and headed straight up to Mulder's 
room.  He was less than pleased, although 
not particularly surprised, to be confronted 
with realisation that his Agent had gone. 

Continued chapter 18/30