From: Xenith <xenitha@yahoo.com>
Date: Thu, 22 May 2003 00:50:28 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Invisible War (1 of 9)
Source: direct

Title: The Invisible War (1 of 9)

Author: Xenith

E-Mail: xenitha@yahoo.com

Website: http://xenith.freeservers.com

Rating: R for violence, could get worse

Classification: Story and angstfest

Keywords:Muldertorture, M/Sc/Skinner friendship

Disclaimer: The XFiles and all the characters belong
to Chris Carter. This story is written in homage to a
fine series, intended to keep the flame alive until CC
gets us the next XF movie!

Spoilers: None, but takes place assuming seasons 8 and
9 never happened.

Archive: Sure! But e-mail me first.
 
Feedback: Oh yes! Lots of it!! Lots and Lots!!!

Summary: Mulder is missing and only Scully can find
him and help to save his body and his mind.


April 6, 2002
10:00 a.m.
Washington D.C.

"I can't believe there's still nothing!" Agent Scully
sat down stiffly in the chair A.D. Skinner offered
her. "It's been twenty six days and there's been no
sign of Mulder, or any of them!"

Skinner removed his glasses and rubbed at tired eyes.
"Agent, you already know how thorough the
investigation has been. Hell, you've been the lead
agent since Mulder's disappearance. I wish I had some
news for you, but I don't. He was last seen on the
second day of a seven day UFO convention at the L.A.
Radisson, as were the other six people missing. Not
one of the missing conventioneers has turned up, alive
or dead." He grimaced. "You'd almost believe the
tabloids and assume they've been.."

"Taken by aliens? That isn't what happened, and you
know it." She got up and began to pace. "He isn't
dead, I know it."

"You don't want him to be dead, Dana, there's a
difference. You may have to accept the inevitable."
Skinner looked up at his agent and softened his voice.
"You've known for a long time that something like this
was likely to happen to him, eventually."

"At least you aren't assuming Mulder had some kind of
psychotic break and disappeared on his own. You should
hear the L.A. detectives discuss this case; the
missing wacko's they call it. They don't see missing
people, just a bunch of fruitcakes who've wandered off
somewhere following little green men." She stopped,
and then continued. "The Los Angeles Field Office
unofficially sees this as just another one of Spooky
Mulder's antics."

"Scully, I know that if Mulder's missing, there's a
good reason for it. He didn't indicate to you that he
planned to follow up any cases, did he? Do some
investigating on his own?" Skinner leaned forward.
"He's been known to ditch you before."

She glared at Skinner, then controlled herself. "No.
This is real. Mulder was invited to speak at the
convention and so he went, just as he has gone to at
least a half dozen other conventions. He had no other
plans that I'm aware of. Have you heard anything from
your...um...informal channels?"

Skinner shook his head, "No, I haven't heard anything.
I'm sorry." He mulled over possible contacts he might
have missed, he'd even left word for the Smoker, but
nothing had materialized.

Scully broke into Skinner's reverie, "Are you sure? Is
there anyone you haven't spoken with?" She hesitated,
"You know who I mean."

Skinner gave her a compassionate look and shook his
head. "I haven't so much as smelled the man; I'm
sorry."

Scully looked down at the carpet, struggling to hold
back tears. "Then let me go back to Los Angeles. I'd
like to review what little evidence there is and talk
to the organizers again. I...don't think the
investigation will get very far if I'm not there."

"The L.A. Field Office has already covered that,"
Skinner pointed to a pile of files stacked on his
desk. "You know what the answers are."

"Obviously not all of them," she returned."We found no
commonalities among the missing. They are from
different parts of the country, both genders, all ages
and didn't even attend the same sessions. There has to
be some reason these people were taken and nobody
else!" She began to pace again. "Mulder's clothes were
left in his room with no signs of struggle. He was
last seen March 11 and the hotel didn't notice he was
gone until the convention had ended, March 18."

"And we had no idea he was in trouble until he didn't
report to work on Wednesday, March 20," Skinner added.
"He'd already been gone ten days by then. I gather it
isn't unusual for him to go that long without calling
you?"

Scully started with a guilty expression. "He knows how
I feel about these conventions, so when he gets
invited to speak at one we generally don't discuss it.
I didn't think it was unusual for him to be out of
touch for that period of time, but I should have
checked on him."

Skinner sighed, "He's a grown man, Agent Scully. He
shouldn't need you to tie his shoelaces for him! But
I'll okay the travel voucher. Get going, and bring him
back."

Scully gave him the first smile he'd seen out of her
today and slipped out of the office. Skinner watched
her go and drummed his fingers on the desk, then
picked up one of the files. Tacked inside was a flyer
headed "UFO Convention! Los Angeles Radisson Hotel!!
Featured Speaker, FBI Agent Fox Mulder will speak on
"Alien Abduction and the World Conspiracy".


Scully walked into the office and sat behind his desk,
caressing it a little. Mulder so rarely took any
vacation time that she had been surprised when she
found him filling out a vacation request.

"What's this? Vacation request? Are you feeling sick
or something?" she'd teased.

Mulder grinned, "This is a special all-expenses-paid
vacation, thank you very much. I am flying to sunny
Los Angeles to attend a UFO convention, where I will
give a paper on alien abduction. You wanna come
along?"

Scully had smiled back, "Are you kidding? They're
coming to hear a speaker, not a debate. No, I'll take
it easy while you're gone and maybe clean out this
office a little. The dust mites have dust mites."

"Well, your loss," Mulder tossed back. "My plane
leaves tomorrow morning and I've written down the
hotel name and phone number in case you need it." He
smiled and softened,"But as always, if you need me I'm
on the other end of the cell phone."

"Oh, I think things will be pretty quiet here. Enjoy
yourself and send me a postcard," she'd replied.



"He never even sent the postcard," Scully muttered to
herself and dabbed at one eye. Damned contact lenses.
The office door opened suddenly and she looked up,
startled.

"I'm sorry, Agent," Skinner said uncomfortably. "You
left the files in my office. You'll need them." He put
the stack down on one of the office chairs. "Are you
sure you'll be all right?"

She nodded and he gently closed the door. She got up,
grabbed the top file and returned to the desk with it
and began to read it. Again.


10:30 p.m.

"Coming!" Scully got off the couch and was heading for
the door when the doorbell rang again. She looked
through the peephole and sighed, then unlocked the
door. "Hello, guys. Come on in. Have a seat."

The Lone Gunmen strode into her apartment and settled
onto the couch. Frohike cleared his throat, "Ms.
Scully, we know it's late but we thought we'd stop by
and see if there is any more help we can give you."

"Yes, you've already offered. I appreciate the
computer searches you've done and I'm just sorry they
haven't turned up anything more than we already have."
She sat in the armchair across from the couch,
suddenly conscious of her pajamas and bathrobe.

"There may be something more we can do for you," Byers
said, then reached into his coat pocket. "Here's a
local contact who went to the convention. He may have
some more information for you."

Scully took the paper and scanned it. The name didn't
look familiar; probably one of their crackpot friends.
Still, any port in a storm. She could hardly do worse.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll contact him."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like us to come with you?"
asked Byers.

"No, I'll be fine. It's kind of you to offer but I
have an entire field office at my disposal," she
replied.

"That's what we're afraid of," Frohike said. "You
don't know who took him. It might have been one of
your own. Have you considered that?"

"I'm considering everything and nothing at this
point," Scully said. "The day after his presentation,
Mulder was simply gone. His bags were left behind, no
clothing missing beyond what he wore that day, his
credit cards and cell phone haven't been used. There
are no fingerprints, blood stains, no signs of
struggle in his room." She crossed her arms over her
chest. "And there are no signs of his weapon, so I
assume he had it on him."

"It's almost as though he went willingly," Langly
offered. "But where? And I can see why someone would
want Mulder, but why six other people?"

"If he did go willingly, I'll kill him myself when I
find him," Scully said firmly.


April 6, 2002
J. Edgar Hoover Bldg.
10:30 p.m.

Skinner heard a faint noise and looked up from his
desk to see who his visitor was. His nose told him
before his eyes did, that faint reek of cigarette
smoke that preceded this man was his introduction.

"Mr. Skinner, such a pleasure to see you again," the
smoker's eyes crinkled in a sardonic smile. He reached
into his pocket for a pack of Morleys and struck a
match on the corner of Skinner's desk, carefully
lighting his cigarette. "You wanted to see me?"

"You know why I want to see you," Skinner grated.
"What have you done with him? Where is he?"

The smoker's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Who? I'm
not sure I take your meaning."

"Mulder, you bastard. He's been missing three weeks
now. He and six other people disappeared from a UFO
convention in Los Angeles and haven't been heard from
since. It's as if they'd all disappeared off the
planet." Skinner leaned back in his chair and glared
up at the smoker, who had lost his smile and looked
startled.

"Agent Mulder is missing? How...interesting," the
smoker was silent, thinking. "Very interesting indeed.
Well, I don't have any idea where he might be at the
moment, but then, when was I ever Mulder's keeper?"
With a frown the smoker removed the cigarette from his
lips. "I'm sorry that I can't help you with your
little problem. Give Agent Scully my regrets." The
smoker nodded to Skinner and slipped out the door
without any further word.

Skinner sat looking at the closed door while the cloud
of cigarette smoke settled and reflected that he'd
never seen worry on that bastard's face before. He
wasn't sure that was a good sign. If the smoker didn't
have Mulder, who did?



Somewhere
Sometime, Evening?

He stared at the wall and listened to the Voice in his
head. It was very soothing now. It wasn't shouting any
more and he was glad of that. He hated it when the
Voice shouted, because he couldn't shut it out of his
head. The Voice only shouted when he disobeyed, he
reminded himself. The others all obeyed; the ones who
were left, that is.

*Get up now and pick up the comb*

He obediently stood up and walked away from the cot
where he'd been sitting and shuffled forward slowly.
His ankles hurt, couldn't remember why. The black
plastic comb lay on the sink in front of the mirror
and he picked it up and dimly noticed that the bandage
on his wrist was stained red again. Oh yes, he'd tried
to hurt himself. But that wasn't allowed. The Voice
didn't like that.

*Comb your hair* The Voice was loud in his head but
not shouting this time. Good. He began to comb his
hair, smoothing the dark tangles back with his other
hand. His hair was getting long, time to get it
cu...cu

He doubled over in pain, the Voice shouting at him.
*Listen to me! Don't remember before! There is only
here! Now!*

On his hands and knees, he scrabbled around blindly
looking for the comb and was grateful when he found
it. He held onto the comb tightly and waited while the
pain gradually eased away. He slowly climbed to his
feet and positioned himself in front of the mirror
again, combing his hair slowly and persistently. 

He kept his eyes focused on what he was doing;
shouldn't think about anything but performing his task
perfectly. He ignored the bruises on his face from the
Others and the bandages on both wrists. The pain was
harder to shut out but it was necessary in order to
complete his task. If he didn't complete his task,
he'd be punished.

*Wait at the door. You will be summoned.*

He put the comb down and walked to the door, standing
patiently. His door was very strong and always locked.
When he'd first come here he'd tried to get it open.
How he'd tried, he didn't remember. But he shouldn't
think of things like that. The Voice might hear and
punish him. The door clicked open and two of Them
stood on the other side, gesturing him forward. The
prisoner followed the Others and began to feel fear
when he realized where they were going.

They were taking him to the Room, where the Voice
lived, where pain lived. He knew somehow that he lost
a little bit more of himself every time he entered
that room. He looked around the blank hallway for some
kind of escape and spotted a small door. He dove to
the left, frantically trying to pull the door open. It
was locked, so he turned and ran back the way he'd
come. He could hear feet pounding after him and
sprinted faster. Must escape. Must run! Get away!

Panting, he found another door at the end of the hall,
with a window and grabbed at the knob. It was locked
too. He pulled and pushed, then beat against the door,
then the window with both fists until one fist went
through the glass. Sobbing with pain he tried to push
his hand through the broken glass but was pulled
backward by strong hands.

"Nooooo! Let...me...go! Please..." he wailed as the
two picked up his struggling body and forcibly dragged
him back down the hallway to the Room where the Voice
waited for him. He kept fighting, so frantic that he
didn't realize that the Voice was commanding him and
he wasn't listening. He clawed and bit and kicked but
it did no good. One opened the steel door while the
other pulled him inside. The door slammed behind them,
leaving only a bloody trail on the floor and the sound
of screams through the sturdy door.

The Invisible War, Part 2

April 7, 2002
American Airlines Flight 265
10:30 p.m.

Dana Scully edged around in her seat. The flight was
half empty and she could easily have stretched out
across the three seats to take a nap, but she just
couldn't. Anyway, she mused, the files were sitting on
the seats. Her work was spread around her. She sighed.
She'd been in flight for four hours and she had no
better ideas than when she had started.

She picked up the top file and read off the list of
those taken. Jenny Sherrill, age 26, a cocktail
waitress from Montana, single, no kids. Bill Carson,
age 38, a computer salesman from Dubuque, married with
one child. Crystal FeatherFree, tarot reader and
clairvoyant, single, three children, age 40. Maria
Seretti, age 30, attorney from San Francisco,
divorced, no children. Jeffrey Nguyen, age 19,
unmarried student at UC Santa Barbara, Chuck Haynes,
age 50, computer programmer, married with three
children and four grandchildren from Seattle
Washington. And Mulder. Ages ranged from 19 to 50, all
were white except for Haynes who was black and Nguyen
who was Asian.

"It's as if they were trying to draw a representative
sample," she muttered to herself. If she excluded
Mulder, the group would be a 50/50 split male to
female. Maybe Mulder wasn't an intended victim? She
sighed. Or maybe he was and another person was grabbed
by accident. Or maybe the kidnappers wanted just these
seven people. She rubbed her eyes, then checked her
watch. About three more hours to landing. Maybe she
should sleep if she could. She closed her eyes and
leaned back in her seat.

------------


April 7, 2002
American Airlines Flight 265
11:30 p.m.(PST)

She could see him, tied down to a table surrounded by
strange men. They were hurting him! He's screaming, he
can't scream but he's screaming...!

Scully sat bolt upright with a gasp to find herself in
her seat on the plane. The flight attendant was
passing by and gave her a sympathetic look. "Not
everybody is a good flyer. Would you like me to get
you a cocktail or some coffee?"

Scully shook her head dumbly, looking wild-eyed around
the plane. She'd seen Mulder, they were experimenting
on him, like they'd done to her. She rubbed her eyes
and took a deep breath. Okay. She was already worried
about Mulder and that, combined with old memories of
her own abduction, created the nightmare. Yes. That
made sense. That was logical. That must be it. She
looked out the black window and wondered why she felt
such an urgent certainty that Mulder was in terrible
danger.

April 8, 2002
2:30 a.m. (EST)

"I'm so glad to hear from you," the Smoker lifted the
cigarette to his lips. "Conrad, it has been too long.
I understand that some of your people have a project
or two going in California?" He shifted to knock some
ash off the cigarette.

"Yes, we do have several projects in process at this
time. Why do you ask?" Strughold's voice was thin on
the line but the smoker thought he heard irritation.

"Why, you know that we had agreed that I would be
responsible for North America. I'm just surprised that
you hadn't notified me before. I understand that you
acquired some new test subjects in Los Angeles?" The
Smoker sat straighter in the chair. This was the crux;
there had been dissention for months about the extent
of the Smoker's authority. Now he'd find out.

"We did, in the usual fashion. Why do you care?"

"I...ah...was wondering whether you knew that you had
inadvertently caught Fox Mulder in your net? We have
some use for him here, if you'd like to release him to
me." If he could get Strughold to give Mulder to him,
he'd have his chance at last to eliminate the problem
that Mulder had become by winning him to the Project.
Tell his FBI friends that he'd died, even give them a
body if they wanted. It would all work so well. But he
had to get Mulder before they damaged him irreparably.

"Yes, we know that. We always check the identities of
those we...er...recruit into our cause. But this
Mulder has been such a thorn in the side, this is
surely the best way to dispose of it. No, he's already
started Phase 2 and is preparing for Phase 3. He's a
promising candidate; I don't think we should stop his
progress at this point." Strughold paused. "Unless
there is some other reason you want him?"

The Smoker sweated quietly. The fact that Mulder was
his son was not widely known. Purposely, he'd hidden
or broken his family connections to avoid manipulation
by others. He had no logical reason to interrupt a
promising program without raising red flags elsewhere.
"No, no that's fine. You're right, this is a good way
to handle the problem he represents. Thank you." He
gingerly hung up the phone and took a drag on the
cigarette, pondering. Yes, this could work. He picked
up the phone and dialed a number.

"Yeah...What?" Skinner's voice was rough with sleep.
He fumbled with the lamp and turned it on, then
reached for his glasses.

"Assistant Director Skinner, I wanted to get back to
you on your request," the Smoker said in a silky
voice.

"What?" Skinner sat up straight, suddenly awake. "You
have information? Where is he?"

"Not so fast. I can tell you where he is and even get
you in, but I require a small service in return." The
Smoker began to smile. 

Skinner was silent a moment, remembering a deal he'd
made with the bastard for Scully's cancer cure. The
Smoker had never paid up, but kept upping the ante,
wanting more every time. But if he turned him down,
was he dooming Mulder? He took a deep breath. "No
deals. I tried that once."

"Oh no, the deal isn't for you. It's for Agent Scully.
I'm afraid you don't have the professional
qualifications."

"No. If there's anything you need done, I'll do it.
Not her." Skinner felt his body quivering with rage.
That bastard wasn't going to come within a mile of
Agent Scully or he'd know the reason why.

"Then you've sentenced Agent Mulder to a long and
agonizing death," The Smoker took one last puff and
stubbed out the cigarette.

-----------------

...She was beautiful. He looked up at her and saw the
trees framing her hair, her blue eyes softly looking
into his. He was hurt but she would stay awake and
protect him from the monsters. "If it starts raining
sleeping bags you might get lucky..." she was saying
to him. He grinned, knowing that she'd liked his joke
and settled back to rest. Safe.....


The prisoner shifted groggily on his cot, then opened
his eyes. It was just a dream, but he'd thought he was
there. Really there. Not here. He was back in his room
and nothing had changed. The bare white light of the
hanging bulb still shone and there was no window. No
way of telling whetherit was day or night.

He put his right hand under him to lever himself
upright and startled at the sudden sharp pain.
Gasping, he sat up and looked at the hand. It was
bandaged past the wrist, the gauze stained with blood.
How had he done that? Or had they done it? He couldn't
remember. 

Or maybe...yes, he'd tried to run when they were
taking him to the Room for another treatment. He
listened to the silence in his mind; he was alone for
once. No voices yelling at him, making him do things,
punishing him for disobedience. The woman in the dream
had known his name, known him. She'd seemed so real,
and he'd known her name too. He sighed. He knew better
than to try and remember his life before he came here.
Whenever he did the pain was intense and immediate. 
He didn't 
think he had a name anymore. They never addressed or
talked to him and he couldn't remember what it had
been before. But if he could see that woman again,
just once, he knew she'd tell him who he was.

That last treatment was worse than usual, not that any
of them were a walk in the park. That's right. They'd
fixed his hand, picked all the glass out of it and
cleaned it without ever once looking at him. No
anesthetic either. Not that he could have fought back.
They usually hit you with some kind of paralysis as
soon as you were in the door before they strapped you
down. 

Well, he supposed they didn't intend to kill him just
yet or they wouldn't have bothered to bandage his
hand. Too bad. He didn't like his other options.
They'd removed everything sharp or breakable from his
room long ago. They knew he'd either turn it on them
or on himself, anything to escape.

He heard a scraping sound and got up off the bed. The
door to his room opened and three men entered. So he
rated an extra goon today; he should feel flattered.
One man lifted a small box, cell phone? The prisoner
braced himself to run then felt a buzzing sensation in
his head and found himself crumpled on the floor
unable to move.

He struggled to move, move anything while the three
hoisted him up and carried him down the hallway toward
the Room. He remembered other sessions in the room,
God, don't let them take me there....

The door banged open and the three carried him into
the Room and laid him on the table. The man in the
labcoat said nothing but took shears and cut his
clothes off him. Hey, they weren't much, just surgical
scrubs looking pajamas, but at least they kept you
warm. While the prisoner could feel his flesh begin
goose-pimpling, Labcoat strapped down his wrists and
ankles, then nodded to one of the goons.

Goon number one brought over an electric razor and
Labcoat approached the prisoner and began to run the
razor over his head. The prisoner felt his scalp get
colder and colder and realized that Labcoat had shaved
the hair off his head til he was bald. Then he smelled
a chemical odor, faintly familiar, Betadine? and felt
something being applied to his skull. 

But he didn't begin to panic until he saw the tray of
surgical instruments that Labcoat brought over to the
table.  They were shiny, very clean and very sharp.
And on the tray was a small saw. Labcoat donned rubber
gloves and mask, then waited while two more labcoated
assistants joined him. 

The light was dazzling in the prisoner's eyes when he
felt the first slow cut to his scalp as a line of fire
drawing across his head. He heard a scrunching noise
and realized that they were cutting all the way to the
bone. He tried to scream but was denied even that. He
felt terror welling up inside him and he began
breathing fast. His eyes teared up and he could feel
the wetness running down his face. Or was that blood?
All he could see was the light in his eyes and
couldn't movecouldn'tmovecouldn'tmovecouldn'tmove....

They loosened the skin and peeled his scalp forward
off his skull and then he heard the drill and knew
what they were doing. They're messing with my brain!
Goddamn it, stop! He tried to move but couldn't
couldn't couldn't DO anything ohmigod... He smelled a
smoky odor and felt tiny chips hit his face, closing
his eyes against them and trying hard not to vomit. 

The noise stopped and he couldn't feel what they were
doing. He knew that there are no pain sensors in the
brain, so that must mean they were doing something
there. Or maybe not. Maybe they all went home and
didn't tell him. He felt a tugging deep inside his
head and knew he'd guessed wrong. Stop. God..somebody
stop them.... The Others didn't talk, just worked
quietly on him for what felt like a long time. He
closed his eyes and wished for unconsciousness,
wondering what he'd be when they finished. Lobotomy?
Wrong part of the brain... Should he feel
grateful?...God let me die on the table...

Suddenly he was in the office at the Hoover Building
and Scully had a file open on the desk. "It just isn't
possible, Mulder! There's no scientific basis for the
existence of..." The memory went away, but he was just
there, living it! He was there! He'd seen her, smelled
her perfume... He closed his eyes in despair, then
realized that he knew who the woman was. She was in
the dream. She was...Scully? Strange name for a
woman's first name. But she knew him. He
was...Mulder...

He tried to remember, something he'd been punished for
by the Voice. But maybe the Voice couldn't talk to him
while they had his brain open like this. Remember. I
am Mulder. She is Scully. Where...the UFO conference.
I was at the conference when...I don't remember. Then
I was here. Where is here?

The Others hadn't been talking much but a comment
caught his attention. "Now we'll check positioning of
the implant by activating various sensors." 

Warmth and sensation. Deep wonderful pleasure. He was
floating on a lake of orgasmic, eternal
pleasure.....He was vaguely aware that he was smiling.

"He seems to be responding, we'll try the next." 

PAIN! He felt a burning sensation running up his leg
to his crotch and into his gut, where it settled and
devoured his body. He couldn't see, feel, taste, smell
anything but the eternal agony of it...

"Good. Now let's try something else." 

The pain stopped, leaving him panting and sweating.
Then he felt his left foot twitch. Movement returning?
He tried to move his leg but it wouldn't budge and he
couldn't control the foot. They controlled it. The big
toe lifted, lifted, then bent backward at an
impossible angle. The next toe followed and the next
until all five toes were bent at an agonizing angle.
Then his right arm raised and he felt his own hand
grab at his nose and pull hard, then heard the others
laughing.

"One more test." Mulder waited for pain but it didn't
materialize, then felt a warm wetness trickling down
his legs and realized it was urine. 

"As you see, the implants are working well. We'll be
refining and expanding their sensitivity and will
continue the conditioning in preparation for phase 3.
We'll close now, but notice how I can control his
subjective feelings of pain to give him an anesthetic
effect." 

He felt a tugging at his head and realized that they
were sewing him up again but he felt no pain. Not even
when they pulled his scalp back and stitched it
closed. He felt the bandage being wrapped around his
head, then the straps were released and he was put on
a gurney. He was grateful that somebody had thought to
put a blanket over him.

Only two goons this time, they must not think he was
much of a danger now. They trundled him to his room
and plunked him onto his cot. The blanket slipped off
to the floor but nobody noticed. He was cold and
getting colder but still couldn't move. The goons left
and the door closed behind them.

He closed his eyes and shivered, feeling the headache
starting to build behind them. Oh yeah, he'd just had
brain surgery hadn't he? They must have triggered some
memory cells when they were testing the implants.
Implants. What did they do to me? What have I become?
he wondered. 

The Invisible War, Part 3


April 8, 2002
Los Angeles Field Office
8:30 a.m. (PST)

"What do you mean nothing's happened since I left?
It's been a week! Hasn't forensics turned up
anything?" Scully glared at the smug face of the agent
assigned to the case.

"There's nothing to turn up, Agent Scully. We've been
over the scene, talked to witnesses; there's no
evidence and nobody saw anything. There are no leads."
Jim Peterson was in his middle thirties and growing a
paunch. Scully doubted he'd seen much beyond the
bottom of a doughnut box since she'd been gone.

"Besides," Peterson went on. "This investigation
should have been left with L.A.P.D. Everybody knows
that Spooky Mulder disappears periodically, you know
that better than anybody else! Why should we call out
the cavalry and take valuable manpower off real cases
for a screwup like that?" He paused and smirked. "Oh,
excuse me, he's your partner isn't he?"

She kept her face emotionless and squelched the
impulse to flatten him. She needed him and the
resources he represented if she was going to find
Mulder and the other abductees. "Mulder isn't the only
missing person in this case. There are six other
non-FBI 'screwups' who deserve our attention." 

"All right, let's talk about the other people. Half of
'em are diagnosed schizophrenics, likely to go off at
any time. The rest? Who knows! But I figure if they're
going to a UFO convention, they're more than ready for
the little green men to take 'em happily. They're a
bunch of nuts who probably wandered away and forgot to
call home."

"So that means it's okay to kidnap people identified
as 'nuts' or 'wacko's' huh? It's open season because
we don't give a damn what happens to people like that?
We have a job to do, Agent Peterson, whether or not we
agree with their beliefs. Are you an FBI agent or
should I ask L.A.P.D. for a real investigator?" She
stared at him in silence until his face fell.

"Okay, I was out of line. But seriously, Agent Scully,
we don't have anything more to go on." The agent
raised his hands and dropped them.

Scully thoughtfully pulled a Byers' piece of paper
from her pocket, "I think I know one more lead we can
follow."


10:00 a.m.
Venice, California

"This looks like the place," Peterson said doubtfully
as Scully double-checked her note.

"Yes, this is it. I called; Dennis West is expecting
us," Scully got out of the car and Peterson followed
more slowly. The apartment house had seen better days,
probably in the 1930's, Scully surmised. The two story
pink building sat directly on a narrow street fronting
the ocean district, a block or two off the Santa
Monica pier. With no front yard to speak of, the
traffic noise must be pretty bad, she thought as she
opened the door to the lobby. "Up here," she said and
led Peterson up a flight of narrow chipped stairs to
the second floor.

Apartment 35 was at the end of the hallway at the rear
of the building. Scully knocked and waited patiently
while the occupant studied her and Peterson through
the peephole. "Let's see your ID's," said a suspicious
male voice. 

First Scully, then Peterson showed held their badges
up to the peephole before they heard the resident
start to unlock the door. Scully thought she heard at
least three deadbolts released before the door swung
open.

Dennis, for she assumed it was he, stood six feet tall
at about 100 pounds with long stringy graying hair
wearing black jeans and a ratty white t-shirt. But the
most striking thing about Dennis was the aluminum foil
hat he wore.

"Hello, I'm..." she started but he interrupted.

"Dana Scully. Yeah, the guys faxed me your picture so
I could be sure it was you. Um....could I see your
ID's again anyway?" He eyed them anxiously. 

Trying hard not to laugh she handed him her badge and
Peterson followed suit. After long study he handed
them back and ushered them inside. He slammed the door
quickly and locked it behind him, throwing three
deadbolts, a slide and a chainlock.

"Can't be too careful," Dennis said apologetically.
"Especially these days."

"Yes, that's what we wanted to discuss with you,"
Scully said. "This is Jim Peterson, my partner on this
case. We understand you were one of the attendees at
the conference."

"Here, why don't you sit down," Dennis scooped up a
pile of magazines and books and gestured to the now
half cleared couch. Scully and Peterson sat down
gingerly and West took a seat opposite in a chair
hastily cleaned of books and loose papers.

"Yes, I went to the whole event," Dennis began. "I
even went to the talk your partner gave. He was really
good; even talked about some of your cases."

Scully nodded and opened the folder she'd brought with
her. "Here's the list of those who disappeared. Do you
know any of them?"

He nodded and handed the list back. "I know three of
them from an abductee's list we belong to. I knew that
Maria and Jeff got taken, but Crystal....Shit, that's
just awful. She was hoping they'd leave her alone."

"Who? Hoping who would leave her alone?"

"The government, that's who. The ones who are working
with the aliens. They been taking her regularly since
she was a teenager and doing tests on her. Lately, she
said, they've been trying to harass her and control
her mind. It's been a lot worse." He shifted in his
seat uncomfortably.

Scully felt equally uncomfortable, she could sense
Peterson's 'I told you so' smirk. "Worse? How?"

Dennis met her eyes with his own troubled brown ones.
"They've started something new. They're able to read
minds and beam thoughts into them, and they can even
control your body sometimes. It's the beams. No,
really. They're really doing it. Look here," he took
off his hat. "See those tiny holes? Look." He handed
it to her.

Scully took the aluminum hat and held it up to the
light. Sure enough she could see tiny holes burned
through the metal. She handed it to Peterson who took
a look then did a double-take when he saw the holes.
Shaken, he handed it back and Dennis who put it back
on.

"Is that why you're wearing that hat? To protect you
from burns?" Scully asked.

"No! It's their beams! They use the beams to read your
thoughts and worse, to put thoughts into your mind.
They're using electromagnetic radiation, EMR, to read
your mind and put their own voices and thoughts into
you." He rummaged through the magazines on the table
and came up with an article headed "EMR Mind Control:
The Truth". "Here, read this." He handed it to Scully
who glanced at it then gave it to Peterson.

"I know that defense applications have been studied
for some time now," Scully said slowly. "But I'd
always understood that it was purely theoretical."

"Theoretical, my ass! They've been testing it on
humans for the past 20 years, including me. But
usually when they take you, you get returned home
pretty fast. They don't keep you this long."

"What do they do to you? Were you ever taken?" Scully
tried to keep her voice steady as she recalled her own
past.

"I'm pretty sure I have been. I've lost time and found
weird bruises and stuff after, but I don't remember
anything. And I know they're watching me; they trigger
me at random times. Sometimes I get these jabs, stings
all over my body, other times I can read people's
thoughts or I see things, sort of waking visions. And
I can't wear a watch with a battery." He held up his
arm for the agents to see the analog wind-up Timex he
wore. "The batteries die as fast as I change them." He
shifted nervously in his seat.

Scully asked, "Did you see anything unusual at the
convention? When is the last time you saw any of the
abductees?"

West thought for a moment then said, "I think your
partner and Crystal were the last people I saw. They
were talking together after his speech, then suddenly
Crystal just got up and started walking toward the
door with Agent Mulder. I wondered where they were
going at the time. I thought they were going up to
Crystal's room for, you know..." He leered, then
caught sight of Scully's expression and cleared his
throat. "I think they must've left the building.
Actually," he said slowly. "Now that I think about it,
there was something weird in the way Crystal looked.
She had no expression on her face at all; she was kind
of wooden looking. Same for your partner." He looked
worried. "Crystal did tell me once that she thought
they were controlling her body's motions. Every now
and then she'd wake up somewhere not knowing how she
got there."

Scully noted absently that Peterson was reading the
UFO article with great interest. "Is there anything
else that you can add that you think might be
helpful?"

"No, except to warn you to be careful. These people
play rough." He stood up and led them towards the
door. Peterson started to hand him the magazine
article but West waved it away. "Go ahead, keep it.
You two need all the help you can get."

The drive back to the office was quiet. Peterson
concentrated on the road, while Scully looked out the
window absently. Finally Peterson couldn't stand it
any more. "You really believe this, don't you?"

"Believe what? That innocent people are abducted and
experimented on? Yes, I have to believe it." she said.

"Why? It's a load of hogwash, everyone knows it." he
replied challengingly.

"I believe it because it happened to me," she answered
quietly. "I have objective proof that while I was gone
various tests were performed on me, and I have some
lasting effects as a result. I don't remember much,
but I almost died."

Peterson glanced at her, flabbergasted. "But you seem
so..."

"Normal? Thank you, I think I am normal. But if I felt
as harassed and tortured as Dennis West, I'd probably
wear a foil hat if I thought it would help me. Some
days the only thing that kept me sane was Mulder." She
sighed and glanced out the window again.

They heard a loud chirp and both agents reflexively
checked their cell phones. Scully's was silent but
Peterson held his up with a grin and took the call. He
listened intently, then said "You what? Where? We're
on our way!" He put the phone down and grinned. "We
have a break! One of the kidnap victims showed up at
the Greyhound Depo, passed out. She's at the County
Hospital now."

April 8, 2002
Somewhere

Mulder woke, as cold as he'd been when he finally fell
asleep. Why don't they heat these places? he thought
to himself. His head was still pounding and he thought
he'd kill for a couple aspirin. He pried his gummy
eyes open to find the room unchanged, light still
on...no, wait. There was a change. Someone had left a
set of pajamas on the floor inside the door, neatly
stacked. Great. And he could move again. 

He creakily sat up on the cot and rubbed his hands
against his arms. God, he was cold. He got up and made
his way to the door but stopped when he drew level
with the mirror that hung over the sink. He moved
closer and saw his head, covered with bandages. It
wasn't a nightmare, then.

He felt around until he found the end of the bandages
and began to unroll it, slowly and then faster, until
he'd pulled all of it off. Then he just stared. He
gingerly touched one of the stitched incisions that
circled the top of his head. What had they done? He
didn't feel very different. Okay, memory test, my name
is...is...is... I knew yesterday. For a while, I
*knew*, he thought with rising panic. I knew my name
and I knew I had a friend...someone...I don't
recall....DAMN! He threw the bandages to the floor and
resisted the impulse to stomp on them.

He braced himself against the sink and thought hard.
For a while yesterday, he'd had himself back. How had
that happened? He didn't know. But then they'd taken
him to the treatment room and done...this...to him and
he could still remember. Then he went to sleep and all
memory was gone. The surgery? Maybe. What else had he
lost while sleeping?

He stumbled over to the pajamas and slowly put them
on. He supposed he should clothe himself and try to
stay alive, but why that was he had no idea.  He went
back to his cot, glancing at his reflection when he
passed the mirror.

He picked up the blanket and wrapped himself in it,
then huddled on the cot, trying to think.

He was still thinking when the Voice came back. *You
are nothing* it said. He sat up straight. One thing he
did remember was that he'd had a little peace
yesterday when that damned thing was silent. *You are
nothing without the Program*

"Shut the Hell up!" the Prisoner growled at it.

*You are no one. You have no one except within the
Program. I give you purpose*

"What purpose can there be but to destroy me?" he
muttered to it.

*I am not here to destroy you, but to help you* The
Voice took on a pleasant, gentle tone. *You are sick
and I'm here to heal you. You're alone and I'm your
friend*

"I'm not alone! I have friends!" the Prisoner shouted,
clapping his hands over his ears. "Get out of my
head!"

*Your friends have forgotten you. They never believed
you anyway; you were always an embarassment to them.
Listen to me and find your purpose in life. Listen.
Listen. LISTEN. LISTEN!*

The Voice became overpowering until the Prisoner was
huddled in the cot under the blanket, futilely trying
to stop his ears against the voice in his mind.

They came for him later. The Voice hadn't stopped
beating against his mind, reminding him that he must
listen and always obey. At first he'd fought it, then
just tried to remain silent endure. He was almost
grateful for the distraction.

"Two goons again, huh?" he said when the motioned for
him to get up. "I should give you guys names since
we're together so much. I know, you're Moe and you
must be Curly. So where's Larry?" The goons remained
silent and expressionless. They just grabbed him by
the arms and pulled him from the cot.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," the prisoner muttered as
they shoved him into the hallway. He could guess where
they were going and, for what seemed like the
hundredth time, scanned the area for escape routes. As
usual nothing presented itself. Better to conserve his
strenth then, he decided.

The guards shoved him inside the Treatment room and
shut the door behind him. That was odd, usually they
took him in here and strapped him down. Hey, there was
nobody in here. He was alone. Well, there was probably
somebody watching behind the big two-way mirror that
lined the wall, still, he could explre and maybe find
a weapon or two.

Before he had gotten two steps into the room the Voice
shouted, *Stop!* Irritated, the prisoner held a single
digit up to heaven, said "Fuck you!" and walked
forward. He was stopped in his tracks by an
excruciating pain that ran up his legs to his spine
and enveloped his body. He crumpled to the floor with
it and when it left a moment later he lay panting
there.

*When I command, you will OBEY. Now get up*

Shaken, the prisoner got to his knees and climbed to
his feet. *Go over to the box in the corner*

Warily the prisoner obeyed. There was a large
cardboard box with a rustling sound inside. The Voice
commanded him to open it and look inside, so he did.
Three baby kittens huddled in the box, looking up at
him trustfully. He didn't like where this was going.

*Pick up the black one* Hesitantly, he did so and
cradled it against his chest. He was strangely
comforted by it's soft purr.

*Now kill it* 

The Prisoner almost dropped the kitten in his outrage.
"No! Hell, no! I won't! No..." The pain began again,
only it was worse this time but the Prisoner gritted
his teeth and decided to endure. Just when he thought
he'd pass out from it, the pain stopped. He began to
hope that he could beat this, then noticed that he was
standing. His hand began reaching down to the kitten,
now on the floor.

Wait, he thought, I'm not doing this. I can't be doing
this but my hands are moving! His hands picked the
kitten up and cuddled it close to his chest again.
Then, with one hand bracing against it's body and the
other at it's head, he neatly snapped its neck. At
that instant he was flooded with pleasure, a glowing,
fiery joy like he'd never known before. 

Dimly he heard the Voice in his mind say *You will
always obey. Then you will be rewarded, now let's try
this again*


Noon
Los Angeles County Hospital

Scully and Peterson were shown into Crystal
FeatherFree's room by a bored looking nurse. She sat
up in bed, looking calm and collected.

"Hello, you must be the FBI agents," she said
pleasantly. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Yes, I'm Dana Scully and this is my partner, Jim
Peterson. We'd like to ask you some questions if you
feel up to it."

"Sure. I'm only here for observation because I passed
out. What can I tell you?"

"Well, first the most obvious. What happened? Where
were you?" Scully took a chair next to the bed, as did
Peterson.

"I was abducted is what happened. I don't know where
they took me but I've been there before."

"Excuse me for saying so, but you seem remarkably calm
for somebody who's been kidnapped," Scully felt
vaguely betrayed by this woman who took abduction so
lightly.

"Well, it happens to me pretty often. I'm really
cheesed off, if you want to know the truth. They
usually get it over with and let me go in a few hours.
This time they kept me three fricken weeks! All my
usual clients must be wondering where I was and what
happened to me!" The woman crossed her arms across her
chest and frowned.

"This is a...um...regular occurrence?" Out of the
corner of her eye Scully could see a grin starting to
spread over Peterson's face.

"Yeah. They've been experimenting on my since I was
17," Crystal said. "Hey, don't get me wrong, I hate it
and it's a bitch on my schedule. But I can't stop them
and nobody believes me when I report it to the police.
And I don't want to spend another week in a psych
ward."

"Um...okay. Well, have you seen this man?" Scully
handed her a photo of Mulder.

Crystal's said. "Yes, I know him, Agent Mulder. He
spoke at the convention. Actually, I'd just been to
Agent Mulder's talk, a very good one, when the next
thing I know I'm walking out the door to a car that's
waiting for me. And I was talking to Mulder at the
time; so he got hit too, by whatever it was they used.
It's as if they took over my body for a minute or two.
I had no control at all." She took a deep breath.
"When we got into the car everything went black and I
woke up there."

"Where is 'there'?" Scully asked. 

"I'm sorry, I don't know where," Crystal said. "It
looked like a psych ward or hospital from the inside.
There were locked doors everywhere. At first Mulder
and I were kept in a big ward with others who were
taken. Some abductees were from the convention and
others I didn't recognize." She looked troubled. "But
Mulder fought against everything, no matter how they
tried to subdue him. Finally they moved him to the
special group."

Crystal gave Scully a long look. "He's important to
you, isn't he? I'm so very sorry."

"What do you mean? Is he dead?" Scully stumbled over
the last word.

"No, but it would be better for him if he were. I
overheard some of the guards talking about what they
were doing to the special ones. It was different that
what they did to us."

"Different? Different how?" Scully leaned forward.

"The guards said something about implants and that the
specials won't own their own souls when the treatments
are done. I don't know what that means but it scares
me. I don't think they plan to let him go."

April 8, 2002
4:00 p.m.
Hoover Building

Skinner looked at the clock again and reminded himself
that California was three hours ahead of him. Scully
would call when she had news. He looked at the papers
on his desk and drummed his fingers again, then rubbed
his tired face with both hands.

Last night he had tossed and turned in a bed suddenly
grown lumpy and uncomfortable. He couldn't commit
Scully to a deal with that cheating bastard, and the
Smoker wouldn't let Skinner take Scully's place. Part
of him was relieved that the Smoker had turned him
down. Another part was ashamed.

How many times had Mulder ever let him down? Never.
And now Mulder needed his help and what did he have to
give? Nothing but frustration. He knew that if Scully
were told about this deal she'd go for it in a minute.
Therefore, he wouldn't tell her. That much he knew
Mulder would approve.

But the waiting was hard. What if nothing turned up?
He looked at the clock again and picked up the phone
to call Scully. The call to her cell was picked up
quickly.

"Agent Scully, how are you doing?" Skinner asked
crisply. He heard Scully say, "Just a moment," and
another voice reminding her that cell phones weren't
allowed inside the hospital. "Sir," Scully said. "I'll
have to call you from outside. Just a moment."

A few minutes later she called back. "I'm in the
parking lot with Agent Peterson, sir. You probably
want to know the case's status."

She means she hasn't found him yet, thought Skinner.
"Yes, Agent. Any progress?"

"Very little, I'm sorry to say. One of the abductees
was found at a local Greyhound station and claims she
was returned. Sir, she's seen Mulder." A pause. "She
says he's a special prisoner, he's being given special
testing and she doesn't think they're going to let him
go."

"I see," Skinner said, keeping his voice calm. "Any
leads on where he is?"

"No sir. Nothing. I...I don't know where to go from
here." Scully paused, then he heard her talking to
Peterson. "What? She what? How?"

"Agent? What is it?"

"Sir, the witness we spoke to, the abductee...she just
went into convulsions and died. Just now. I have to
go," Scully hung up the phone.

Skinner was silent a moment, his hand clenched into a
fist, then opened it again. He picked up the phone and
dialed a number.

"Agent Skinner, how pleasant to hear from you again.
And how are Agents Mulder and Scully?" The Smoker's
voice always had that smug edge to it.

"You know how they are. Look, I'll agree to your deal.
I'll do anything you want, just tell me where Mulder
is," Skinner tried to keep his voice level and
reasonable.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Skinner," the Smoker replied.
"As I told you before, my deal is for Agent Scully and
not for you. Circumstances haven't changed. Are you
authorized to deal on her behalf?"

"No, I haven't told her," Skinner replied.

"Well then you'd better tell her. Or should I
telephone?" That bastard was enjoying this...

"No! I'll call her. I'll get back to you." Skinner
slammed the phone down, wishing it were the Smoker's
face. He lifted the phone again and called Scully's
line. She answered it absently.

"Agent Scully, can you talk?"

"Yes sir, for the moment. Sir, it looks like the
witness died of cerebral hemhhorage. The nurses found
a small patch of hair shaved off the top of her head.
She's had some kind of brain surgery recently. I think
it killed her, but I won't be sure until the autopsy."

Skinner took a deep breath. "Agent Scully, you may not
have time for the autopsy. I've been offered
information about Agent Mulder's whereabouts and the
necessary ID to get into the facility where he's being
held."

"Sir, that's wonderful! When can we start?"

"The deal is with the Smoking man and he doesn't want
to deal with me, but with you. He has a project he
needs help with." Skinner paused, then continued. "I
offered to do it myself but he refuses to consider
that. He says that only you are qualified. I didn't
want to tell you about this."

"How long has the offer been on the table?" Scully
asked tensely.

"Since last night. I didn't want to tell you unless it
was the only option. I'm sorry." 

"Sir, it's become necessary. She said that Mulder was
a special case. If she has only one implant and it
killed her, what are they doing to him? We have to get
to him before it's too late. What number do I call?"

Secret War, part 4


Scully called the number Skinner gave her with
trepidation. She had no faith that the Smoker wouldn't
have some double-cross in mind for her, but if she
could rescue Mulder it would be worth it. She'd deal
with double-crosses later. The line answered with a
familiar voice.

"Yes, I've been told that you have some information I
need," she began.

"Agent Scully, how good to hear from you. I trust
you're keeping well?" said the oily voice on the other
side.

She kept her temper with difficulty. "Skinner tells me
you have a deal for me. What is it you want in
exchange for Mulder?"

"Why nothing you aren't qualified to give. I simply
want the benefit of
 your expertise. That's all."

"And what would that be?" she asked suspiciously.

"An autopsy. I value your skill in your particular
profession and need an unbiased opinion." 

What was he getting at? Where was the catch? "Who or
what am I supposed to autopsy?" She looked around
uncomfortably, suddenly sure she was under
surveillance.

The Smoker chuckled. "A participant in one of my
projects died recently. There is dispute regarding
exactly what killed him, and the medical personnel
involved are, shall we say, biased? Therefore a
neutral third opinion is called for. You support no
particular side in the issue and have a reputation for
scrupulous honesty. Therefore I am willing to trade my
information for your services."

"I see. And where is this autopsy to take place? When
I get your information I'll need to act on it
immediately." She waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Unfortunately, you'll be needed in D.C. Assistant
Director Skinner will have to act on the information
on your behalf." 

"If Mulder's still in California, then Skinner will
lose a day flying out here! God knows what might
happen to Mulder in the interim!"

She could almost hear the Smoker shrug. "Nevertheless,
this is the best I can do. Are you interested?"

She sighed. There had never been a choice, really.
"Yes, I'll do it. Tell me what to do."

"It's very simple, fly back to Washington and a car
will pick you up at the airport. Tell Mr. Skinner to
make his travel arrangements. My representative will
meet him with the necessary papers at Dulles."

"All right," she said, and hung up the phone in
resignation. After a moment to compose herself, she
called Skinner.

April 8
7:40 p.m.
Dulles Airport

Skinner checked his watch and looked around. He'd
already checked in and gotten his boarding pass, so
where was the Smoker's contact? He still didn't like
this deal and had told Scully so, but he knew it was
wasted effort for them both to complain about it. It
had always been obvious that they were going to take
the deal.

"Penny for your thoughts," said a familiar voice. 

Skinner looked up to see Krycek smiling at him with
irony. He wondered vaguely how Krycek had gotten past
airport security to the boarding area without a plane
ticket. "So he's using you as his errand boy again?
What's wrong, Krycek, can't you ever get a promotion?"
Skinner frowned at the other man. Krycek's grin simply
got broader. He held out a large manila envelope and
Skinner took it.

"What is this?" Skinner asked, opening the envelope
and peering inside.

"Credentials and security codes for the facility.
You're scheduled to be part of a tour tomorrow at 6
p.m. The video-monitoring system will be overridden
from 6 to 10 p.m. and the security codes are due to be
changed at midnight, so you'd better do what you came
for before then. The rest is up to you. Good luck."
With that, Krycek melted into the crowd. 

Skinner looked up and found him gone, then shrugged
and went back to the packet. He had to hand it to the
Smoker, he was thorough. He had an ID badge, with
photograph, identifying him as Walter Smith, a
geneticist from New York. Mulder was being held at the
Fletcher Mental Health Institute, near Bakersfield
California. A nice remote area to keep your guinea
pigs, Skinner thought. There was also a set of
blueprints of the building's interior, showing
exterior doors and the security system. And a brief
note, unsigned: "Although you might be tempted to
carry your weapon and wear a recording device, I'd
advise against it. You will enter the building through
a metal detector and frisked on entrance." He really
wants us to do this, Skinner realized. He briefly
wondered what the Smoker got out of this, then decided
to shelve the thought for later consideration. The
important thing now was to get Mulder out.

He opened his cell phone and called Scully."I have
it," he said. "It looks legitimate."

"Good," she answered. "I'm about to get on the plane.
I suppose this is a 'go' then. Do you have the medical
supplies?"

"Yes, I do," Skinner replied, troubled. "I had medic's
training in the Marines, but that was basic first aid.
I'm not sure I can handle anything more complicated."

"You just have to keep him stable until you can get
him to UCLA. I called an old friend there, a
neurosurgeon, Dr. Evelyn Lewiston. She's expecting
him."

"All right," Skinner sighed. "Good luck. I'll phone
when I have him and leave a message as necessary. You
do the same when you're done; I'll have my cell off
until we're out." He stopped, then added. "If I don't
hear from you in 48 hours, I'll assume you're a
captive and take appropriate steps. And Scully..."

"Yes sir?"

"Be careful. You know he can't be trusted."

Skinner looked up when his flight was called. He
gathered his belongings together, taking care to fold
the envelope into his jacket pocket. It wouldn't do to
lose this. He had a long flight ahead and a lot of
planning to do.

April 8
Somewhere
Somewhen

The prisoner staggered back to his room between the
two guards, who supported him on both sides. He held
his hands out away from his body, looking only at the
barely cleaned blood that reddened them. The guards
opened the door to the room, shoved him in, then
locked it behind him. He was left standing alone in
the center of the room.

The things he'd done during the past hours were
unspeakable. Trembling, he stumbled to the sink and
began to wash his hands. He scrubbed until the scabs
on his right hand broke and bled, his own blood
merging with the other blood in the water. Finally, he
shut the water off and rubbed his hands dry on the
pajamas. Then he looked down and saw the blood stains
there. He quickly stripped them off, bundled them into
a ball and threw them into the corner of the room.
Then he moved toward the toilet in the corner and lost
what little food he'd eaten that day.

He made his way to the cot and wrapped the blanket
around him, huddling down as deeply as he could. He
forced himself to take deep breaths and reminded
himself that he hadn't done those things. The Others
were making his body do them, trying to train him to
enjoy killing and pain. He'd killed today. Small
animals at first, always with bare hands, always with
that pleasurable rush at the moment of the kill. It
didn't come from me, he reminded himself. It wasn't
me. It was them. 

After the small animals they'd moved to higher
animals, dogs and later monkeys and chimps. They had
been restrained but conscious, victims of the
inexorable command from the Voice. He'd killed
everything he'd been directed to. The chimp had been
the worst. Strapped down like a man on the table where
the prisoner himself usually lay. And it watched him
with human eyes as he disembowelled it alive. The
prisoner held out a shaking hand and saw the blood
still embedded under his nails and closed his eyes
against it, swallowing hard.

The best resistance he'd been able to manage was to
hide inside himself and let the body do what it did.
He'd tried to cocoon himself inside black darkness but
it didn't work. That terrible rush of pleasure, the
wash of evil joy always found him and brought him out,
gasping. He had begun to fear that soon he'd begin to
crave it if it went on much longer. The pleasure came
from Them; it had to be. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't
sure who he was, but he knew that. But who he be in a
week he didn't know. There'd been a pattern to the
training today, working from lower life forms to the
almost human. What would it be tomorrow?

He hugged his arms to himself and began to rock back
and forth. Tomorrow would inevitably come. And what
then? What then? Who had he been to deserve this? Had
he been an evil man? He didn't think so, or he'd be
enjoying this killing. He got up and approached the
mirror, examining his face in it. The stitches looked
angry and raised against his skin, like something on a
Frankenstein monster. He touched one carefully, then
brought his hand down.  

The Voice had been less in evidence lately than when
he'd first come here. Back then it had never been
silent except when he could sleep. Since this surgery
it seemed to stop after his sessions in the treatment
room. Maybe they thought they had him under enough
control that it wasn't necessary. In any case, for the
time being he was as alone as he'd ever be. Whenever
he tried to remember his past he was washed with pain;
even thinking about it now gave him twinges. Why? Why
so important that he forget who he was? It might make
it easier for them to control his mind, turn him into
a killer with the treatments and the surgery. "It's
easier to write on a blank slate," he murmured to
himself softly. But he'd remembered his name just
yesterday before they'd blanked it out again, so it
was possible to beat this conditioning.

What did he know about himself? He mentally began
counting off. He was educated, he thought. He seemed
to know facts and words that were out of the ordinary.
He'd understood about pain sensors in the brain,
understood medical terms used by those who'd operated
on him. Was he a doctor then? He didn't think so.
Maybe he worked for or with a doctor? He wasn't kept
with the other prisoners any more. Why was he
different? Was it because he'd fought so hard or some
other reason?

In any case, he had to get out of here and fast,
before he became something even he didn't recognize.
He eyed the pajamas wadded up in the corner, then at
the blanket.
He returned to the cot and wrapped the blanket around
his right hand. He mentally gave his bruised and
scabby fingers an apology just before he drove his
fist into the mirror. It shattered and spewed glass
across the floor. He gathered the shards together into
a pile and picked out the biggest and sharpest ones.
These he set aside and began to plan for tomorrow.


April 9
Somewhere
Early morning

The prisoner heard the guards in the hallway. He'd
already dressed himself in his pajamas and had wrapped
his left hand and arm in the blanket. He held shards
in both hands, half hidden in his loose trousers. The
door opened and the prisoner got up, moving to stand
between the guards. At the last moment he faked a trip
and fell into the first guard, jabbing the shard of
mirror in deep. Then he turned abruptly away and
slashed at the second guard who was bending down.
Guard number two went down bleeding, and the prisoner
ran.

He got to the door and began pounding at the newly
repaired window with his wrapped hand. An alarm
sounded as it began to fracture. This was taking too
long. He wrapped both hands into the blanket and
pounded some more. So slow...so slow! Soon others
would arrive and he'd be overwhelmed. He had to get
out. Now!

Finally the safety glass shattered. He cleared as much
as he could and put the blanket over the frame, then
shinnied through. He stood outside the building in the
early morning sun and studied his surroundings, then
began to make his way to the fence. He could feel
himself tripping and stumbling over the dirt. Funny,
he'd been clumsy ever since they'd done whatever
they'd done to his brain... No matter, run harder and
get the Hell OUT of here...

He could see a brick wall ahead. If he could get over
that, he might be safe. The Others must have found the
guards and the door by now but he hoped he could at
get to a hiding place if not safety before they closed
in. That was his last thought before his body froze.
His legs stopped moving and his forward momentum
pitched him forward into the dust.

He lay there unable to move, hearing but not seeing
footsteps approaching him. Hands grabbed him and
hauled him upright. He found himself facing Labcoat
who held the black remote control and wore a serious
look.

"You are not allowed to leave without permission. You
know that. You are also to harm only targets which we
give you. You know that too." The hand moved on the
remote and the world exploded in fire. The pain began,
then increased and continued increasing until the
prisoner was writhing. He heard Labcoat hit another
button and it redoubled again. Screaming, the prisoner
squirmed and fought against it until a convulsion took
him. Labcoat watched the convulsions impassively and
was joined by a second man.

"You might damage him," said the second man. "You know
what Strughold ordered."

"I know. But I've been entrusted with his conditioning
and he will learn if it kills him. I think I'll
accellerate the training. I don't want any more
slip-ups." Labcoat hit another button and the
convulsion stopped, leaving the prisoner unconscious
in the dust, blood running down his chin from where
he'd bitten his tongue. As the two men walked away,
the guards picked up the prisoner and carried him back
into the building.

April 9, 2002
Noon

The prisoner woke up in a room very like the one he'd
left. This one didn't have a mirror but not even the
tiniest sliver of glass lay on the floor. A tray with
a sandwich lay inside the door but he ignored it. He
couldn't stomach food anymore.

He got up and was standing unsteadily when they came
for him. 


April 9, 2002
5:00 a.m. EST
Dulles Airport
Washington D.C.

It had been a long flight and Scully hadn't slept
well. Still, she was glad to be doing something to
find Mulder even if she had grave doubts about the
Smoker. She looked around the airport terminal for the
messenger he was supposed to send.

"Agent Scully," a familiar voice came from behind her.
She turned and blanched. 

"Krycek," she said flatly.

"I'm your driver today. Isn't it odd how the roles
change?" Krycek smiled and gestured toward the exit,
leaving her to carry her own bag.

Reluctantly she followed him. She had to admit that
the choice of Krycek to meet her was inspired, in a
warped sort of way. There could be little doubt who
had sent him, giving him authenticity that no ID could
provide. The limo waited outside in a no parking zone.

"Aren't you afraid of tickets?" she asked as she swung
her bag into the trunk.

"I laugh at tickets, there are other things in life so
much more terrible." Krycek slid into the drivers'
seat without looking to see if Scully followed. She
eyed the empty back seat and decided to sit up front
next to Krycek. 

"My, isn't this cozy," was Krycek's only comment. He
took the limo out of the airport and onto the highway.

"Where are we going?" She looked out the window
hunting for landmarks.

"That is a secret," said Krycek. "You'll have to wear
a blindfold. It's in the glove compartment."

She gave him a sideways look but fished it out of the
glove compartment. It looked more like a pair of
swimming goggles painted over than anything else. She
slid it on and found it blocked the light completely.
"Is this really necessary?" she asked in a pained
voice.

"If you want your partner back, it is." Krycek said
shortly.

"What do you know about Mulder?" she asked, suddenly
certain that Krycek knew everything that the Smoker
did.

"I know that you'd better get him out of there or
you'll never see him again. As it is, there may not be
much of him left even if Skinner does rescue him."
Krycek was silent after that, refusing to answer any
questions or converse at all.

The drive was long and Scully found that she had been
sleeping for some time before Krycek stopped the car.
"We're here," he said. "You can take off the blindfold
now."

Scully blinked at the anonymous looking office
building in front of her. It could have been any
building in any town in America. It stood on a large
landscaped park, but that wasn't unusual either.
Krycek led her into the lobby and she accepted an ID
badge from an armed guard, then followed Krycek down
an elevator to the basement. Well, she considered,
whoever runs the shop the morgue is always in the
basement.

"This is where you'll work," Krycek opened a door with
a card-key and showed her into a changing room.
"You'll find scrubs in the locker, a shower through
that door. The morgue is fully equipped and there's a
tape recorder as well. Just perform your usual autopsy
and report your findings. If you need special tests
run, there's an intercom on the wall inside. Someone
will come if needed."

"How do I get back when I'm finished?" she asked.

"There's another intercom by the door in here. I'll be
on the other end. Just let me know when you're done."
Krycek gave her an ironic smile, "Have fun."

After he had gone through the door she tried it and it
was locked as she'd guessed it would be. Oh well, time
to get working then.

April 9, 2002
Noon

Scully stared thoughtfully at the body before her. All
she'd been asked was the cause of death but absent tox
screens and other pending tests she thought she knew.
The man had had multiple implants in his brain.
Through Mulder she'd heard about abductees who claimed
single brain implants but these were different from
anything she'd heard of. The ones she'd removed were
made from an unknown substance which, under the
microscope, seemed composed of a mix of organic and
non-organic materials. It was almost as though they'd
been grown.

Judging by the healing of the cranial scars, the man
had had surgery about a month ago. The implants had
apparently caused microscopic bleeding in the brain
which had built up over time and finally caused a clot
that killed the man. He would probably have had
headaches, dizziness, cognitive deficits and
stroke-like symptoms before it killed him. She
wondered why the Smoker had wanted her opinion about
this obvious victim of one of the Smoker's programs.

Obediently, she dictated her report and filled out the
necessary forms left for her. She was still wondering
as she showered and dressed. She punched the intercom
and wondered briefly whether they would really let her
go, but to her surprise Krycek appeared at the door
promptly and escorted her back to the car.

April 9, 2002
5 p.m.

Five hours later, to her astonishment, she found
herself deposited in front of the Hoover building.

She quickly went into the building and the basement
office and sat down at the desk, dialing the number
for the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. "Yes, this is
Agent Dana Scully. I'm calling to find out whether the
autopsy report is in for Crystal FeatherFree...Yes,
I'll hold."

She drummed her fingers and hoped that Crystal had
simply died of an aneurysm or something explainable
but had a feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.
"Hello, yes, I'm Agent Dana Scully..."

"Hello Agent Scully, I'm Dr. Paul Harland one of the
coroners. I wanted to discuss the report with you."

Scully blinked. It was unusual to get more than a
bored clerk. "Anything you can tell me would be
helpful. Could you fax me a copy of the report?"

"Of course. I did want to ask you, Agent Scully, do
you know anything about Ms. FeatherFree's background?"

"Not a lot. She was a fortune-teller in Santa Cruz.
Why?"

Harland cleared his throat, "Well, I found a foreign
object embedded in her brain. It's not anything I've
ever seen before but it looks like a small piece of
electronic equipment."

Scully frowned, "She also claimed to be a long-term
abductee and non-consensual test subject.What you've
found is commonly known as an implant."

"Well, that implant is what killed her," Harland
replied harshly. "It looks like she's had it for
several years and it's been progressively causing low
level bleeding and scarring. Finally it formed a clot
resulting in an ischemic stroke."

"I see," Scully tried to catch her breath, hoping that
Harland wouldn't reach the same conclusion she just
had. "If an individual had more than one implant, how
would that effect the progression of symptoms?"

"If somebody had more than one of these things? Surely
you don't know of other people this has been done
to?!? If that were the case I'd say their life
expectancy is very greatly reduced, depending on other
risk factors the victim might have. I'd say less than
a year, judging by the damage I'm seeing."

"I'd agree," Scully whispered.

"What?"

"I'm...uh..looking forward to your report. You have my
fax number? Good. Thank you." She put the phone down
gently into its cradle and stared at it. Well, now she
knew. The only thing left was to see whether Mulder
had any implants and if so, how many.


April 9
5 p.m.
Somewhere off Highway 99, Near Bakersfield

Skinner eyed the countryside. It was ugly. Dry, flat
desert. Good place to put a test facility. His map
said he should turn left at the next cross-street,
Road 437, ah there it was. If the previous road had
been lonely and desert, Road 437 was even more so.
Clearly, the only people who came out here were those
who didn't have a choice. Even the soil looked dead,
gray and dusty, more like a lunar landscape than
anything else. He could see the ruts left from the
last vain attempt to farm here. But the land itself
was dead and the only green thing he saw was a weed
here and there.

He saw the sign and the brick wall first, "Fletcher
Institute for Mental Health". Yeah, the place looked
like a mental hospital, very secure. He drove up to
the front gate and gave the guard his ID badge.

"Go to parking lot C, sir. That's the visitor parking.
The reception area's just off there, you can't miss
it," said the guard, returning the badge.

Skinner nodded and drove in, carefully noting the
area. Floodlights in the parking lot but the lot
didn't extend beyond the building. From the placement
of the building's exterior lights he'd guess that
there would be some shadows at night. Well, he had to
hope for the best.

He parked the car and donned the jacket that went with
his suit. He hoped a business suit was enough to
identify him as a geneticist. He also hoped he didn't
look like he was wearing a sign that said 'cop'. He
walked into the door marked "Reception".

He checked in with the receptionist, another security
guard, who gave him a clip-on badge and instructed him
to wear it and the other ID at all times or, he
commented smoothly, "We may not want to let you
leave."

A small crowd of people were sitting quietly in the
small waiting area. He noticed that they didn't talk
to each other. They didn't even make eye contact with
anyone else. He supposed that that made sense, given
the clandestine nature of these activities.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Clinic," an oily
voice greeted them from the door. A middle-aged man in
a white labcoat gave them a general smile. "I am
Doctor Philip Frieden and I am so glad that you've
decided to visit and review our work. We are
justifiably proud of what we've accomplished here.
Please come this way. And a word of caution, please
don't lose your badges and do stay with the group. Our
facility's hallways can be confusing to a visitor."

Skinner followed the group, looking intently into
hallways and at any people they passed. It was a vain
hope to think he might see Mulder but he would still
keep looking. Dr. Frieden stopped at a pair of ornate
walnut doors and opened them. "Please step inside and
take a seat."

Skinner found that the room was a large conference
room with two rows of comfortable chairs set up facing
a podium backed by a curtain. After the audience was
seated, Dr. Frieden took his place at the podium.

"As you know, we have been researching the uses of
electromagnetic energy since the end of the Second
World War and have created a variety of weapons based
on its principles. The goal has always been to create
a silent but powerful weapon capable of altering human
behavior at a distance. We believe that we are very
close to that goal. Please observe."

The curtains drew aside to show a large window into
what looked like an operating room. Skinner saw metal
cabinets, a bright overhead light and a very odd
looking chair equipped with straps and manacles. He
shivered quietly to himself as he realized what it
must be used for.

"This is one of our Treatment rooms," he pressed a
button on the podium and the door in the Treatment
room opened. Two guards pulled a woman inside the room
and left her there, shutting the door behind them. She
immediately went to the door and vainly tried to open
it.

"There are two varieties of control we can exert. That
facilitated by internal implants and that which is
purely applied externally. This subject has no
implants and no prior conditioning. But with
conventional methods I can make her see what I
choose," he pulled a black box from his pocket. The
woman cringed and backed away from the door. "I am
making her see giant spiders in the doorway." He
pressed another button. "I can give commands or
suggestions which only she can hear," he hit another
button and spoke into the remote, "You are ugly and
worthless!" She jerked and looked around for the
voice. "I can apply severe shocks," the woman started.
"Or I can induce other sensations such as severe
itching," another set of buttons pressed and the woman
began to scratch wildly at her neck, then stopped when
he hit another button sequence.

"This method is especially useful for creating the
illusion that the subject has mental illness. This
allows us to release test subjects back into the
general population, yet continue to experiment on
them. Any complaints they make to the authorities are
disbelieved." There was a low chuckle, joined by
Frieden. Then he continued, "But the best use of EMR
we've discovered is the ability, for a short period of
time, to remotely control the body of the subject. I
will make this subject sit down in the chair and strap
her feet in." He hit a few buttons and the woman
mechanically sat herself in the chair and closed the
shackles around her ankles. Skinner noted that
although her face was impassive she had tears running
down her face.

"Of course this method will only control the external
motions of the subject, not their thoughts. It was
said of this family of weapons that world war three
could be fought and nobody would notice until it was
over; a sort of 'invisible war'. However, a major
drawback to these weapons has been their very short
range. For full effectiveness, the subject must be ten
feet or less from the experimentor, which close
proximity can be dangerous for the experimentor." 

As well it should be, Skinner growled to himself
shifting in his seat. He noted that the other
attendees were watching the presentation with no other
emotion than great interest.

"The next phase is in development now. First, a method
of permanently conditioning subjects such that they
cannot disobey an order and second, the ability to
physically control every aspect of a subject's
physiology from a distance of not more than two miles.
Allow me to demonstrate. He pressed the button on the
podium again and the Treatment Room door opened
revealing two guards. They unbuckled the woman and
removed her from the room.


April 9
7:30 p.m.
Fletcher Mental Health Institute

Skinner picked at his filet mignon and listened to the
babble of conversation around him. The wine, like the
food, was excellent but he had to remind himself not
to drink too deeply. Much as he longed to get stinking
drunk after what he'd just seen, that would have to
wait until he'd gotten Mulder out of this hellhole.

"Dr. Smith, you aren't eating! Surely the food is to
your taste?" Dr. Gordon stood next to Skinner's table,
still beaming that idiotic smile. Skinner forced a
grimace to his face and tried to convey congeniality.

"Oh no, the food is delicious. I'm just a bit tired.
It was a long trip, you know." Skinner paused and
waited for Gordon to go away, but clearly the man was
waiting for some kind of comment. "That was quite a
presentation," Skinner said neutrally.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. The male is one of our more
challenging subjects."

"Really? Why? Have you worked with him?" And if you
have, you might find yourself at the wrong end of my
fist, Skinner thought to himself as he delicately
dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was made primary
researcher on his case because he's been a challenge.
He's almost beat our conditioning several times; not
that he's ever had a real chance to succeed." Dr.
Gordon pulled out a chair, ready for a long confab.

Skinner perked up. "Oh? How so? He seemed very much
under control today."

"Oh, he was. But the memory conditioning for him seems
rather weak. One of our primary techniques is to
remove the subject's memories, to ease implantation of
our conditioned responses. This one already recovered
some memory on his own once. We had to reapply amnesia
protocols to blank him out again. We suspect it may
have something to do with a particular talent he had,
an eidetic memory. That may make him more resistant to
training." Gordon reached for the wine bottle and
poured himself a glass of burgundy.

"That's interesting," Skinner commented. "It sounds
like he's been trouble from the start."

"Don't I know it. The guards nicknamed him Houdini
because he seems be a natural escape artist; he's
almost gotten out twice. We catch him each time and
punish him thoroughly, of course."

"Of course," Skinner said blandly, his fingers
tightening imperceptibly on his wine goblet. "More
wine? Here, I'll pour. Well, I hope you house him in
some other building, he seems dangerous. I wouldn't
want to suddenly find his hands around my throat, like
that woman today."

"No, he's kept in section A. That's on the other end
of the building. And we can control his actions at any
time," Gordon smiled and patted the control box in his
pocket.

"A two mile radius, right?" Skinner asked intently.

"Yes, and he isn't likely to be any more distant, is
he? Well, I had better mingle. It was a pleasure
meeting you, Dr. Smith."

"I'll never forget this meeting, or you Doctor."
Skinner replied, shaking the man's hand as he got up.
He surreptitously scrubbed that hand against his pants
leg, watching Gordon wander over to another table and
sit down. The man was soon in animated conversation
with another guest. Good. Time to act. 

Skinner put his napkin down and got up casually,
heading for the door. He opened it silently and
slipped out. He remembered where section A was from
Krycek's map and began walking down a corridor, then
turned. He stopped at an intersection to take his
bearings, looked right and then left and walked into a
guard. A very tall guard. With gun.

"Uh, hello," Skinner said with a disarming grin.

"You're in a restricted area," the guard said in a
monotone.

"Really? I am sorry. I was looking for the men's room.
I'm one of Dr. Gordon's guests," Skinner pointed to
his ID badge and grimly hoped that a men's room was
nearby. It was.

"It's over here," said the guard and led him to a door
on the left. "I'll wait and escort you back when
you're finished. The corridors can be confusing."

"Thank you," Skinner said with a bright smile and
closed the men's room door. When he exited the room,
scrubbing his hands with paper towel, the guard was
waiting and duly escorted Skinner back to the dining
room where Gordon was gathering the guests to leave.

Skinner found himself in the middle of the crowd being
led to the exit. He'd had no chance to reconnoitre the
building, but then he hadn't expected to be able to do
much. It was inevitable that security would be eyeing
visitors closely for any breaches.

Under the watchful eye of the guards, Skinner got into
his car and drove out of the parking lot and through
the guard gate. He drove just far enough down the road
to find a place to hide the car; a small grove of oak
trees did the trick. Then he sat and waited for dark.

April 9
Fletcher Mental Health Institute
7:00 p.m.
Treatment Room 2

The prisoner kept frantically trying to revive the
woman until the guards pulled him off her. 

"No! Let me alone! I have to help her...God damn it,
let me alone!" The prisoner swung at a guard and
missed. The two burly goons dove in and seized him by
the arms dragging him away from the woman. A third
goon checked her pulse and casually threw her over his
shoulder to remove her as well. 

The prisoner lost sight of them in the hallway as she
was taken to what the prisoner assumed was the morgue.
He fell limp and let the goons drag him to his room
and push him in. As usual, no words were exchanged. Of
course, he considered, these people don't converse
with useful objects like chairs, tables, hammers.
That's all I am; a thing, a useful thing.

He wobbled over to the bed and sat down. Funny, he'd
been really clumsy lately; he thought his left foot
might be dragging a bit. Since the operation, in fact.
Still, it didn't matter much since he wasn't going
anywhere soon.

He leaned against the plaster wall and closed his
eyes. His head was pounding. He'd been having a lot of
headaches lately too, but he didn't think the goons
would get him aspirin even if he asked nicely. He
didn't want to think about what had happened in that
room today but he couldn't escape it. He'd killed a
human being. No, he'd killed a woman with his bare
hands; with these hands. He held them up, then let
them drop. He stopped himself. Wait, they'd killed the
woman and he was just the tool they used. He had to
believe that.If he stopped believing it he'd go crazy.

"I killed her," he whispered and bent over, clutching
his head. She had looked familiar somehow, like
somebody he'd once known. A woman with red hair and
blue eyes, petite. Had he killed a friend today? Damn
it, he wanted to know who he was! His head pounded
harder.

*You did very well today.*

"No...not now! You never come after the Treatment
Room!" The prisoner opened his eyes and looked around
wildly.

*I visit you when I want to. You are coming along very
nicely. Did you like the way her throat felt between
your fingers? Soft...and warm...and yielding?*

"Stop it!!! please...please...I'm not a killer...You
killed her and used me as your tool," the prisoner
cried.

*You do the work and feel the euphoria when it's
successfully completed.*

"You make me feel that. I know it isn't me!" The
prisoner glared at the blank walls.

*This time we didn't do anything. You got the rush
all...by...yourself!*

"Liar! You're lying to me. It wasn't me! It wasn't!" I
am not a killer. I am not. I am not.

*Wasn't it? Haven't you wanted to kill lately? You
almost killed that guard this morning and you would
have slit his throat given the opportunity. Today you
simply had the opportunity.*

"You moved my body, I didn't. I didn't kill her." The
prisoner was standing now, glaring up at the video
camera in the corner of the room.

*You're a killer and it's time you accepted that.
Besides, how do you know who you were before you came
here? You don't, so I'll tell you. You are a serial
killer and we pulled you off death row. You killed
because you enjoyed it. You still do and you'll admit
it if you look deep inside yourself. You belong here
with us.
Killer...killer...killer...killer...killer...*

"No!!!...No...no...no...." The prisoner fell to his
knees, his hands over his ears to block out the Voice.


8:30 p.m.

Skinner looked at his watch and decided it was time to
move out. It wasn't as dark as he wanted it but he
didn't know how long it would take to find Mulder and
the video cameras would only be out until 10:00 p.m.
He didn't have much time.

He went to the trunk and found the clothes he'd
brought. Stripping off the suit and tie, he changed
into black jeans, sneakers, a turtleneck and black
stocking cap. It wouldn't do, he thought with a grim
smile, to have any reflection off the top of his head.
He strapped on the small fanny pack he'd prepared.

He started the car and drove back to the facility,
parking the car on the other side of the brick wall
under some overhanging trees. He scanned the map for
the last time with a small flashlight. Okay, he was as
close to Mulder's building as he could get. Time to
move.

He clipped a rope to the car's front bumper and threw
it over the wall. He scaled the wall easily and
dropped to the other side, ducking behind some shrubs.
The building had exterior lighting but not nearly as
efficient as he'd seen at more elaborate security
facilities. This was more like what you'd see outside
an office building. They were obviously relying on the
remoteness of the location to discourage intrusion.

Skinner carefully made his way across the dirt to the
side of the building and the exterior door he'd noted.
It was in shadow and should be accessable. When he got
to the door he had his doubts. The safety glass had
been broken recently and the window on the door
boarded open. Hope it still opens, he thought as he
punched in a security code on the keypad. He sighed
with relief when the doorlock clicked. He carefully
opened it and squeezed inside, shutting it quietly
behind him.

The hallway was featureless with a series of doors
lining it. No markings, but this should be section A
as Gordon had described it. No way to see who or what
was inside without opening each one and he wanted to
avoid that....wait. Here's one of the locals. I think
he can help.

A door had opened and one of the guards came out.
Skinner moved silently behind him, and grabbed the man
holding a knife to his throat and the other hand over
his mouth. The guard froze and Skinner dragged him
down hall to a darkened corner. "Don't yell or I'll
kill you. Do you understand?" Skinner hissed.

The guard nodded. Skinner took his hand off his mouth
but let the knifeblade sit against the man's throat.
"Take me to Fox Mulder's cell."

The guard shook his head. "We don't ever know their
names," he whispered.

"You've nicknamed him Houdini because of his escape
attempts," Skinner whispered back. "Where is he?"

The guard snorted. "Him? You can have him and welcome.
This way," he began to move away but Skinner held the
knife against him.

"No, tell me where he is," Skinner said.

"And have you kill me now? No thanks."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure after what I saw
today. If you don't tell me, I *will* kill you where
you stand and find another way to get to him," Skinner
gritted his teeth and pressed the knife in deeply
enough for a trickle of blood to come.

"Okay, okay! Take it away!" Skinner eased off and the
guard caught his breath. "Go down this hall, turn
right. First door on your left."

Skinner pulled a hypo from his pocket and uncapped it.
"Thank you," he said and jabbed it into the man's
shoulder. When the guard collapsed, Skinner dragged
him back to the door, tied and gagged him, then shoved
him outside under a bush. He reentered the building
and followed the guard's instructions, down this hall,
turn right.

The first door on the left looked like any other door.
He listened. No sound. Did the guard lie to him? He
pulled a lockpick set from his fannypack and quickly
got the lock open. Still hearing nothing, he opened
the door a crack and poked his head in.

The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was bright,
shining on bare white walls, a gray linoleum floor,
sink, toilet and a single cot. One person there in a
black jumpsuit huddled under a blanket facing the
wall, asleep or unconscious.

"Mulder," Skinner hissed. "Mulder! Wake up!" He looked
up and located the video camera in the corner of the
ceiling. He propped the door open a crack with a
square of cardboard and went inside. 

He knelt next to the bed and gently shook the man's
shoulder, then jumped back when the sleeper erupted
from the cot and, giving Skinner a panicky look,
backed into the far corner of the room.

"Mulder?" Skinner said gently. "Mulder, it's me,
Skinner. I'm here to get you out."

"Who's Mulder?" asked the man quietly. He stared at
Skinner intently. "You don't look like one of them."

"I'm not. I'm your friend. We have to move fast; we
don't have much time," Skinner backed toward the door
and opened it. "Come on. Can you walk?"

Mulder looked up at the video monitor, "I'll make it."


He and Skinner went back up the hallway to the doorway
Skinner had entered at and stopped. "Wait," whispered
Mulder urgently. "The door's alarmed. I should know,"
he added ruefuly.

Skinner grinned. "But I have the key." He punched in
the security code and heard the click as before. "Come
on."

Mulder grinned back and followed Skinner out the door.
It had gotten darker, Skinner was glad to note. He
motioned for Mulder to follow him, then noticed that
Mulder was barefoot. He pointed to his feet
questioningly. "Shoes?" he mouthed.

Mulder shook his head, then made shooing motions with
his hands. "Let's go!" he mouthed. Skinner nodded and
moved out.

He could hear Mulder behind him, stumbling
occasionally. Granted, he was barefoot and was hardly
in a condition for field sports after a month of this
place, but he didn't seem to be walking well. He
stopped and waited for Mulder to catch up and saw that
the man's left foot was dragging. Just then, Mulder's
left leg gave way and he fell. Skinner scurried
forward and helped him up.

"Gotta keep going," Mulder whispered urgently. "Get
out of here!"

Skinner slipped an arm under Mulder's shoulders and
supported him the last ten yards to the wall. Skinner
stopped and knelt at the base of the wall, near the
rope. "Step on my shoulders and climb over. Use the
rope to steady you, then drop to the other side as
quietly as you can."

Mulder nodded and climbed onto Skinner's shoulders,
then up the wall. Skinner rose and boosted him over,
then heard him drop. Good. Skinner gave a last look
around, then climbed the wall himself, retrieving the
rope on the other side. Mulder was already in the car,
so he threw the coil into the back seat and slid into
the driver's seat. He closed the door and moved the
car out.

No pursuit. Good. A nice clean extraction. Mulder
watched him, then looked at him with a serious
expression.

"You need to tie me up or cuff me or something. I'm
dangerous to you." Mulder stopped at Skinner's shocked
look. "They can make me kill you. I already killed
someone else today," he said quietly, his eyes
haunted.

"You really want this?" he asked. He had considered
the danger but decided to chance it given all the
trauma Mulder had already been through.

"I don't want to kill anybody else," Mulder said, his
voice breaking off.

Skinner swallowed hard. "There are two pairs of cuffs
in the glove box." He pulled over and carefully cuffed
Mulder's hands behind his back as well as his ankles.
Then he hit the tripometer on the dashboard and got
the car under way again. "Their devices have a 2 mile
limit. We'll know when we get there."

Mulder nodded and soon had cuffed his ankles and his
wrists. Glancing at him from the corner of his eye,
Skinner noted the bruises and cuts on Mulder's ankles
and wrists. He quickly focused back on the road.

They were silent for a while, then Mulder spoke.
"Excuse me, but is Mulder my first name? Do I know
you...uh...Skinner?"

Skinner smiled. "No, your full name is Fox William
Mulder but you don't like your first name. I'm Walter
Skinner, your boss."

"Oh. Do you rescue all your employees like this?"

"Only the ones who owe me money," Skinner answered.


April 9, 2002
Undisclosed location

Scully stared thoughtfully at the body before her. All
she'd been asked was the cause of death but absent tox
screens and other pending tests she thought she knew.
The man had had multiple implants in his brain. She'd
heard about abductees who claimed single brain
implants but these were different from anything she'd
heard of. The ones she'd removed were made from an
unknown substance which, under the microscope, seemed
composed of a mix of organic and non-organic
materials. It was almost as though they'd been grown.
And, more unusual, the implants had sprouted tendrils,
almost like roots that had invaded virtually all the
victim's brain tissue.

Judging by the healing of the cranial scars, the man
had had surgery about a month ago. He'd had multiple
aneurysms near the implant sites. Two of them had
burst and killed him. If they hadn't either the other
three aneurysms would have or he'd have died of one of
the mini-strokes.  As far as she could tell from the
CT scan, he'd had at least seven.

He would certainly have had warning. He probably had
had headaches, dizziness, weakness on one side of the
body and stroke-like symptoms before it killed him.
She wondered why the Smoker had wanted her opinion
about this obvious victim of one of the Consortium's
programs.

Obediently, she dictated her report and filled out the
necessary forms left for her. She was still wondering
as she showered and dressed. She punched the intercom
and wondered briefly whether they would really let her
go, but to her surprise Krycek appeared at the door
promptly and escorted her back to the car.



April 9, 2002
6 p.m.

Five hours later, to her astonishment, she found
herself deposited in front of the Hoover building.

She quickly went into the building and the basement
office and sat down at the desk, dialing the number
for the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. "Yes, this is
Agent Dana Scully. I'm calling to find out whether the
autopsy report is in for Crystal FeatherFree...Yes,
I'll hold."

She drummed her fingers and hoped that Crystal had
simply died of an aneurysm or something explainable
but had a feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.
"Hello, yes, I'm Agent Dana Scully..."

"Hello Agent Scully, I'm Dr. Paul Harland, the
night-shift coroner. I'm glad you called. I wanted to
discuss the report with you."

Scully blinked. It was unusual to get more than a
bored clerk. "Anything you can tell me would be
helpful. Could you fax me a copy of the report?"

"Of course. I did want to ask you, Agent Scully, do
you know anything about Ms. FeatherFree's background?"

"Not a lot. She was a fortune-teller in Santa Cruz.
Why?"

Harland cleared his throat, "Well, I found a foreign
object embedded in her brain. It's not anything I've
ever seen before but it looks like a small piece of
electronic equipment. Strange, though, I can't
identify the substance."

Scully frowned, "She also claimed to be a long-term
abductee and non-consensual test subject.What you've
found is commonly known as an implant."

"Well, that implant is what killed her," Harland
replied harshly. "It looks like she's had it for
several years and it's been progressively weakening
the blood vessels in the area of the implant. She'd
had a number of mini-strokes over the years but the
aneurysm is what finally killed her when it burst." 

"I see," Scully tried to catch her breath. "Did the
implant you found have tendrils extruding from it?" 

"Yes, it does. That's the strangest thing. They're
almost like roots that have buried themselves in the
tissue of her frontal lobe. I was only able to remove
my sample by removing brain tissue.Is there anything
else I can tell you?

"I'm looking forward to your report. You have my fax
number? Good. Thank you." She put the phone down
gently into its cradle and stared at it. Well, now she
knew. The only thing left was to see whether Mulder
had any implants and if so, how many.

April 9
Road 437
1  mile

"Uh...Skinner? Do you have something I can use for a
blindfold?" 

"I have a tie in the back seat. Why?" Skinner noted
Mulder's 
fearful expression.

"I'm not sure whether they can see through my eyes.
They certainly read my thoughts when I was there. I
don't want them following after us."

Skinner was silent, then snagged the tie from the
floor behind Mulder's seat. "I don't feel comfortable
with this. You're trussed up more thoroughly than even
they had you back at that facility. And I don't like
stopping again until we're safely out of the area."

"Please. I don't want to hurt or kill anyone and I
don't want to go back there. If this prevents them
from finding me, I don't care how silly it looks."
Mulder's voice cracked  with emotion.

"It's your choice," Skinner said calmly, and pulled
the car over again. He tied the tie across Mulder's
eyes firmly and restarted the car again. There was
silence, then Skinner heard Mulder breathing hard.
"Mulder, what's wrong?"

Mulder had turned pale and stiffened in his seat. "No.
No, I won't, you lying bastards. And this time you
can't make me!"

"They found you?" Skinner asked, flooring the gas
pedal.

"The Voice has. It talks to me in my mind and reads my
thoughts. Yes, I'm talking about YOU, you bastard!"
Mulder bent over hard, his face a mask of agony.

"Are you okay? Should I stop?" Skinner kept one eye on
the narrow road and the other on Mulder. His body
began jerking, trying to work its way loose from the
cuffs and seatbelt. Skinner gunned the car even
faster. He hung a sharp turn when the road ended and
the freeway frontage road began. 

Mulder didn't answer. He was  sweating profusely and
his breathing came ragged. Skinner didn't like the
sound of that but the car was already going too fast
for conditions.

He checked the tripometer. They'd gone a mile and a
quarter; not far enough. Mulder was struggling in the
seat and muttering to the Voice about what it could do
with itself.

"What's it doing to you?" Skinner asked tensely.

"It's...punishing me...for disobeying. Huh...I can't
obey you rat-bastard! How do you like that? I'm tied
down and I can't see!" Mulder gave a triumphant shout
then grew quiet, listening. 

"What's it saying now?" Skinner kept an eye on the
tripometer. A mile and a three quarters.

"The Voice says that if I don't come back to them,
they'll kill me. They'll turn off my heart."

"We've got half a mile to go. Keep it talking."
Skinner pushed the gas pedal hard, hoping the Taurus
could handle it.

"Whatever you do, don't stop. Just keep go..."Mulder
began gasping for breath and his face turned dead
white. 

"Mulder? Oh shit!" Mulder had stopped breathing.
That's right, they could stop his heart too. "Hang on,
Mulder. Just 3/4 of a mile. Hang in there. Don't die
on me. Scully would never forgive me. Just don't die,
dammit..."

Mulder grew still and slumped in his seatbelt. Skinner
prayed and drove.

Two point one miles, finally. He slewed the car into
the first wide spot and killed the engine, then
sprinted around to the passenger side. He unbuckled
Mulder and pulled him out of the seat onto the gravel
and looked for a pulse. Nothing. Shit shit shit....

Skinner began CPR.