"Leviathan" - The Collector's Edition by Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ___ SUMMARY: Many years ago, in a smoke-filled room, the men of shadows signed away the future of mankind. The date was set; and now the date has come. It has come... RATING: R for some disturbing stuff CLASSIFICATION: CRA (but please see notes below) Very, very loose crossover with Stephen King's "The Stand". No knowledge of that work is required or expected. CONTENT WARNING: Secondary characters die. Spoilers for episodes up to and including season 5. ___ CLASSIFICATION NOTES: The crossover is very, very loose. In very broad terms, the plot is parallel, but the characters, the setting and the events are all either my own or Chris Carter's. Only one character from "The Stand" appears here, under a different name. The "R" part comes from one or two scenes (in later parts) in which Mulder and Scully behave in a rather more-than-partnerly manner, and I've classified it thus simply to warn the most passionate of non-shippers. This story is most definitely NOT a romance, in any normal use of that word. DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully etc belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. One other character, although going here by a different name, belongs to Stephen King. I use them without permission, but without profit. THANKS: To Andrew, for heroically providing me with a computer that works, and Rebecca for introducing me to Stephen King - his books, I mean. ****** In the shadows, the man smiled. The sky was the rich blue velvet of midwinter, and the cold light of the moon gave him enough light to view the scene before him. The two combatants were moving sluggishly, now, weakened by a dozen wounds. The pools of blood glistened like mercury. It pleased him. The watcher exhaled, in something that could have been a laugh. He let his breath condense as steam, let it cloud across his vision, then pass. The combatants were still there. Regardless of who died here in the dust, neither of them would live. A stream of blood snaked through the dirt, until it was stopped short by his boot. He stepped back sharply, the plastered smile cracking for the first time, and ground the toe of his boot into the dirt. His reputation was spotless. He had no blood on his - and he smiled again, grimly, enjoying the joke - on his hands. There was dark enough in everyone, and he merely.... encouraged it. "No. I didn't. It's not true. I didn't." A cry of agony, and he was all focus again. One of the combatants was on the ground now, his handsome face a mass of smashed tissue. His breathing was tortured, gasping, as the other man's feet drove into his body with rib-shattering force. His dark hair shone like a raven's wing, slick with blood. "Dead yet?" the watcher called out, suddenly. In the enclosed yard, his voice was like a bullet. Neither of them turned their heads. He didn't exist to them. They were in a world narrowed to a single focus of hatred and pain. They were beyond human. "Dead yet?" he repeated, then threw back his head and laughed with the exhilaration of it. It was so easy - a word in the right place and they were lost. He couldn't even remember how he'd done it. There were so many ways. "Hey." He would reach into his denim jacket, pulling out the blurry photographs that could have been anyone. A seed of doubt was all it took. People saw what he wanted them to see. "See this picture? This is your wife with another man. I know who he is. I can bring him to you." And then, smiling inwardly all the while, he would sit through their disbelief, their anger, waiting for his time. And it always came. "I can help you deal with.... the situation." A low whisper, and he would part his jacket again, showing the gun at his hip. "It makes me weep, how the world is today. Sin needs to be punished." His mouth would twist as the soft victim's face turned from horror to temptation to dreadful acceptance. They always accepted. He chose the weak, the soft, the civilised. He chose the self- styled "good." He chose the police officer and the crusader for justice. He chose the quiet man who had never touched a gun before and whose first wild attempts at murder resulted in blood-spraying injury, and no clean death. There was dark in everyone, and everyone was his. "Dead yet?" he chuckled under his breath. "Ah. I think so." One figure was motionless on the ground, limbs twisted like discarded rags, and the other was bent forward, head in hands, rocking, rocking. "What have I done?" A keening tortured cry, straight out of melodrama. It sickened him. "My God, what have I done?" Suddenly it bored him. They were all the same in the end - all weak. And something was coming. Once more, as he had done for days now, he frowned, sniffing the air. Something was coming - something big. Not yet, he knew, and his fingers itched with impatience, but soon, _soon_. It was coming for him, and he would be formidable. But now.... Somewhere in the distance, a church bell started pealing. "Peace on earth," he whispered, and at his smile the cries ceased. "Goodwill to men." As he stepped away through the dirt, he saw the face of the one to come - dark hair falling on pale hand. ****** As midnight passed into Christmas morning, Fox Mulder dreamed.... Midnight tolled like a knell. One, and Scully turned her back on him, her hands stretched away towards warm arms that called to her, laughing. "Come, Dana," they said, and he knew the voices as her brother's, her mother's, and knew that the worst pain can be inflicted in the name of love. "Leave him. Come back to us." Her red hair faded, and she didn't look back. Two, and Samantha was taken in a scouring agony of white light, but her eyes were open as she left him, and there was hatred in them. "Let me go, Fox. You failed me, and I will never forgive you for it, Fox. Never." The light faded, and she didn't look back. Three, and his father fell to the floor, blood trickling from his mouth, and eye lids shutting against him. "I chose to keep her." In the mine, the file told the truth the man could not utter. "You were supposed to be taken. I never wanted you." He died, and he didn't look back. Four, and he was in a desert, skin cracked by the sun and parched. The sky was fire, and death came from the sky. The earth curved to the horizon and he was alone - alone. There were a million blood- covered bodies in his memory. The world had moved on, and hadn't looked back. It had left him behind, alone. Five, and.... and.... He struggled desperately, wrenching himself towards the wakefulness like one drowning. Gasping, his mouth broke the surface and he had a second when he was aware of his white knuckles digging like claws into the black leather of the couch, but then he was dragged back under. His mind was screaming: Five, and.... "You will not be alone." Calmness like water washed over him. The voice was an oasis in the desert, and the fear fell away. "You will not be alone. After it happens, I will be there for you." "Scully?" he tried experimentally, and his lips felt moist and his skin cool. "Scully?" But it had not been a female voice. It had been a no-voice. It had been male, and female, and in his head, and on his skin like a touch. Almost crying with hope and fear and.... and _awe_, he turned his head, but there was no-one there. From a long-dead branch, a crow eyed him. ****** "Happy Christmas, Dana." Dana Scully paused, one hand on the door frame. Her fingers dug in tightly, and she took a steadying breath. All night, she had felt cold. "Mom." She cleared her throat, then rubbed her other hand across her face. "Happy Christmas." For the third Christmas in a row, her smile was a mask. ****** Fox Mulder clutched his coat round his body, his hands buried deep into his pockets. The dream was still heavy on him, and fear touched his spine like a finger. He had seen it in their eyes. "Happy Christmas, Agent Mulder." The doorman had smiled, his desk decorated with holly. He had read the true meaning behind the taut smile. His footsteps in the empty corridors had chilled him. Walking forward had become like wading through water. The building had been the empty desert, and the doorman's eyes had been crow's eyes, full of contemptuous pity. Creeping through his veins like ice. Blindly, feeling a dread that he couldn't begin to understand, he had grabbed some paper and fled. "Something I needed," he had stammered at the doorman, wondering what he had become - wondering why another man's opinion was suddenly so important. They had always laughed at him, before, and still he had carried on, unchanged. "I'll see you after the holidays." And now, in the park, a woman with straggling white hair and with all her possessions in two split bags, looked at him, and there was pity in her eyes. Her lips moved soundlessly. "No." He turned away sharply, facing into the wind. It chilled his face, driving away feeling. "I have my work. My work is my life. I...." He started, physically. Imagination had never been so strong. His skin prickled, with something that could have been dread, could have been exhilaration. "No!" He spoke aloud this time. From behind him, the old woman gave a strange half moan and he knew it had been louder, wilder, than he had intended. "No." And his hands twitched, wanting to rise to his ears and press against them, shutting out everything, and.... He would hibernate, and come out in the new year, when his mother's silence was just a dull ache, when Samantha's.... He swallowed hard. When.... When Scully was back, and he would _smile_, and come close to meaning it. "Agent Mulder?" A man's voice, gentle. He turned round, his hand reaching for the reassuring coldness of his gun, then relaxed. The man's eyes were blue, and his smile radiated truth. "I can help you, Agent Mulder. I have followed your work. I share your ideals." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. In the past, he had been too quick to trust men who smiled and brought gifts of information. Like a dog, he had begged for scraps that fell from his enemy's table, and had been poisoned by them. "Who are you?" he said, at last, and his hand returned to his gun, soft, like a caress. "You can call me...." The man smiled, spread his hands. "Richard Fry." They both knew it was not his real name. "Richard Fry," he repeated, consideringly, then laughed suddenly, bitterly. His emotions were a finely balanced trigger, ready to go either way. "Better than Deep Throat, or X, or Marita Cover-up-ias. Do I get an address this time too?" The man smiled. He was a large man, and imposing, with a face tanned dark by some foreign sun. At his smile, Mulder's hands slipped from the gun and fell limp to his side. "I find you, Agent Mulder. I have more than the scraps they offered. I have the future." The wind twisted cold fingers in his hair. Mulder's smile froze, although the image that flashed into his mind was of emptiness, and the terrible empty baking desert of his dream. "The future," he managed, at last. "How?" Fry's eyes narrowed, their blue fading to cold sparking ice. "The date is set, Agent Mulder. It's soon. It's very soon. I can find out when, and how. I can help you stop it." Mulder shut his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to feel. His resistance lowered in a public place, they could fell him with a single bullet, or take him without warning. He was naked before the man, unarmed, and at his mercy. "Why should I believe that?" he said at last, blinking. It seemed strange to him that the sun hadn't moved on, that the scene was unchanged. The man placed a cold hand on his shoulder, leaning close - too close. "Because it's true." The fingers caressed through his clothes, and radiated strength. "Because you have no choice." he thought, sadly, but he raised his chin, clenched his fists at his side. He needed some dignity in defeat. But, "yes," was all he said, and he wondered why Fry was smiling. "I have a choice. I choose to listen to you, but I won't trust you. I've killed, before, and I won't hesitate to kill you if I have to." "No." Fry frowned, his brow furrowing. He looked twenty years older, and almost familiar. "Trust no-one, huh?" Then his brow smoothed, and the ghost of Deep Throat was gone from his countenance, and he was laughing. Mulder stood his ground. "Trust no-one." And this time his frozen, stupefied hand, _did_ reach for his gun, and held it. But he followed the man's beckoning finger. ****** His skin was pale, his eyes too bright. He had changed since she had last seen him. She smiled. "Mulder." It was all she could say. She had seldom been nervous about meeting him before. "Scully." He let out a breath. "What's wrong? I.... I didn't expect you back for a week." "No." She shook her head slowly, sadly. Though it was her own choice, she could still remember what she had lost. "I.... I came back." "Come in." He turned away, leading her into the apartment, but he wasn't fast enough. She saw his cheek move, transformed by a smile. She knew, also, that his face would be frozen and impassive next time he allowed her to see it full on. "Mulder." She reached for his wrist, holding it. His blood was beating fast against her fingertips. It was.... sensuous, she decided. Sensuous and strange. "Why did you come back, Scully?" His voice was thick, his pulse faster. "I...." But she lowered her eyes. She couldn't give all of herself, not yet. Even this much was hard. "I couldn't.... connect. They were.... They were _normal_. Mom understands, but the others - Bill, Charlie.... all those single male friends Tara wanted me to meet.... I felt as if... as if they existed in a different world." "Scully." His voice cracked even on that single word, and he strained at her hand, trying to pull away. She had always understood him far more than she had let him know. his dark eyes reflected. "Mulder." She dug her fingers in deeper to his flesh, holding him. "Things change. _We_ change. Things happen in our lives and we drift away from old friends - family too. We no longer have anything in common with them. It happens. It doesn't make it a bad thing, Mulder." He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, almost as if stifling a sob. "I wouldn't change it, Mulder," she said, firmly, and this time she kept her eyes on his face. "I've lost things. I've gained things." "What?" He was close to tears. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his cheeks looked thinner. It was just five days since she had seen him. She held on tighter, suddenly needing the tension to stop herself shaking. "I was lying to myself these last two years," she said instead. "I was trying to do the family thing at Christmas. I was pretending I was still the person I used to be. There's nothing worse than clinging to a past that no longer exists." "Like...." There was betrayal in his eyes. "Like I...." "Like you do." She raised both hands, placing them on either side of his face. Her fingers touched his hair. "It doesn't make you happy." He shut his eyes. "I can't...." "No." Gentle. So much had changed inside her since Christmas morning. She had accepted her past, defined her future. "I wouldn't ever make you change. _I've_ changed. I.... I've had a Samantha, too. Part of me has been mourning the loss of.... of the things I can't have." She ran her thumb softly over his cheek. "I don't want that any more." "What do you want?" It was no more than a whisper. "I want the X-Files. I want a life." She laughed, suddenly. It was so easy. "I've been treating them as mutually exclusive. I've looked at Bill and his family, and hated the X-Files. I've looked at our work, and hated Bill. I... It doesn't need to be like this." He swallowed hard. His eyes widened at something beyond her, then darkened with.... with fear? But, "a bird," he whispered, only. "It's gone now," and there was a strange sadness in his eyes. "I missed you, Scully," he said, suddenly, wildly. She smiled, nodded, and spoke slowly. "I've been through too much to expect a normal life with someone who hasn't. The only person who would come close to understanding is someone who had been through the same." She moved her thumb to his mouth, suppressing the guilt-stricken apology she knew would come. "I know that now." His eyes were lost. "I came back, Mulder." She was beyond smiling now, her eyes solemn, her hands still. "I chose the X-Files, but also - do you understand, Mulder? - I chose you." "I...." He ran his tongue over his lips like a parched man, desperate. "The X-Files.... I've got a lead. A new informant. He says...." "No." It was sharper than she intended. "No," she said again, more quietly. "It's three days after Christmas. I chose the X-Files, but I chose you. I want a life, too. I want both. Can you see, Mulder?" It was almost as if he was trembling before her. His face.... He had not accepted, not understood. She would make him. She smiled, her voice distant. "My family was going out to dinner tonight. They were getting a big group together to see the fireworks on Friday." "Scully." His voice was hoarse. "I can't...." He swallowed. "Does this change things?" She was sober again, knowing the future could change in an instant. "It needn't," she said, at last. "It could." She smiled again, but tears were pricking her eyes, unexpected and unwanted. "It's the date....It makes us look at the past. It makes us think of the future. It makes us...." She rubbed her eyes. There was a sudden headache, like an itch deep in her mind. "Different," she finished, almost fiercely. "Yes." His hands were clenched at his sides. "Something's coming." ****** Shadowed by a tree, the man waited. Before him, a thousand faces smiled, a thousand mouths opened with anticipation. And then, crowding on the edges of his awareness, were a thousand more, and a thousand, and a million. Millions in the darkness, waiting, waiting.... And he could come. He laughed. Anticipated coursed through his veins like blood. He would come, but first he would watch. ****** "The year two thousand...." He spoke as in a dream. His eyes were on the stars, and beyond them. "You were right. It makes you think." Beside him, Scully laughed. "Ready to greet the alien invasion? Or is it a comet? Or a flood?" All evening, she had teased him gently, making him smile secret smiles in the night. Just a week ago he had been on a precipice, staring into the darkness, alone. Today, there had been moments when he was happy - truly happy. "Come now, Doctor Scully." His voice was mock stern. "You know the Millennium doesn't start for a year. And everyone knows that it's the dead rising from their graves that will be the real problem." "Really, Mulder?" She was sober now, and soft. Her hand stroked his beneath the blanket. "You don't believe?" "No." The three stars of Orion's belt were like an arrow, pointing from the trees. The stars had always chilled him, like cold eyes in the night. "I don't..." He swallowed hard. "It's difficult enough, without.... without _that_." "Difficult." Her voice was low. "Taking stock. Hoping...." "Fearing." His nails dug into his palms. "Hoping," she said, fiercely. "Hoping...." He shut his eyes, unable to look at the stars. A thousand voices, laughter, merged into one human cry on the fringes of his awareness. "I hope that.... Samantha.... I hope that I can accept that she's happy somewhere, with her family. I hope that this will come to be enough for me. I hope...." His chest heaved, and his voice rose beyond his control. "I hope I can find her again." And then he was trembling in the cold night, wondering why he had told her. It was safer wrapped deep within him. "I hope that you find...." A soft hand brushed hair from his brow, gentle. "....Peace of mind." "I hope that...." He couldn't finish. Two years in remission, but it could still return. "I hope you live," he said, simply. "I hope you realise that your mother _does_ love you. She does, Mulder. Last summer, when you were shot...." "I hope you don't regret this Christmas." He rubbed his eyes roughly. She had given so much, confided so much. She was someone different - someone not Scully. He couldn't catch up. "I hope you live." Her voice was dark. She pressed her hand against his side, against the healed bullet wound. "I hope...." He laughed grimly, remembering the man he had met the previous week, here. "I hope the date never comes. I hope they are...." The crowd fell silent, fading away in a receding ripple of noise. It was as if some distant calming hand had stretched out, soothing them. "World peace," she exclaimed suddenly, though her laughter was strange, almost hysterical. "World peace, travel the world, and work with children and animals." "Ten." The crowd spoke, their countless voices as one inhuman voice. He was cold with dread, though his voice carried on as if it was a thing apart, brittle with laughter. He felt possessed, unreal. Nine. "A lifetime of videos for Frohike." Eight. "Hair restorer for Skinner." Stupid, stupid words. It felt like sacrilege, as if he should surrender itself to the moment and.... The voice was the crowd's, but the crowd said "seven." "Happiness." Scully's voice was fierce. Her hand closed around his. "Six." "Truth." He was close to tears. The word seemed cheap, meaningless, but it was his grail. "Five." "Justice." Again that strange un-Scully, eyes wild with desperate laughter. Four. "The American way." "Three." "Scully." He squeezed her hand fiercely. "Two." "Mulder." And her voice was calm, her face turned upwards towards the sky with expectation. She had surrendered to the moment, to the excitement. He let out a breath, and knew her again. "One." And then the lights went out. A second's silence, and someone screamed. ****** He bit his lip against the aching beauty of it. Arching above him, more bright, more terrible, than city eyes had seen for over a century. "Mulder." Scully nudged him gently, her voice low. "They're looking," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I said once that they were up there, looking, and they were curious, but they're not. They're dispassionate. We're just specimens in a lab to them. The light was our shield." "Mulder." Sharper now, but still quiet. An awed silence hung over the park like a pall. People were waiting, shifting, waiting.... He turned to her, smiling suddenly. Her face was a pale smudge in the starlight. "Have you read Asimov's "Nightfall", Scully?" She murmured a no, and he continued. "It's about a planet that never knows darkness - a planet where to be in a dark room literally drives people mad. And then...." He moistened his lips. "Then there's an eclipse." "Ah." Her tone was unreadable. He didn't even know if she was listening. "Desperate for light, they burn everything - everything. They riot. They...." Strangely, he shivered. Above him, a dark patch moved across the sky like a hand. A bird, perhaps. He cleared his throat, continued. "And then, at the moment of totality, they see the stars. For the first time, they see the stars. Never had they even dreamt that they were not alone. It's more than they could bear." "Why?" She grabbed his wrist, suddenly fierce. "Why are you telling me this?" "I...." He shrugged, and wondered. "The darkness...." He gestured at the sky. "When do _we_ ever know darkness, really, Scully? If...." "Nothing's wrong." Again, that strange fierceness in her voice. "This is for effect, before the fireworks." He pulled the blanket tighter. "It's been minutes, Scully," he said sadly. He wondered why he had accepted it all, understood it all, without surprise. The shadow that was Scully moved, as if wrapping her arms around her body. Her voice was small and tight. "I believe that we are alone." He twisted a corner of the blanket between his fingers. "I used to fear that. It was my childhood nightmare, being alone in this world, or this world being alone in the universe. I wanted to believe there was life, other than us, in the universe. Somehow, I derived hope from that possibility." "Past tense, Mulder?" Soft. He swallowed, grateful, now, for the darkness. It was a concealing veil. "It scares me," he said, simply. "Now I know what might be out there, being alone doesn't seem so bad." She was silent, but her hand sought his, and held it. Beyond their tiny universe that was their two voices, the crowd stirred. Like a wave on shingle came the surging sound of disquiet, and voices questioning, shivering. "It's not planned, Scully," he said suddenly. He scanned the horizon through the bare fingers of the trees, and felt the first stirrings of a fear he knew he should have felt all along. "It's all over the city, Scully. The lights have gone out." "Then we wait." She stood up suddenly, and he heard the old Scully in her voice, practical and resourceful. "Not here, of course. We go home and wait, and they'll get the power working again." "They...." The word held him, as if there was some deep resonance deep within in, like the truth from a dream that he had not yet remembered. But he laughed, and forced the feeling away. "You have such a touching faith in the authorities, Agent Scully." "Shouldn't I?" He could hear the spark in her voice. "Not everything is a conspiracy, _Agent_ Mulder." He stood up. The single voice of the crowd was harsh and edgy, and individual sounds rose above the mass - an angry shout, a sob, a child's scream.... The dark hand moved across the stars at the fringes of his vision, but when he jerked his head round, there was nothing. In the crowd, someone laughed. "No," he cried, unintentionally aloud. With clumsy hands that shook, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his flashlight. He struggled to hold it, struggled to laugh. "You never know when you'll need one. Bureau issue flashlights, ideal for hunting mutants in warehouses, or dealing with the end of the world." She didn't speak. She was close to him, almost touching. He could feel her fear, but also her strength, that she was mastering it. It was only because he knew her so well that he could feel it at all. He touched her hand. The light bleached her face white, but beyond her was only darkness. A thousand voices surged, but they were beyond the small circle of their light. "Let me lead you to your carriage, my lady," he said, his voice light. Someone had told him once that if you can laugh at the darkness, then there is still hope. They walked. After a few steps, they held hands. He felt an eternity of darkness at his back, and faces he could not see. Footsteps whispered. "Mulder." Her voice was urgent, low. Her hair was the only colour in the stark white and black. "Look behind you, Mulder. _Look behind you_." He turned, slowly, slowly, dread quickening his breathing, half expecting.... "People." He let out a shuddering breath. His hand to his brow, and it came away moist. "Just people." "They're following us, Mulder." Her eyes were wide, and there was something strange in them, something beyond his understanding. Deep horror, perhaps, but pride, too. "Look at them. Hundreds of them, following." Their faces were blank shadows. He ran his hand across his face, and gave a short mirthless laugh. "I always wanted to be the Pied Piper, Scully - did I tell you? It's another of those childhood ambitions things I never grew out of." She ignored him, her face solemn. "It's the light. They'll follow the light. They'll...." Then she passed a hand across her face. She seemed dazed. "It's like a dream I had. I'd forgotten it. It's...." "It's nothing." He felt stronger, now, giving reassurance. "Like you said, it's just a power cut." "Yes." And then she smiled, and said it again as if she believed it. "Yes." "We've got to leave them behind." He gestured with the flashlight, pointing towards the FBI building. Behind him, he felt a hundred heads follow the light. "Yes." Strangely, she laughed. She seemed almost happy, suddenly, and started walking faster. "No." A hoarse voice beside him. A hand plucked at his sleeve. Turning, he looked into the lined face of an elderly man, all deep shadows. "Don't. The subway's _that_ way. You've got to take us there. You're the only one with a light." "The subway?" A woman's voice cracked. "If the power's out...." "How will we get home? My God, how will we get home?" A hand twisted in his coat, and held. "There'll be buses." It was a strong voice, firm with reassurance. It took him a second to realise that it was Scully's voice, and that her eyes were shining. "They'll organise something. Everything will be okay." The hands fell away. Only one remained, clutching at his sleeve, making his arms shake with holding the light. He blinked, saw the hand was deep claws, digging in and drawing blood, but then it was normal again. Just a hand. Just a.... "No." Scully again. Her voice was all control, but there was a desperation in her eyes. "Let him go. _Let him go!_" The crowd fell silent, but it was the silence of a reservoir about to burst its dam. The dam held, this time.... As they walked away, he realised he was close to tears. There were deep currents here that he didn't understand - deep currents in Scully. Scully breathed out suddenly, letting her breath out as a relieved laugh. "That was...." "Scary," he finished, simply. He wasn't sure what had scared him more. "They'll be okay." Scully's voice was high, and he could hear her desperate need to believe. "It'll be fixed before morning." He tried to say the right words. ****** "You can't go home," he had said, and she had nodded. Once, she would have bridled, resenting it as over-protectiveness, as patronising. Now, though.... "No." Her nails had dug into her palms, resting on her lap. "It's a long way home." Order had held, barely. There had been no traffic lights, but the drivers were all party-goers who had started the evening relaxed, full of hope. They had witnessed a dozen accidents, and many more near-misses. During the day, with impatient workers stressed about deadlines, it would have been far more serious. "No," she had said, again. "It's getting worse." They had witnessed a dozen accidents, and nearly been involved in a thirteenth. She had been thrown against the safety belt, her chin slamming into her chest. She had been numb then, as if in a dream. Only now, an hour afterwards, was she shaking. "You can have the couch. I'll have the chair." A passing car's headlights had showed her his smile. She had known, though, that he was hiding something. A strange sudden realisation. She'd pulled her coat tightly around her body, and stared straight ahead. "Scully?" She blinked, back in the present. He had found a candle from somewhere and had placed it on his coffee table. The flickering light made his face unearthly, almost demonic. "Mulder." The tip of her nose was cold. Everything else was wrapped in blankets, but she knew that the coldness deep inside would not be eased even by a dozen blankets. "What if...." His finger traced absent patterns on the arm of the chair. "What if this is the.... beginning? The beginning of.... something - something serious...?" "It's not." A reflex reaction. She didn't want to listen - wanted to sink into the blanket and not hear him, and go to sleep. But in sleep there were dreams.... "It's the electricity, Scully - the heating, the lights.... Think about it, Scully. There'll be no money tomorrow. No traffic lights. No subway." His eyes were intense. "Why don't our phones work, Scully? Why is there no water?" "The Millennium Bug." Her hands were tight clenched beneath the blanket. "They warned that something like this might happen. People thought it was scare-mongering, but...." She shrugged. He frowned. "Maybe...." "Yes." Her voice was steel. "They're working on it already." "Mmm." He gave a low distracted noise in his throat, and shut his eyes. She could tell from his breathing that he was far from sleep. Thinking, she knew. She closed her eyes. There was so much she had hoped for, so much she had dreamed, but.... She didn't trust herself to speak of them. Alone, she closed her eyes, and hoped that she wouldn't dream. ****** Asleep, she drifted, floated.... Down silent dark streets, moving smoothly as if on wheels. She glanced down at her feet and saw them bare. She was walking, but there was no feeling, and no uneven rhythm. Broken glass littered the ground beneath her, spilled onto the street from a shattered window. The voice was her own, though it came to her as from another person. "What?" she asked.... herself? "What's started?" For a second, she was aware of the feel of leather beneath her cheek. The her that was not-her. It was her own voice, but she did not understand. And then there was a door, and behind it a child was crying. She reached for the door knob, but it was like mist in her hand. Her fingers touched it lightly, and the door faded. There was a soft whisper that could have been its hinges. "It opened," she said, out loud. "It wasn't shut properly, and I touched it, so it opened." The voice.... She refused to accept it was her own, now. The voice laughed. She could imagine it shaking its head, fondly, patronisingly. "No." She half-raised her hands to her ears, then let them fall. Instead, she raised her chin, and carried on, through the dark rooms of a city house. Her vision was all grey and black. There was no sound but the crying. And then she stopped, and fell to her knees. One hand pressed to her mouth for a moment's steadying, then reached out towards the.... the voice supplied. It was a man's body, slumped on the floor, unmoving. Her hand froze above him, not touching him. If he dissolved like mist at her touch.... She swallowed. "Is he dead?" She was aware that she as being less than herself, having to ask. The voice was silent for a long time. it said at last, and sounded thick with tears. She smelled the alcohol, then, and understood. Pushing herself to her feet, she.... "I'm scared." A small girl's voice. The girl sniffed loudly, gulped, then, "who are you?" She turned round, breathing fast. Though there was darkness, the two of them seemed to stand in light. She could see every details of the girl's face, and could see that her hair was golden. Her face glistened with tears and her stuffed lion's fur was matted and damp. "My name's Dana." She fell back down to one knee, staying on the girl's level. "What's your name?" The girl sniffed again. "I'm.... I'm scared of the dark." She smiled, gesturing at the lion. "Who's that?" "The dark." The girl ignored her and clutched the lion tight, her face twisting in sobs. "The bad man. I'm scared. Will you...?" Fist pressed to her mouth, she stood up, stepping back in horror. ****** Dawn was grey at the window. "Wh...?" Scully rubbed a hand across her face and through her hair. "You okay, Scully?" Across from her, Mulder was still in his chair. His chin was resting in his hand, his eyes reflective. As she watched, he blinked slowly, his eyelids closing over his dark eyes, then.... She felt a sudden strange terror that they might reopen red. "Mmm. " His lovely deep brown eyes, intense. She rubbed her eyes, and gave a wry laugh. "Dreaming," she muttered, more to herself. He tensed. "Do you dream?" Doors. She slammed a door shut in her mind, and cut off the girl, and the darkness, and the betrayal and the feeling that she was not herself. "No," she said, firmly. He let out a breath. In his left hand, he was twisting something, round and back, round and back, round and back.... It was a black feather. ****** Halfway through the morning, she saw a police car, and suddenly she laughed. It started as a smile, and welled into a full laugh - a laugh of relief, of freedom. "Scully?" Mulder glanced at her, then looked forward again. He was clutching the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. He had been subdued all morning. She reached out and opened the car window. The hair lashed at her face and twisted her hair, flashing strands of red across her vision. The sky was the most perfect blue. "Scully?" He was still in chains, still in the grip of the darkness of the night. She had been liberated. She smiled at him. "The most beautiful days are in winter." "No smoke," he said, roughly. "No power. No industry. No pollution." He looked so tired. "It only _looks_ beautiful." She clenched her fists, hating him. "It's getting fixed. It's under control." "Maybe." He shrugged. His tone said the opposite. "It's under control." She had to shout over the wind. "I've seen it. We've both seen it. No sign of disorder all morning." He had resisted at first when she had wanted to drive home alone. "I need clean clothes," she had insisted, "and I don't need a baby- sitter." Still, when she had arrived back outside his building, calmly directed all the way by patrolmen taking the place of traffic lights, there had been several days' worth of clothes in her trunk. She hadn't told him. She was trying to forget, herself. She closed the window. She no longer felt like laughing. ****** For the first time since midnight, Mulder smiled a real smile, felt real hope. He laughed wryly to himself. "You wound us, Mulder." Langly shook his head, making tutting noises. "You really thought we'd be caught like everybody else?" "What sort of underground conspiracy theorists would we be if we didn't have our own generator?" There was a smear of oil on Frohike's face. "What sort of underground conspiracy theorists would we be if we didn't distrust anyone's Millennium-compatible software but our own?" Byers didn't look up from his computer screen. Scully was leaning against the wall, her eyes half-closed. He glanced at her, echoing her words from the previous night. "It's the Millennium Bug?" She didn't meet his eyes. The three Gunmen exchanged a look. "Maybe," Byers shrugged, and then there were four of them, sharing the same doubts, and seeing it in each others' eyes. Scully made an impatient noise in her throat and looked away. Byers tapped at the screen. "Our computer's working, but there's no-one out there. A few like us, but...." He spread his hands, palms upwards - a gesture of failure. "No commercial ISP is working. No academic institutions. No organisations." A television hissed, a storm of white noise. "There's nothing out there. No transmitters are working." Frohike lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Last night, I couldn't even watch...." "Video, Frohike." Mulder gave his best impression of a leer. "Works for me." Footsteps on the floor. Scully was pacing, arms folded, head cocked as if listening intensely. He swallowed, sobered suddenly. "And the water." Langly clutched a hank of his hair in his hand. "I couldn't wash my hair this morning." Frohike patted him on the shoulder. "He's ashamed to be seen by a lady." But the tension was palpable beneath their jokes. Mulder took a deep breath. The click click of Scully's heels stopped. "It's worse than it should be, isn't it, guys?" Their silence was the only answer he needed. ****** Her steps grew slower. She was slipping behind him, and further behind. "Scully?" Mulder turned round. He resisted the urge to grab her by both hands and physically drag her forward. "What?" She didn't look at him. Her voice was sharp. "It's people, Mulder - just people. Why did you dr.... Why did we come here?" All the way from the Gunmen's office, he had been silent, lost in thought. She had asked no questions either, accepting the way he took them. This was the first time they had spoken. "People, Scully," he said, now. He stepped up close, his voice low and only for her. "Look at them. Really look at them." Eyes burning, she raised her head, scanning the crowd quickly, impatiently. "It's a crowd of people outside the White House, Mulder." She spoke with exaggerated patience. "There's always people outside the White House." He would not let her escape. "_Really_ look at them." He stepped behind her, speaking over her shoulder into her ear. He put a hand on her cheek, keeping her head steady. "People." There was a shake of doubt in her voice. His thumb was at the base of her jaw, and he could feel her pulse, fast against his skin. "Scared people." "They want leadership. What does the White House symbolise?" The crowd was swelling by the minute, speaking with one voice in a rising tone of anger. An elbow jostled him in his back. "It's barely twelve hours." She stepped forward, away from his touch. "It's only a power cut, Mulder." He dug his nails into his palms. But he took a deep breath, and kept his voice low. "It's not the lack of power, Scully. It's the lack of leadership." He gestured at the crowd. "All they want is for someone to come out and tell them that it's under control. They went to be told to get their water from Muster Point B, and their food from Muster Point A. They want to be assured that someone else is dealing with the problem." He spread his hands. "Where's that assurance?" Her hands were clenched at her sides. "The police were taking control back there. How can we know what's being done elsewhere? How can you say no-one's getting that reassurance - how can you know?" "Show me," he said simply. He pulled the car keys out and held them out to her. "Show me that they are." She turned and walked off without a word. ****** "There." They didn't even need to drive. Head held high, she'd walked against the flow of the people, averting her eyes from the look on their faces, then stopped still, and pointed. In the middle of the road, a patrolman stood tall, his arm stretched out to direct the traffic. A dozen people flanked him in a tight semi-circle, their body language showing agitation. "There, Mulder." Still she pointed, letting the scene speak. As her arm began to shake, four more people joined the circle. She lowered her arm. "There's their reassurance." "No, Scully." He shook his head sadly. He moistened his lips. "I tried, this morning." She turned away. Something inside her screamed at her not to listen. She felt that her life depending on this belief. If she was wrong.... "It was when you'd gone home," he continued, relentlessly. "I talked to one of them, not telling him I was FBI. I pretended to be scared. I didn't need to pretend much." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, and she could imagine him smiling, trying to lighten the situation. She stayed turned away, eyes always on that small group, willing those tense stances to relax. "I asked questions about what we should do about.... oh, about water, food.... if the army would be distributing blankets to old ladies.... things like that." One of the crowd reached out an angry hand and grabbed the patrol man's hand. Voices raised above the noise of the traffic. She shut her eyes. "He said he didn't know." There was nothing but bleakness in his voice, now. "To all my questions, he said he didn't know." She whirled on him then. "Damn it, Mulder, we're FBI." She reached for her pocket. "We should be...." "No." His hand closed round her wrist, almost painfully. "What could we give them?" "Order." She glared at him. But her anger was more at herself. The thought of taking control filled her with a deep dread. The blank- faced procession following the flashlight.... She swallowed hard. "This reassurance you say they need." "By lying to them?" he said softly, and she hated the pity in his eyes. He was looking at her as he would look at a child. She let out a breath. Slowly, slowly, his hand released her wrist. She kept her arm where it was, reluctant to give him the victory of letting it fall back to her side. "Someone will know." She raised her head defiantly. Somewhere, a horn blared, and then another, and another.... ****** "I was right, Scully. I wish I wasn't...." They sat in the car on a random nameless street where they had finally stopped, exhausted. The air was thick with dread, suffocating. His hand shook as he reached out and opened the window, just a crack. He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment Samantha's six-year old face flashed as if living, then faded. Scully sighed, but said nothing. Her chin was resting in her hand. She looked almost asleep, though he could see how every muscle in her body was tense. "They just need someone to tell them what to do - just someone in the street with a bullhorn, telling them it's under control." He shivered. The sun was lowering, and long grotesque shadows twisted in the street. "They're children." "They're...." And then she laughed, mirthlessly, as if recognising the hollowness of her words. "They're Americans." "Land of the Free?" He shook his head. "These militias who claim to detest authority, to stand up for individual freedoms.... What do they all have in common, Scully?" She was silent, closed against him. He felt lonely as Christmas, desperately trying to connect. It was worse, perhaps, knowing she was so close physically. He felt tortured by her proximity. "They all have a leader." His tone was flat. There were few things worse than knowing the future and being unable to change it. "Everyone needs a leader... Oh, maybe not when times are good, and never a dictator, but in times of stress.... We _are_ children, Scully. Everyone wants to know that someone bigger and stronger is looking after things. That's why people created gods." Absently, her hand rose to her cross and twisted it. He had expected an objection, a statement of faith, but got nothing. She was silent. "It will be dark in a few hours." He touched the back of her hand and.... He blinked hard and the tears receded, unshed. "It will...." He cleared his throat. "It will be dark in a few hours - the second night without everything people take for granted. What will people do, Scully?" She wrenched her eyes to meet his. They were bleak, afraid. he realised, suddenly, and this time it was harder to fight the tears - tears for her. "Nothing," she said. It was closer to a croak than a voice. She coughed. "They'll wait." "They'll riot." "They'll wait." She dropped the cross as if it burnt her. Her fingers were scored with red lines from twisting the chain. "You're the one who said they want leadership." "They won't wait." His voice was leaden. "They want it now. I said they were like children, Scully, and what are children but adults who haven't been touched by the veneer of civilisation? Babies don't make sacrifices, or follow rules, or respect other people's needs. They are purely selfish. If they want something, they take it - or cry until someone stronger gives it to them." "Civilisation can't be just.... forgotten in a day." Her hand was back on the cross, gently now. "But it will start tonight. A convenience store will be looted for bottled water, or a flashlight. A crowd will smash the windows of a police station, angry at how little is being done." He shrugged, his hands spread despairingly. "It will escalate. In a few days...." "I can not accept that view of human nature." Her eyes were like steel, shining. He forced a laugh, and resorted to a lie. "I read 'Lord of the Flies' when I was at school. It changed my outlook on life. It... explained things I saw every day. It made me what I am today." "I read it at school too. I thought it was implausible. That's where we're different, Mulder." He bit his lip, and said nothing. She sighed, and suddenly he wondered if the shine in her eyes was unshed tears. "So, Mulder. let's say you're right." She folded her arms. "Why, Mulder? I presume from your tone that you think someone's doing this deliberately? It's too much to expect that you haven't got a _theory_ on it." There was heavy sarcasm in her words. "Let's hear it, Mulder." But, instead, he reached across the car and touched her cheek with his fingertips. "Why are we fighting on this, Scully?" he whispered. He responded physically to the memory of the dream, jerking his head up, listening. There was longing there, and revulsion. There was.... Scully. "I.... I don't want what you say to be true." She looked at him warily, sadly. A drop of water fell onto his fingers. ****** "We need to talk," he had said, simply. "All of us. We need to go back." But someone had arrived before them at the Lone Gunmen's office.... "Agent Mulder." Richard Fry's teeth flashed white in his tanned face. "And this must be the lovely Agent Scully Frohike's been telling me about." Mulder flashed Frohike a sharp look, but said nothing. He had met Fry a couple of times after that first meeting in the park - meetings in which he had promised a lot but said little - and knew that he was not a man he felt safe with. He was glad. Dangerous men made the best informants. "This is Richard Fry, Agent Scully." Frohike looked subdued. For once, he shrugged apologetically rather than following up with further innuendo. "He has certain.... information about what's happening." "Oh." Scully smiled wanly. One hand twisted her cross, the other hand rested on the door frame. Cold air billowed behind her, but she did not come in, did not shut the door. Fry smiled charmingly. "I know who's doing this, and why. You're just in time, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. I was about to tell there noble crusaders the truth." Mulder stepped forward. "Mulder." A soft whisper, only for him to hear. "I want to go home." He stopped, torn. Ahead were the four men in their circle of light, strange shadows on their face from the naked bulb. Behind, in the gathering darkness, was Scully. He felt a creeping fear that his choice would be pivotal - that it would extend far beyond this moment. "Mulder." Louder this time. Her voice was distracted. "I need some air. I... I'll be okay." He dared to turn round, and she was smiling, privately for him. Deeply relieved, her let out a long breath. "Tell me what he says afterwards, okay?" Afterwards. He smiled. "Mulder." Fry reached out a hand towards him. "Fox." He opened his mouth to object, then shut it. The name didn't seem wrong on Fry's lips. It was familiar, as if he had heard it before. Scully's heels on the stairs, receding.... "We were talking about the future, Fox - your friends and I." Fry's soft boots made squeaking noises on the floor, like a whimper. He paced around behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "I was about to.... describe it." Fingers clutched his shoulder, abrupt as a claw. He gasped. "Can you see it, Fox?" His shoulder was frozen and numb from where the fingers dug into it, but he could no more have pulled away than he could have stopped breathing. He _had_ to hear. "No," and his breath sounded like a moan to him, weak and needy. "No..." "Imagine it, Fox." he thought, suddenly, then smiled, for Fry spoke again. "Imagine it, Frohike, Byers, Langly. You need to see it. You need to see the horror of it to know what you will be fighting. And you must fight them." He shut his eyes, his head swaying from side to side, seeking pictures. And, fuelled by Fry's voice, they came.... "There will be weeks of rioting. Thousands will die - millions - caught in the crossfire. Children killed in a fight over a flashlight. In the darkness, everyone will be a threat. Some people will shoot first, and ask questions later. And they will set fires for light...." Red sheeted his vision - red and crackling cruel orange. Cecil L'Ively's demonic laugh, and hot smoke in his lungs as he cowered beneath a pile of twisted aliens.... Fire.... But worse, a million times worse. Fire in city after city, and screaming faces consumed in it.... The skin on the back of his hands bubbled with agony. Someone gasped - a strange high note of pain, or concern. "And in the rubble, people will dream...." Low and mesmerising. he thought suddenly, but made no move, no resistance. His burnt hands still by his side. "They'll dream of light, and a world in which they can eat cooked food, and walk safe, and stay clean. They'll dream of order. They'll dream of...." A monstrous ruler, striding the earth. "Leviathan," he murmured. Fry laughed. "And how easy it will be, Fox. A whole world facing chaos, and a life that's nasty, brutish and short. Would they not sacrifice some freedom to a ruler who offered them light, and freedom from crime, and running water, and food?" Like sheep, they fell onto their knees in the streets, hands held up in supplication. Broken glass pierced their skin, and blood flowed. They were kneeling in their own blood, and the blood of civilisation. He shut his eyes, unable to watch. "Who will be Leviathan?" he breathed. "You know, Fox. All of you.... You know." He heard it like a low growl at first, then growing, swelling. Closer, it became distinct sounds, like a hovering helicopters, or.... or.... He felt his face twist in laughter - hysterical laughter. "No." He felt rather than heard the whisper. "Not horses - helicopters. They don't get the horses." And a laugh, soft enough to be a dream. "Helicopters," he said, aloud, and again heard soft wondering noises from the others. he wondered, his mind half in the small office, half in the glass-strewn street. "Let yourself see it, Fox." And then the part of him that was still in his body blanked out, and he was wholly there - wholly there in a street of silent lifeless faces, gazing with adoring terror at the helicopters. Slowly, slowly - and he held his breath with the others, and moaned with dread and relief as they did - the doors opened and.... "Him," he sighed. His stomach twisted with the horror of a suspicion confirmed. The man's skin was white, his bearing regal as ever. He paused in the dust, one long exquisite finger brushing at the arm of his suit. "Don't stop..." "You...." He tried to lash out a furious fist, but in this vision- world, he was powerless. The man stood next to his associate, and smoked. Black ash fell upon black ash. The crowd's mouths opened in silent supplication. He knew the third, too. Tall and solemn, it was wearing the face that it had worn when it had thrown him to his death in Alaska, and when it had killed his only hope for saving his mother and gaining absolution. With a silent hiss, the weapon in its hand shot out, ready to kill. The point dripped with red blood. And the fourth was pale.... "No." He fell to his knees in the dirt, and the glass cut through his flesh with a pain that was nothing compared with.... with this. It was his nightmare. It was the pale deathly grey, and the harsh white light, and the willowy figure that promised to look after her, but _took_ her. It was the self-loathing of Puerto Rico, of living for a thing for twenty years, and panicking when he saw it. It was.... "You understand." In that moment, he could have worshipped Fry for ever, for pulling him back. He was fully in the office now, just one man talking to another. The terror of that street was gone, leaving nothing but a lingering creeping fear like the memory of a dream. He nodded, unable to speak. "They will come forward and offer an end to the anarchy, and people will welcome them - the alien and the human alike. The people will be bruised, and will take a while to lick their wounds, grateful only to have survived. By the time they realise that the order has become repression, and the repression tyranny, it will be too late. The date will have come, and passed." "The date?" He shook his head, like a dog shaking water from its coat. Some of it lingered, and he was still half under the spell. "This _will_ happen?" And then Fry laughed - a beautiful terrible sound. "How the Hell should I know, Fox? I'm just telling you what they plan." "Vividly." Frohike swallowed hard. He looked deeply moved. he wanted to say, and would have, had Fry not been standing there, smiling. He felt relief, that he had not been alone - that he had not been seeing visions, going crazy - but somewhere, insanely, he felt jealousy. As if he wanted to be chosen, to be picked out, alone.... "Yes. Vividly." Fry shrugged. "I have been told that I have a.... gift with words." Mulder raised his hand to his shoulder, massaging where the fingers had dug in deeply. It would bruise, tomorrow. The three Gunmen looked at each other. "So, what do we do about it?" Byers asked. He looked long at Frohike, at Langly, briefly at Mulder, and not at all at Fry. Langly cleared his throat. "What _can_ we do?" Mulder looked at Fry, awaiting an answer. ****** The shy was deep orange, and the windows shone like fire. Scully rubbed her eyes with her hand again and again. They itched with tiredness, and the ache of unshed tears. Her head was throbbing mercilessly. She ran a finger along the cold metal of the car, lingering a while on the handle. The part of her that believed Mulder's story craved that safety, and the lovely control of a light that could be switched on and off at will. But the part of her that wanted to be free, to escape from.... She had no idea where the thought had come from, but she recognised the not-Scully voice from her dreams. The cross at her throat began to irritate her. She had pulled it, earlier, digging the chain into her skin, and now she ran her finger gingerly around her neck, exploring the skin. It wasn't broken. By the time she had finished her exploration, the after- echo of the voice was no longer troubling her, and that was _good_. But the idea, the sentiment.... "I need some air," she had said, and it had been true, although she had no idea how the words had come out coherently. Her mind had been reeling, assailed by some horror she could not begin to understand. The man had smiled, and she had seen the grinning worm-crawling skull of the worst autopsy she had ever done. "I need some air," she said, aloud, and raised her chin almost defiantly. There was still light in the sky, and she had her gun. As she walked down the street, her footsteps were the only noise in the world. It was as if they were all already dead. ****** "Can they be stopped?" He clenched and unclenched his fists. Fry shrugged. "Perhaps." "Can _we_ stop them?" "No." He hated the light, then. The dark, only the dark.... In the ruins of the world, he would curl in the darkness, put his hands over his ears, and scream. ****** Pattering feet. She had lost all awareness. She shook her head sharply, and found that barely minutes had passed. Turning round, she could see the car, still visible, shining like gold in the sunset. Pattering feet, echoing.... She reached for the gun, but didn't draw it. The feel of its cool metal on her fingers was enough. It always anchored her, gave her strength. In resolve, in skill, she was the equal of a man twice her physical strength. Pattering feet, and blonde hair flying in the wind. Arms flailing wildly, mouth open with silent fear, it was a little girl. she thought, at first, for there was something about her struck a chord, that was familiar. For two years, she had seen Emily in any blonde girl, the way Mulder saw Samantha in any dark one. It took a year before she could see one and still smile. She held her hands out, palms open, like hands calming a storm or hushing a crowd. "Hey..." The girl ran straight into her, blindly, then reeled, and almost fell backwards. Scully clutched at her, and steadied her, and, as she did so, looked into her eyes. It was all she could do not to cry out. The girl heaved great shuddering breaths, broken with sobs. Her face was red and drenched in tears. A tawny mane and two bead eyes peeped out of her coat pocket. Her own breathing slowed to the rhythm of her reassurance. She was composed again, accepting, ready only to soothe and comfort. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay...." She stroked the girl's hair, pulling her close into her body. The girl's sobs stilled. She looked up, and her face was at peace, her eyes half closed, like a baby being lulled to sleep, utterly content and safe. "Hi, Dana," she said, and smiled. ****** Soft feet on the stairs. Langly stood, mouth open, ear pressed against the door. They waited. Frohike twisted a pen between his fingers, round and round. "He's gone." Langly turned round. "We can talk." Mulder raised his head sharply and breathed in as if to speak, then stopped. He would assess, first. His emotions felt bruised. "I don't trust him." Langly's face was lined. He had aged ten years in a day. Silence. Mulder clenched his hands into fists, and waited. He felt that he and Fry had touched in some special way - connected. It had not been without pain, and fear, but.... He unclenched a hand, and rubbed his shoulder. "How does he know?" Byers stroked his beard. His ring shone in the light. "It makes sense." His fingers dug deep, massaging. Through the shirt, his skin felt cold. "It is in keeping with...." He paused. "With other things we've discovered in the past. It fits in with our own observations today." Frohike nodded, but said nothing. He looked deeply troubled. "You trust him, Mulder?" Langly leant forward sharply. Mulder frowned, consideringly. "Yes," he said slowly, and found that he did. "Yes, I do." "You're so damn quick to trust, Mulder." He had never heard anger in Langly's voice before. "You've always trusted _anyone_ who comes to you with information. Unlike you, _we_ value our lives too much to do that." Byers placed a hand on Langly's arm and the two exchanged a look that he could not catch. "But if there's any chance that he's right, we risk our lives by _not_ trusting him." "How?" Langly snapped. There was a tension in the room, and disharmony. Mulder had never seen these men except as a perfect team, finishing each other's thoughts. he had thought once, and smiled internally. But Scully had gone. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, using that as an excuse to hide, to gain a few seconds alone. "If he's right," Byers said firmly, "and we can't stop this.... this thing, then we have to work out how we can survive it." Langly walked away. He rested his hands palm down on the wall, and stood there, head leaning forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. "If we want to survive it...." ****** "No..." The girl moaned, squirmed. "No. The bad man's coming. Dana, it's the bad man. The bad man...." Her mind was reeling. She was stroking the girl rhythmically, focusing only on that need as her anchor in the storm-lashed sea. she hammered in her mind, like a mantra. "The bad man...." The girl shuddered. "Listen...." She had created a world of just herself and the girl, shutting her mind to all other sounds, but now.... "The bad man." Heavy feet ahead of her, and behind her, their echo. It sounded like soft-soled boots creeping behind them, ready to.... "No." She whirled around, hand ready to grab her gun, but there was no-one there. In the empty street, paper blew in the wind. A dark bird flew overhead, low, and its feathers whispered. "Get away from her." The click of a gun was unmistakable. She raised her hands, turned round slowly. The girl entwined her fingers in her coat and held on tight. "Get away from my daughter." She ran her eyes assessingly over the man, from red face to heavy boots. She could smell the alcohol even over several yards of winter breeze. His gun was shaking, but his finger had already half-pulled on the trigger. He would be unpredictable. She wouldn't know which way to dive, and the girl's grip would hamper her own draw. She drew a deep breath, and stuck her chin forward. "I'm with the FBI, Mr....?" No answer. She pointed towards her coat, offering to pull out her ID, but he didn't give. "She was scared. She looked lost. I was...." She shrugged, wondering how to explain it even to herself. What _were_ they? "I was comforting her," she said, at last. "Look, Miss FBI. I don't trust no-one, least ways your kind. For the last time, step away from her." "Is this your father?" She lowered her voice, speaking to the girl. If the man shot, he shot, but she would not hand a child over to a stranger. In her dream, she had walked away.... The girl nodded. Slowly, oh so slowly, her hand loosened its grip. "Do you want to go with him?" She kept her hands high, but stroked the girl's hair with her eyes. "You don't have to, you know." Though where, in this future world of Mulder's, she would find the law to support her, she could not begin to imagine. She knew, though, that she would try. She wondered if it was the girl's hair colour that made her so sure. "I'll go." The girl choked a sob, and stepped forward. "It's not for long. I'll see you soon, afterwards....." The man made an angry sound in his throat, thrusting his gun forward. She ignored him. "How do you know?" The words came out in spite of herself. She didn't want to ask, though part of her needed the answer. There were more things here than she could believe. The girl smiled. "I just know." After they had gone, she pressed her fist against her mouth and stood there, still, for a very long time. ****** He was tense, now, listening always for the sweet sound of her feet. The other man's words faded in and out of focus - in and.... "I know a man with a bunker." Frohike gestured at the radio set and gave a brave attempt at a smile. "Useful guy to know. We could go there first sign of anarchy." He shrugged. He was twisting his hat between his hands, his knuckles white. "I'd hate to die by a random brick when I could die later as a proper resistance fighter." He struck an affected pose. "Looks better on the resume, don't you think?" "It's not happened yet." Langly's voice was soft. "It might not happen at all." None of them believed it, now. It was just how, and when, and how much could be saved. Mulder felt numb inside, knowing that if he let himself feel, he could break down utterly. The loss of the whole world he knew.... a small voice whimpered inside. His lips moved, almost saying her name aloud. It was a worry he could deal with - a normal, human worry. And then he laughed aloud, knowing he was close to hysteria but unable to stop. He really cared more about the safety of one person than he did about the future of a million million in the world? he imagined her saying, stroking his hair as he wept. If she.... "....tell them?" Langly's voice was rising again. Mulder blinked, pulling himself back. He wanted to hide his face in his hands, rock to and fro, and hope it would go away. Fear would sniff for him, searching, but he would hide, and it would pass him by and take up residence with someone else. "What can we tell them?" There was sympathy in Byers voice. He wondered, suddenly, if all three of them would cry, alone, when no- one else could see. "Get out there with our ham radios and pamphlets, and tell people not to panic? It's what I meant, earlier. If Fry is one of Them, it's only in his interest to tell us the truth. There is _nothing_ we can do. Telling people will only accelerate the process. They'll panic all the more, if they know. There's nothing we can do, Langly. Nothing." Langly held his head high, though his voice was ravaged. "I do not accept that." "I do not accept that." Mulder ran the words over in his head, mouthing them silently. "I do not accept that." He smiled. He felt as one who has stepped from a suffocating room into cool fresh air. He felt alive, and himself. A wild desperate hope stirred within him, and his hand fell to his side. The last lingering memory of Fry's touch was gone. "I do not accept it," he said, aloud, and six eyes were wide, staring at him. None of them smiled. Heels on the steps, moving slowly.... "I do not accept it, Scully." He stood up blindly, and the chair fell over with a crash. He smiled, laughed, and his vision clouded with moisture. As she walked through the door, her face doubled, trebled.... She smiled wanly, and her smile was unfocused, multiplied. She ran a hand over her forehead. "I want to go, Mulder." Behind her, the light from the window was almost completely grey. Just the tiniest hint of orange.... ****** It was about to break. Scully glanced round anxiously, at the tightly packed cars, the impatient faces bent over their wheels. Mulder had told her what Fry's vision of the future was, in a dull monotone that told her that the true horror was much greater than he admitted. She could not believe it, but now.... "Something's going to break," she said, aloud. Mulder nodded. His behaviour had been.... strange, alternating between spell-bound abstraction and feverish hope. He was abstracted, now. They had travelled three miles in the half an hour since they had left the Gunmen, and the darkness was almost complete. "Let us go!" The man in the next car wound down his window and shouted at the patrolman, adding a few choice swear words. "I've got a wife at home...." They were close to the front now - close enough to see the pale pinched face of the patrolman. He was alone in a sea of traffic from four directions, and their neighbour was not the only driver who was shouting. The city was a chaotic cacophony of horns. "Let me through now!" The man's engine revved up into a scream. "Let me through, or I'm going through." The patrolman's scared face behind his flat out-stretched hand.... "No!" Scully screamed. "No....!" But even through her shout, she could hear the thump, and faint "oh" of surprise from the patrolman as the air was forced from his lungs, as he flew through the air and landed, half on the road and half on the sidewalk. She was out of the car in an instant. "No..." She wanted to rock with the horror of it. Kneeling in the dust, she reached for the dying man's hand. Even a cursory glance told her that he had no chance, though she would breathe for him if she needed to. But every drop of his blood was a symbol. "Scully?" Mulder's hand on her shoulder. She loved him then, though she could not smile, could not spare time to speak to him. He had come back to himself in time, and was there for her. She wondered, sometimes, if he knew what one word could do. "Can you hear me?" She bent down low, whispering through the sounds of the horns. "It's okay. I'm here. You'll be taken care of. Everything's going to be okay." Hollow, hollow words.... She felt the warm breath of exhaust as a car pulled past her, almost close enough to touch. Dispassionate eyes looked down on her, and on the dying man. "Get out the way!" an angry voice shouted. "It's nearly dark." She wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep. "No." Mulder's voice. She heard the click of a car door opening, and sounds of a scuffle. A dull thud, and she wanted - needed - to look, but could not wrench her eyes from the man's blue lips. He had died, and, mesmerised with horror, she had not breathed for him. "Mulder," she murmured. "Now will you get out of our way?" Two voices, saying the same thing in different words, and another thud. She blinked hard, and turned around. One man held Mulder, arm around his neck, while the other swung his fist back, ready to drive it into his stomach. She knew he wouldn't have threatened civilians with his gun, even this time. For all his threatening words, he was childishly naive, sometimes. "Mulder." She ran a hand across her face and it was wet and sticky. "Let it go, Mulder." "But...." He looked at her, and his eyes were wild, desperate. his eyes were crying at her. "Let it go," she said, more sharply. She just needed to cry in the darkness - to curl up and cry. Her vision had shifted, and she saw normal human beings now as monsters. She knew that part of her had changed forever in an instant. She had moved beyond Mulder, gone from denial to total comprehension. "Scully." It was a cry of agony, though the fist had been lowered. There was blood on his lip from an earlier blow. "Let it go." Her voice was low, and, in the noise, he would only see her lips move, and not hear her. The man's cold hand was clasped in hers. His hands fell to his sides. He looked lost, utterly bereft. When the man released his hold, he collapsed to the ground, kneeling in the road as if he was boneless. "Help me, Mulder," she whispered, pulling at the dead man's limbs. His head lolled at the movement, and she felt a tiny insane hope that the movement meant he was alive. Mulder pulled himself to his hands and knees, raising his head, and for a moment she thought he was going to howl to the darkness like a dog - total grief. But he shook his head, and his control held. She was grateful for it. If he collapsed, she would too. "Mulder..." The man who'd hit Mulder drove past, his car crawling to a halt just ahead of them. It was every man to himself, and the intersection was packed solid. The air was thick with crumpling metal and swearing. "Three yards, Scully." And Mulder was beside her, adding his arms to hers, pulling at the dead man. "He just moved three yards." When they reached the sidewalk they slumped, arms around each other, the dead man on their laps between them, and wept. ****** The light was pulsing. The doctor's eyes were rimmed with red. "What?" He seemed to respond to everything on a five-second delay. Mulder knew he was weary beyond the point of exhaustion. "I said...." A long moment of darkness. When the lights came on again, it was as if the very walls of the hospital sighed with relief. "I said there's a dead man outside, in my car." He spoke in a whisper, though some of the faces there were blank, dead. "He needs to be taken to the morgue." It had been a journey from a nightmare - a slow crawl through tightly-packed traffic. He had tensed at every shout, every swerve. On the back seat, Scully had cradled the dead man, her hand gentle on his hair. The doctor sighed. "When we have time." Her face had been a mask of desolation. He had glanced in the mirror, then again, and again.... The rectangular snapshot of Scully, grieving. He had _needed_ it - needed to know he was not alone. But when she had seen his eyes in the mirror, she had wiped her face roughly, then smiled, defiantly. "Scully," he had mouthed, and looked away. His hands had been shaking on the steering wheel. He blinked, and Scully's remembered face became the doctor's, now. The same face... Both were strained and devastated, but this man was frail, nothing. He had none of Scully's skill at hiding it, at keeping going. "What's with the lights?" He spread his hands, then saw the blood on his right cuff and held it there, staring. "We have a generator." The man ran a hand through his hair, rubbing, as if at a headache. "We had enough fuel for several days, but the army came and took it." His voice was dead, but there was a hoarseness to it, as if he had shouted his fury, earlier, and now was spent, drained. "They said they were centralising all supplies to ensure a fairer distribution at emergency points. But...." He swallowed. "They haven't left us enough to last the night...." "You let them?" He balled his hands into fists. "You didn't fight?" The doctor opened his hands, palms upwards. "With what? Bare hands? You don't fight the army - not these guys." Almost fiercely, he raked a hand through his hair and pulled it back at the temple. A blue bruise was spreading from the hairline, and there was a faint matting of blood. "Don't - judge - me." "No." Mulder shut his eyes, hearing the doctor walk away, hearing other footsteps, other breath. All dead soon, or slaves. All.... He wanted to sag at the knees, to sway, to.... "I told you, Fox...." A soft smooth voice, like a phsycial pain in his head. "I told you how it would be." He clutched his head in his hands, mouth moving silently, like a prayer: Then, breathing out deeply, he opened his eyes and..... Broke. "How do you know?" He grabbed Fry's jacket at the collar, pushing him back into the wall. His balled the leather in his fist. "Why are you here, now. How...?" "I think you should let me go, Fox." It was soft as a hiss. He tightened his grip. "Not until you tell me. Are you one of Them? Is that how you know?" He wrapped his other hand round the reassuring metal of his gun. His voice was a deadly whisper. "_Is_ it?" Fry smiled slowly. His eyes were burning, and they were fire, not blue. "You can't kill me, Fox." He needed a black and white war movie, and a cigarette. The chilling confidence was the same. "I can." He drew his gun. Hatred clouded his vision. "I will, if...." He swallowed hard, fighting to keep the gun level. "Just tell me how you know all this." Inside he was sobbing. "Fox." The man raised both hands and gently closed then round him, hand and gun. Mulder made a low noise in his throat and - - made no resistence. The man's skin was cold, so cold. "I...." And the strength flowed from his limbs like water. He sank to his knees, his head slumping forward with grief, held up only by the man's hands around his outstretched right hand. But his eyes saw only the a small circle of white tiles, and the toes of Fry's worn boots. "It's hard, Fox, I know," Fry murmured, and the timbre of his ever- changing face was soft. "It's not my doing. I know because.... I know. I'm not on their side." He raised his head, focusing not on the man's face but on the tight clasped hands that enclosed his own. "How can I fight them?" Low and intense. "You c...." "I do not accept that." He burned with fire. "I.... I _hate_ them." In his mind, it was noble, declaring allegiance to a cause. In his ears, it was tawdry, and childish. The last day had robbed him of himself, making him into something he did not recognise. "Yes." Fry smiled - a strange smile. "How you fight.... How you dare to hope the hopeless.... How you will never accept the new order, even after everyone you know has been.... assimilated.... It's the fire in you, Fox. You're a stubborn, insane fighter. It's why I chose you." Footsteps approached along the corridor, then stopped. A female gasp of breath. The steps receded, echoing fast. Mulder licked his lips. "Chose me? How?" The man released his hold. The gun fell to the floor and lay between them, stark black on white. "Can you fight them?" He pushed himself to his feet. His limbs were tingling, numb. "Can - you - fight - them?" "I have..." A shrug. "Ways...." "I want...." But it ended in a groan. He wanted it so much, so intensely, that he was unable to say it. He let his head fall into his hands, rubbing his eyes roughly with his fingers. Yes. Flashes of light in the darkness from the pressure of his fingers. Yes. Whisper-footsteps on the tiles. He opened his eyes, and was alone. ****** With the dead man, she waited. Her eyes drooped. Like the dead man, she drifted.... She left her body. Silently down the street on an early evening of blood and fear. Her feet were bare. Houses slid past, and eyes looked through her - a million million eyes that could not see her. But one.... "I've been waiting for you." A voice - whose voice, whose? But the smile in the voice was joyous. She felt her own smile as if it was a living entity, spreading over her face of its own volition. She wanted to fight that smile. She heard a soft exhalation, as if someone was pushing themselves to their feet, hope overpowering physical pain. "You came," the voice said. "It will be all right, now." Her head turned a fraction, but she would not.... "I will not do it." She clenched her fists, tight. "I do not accept this. I...." Her head snapped back, and she was in the car, and there were curved red indentations in her palms. With the dead man, she waited.... ****** "Scully." A low murmur, warning. The coffee slapped rhythmically against the side of the mug - slap, slap, slap. It was colder than her hands, now, although the small camping stove had heated the water to boiling. "Scully." Louder. "We need to talk." Her knuckles were white. Earlier, she had poured bottled water over her hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, long after all traces of the blood had gone. Mulder had had to grasp her wrist firmly, then, and it had taken all her control not to break down and cry. She moistened her lips, but said nothing. The surface of the coffee reflected fire. "Scully." He was fighting as hard as she was, she could tell. "We've got to.... What can we do? How can we stop this?" "We can't," she said dully. She wrenched one hand from the mug and rubbed her eyes. The mug jolted, and a drop of lukewarm liquid ran down her leg. "How can you say that?" A shout, a slam of his fist on the coffee table, and the drop became a trickle, became a flood. She bit her lip, and did not move. "How can you just accept this?" She blinked, her voice level. "Earlier, you said I wasn't accepting it, and you told me - you told me, Mulder. I believe you." She felt so bleak. "You should be pleased." His fingers dug into the arm of his chair. "I wanted you to believe their plan. I didn't want you to believe that the plan will succeed." "I..." There was no coffee left, but still she circled the mug rhythmically. "I don't know if I do believe their plan," she said, dully. "You know I can't accept all... all parts of that - not that this is a prelude to some sort of extraterrestrial colonisation process." He let out an audible breath. His hands were shaking. "I do believe, though," and she raised her head almost defiantly. "I do believe that, unless we get power back soon, we're looking at anarchy. I do accept that things are breaking down faster than I ever thought possible. I do admit that I was naive." She shut her eyes. Oh, and what it cost to admit that.... When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her, leaning forward in his chair. "Whatever you believe about.... about what comes after, you know the anarchy mustn't be allowed to happen." It was phased as a statement, but his voice, his eyes, showed a desperate question, a desperate hope. "Of course." There was an edge to her voice. She was angry that he had doubted her. The patrolman had died in _her_ arms. "How could I think _that_ was right?" "We must fight it." She shook her head wanly, but said nothing. "We must fight it, Scully." His voice was intense and thrilling. "We must fight _them_." "How?" And then, insanely, she laughed. "Like you did back there, picking a fight with the first looter you see and getting yourself killed?" The laughter faded, and her chest continued to heave, closer to sobs. But she would - not - cry. "What good will that do, Mulder?" He looked at her, unblinking. "We must fight." Then, "I have never known you to be defeatist before, Scully." She sparked at that. "I have never known you to be so...." Then she laughed again, bitterly. "Yes, I have. You've always been impractical, childish.... naive." "What...." "No, Mulder." She lowered her voice. She wanted to speak the truth, not to hurt him unnecessarily. "I admire you, Mulder. You will never give up, never stop fighting. You've always kept going long after the point at which I've drawn the line, putting yourself into situations you've known you couldn't win. You've risked you life, for.... for what?" "The truth." His voice was dull. There was betrayal in his eyes. "The truth." She leant forward and touched his hand softly. "Will knowing 'the truth' save the world? Will knowing 'the truth' put right everything that's gone wrong in your life? Will knowing 'the truth' make you happy?" "I.... I thought...." He took a deep breath, and looked at her with eyes that shone. "I derive comfort from that dream." She looked down, at the discarded mug and the puddle of coffee at her feet. "If you're right about what's happening to the world, we don't need dreams." "I do." His voice was pained, as if he had taken off all masks, confessed all, and it was killing him. "I can not live without hope. It's sustained me all my life - hope that I could...." He swallowed. "That I could find her." "Hope...." She looked at him, then wished she hadn't. The pain in his eyes was more than he would have wanted her to see. "I need hope, Mulder, but if we hope too much, then we will be disappointed. If we are to do anything, we need to plan, to be practical. We must pick our battles, Mulder." "How?" He was on the offensive, anger covering the pain. She frowned, searching for hope. "We can find Skinner," she said, at last, her finger tracing absent marks on the arm of the chair. "We can organise all the agents we can find, and the police. If they.... If someone is deliberately sabotaging the water supplies, and the power.... We go to the source. We.... we try to rectify the situation." "We fight." He smiled - a dark, dangerous smile. She shook her head. "No. Fighting is blind. We would need a plan, not just... not just to strike out wildly out of hatred. Fighting every symptom of disorder would only get you killed." "You sound like a politician, Scully. You'll let more people die like... like earlier... You think we should turn a blind eye to all that, while we quietly get on with our oh so practical plan." She shivered, and had to bite her lip not to cry out. "You talk as if it's my choice," she said, at least, her voice tight. "As if the world's my responsibility. As if what I say now will make a difference...." "I...." His voice was a mumble, as if more to himself than to her. "I have to believe that it will. I... I want to believe it...." She wanted to cry for him - for the weight that he bore. In her mind, she held him, reassured him. And she did hold him, walking to his side and placing her hand on his head, her fingers stroking his hair. "Don't try to make a difference in too much, Mulder," she murmured. "I... I don't want you to get killed." "I can't." His hands were twisting in his lap. "I can't let it happen. Fry...." His hands clenched, tight and shaking. "I think Fry knows how to fight them." She snatched her hand away. "I don't like him." Silence. A long, long silence. There was a faint, distant sound outside, and she tried to tell herself it was not breaking glass. Neither of them spoke again. ****** He saw the dream like a television screen, powerless to influence it, powerless not to watch. A scream of pain.... The image swung around, like a camera man with a hand-held camera, searching. Pictures flashed. A burnt-out building, black and shattered.... A pile of twisted bodies in the street.... Green leaves in a pile of rubble.... He knew he was seeing the future. Pain rose to agony - an inhuman shriek. "No!" Red anger burnt inside him. He clawed at the image, feeling the reistence like a solid wall of glass, cold and unyielding. "No. Stop. Let me in. Let me stop it...." A black feather fluttered lazily in the wind, spiralling through the wreckage. "No!" Blood ran from his torn fingernails. He clawed and clawed and pushed and screamed, but he could not connect. He was outside, somewhere in a void of nothingness, alone, and could only watch, and listen. The image moved again, and he saw the bird. Wings flapping, it was standing in the street, proud and hurt. Feathers mingled with its blood in the dirt. There were several blood-stained stones at its feet, and, as he watched, another stone flew through the air, hitting it full in the chest. It screamed, but still it stood. "No!" And suddenly he was through, and he was strong and fiery red with anger, and he knew that he would do anything - anything - to stop another scream. The world had seen so much pain. He would die rather than let another suffer. He would kneel down before it and take the stones meant for it, and take its pain for himself. His blood would flow willingly. "No." A voice, urgent and commanding. He didn't move. "No," it repeated, louder. "Step away from it. I _will_ kill it, and I'll kill you if you get in the way." He spread his arms wider, shielding the bird. It was no longer just a bird to him. It was the world, and the people in it. It was innocence, and it was everything _they_ wanted to destroy. It was.... It was to die for. "I will." The stone came towards him, blanking out the sun, hitting him full in the face.... "Scully," he murmured, as he died. ****** She was in a dead world, scared and alone. Glass cut into her feet. Her left hand was pressed across her mouth and nose, but the stench of the dead was everywhere. "I'm in the future," she murmured. "This is how they want it to be." Then, strangely, she laughed. "We won't let it die," she said, aloud. The wind whispered, like the voices of a thousand people behind her, echoing her words. It made her shiver, but it made her smile, too. "No?" A man stood in the middle of the ruined street, his arms folded on his chest. The reek of him was worse than the dead, and his eyes.... His eyes were red. She clenched her fists, and raised her chin defiantly. She was screaming inside, but, "no," she said, all control. She reached to her waist, but her gun was gone, so, never taking her eyes off the man, she crouched down and picked up a brick. She tried it in her hands for weight, assessingly. It hit him full in the chest. She felt no regrets. Another. Her vision was sheeting red. He was not a man to her, not any more. He was evil, and the force that had destroyed the world. He was the red-faced man who mowed down a patrolman, and the drunken looter who killed a child with a shard of glass. He was everything she hated. He was.... "No. Don't hurt him." Another voice. It came from nowhere that she could see, but it swelled closer, and she could feel the hatred - the fierce hatred of everything she was. "No." Pain slashed at her fingers as she closed them around a fresh stone. "Keep away. I'll kill him, and I'll kill you, too." Whispers of echoes behind her murmured appreciatively. The wind felt like hands touching her clothes, supporting her. "No," the voice repeated, deadly now. A whirl of movement, and a figure launched itself at her, a kaleidoscope of images in its dark eyes. She saw teeth at her throat, choking her. She saw a coarse hand on her thigh, forcing her legs apart. She saw tearing cloth, and blood on her breast. She saw.... "No!" Arms shaking with the weight, she held the stone above her head, and threw it at the blur of movement that was his face. And then she was alone. The man had gone. The whispering crowd behind her had gone. She was alone in a ruined world, her fist pressed to her mouth, surveying the ruined face of the attacker she had just killed. Tears ran down her cheeks. Gently, so gently, she reached out and stroked Mulder's hair, already soaked with blood. ****** She was still sleeping, her cheek resting on her hand. Mulder wrapped his arms tightly around his body. The dream would not leave him. he thought, feeling cold inside. "Sc...." He stopped himself just in time, but continued silently. "Scully, I'm sorry. I dreamt you were one of them. I'm sorry, Scully. I trust only you." There were tears on her cheeks. But she killed him. It was like a physical pain inside, remembering. She was on the side of the enemy, and she killed him. He had always believed in prophetic dreams. ****** His eyes were shut, but he was awake. Scully kept her breathing carefully measured, knowing she would be unable to face him without crying. Just a minute longer.... she thought, and dug her nails into her palms with the pain of it. They had left things unresolved, she knew, and fallen asleep with some harsh words still not taken back. They had disagreed. They had even fought. They had.... Silently, she rubbed her eyes, cutting off the thought. She was ready. They had disagreed, and it had found its way into her dream. It was only natural. It was something to forget. "Mulder?" Her voice was hoarse, and she coughed, then tried again. "Mulder?" His eyes opened slowly, warily. They were rimmed with red. "I trust only you, Mulder." ****** They had spoken softly, touched alot, and the truce had held. They hadn't spoken of the future, looking only to the few hours ahead. "Shall we go to the FBI Headquarters?" she had asked, glanced across the car. His face had been as grey as the sky. "Report for duty?" Though she'd had little hope. It was Sunday, at the end of the holidays. The place would be deserted. He'd nodded slowly, warily. "I want to talk to the guys again, first." His fingers had drummed at the wheel, tense. "They have.... contacts outside the city. I want to know how.... how bad it is." She'd turned away, watching the silent world pass, and shivering at the memory of the dream. A dead world. Empty. Just like.... "There's people," she said, now, fiercely. She hadn't intended to speak aloud. She cleared her throat and continued, awkwardly. "There are people at the windows, watching, Mulder. I've seen dozens...." A white face pressed against the glass, and a palm pressed outwards. she thought fiercely, and refused to think of the dream. He nodded, but said nothing. ****** Blood was pounding in his head. "Something's wrong." He reached for his gun, gesturing to Scully to do the same. The door was hanging from its hinges, the notice ripped and trampled in the dirt. Gun in hand, Scully stepped forward through the door. She was all focus, her hair the only life in the grey world where the fine rain deadened everything. But he.... He took a deep breath. He was screaming inside, knowing - dreading - what he would find. "Mulder?" A soft cry, and he gasped with the almost physical pain of what might be happening there in the dark. A soldier with his arm around her neck, a gun to her head.... "Scully," he managed, hoarsely. He was in the dark in an instant, ready to confront the attacker and die. He would atone for distrusting her. He would.... "Mulder." Her face was grave, but she was alone. The beam from her flashlight trembled, sending harsh white slashes through the dark of the windowless stairwell. "Look." In a white pool of light, there was blood. "They...." He left her then, running forward up the stairs, wildly. Footsteps echoed like a frenzy of war drums, and the light danced. It was pulsing, white and black, white and black, white and.... he thought, suddenly. Sound and fury and flashing light and running and running and knowing - knowing - that it's all too late, that there's only death at the end of the stair. "Mulder." A three-fold echo. It was laughter. The last syllable of his name, repeated three times.... "Frohike!" he shouted, his gun forgotten. "Byers! Langly!" Their office was nothing but devastation. Scully's dancing flashlight behind him showing a smashed computer, a pile of ash, a broken table. Booted footmarks in the doorway. Scully sank to her knees, reaching out with one finger. "Still damp." She rubbed her finger and thumb together. "Still damp," she said again, her voice warning. it was saying. He stared in stupefied surprise at his gun, as if wondering who he was, how it had got there. "They start early." He was so bleak inside - lost. "They'd have been here." Scully's hand on his back. "It's Sunday." He whirled on her, fierce. "They'd have been here, Scully." And he laughed, a bitter laugh that was closer to tears. "You've said it yourself, Scully. Do they have homes to go to? Do they have a life? Do they exist outside that office of theirs?" "Byers had a wife," she said, softly, and he turned away, hating her for saying it. He didn't want her to see his face. He stepped forward, then fell to his knees, tearing through a pile of debris. "They might have gone." His voice high and unnatural. They spoke about going. They might be safe." "Mulder." She squeezed his shoulder, standing tall at his back. "They'd have found some way to let me know." A splinter of wood tore into his finger, and the papers he rifled through were spotted with red. He was breathing fast, almost sobbing. "They'd have left a note." "In which case this could be a trap." Scully pulled at his arm. Her voice was level - infuriatingly level. "No...." He stood up and whirled to face her, breathing in deep heaving panting breaths. His voice caught in his chest. "They're my friends, Scully." She blinked. "And mine, too. I didn't know them as well as you did, but I... I was fond of them." She gave a small wry laugh. "Even Frohike." He held her shoulders and squeezed tight, pulling her towards him. "I can't walk away, Scully," he said, low and intense. "I have to know." There was such pity in his eyes that he had to look away, had to let his hands fall and walk deeper into the room, alone. "Mulder..." He barely heard her. He blinked, and, safe, with his back to her, let two tears escape. He gestured vaguely towards it, hoping Scully would understand, would believe that that was the only reason he had turned away from her. He lowered his head, coutning to three silently, then raised his head, ready to try again. "Frohike said they were in contact with people on ham radio. I just want to see...." He didn't dare look at her. And then he forgot her - forgot everything but the voice. "....out there?" A high, scared voice from the radio. "Anybody? Guys, where are you?" An anxious laugh. "This isn't funny. Anybody? _Anybody_?" Mulder couldn't breathe. "Where is everybody?" "Dead." Another voice but in, dull and despairing. "I saw it. They went in over night, and this morning. Everywhere that had kept their computers running. Everyone who could talk like us. Everyone who knew, and could tell others. Everyone." The voice cracked. There was a sound of swallowing - alcohol, probably. "They silenced them. They shot them." "They can't...." The high voice again. It was only a boy, his voice only half broken. "Who? They can't just.... just _kill_ people." "Didn't you listen to what everyone was saying last night?" Another swallow, then another. He was swigging the whole bottle. "They can. They will. They're coming for me now. If you don't want them to come for you, go now. Destroy your radio, and go." "I can't...." "They're coming...." Then something touched his hand.... With a hoarse cry, he raised his gun. Her hand closed round his and held it. "If anyone else can hear, they're coming." A loud crash. "Armed men just broke down the back door. They're our men - special forces. They're...." A loud report of gunfire, and then there was nothing. "No..." He lurched forward, pulling at Scully's hand. His gun fell to the floor. Blindly, he groped for the microphone, reaching with shaking fingers for the right control. "You can't...." he shouted, blind, scarcely thinking with fury. "You can't do this. I know what you're doing. It won't work. I'll fight. I'll stop you. I swear I'll stop you...." "Mulder." Soft, crooning, as to a baby. She reached across him and switched the radio off. "It's okay, Mulder. It's okay...." He let his face fall forward into his hands, shaking. His legs sagged, and he fell to his knees. "Mulder...." She crouched behind him, arms wrapped around his body, face pressed against his shoulders. "Mulder...." For a long time, they were still. ****** "Mulder?" She moved her stiff limbs, whispering softly. He had been still for.... minutes? It was as if he had passed out. "Mulder? We should go." His hands fell to his sides. "I brought them here." It wasn't a question. She stood up, though she was slow to withdraw her hands from him. "We should go, Mulder," she said, again. "I'm sorry." He slumped forward. "I lost control. If they were listening, they'll be on their way by now. They'll know where we are." "Then go," she said, sharply. She wanted to shake him. "Why stay here, reproaching yourself, while they're getting closer?" "Yes." He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He looked as if he was being torn apart. "We should go." But his eyes were distant, not seeing her at all. "Mulder?" He had scared her, when he has lost control and shouted his hatred at the radio. She had known that she had ceased to exist for him. "Scully." He uttered her name as an exhalation, poitning with a trembling finger. "Look." It was a hand. ****** Scully clutched the steering wheel, her head throbbing mercilessly. Her eyes stung with the effort of not crying. It was all happening again, and worse, this time - much worse. She cleared her throat. "Ready?" In the mirror, Mulder's tear-streaked face nodded. He wanted to travel with the body, to hold it, to keep it covered with the blanket. She understood. She licked her lips. "Sure?" He was silent. His hands were lacerated from digging through the debris, searching again and again for the other two bodies he feared - maybe hoped - were there. Once more, she had had to hold him physically, to wait until his flailing limbs calmed and his desperate shouts turned to soft sobs. "They're not here, Mulder," she had said. She had had to fight not to cry herself. "They spoke about going," Mulder had murmured, and touched the dead man's hair. "Langly was the one who wanted to stay. Maybe they went just in time, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Maybe Byers and Frohike are okay." "Maybe." She'd stroked his hair. "They wanted to kill, not take prisoners." "Yes." Her hand had paused at the back of his neck. She hadn't liked what she was doing - offering comfort she had no reason to believe. "We should go," he'd murmured, in a small voice. She'd lowered her eyes, ashamed. She'd made it seem as if it was his decision, when she had held his flailing arms and shouted it at him again and again, earlier. "Sure?" she said now. She knew that any doubts would fester, becoming nightmares about Frohike and Byers, hurt in the wreckage, calling out for help to his receding back. He paused. In the mirror, his face was exhausted. Then he nodded, slowly. "Sure." She reached for the keys. "I never really knew him." Mulder half shut his eyes. "I didn't know his background, or anything about his family. I knew he played Dungeons and Dragons, and I knew what music he liked. I didn't know where he lived, or what he did when he wasn't with the others. I didn't even know his name." She blinked fiercely against the tears, remembering another man whose name she hadn't known. He had died, too. "People touch us, Mulder. We don't have to know much about them, but they touch us. It's not wrong to feel their death." she added silently. He had turned his back to her, showing his tears only by a shaking of his shoulders that she knew he thought she couldn't see. She turned the key. Nothing happened. ******* She brushed her fingers in the dirt, then held them to her nose, and sniffed. "Drops of it, Mulder." She had to say it again before he heard. "Someone siphoned off the gas." He swallowed. "Them." "Probably not. Probably an ordinary person who'd run out of gas themselves." She wanted to grab him and shake him and shout. The last hour he had burnt with a fire of grief and hatred. If the armed men came, he would run unarmed towards their guns, wanting only to pummel their chests with his fists, screaming his fury. She was close to losing him. "We can't leave him." Mulder was still sitting in the car, one hand on Langly's shoulder. "We'll cover him." Oh, but her head pounded with the strain of being strong. "We'll walk back to your house and get my car." She tried to smile. "Or we walk the FBI and siphon off some gas from one of their cars. You'll like that. You've tried every other way of opposing authority." He didn't smile. "We walk," he said simply, and looked at his gun. ****** They held hands. She felt she was leading him, unseeing and unthinking. When she glanced up, she saw his lips moving soundlessly. "Mulder?" she asked, once. He smiled, and there was a cruelty in his smile that he hadn't seen before. "I won't give up, Scully. I won't stop fighting." She made no reply. "Listen," she said, much later, drawing his attention to a sound she had first heard minutes before. She had listened, tense, worried as much by his failure to react to the sound as she was by the sound itself. "People." His eyes gleamed dully. "Rioting." And he touched not his gun but his breast pocket. "Don't," she murmured, warningly. "It's right." He was pulling at her hand, now, leading her. "I have to try." Then they turned a corner, and saw it. ****** Another crash as another window smashed. "Flashlights," Mulder murmured. "Look." "Not just flashlights." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Bottled water. Alcohol, of course." She ran her other hand through her hair. "They'll be alcohol-fuelled looting later." They were watching it as if it was on a screen, standing at the fringes and just observing. The crowd was a thousand strong, but... Scully wanted to close her eyes and escape. "They can't keep order," she said instead, pointing towards the police. They were few, and young - the ones who, the previous day, had been on the roads. "They're not trying." Mulder's voice was dead. "Not really. They're as scared as the rest of them. They need water, too, and light." "What do we do? Do we go on?" He laughed. "Riot. Big scary riot. Can't go over it, can't go under it, got to go through it." The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Got to?" His face was a set mask. "Yes." She tugged at his hand, briefly considered arguing, then followed. ****** A man's face pressed close to hers, his mouth open in a wordless shout. A hand reached from the crowd and pressed a flashlight into her hand, closing her fingers around it. "Mulder?" But the sound of the crowd carried her voice away. "Mulder?" She tugged at his hand. "This is stupid. We're getting out." His hand tightened on hers. it said. "Mulder!" She jerked at his hand, and, dropping the flashlight, grabbed him by the front of his jacket. "Come on! We're going." He shook his head. No. "Then I'm going. It ends here. I'm drawing the line for myself here. I'm leaving." She stood on tiptoe, put her mouth close to his ear, then found she had nothing she was ready to say. "Not for ever, Mulder," she mouthed, silently, knowing he wouldn't see, hoping perhaps that he would understand. "Please don't go on...." "I've got to try, Scully." His eyes were so sad. she thought suddenly, and shivered. He released her hand. "I'm going," she said, but stood there watching him, and didn't move. "I've...." His hands raised towards her face, then fell. She saw him clench his fists, breathe in deeply, and then there was only his back to her - his back, walking away. The crowd surged, and the gap between them was gone. Still she stood. ******* She was the still centre. The crowd milled around her, shouting, pushing, but she was still. No-one touched her. No-one spoke to her. She was still. And then she heard him. "I'm with the FBI." It was _his_ voice, amplified by the bullhorn. "Listen up. You have _got_ to stay calm. Stay calm." The crowd froze in silence, held it - one, two, three - then erupted into noise. Around her, voices rose in entwined questions: "What's happening? Why doesn't anyone tell us what's going on? You tell us why we should stay calm?" "I repeat, stay calm." He had found a pedestal of some sort, and she caught a glimpse of his dark hair, of his ID held up above him. He was several hundred yards away. "Don't panic. You mustn't panic." "Oh, Mulder," she whispered. She wanted to bury her head into her hands and weep at the dear, noble stupidity of the man. As if it could make a difference.... As if telling a crowd not to panic would do anything but _make_ them panic.... And she knew that he had known it himself. "I've got to try," he had said, and his eyes had told her that he had known the likely outcome. "Stay calm." His voice again. "The police here will arrange for you to be given what you need. The authorites will cover the payment." She began to push at the crowd. He was stupid - insanely stupid - but she wanted to be at his side, holding her ID aloft beside his. The crowd swelled again. A harsh voice carried above the others, shouting wildly about the authorities being to blame, about refusing to trust. "Stay calm." His voice was beginning to sound strained. "We can fight this. Together, we can fight them - fight it." An elbow jammed into her path and she beat at it, wildly, no longer caring who she hit. She had to get to him - had to. Somewhere, a car engine sounded. Close to him, there was a swell of noise. Angry shouts, accusing. "Authority," she heard, in a collective voice bitter with hatred, and "where were you two nights ago?" "Mulder!" she shouted, out loud, though she was too far away for him to hear. Bodies were pressed into a wall, pushing her back. She was close enough now to see his face and his shoulders, above the crowd. A hand grabbed her and she glanced away from him, shaking her arm furiously to remove it. The voice of the crowd swelled like thunder. "Calm...." A gun shot. Her head whipped round. "Mulder," she gasped. "Mulder." He was not there. Heads of all colours in the crowd, all at one level. He had been head and shoulders above the rest, and he was not there. "Mulder." She pushed forward, mind screaming, clawing at the crowd with no thought of who she was touching. They seemed to part before her. She flew. "Mulder!" The sound of the crowd was different. The anger had gone. They were blank-faced, muttering quietly. They seemed ashamed. she screamed inside. Her hand touched her gun. "What did you do?" She closed her hand round a random shoulder, and dragged the person round to face her. It was a girl of eighteen, blonde and pretty. Her face was a mask of fear. She showed no mercy. "What did they do to him? Where is he?" The girl's mouth opened. She spoke incoherently only - no clear words. Scully pushed her away in disgust. "Mulder!" She imagined that ths crowd had fallen silent - that all were open-mouthed, listening to her grief, and smiling at it. She felt as if she was in the maw of a wild animal. "Mulder!" Then she turned round a complete circle, scanning the crowd. "What have you done to him?" Silence. The crowd murmured and shouted, but it was silence to her. They said no words that she wanted to hear. And then she saw it.... An overturned box, a discarded bullhorn, and blood.... Until that point, she had not once thought to cry. "Mulder." She sank to her knees, and reached out a hand for the blood, gently, as if touching a relic. "Mulder...." He had gone. ****** end of part 1 ****** It was so beautiful; it was so terrible. As the rain fell on her hand, it quickened and began to trickle down her fingers, marking a course for her wrist. It would soak into her sleeve and create a stain like a relic, a shrine to memory. It was Mulder's blood. She ran her tongue over her lips, strangely languorous. The crowd teemed around her, but the sound seemed to fade almost to silence. It was the distant rushing in her ears of the prelude to a faint. It was the unreality of a dream, of a nightmare. It was.... "Mulder." She whispered his name aloud, and it was louder to her than a thousand voices around her. She half-shut her eyes, letting herself conjure up the lines of his face, then dashed her bloodless hand fiercely over her eyes. It was not the Mulder she wanted to remember. It was the Mulder she had last seen, his face all grim lines, his hair plastered to his brow, his eyes desperate. A car engine surged, then receded. Somewhere, a woman screamed. "Mulder." She raised her head, let the sounds of the crowd click back into focus. A small part of her longed - oh how it longed - to bury her head in her hands and mourn for him as dead, to give up the fight. She knew, though, that she could no more stop fighting than she could stop breathing. She was Scully. "Mulder." She stood up. Pressing her fingertips together, she transferred his blood to both hands, letting it mark her like some brand to show the world her resolve. She would wear his blood like he had worn her cross. She would.... She shook her head abruptly, wiping her hands on her dark coat. That thought was.... She frowned. She let her hand fall to her side, seeking her gun. She had to make almost a conscious decision to be angry, to question, to keep going, to.... "To find him," she said aloud, and stuck her chin forward. Her other hand clenched to avoid trembling. "What happened?" A woman with a wraith-like face, and she turned on her, gun in hand. The anger flowed readily after all, though there were tears in her eyes, burning. "The man who was here.... What happened to him?" The woman's eyes were on her tightly twisting hands. She was out in the rain without a coat, and had looted nothing. There was blood on her face. She coughed, mumbled, "I don't know." "What happened?" Anger burnt in her now, and the terrible desperation of being helpless. She grabbed the woman by the front of her blouse, her fingers digging into the fabric and wishing they could draw blood. "What did they do to him?" "I don't...." The woman's face crumpled. To Scully, blinking through tears, it seemed to double, to multiply, until it was all the thousand faces of the crowd, all twisted and inhuman, their eyes.... Their eyes burning. Red eyes from her dream haunted her. She shivered, and tried to forget. In her dream, _she_ had killed Mulder. And, today, she had left him to walk into Hell alone. She dug her nails into her palms. Anger was the only thing that made it bearable, and, as long as she could question, she could hope. "What happened to him?" she asked again, but it was almost a sob. She matched him, hurt for hurt. His blood was her pain, too. "Just tell me where he is." The woman raised her eyes, and they were human - a soft blue. "He was shot," she murmured. "Someone had a gun...." Shot. She had known it, yet still it struck her like an icy fist. Shot. He could be dying, curled up on the ground against the pain, trampled by the feet of a crowd who were all his killers. Blood would trickle from his mouth as he searched for her, he searched for her.... She pushed the woman away from her, not caring if she fell. "Mulder!" A wild shout. "Mul-der!" The answer was silence - no sounds that mattered. Unshed tears choked her, but still she kept her back straight, her gun level. "Mulder!" "Scully?" She whirled round, a mad smile on her face, though it was wrong, all wrong. She had a second of joy, then a disappointment all the more terrible than if she had never hoped. Afterwards, if she lived, she would be all grey, never hoping, never being disappointed. Mulder's life had been all white light and blackness, like a dreadful pendulum. He had swung from the bright hope of having found his sister, to the bitter dark despair of each hope shattered. Hoping too much had destroyed him. Imagination. She blinked, and refused to cry. It had not even been his voice. "Are you Scully?" She kept her voice level, refusing to break her resolve. "Why?" The voice was a long way above her. A tall man. She refused to turn, refused to look at him. She wouldn't let herself read false hope in his face. "There's a man who says he's called Mulder." The man's voice was soft. "He was shot. My friend's a doctor and is treating him, but he won't settle. He keeps calling for someone called Scully. I.... I just wondered if it was you." She turned, and there was fresh blood on the man's clothes. "Where?" she said, and it was the voice of a starving man offered food. "I need to see him." He nodded, and turned without a word. The rain was heavier, and the people were beginning to disperse. Glass crunched under her feet as she walked, the man a step ahead of her. "How bad is he?" Her voice sounded high, unnatural, and she coughed, trying to exert control. Silence. Somewhere an engine rumbled, idling. "Where was he shot?" She saw the man's face in profile, and it was set in stone. She tensed, and made sure of her gun. She swallowed, and tried again. Oh, she needed Mulder - needed him. "Where is he?" The man raised his arm silently, and pointed at a white van. She stopped walking, torn. Instinct cried a trap, but she had walked away from him once today, and never again. She couldn't let herself believe it, but she would risk everything on the slightest of chances. To walk away and live with an endless might have been.... So she raised her head and walked, regally, her eyes dry, towards the van. One step. Two... She never took the third. ****** That was her first thought, and she almost smiled in wonder, marvelling at a blackness that released her without leaving lingering dreams. Dreamless now, she lay in the trembling darkness, and she hurt. Her ears were roaring. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes, and saw only shades of grey and dark shadow. The roaring moved from her ears and became the sound of an engine, and the trembling was deep inside her, but it was outside, too. She was in a.... a van? A shaking hand to her aching head, and something sticky came off on her fingers. Blood. She traced its source and found sticky matted hair high on her temple. Head. She let her mind run down her body, assessing. Hands. She flexed her fingers experimentally, finding them unbound. Feet too. Her gun was gone, and she felt naked without it, and weak. And someone was breathing in the darkness. Soft rumples of clothing.... But she didn't say his name. If it was her captor, she wouldn't let him see her hope, wouldn't let him smile in triumph when he dashed it. Think. She pulled herself to her knees, her right hand out, ready to attack or defend. She swept it around, scanning. Half way around, and she felt a tingling in her palm, almost as if.... She snatched her hand back as if burnt. "Agent Scully." She simply could not begin to describe how she felt, then. Disappointment that it was not him, or relief that she was not alone with him, hurt, in the dark, unable to see him, unable to save him? Both, perhaps. Her head throbbed, and the fire made tears start in her eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Agent Scully." The clothing rustled, and she pushed herself back, until she backed up against the side of the van. Metal was cold against her hands. She felt the red throb in her head, and said nothing. "I'm sorry we had to do what we did." He sounded sincere, but she knew not to trust him. "Can you cope with light, do you think?" She bit her lip, but said nothing. She _could_ not say anything. If she opened her mouth, it would be to demand, to beg: where's Mulder? What have you done to him? Where is he? I need to see him? She would beg, and he would laugh, and that would be his triumph. To be strong, she had to show she wasn't broken. Later, she would ask. Strong and unbroken, she would ask. Not now. Not with her head aching so, and her throat choking with unshed tears, and her eyes blinking and blinking. "No," she said at last, and the control she needed for that single word, level.... Then she folded her arms around her legs, and retreated into a small dark world where there was only him, and he was smiling. ****** Once she heard screams, distant, and cries of supplication. Her hand twitched, wanting to unfold itself from her knees and reach out to them, though whether as an appeal for help, or an offer of rescue, she didn't know. Eyes closed in the darkness, pulled from reality by the pain in her head, she saw a soft white hand, small but so strong, holding a dozen others, supporting them. Her fingers dug into her leg, and she endured. Once, long after, fists pounded on the van, again and again. One struck in the middle of her back, and she had almost felt the desperate need there, only half an inch of metal distant, but a world away. Then the van jolted, as if driving over something large, and soft, and.... she heard, clear and distinct, in a voice that didn't seem quite hers. She screwed her face up, adding darkness upon the darkness, like a child wishing she could make the bogeyman disappear simply by closing her eyes. Then there was silence - for a long time, silence. The engine stopped, but there was a soft whirr of machinery somewhere, and then all sounds ceased. She felt dull inside, as if no longer fully alive. And then the door of the van opened, and she was in light again. Eyes were watching her, so she _could_ not shut her eyes. She would fight. She would be strong. She would.... Oh, but she was weary.... ****** His last words to her had been, "I have to try." They had led her down featureless corridors of some institution, an armed man on either side of her. She was free, unbound. An unsmiling man had given her an icepack for her forehead. She showed her defiance by her stiff shoulders, her straight neck, but she needed more. To beg for him would be to show weakness, but to follow, placidly, not asking the question they knew she longed for more than anything.... She clenched her hands into shaking fists. That was weakness, too. And she would rather be weak than fail him. "Mulder." It was a faint croak at first. She cleared her throat. "Mulder. Is he here?" The man on her right nodded. She fought the smile, fought the tears. "I've got to see him." Another nod, silent. Oh, but she wanted to shout, and pummel him with her fists. "Where?" was all she said. "Here." They stopped, and one man gestured to a door. "You may look." Blood pounded in her head. One hand, bunched into a fist, half rose to her mouth to press against it, ready to suppress a scream, or tears, or laughter of relief. She let it fall. Whatever was behind that door, she would endure. "Mulder?" A hand closed round her arm, firm though not ungentle. "Look." A warning hiss in her ear. "You can't go in." And then the hand tightened, and held her as she thrashed, all control forgotten, thinking only that she _had_ to be with him, she _had_ to stop them, she _had_ to die with him.... "Mulder!" One hand slipped from the iron grip of the soldier. She beat on the glass, willing his still head to move. "Mulder!" His eyes were closed. Through the glass, a lifetime away, he lay still, his body covered with blood, as men with masks and gowns and cruel metal instruments worked on him. As she watched, one cut.... "What are they doing to him?" She was all hatred, all horror. Control was nothing now - an empty word only. "What are you doing?" Behind the glass, the blood flowed. And the door was locked. ****** He was in a bubble, and safe. Twisted faces pressed up against then surface, and clawed fingers scratched as in some warped personification of pain. "Outside," he whispered, and here he was at peace, and his voice obeyed him. "Not here." Here was safe. Here was free of the pain that had nearly killed him. Here was.... "Bad." The voice was on his shoulder, like a man close behind, whispering, or a bird whispering confidences. He was silent. The safety of the bubble surrounded him like a soft blanket "It is stealing you, Fox." He wanted to buckle at the knees at the sound of that voice. It was all her had ever longed for; it was all he had ever feared. "You're running away. You're giving up." "No." It was like a moan. The soft blanket was feathers, floating into his nose and depriving him of breath. "It hurts. I.... I want to rest a little while." "No." Something tightened on his shoulder - a stab of pain, like claws. Something warm trickled on the skin. "You can't run away. You can't let this happen, Fox. You must never stop fighting - never." He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Softness was killing him. "You have run away twice over, Fox. You have twice failed. You must twice redeem yourself." Delicious agony sliced his shoulder. "No!" He cried aloud with all his being, clawing at the bubble with bleeding fingers. "I'll fight. I'll fight...." And the bubble rent, and the pain rushed upon him like a tidal wave. He didn't scream. ****** There was no night and day in this place. Mulder slept within cold metal walls, his pale skin bathed in muted antiseptic light. As she sat beside him, Scully clutched her watch, needing it. It showed she was sane. It showed this was real. It showed that a day had passed, and she had no answers, no news. "Mulder?" she whispered once more, then bit her lip. He had almost recovered consciousness once before, his head lashing wildly, his lips moving in silent intensity. Blindly, he had flailed at her, smashing away her comfort. Against her will, a needle had sedated him then. Now, he slept. "Mulder...." She looked down. One fifteen in the afternoon, January 3rd, the year two thousand. Seconds ticked by, here, away from the world. In the world, she knew, each pulsing second was a new death. She.... She wouldn't think of that. She clutched tighter, and the watch dug into the skin of her hand. The pulse was steady at the base of Mulder's throat, and his eyelids were flickering. She wondered if he was dreaming. "Mulder?" She cleared her throat, and tried again. She needed to hear him. Like a sea wall lashed by waves, her defences were weakening. There was so much to worry about, so much to ask, so much to do. Too much. Clenching her fists, she had focused only on Mulder, using concern for him as an anchor to cling to in the storm of.... of.... she told herself firmly, and pushed them away. "Mulder?" And he stirred. A low moan in his throat, and he moved his head, slowly, slowly. His eyes opened, then he blinked, almost as if he was surprised to see her, as if he had been expecting.... "Mulder?" She touched his hand softly, then retreated. "How do you feel?" He swallowed. "Scully?" One nineteen. "You were shot in the chest," she said, simply, not looking at him. There were things he would never know - the shattering horror of that first sight of him, and the conviction that the doctors were hurting him, treating him as a lump of dead meat on a slab. Hungrily, she had scanned every inch of his body, afterwards, before accepting that they had treated him professionally, though without warmth. But the initial image of his blood on the scalpel.... It would feed many solitary nightmares, later. He nodded. "Yes. I... I remember. The riot. I...." Then nothing. She had to suppress a sudden spark of anger. She had expected an apology, though, really, he had done nothing wrong. He had been naive, innocent, foolish. He had been noble, brave, tenacious. He had been Mulder. "I know why you had to do it," she said, slowly, and touched him again. Subject closed. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, and looked down at the sheets, almost shyly. "Is the.... Is the world still there?" She shook with the effort of control, then - with the struggle to remain true to herself. It was absurd. She wanted to laugh hysterically. She wanted to fall to her knees and sob. She wanted to press her hands over her ears and never let go. She wanted to.... She couldn't.... "I don't know, Mulder." And her face was composed, her back rigid. "They won't tell me." ****** He hovered on wings of pain, dipping in and out of sleep, of coherence. Hours later, he asked. "Who?" He had frowned, his drooping eyes on the doctor's back as he had walked from the room. As the door had clicked with an unmistakable sound of locking, his eyes had widened, and she had seen a fire in them that was terrible, and familiar. Five o'clock. She rubbed her eyes with her fingers, letting them dig deeply. Then she was ready. "Them." She regarded him with a cool stare. "Them, Mulder. Who do you think?" Hatred animated him like a bolt of electricity, and his face changed into something she never hoped to see. His eyes struck a resonance deep within her dreams. She clutched the arms of the chair, and held on. Whispering insane urges in her head told her to hold on to him - to hold and never let go. It was the riot all over again. She was losing him, she was losing him.... "They won't keep us, Scully." His anger was normally fire, all thrusting gun and shouting. This was icy anger, low and intense, and far more terrible. she thought, suddenly, irrationally. "We'll fight." She looked away. ****** They called for her in her dreams, and she moaned, head tossing into the soft pillow, but did not awaken. "Dana...." Two dozens hands reached for her, pleading. Their faces were tight and scared and they called her name as if she was their light. Right at the front, ahead of the others, was the girl, her arms wrapped tightly round her lion, mutely staring, calling. "Dana...." There was such anguish there, and fear. "Why have you left us, Dana?" Behind them, flames surged and flickered. An arm reached out in the dirt, but it was dead, the body abandoned on the side of the road. Blank faces walked past it without seeing. So soon, and they had become inhuman, too scared, too numb, to care. "Come to us, Dana. Come back from their light. Come back to us." Tears on her cheek, burning. They were calling, oh they were calling.... She moaned, struggling towards wakefulness, but.... She _could not_ reach it, she _could not_ escape. "Dana...." Their hands clawed at her. They would suck her dry. They would drain her. They would kill her.... ****** It called to him in his dreams, the voice. He was in an oasis in a desert, sand storms whirling all around, just out of reach. Water dripped from his hair, cool and beautiful, and the grass rippled in the breeze. It was a pocket of life in the middle of death. And it was walled. It called to him in his dreams, the voice. It called, and comfort became sharp pricking agony. "Still there?" It was heavy with disappointment. "I thought better of you, Fox." Held by sleep, he wanted to sink down to his knees, clasp his hands, and cry out his apology. Held by sleep, he could only stand and endure. Water trickled down his face. "You enjoy their comfort." It was the dark hiss on his shoulder, and the stab of claws, and blood on blood. "They give you water, and safety, and protection, and life. They would destroy the world, and yet you accept all this from them." Green grass lashed at his ankles, and the water on his face became a flood, choking him. "I...." He struggled to move, and the hurt of it, oh the _hurt_ of it.... "Of course it will hurt." The voice was soothing now, like a father. A hand touched his forehead, reaching from behind, and the water paused, letting him gasp a breath. "It will not be easy, resisting what they give you. You will hurt. You will suffer. You will lose something very dear to you, perhaps. But you must do it, Fox, you know that." "Yes." Fists clenched, he nodded. "I know." Comfort was agony to him now. He had nothing. The air pulsed with a whispering, like wings. A dark shadow passed over the sun. "Not nothing." The voice was inside him now, insinuating itself into his soul. "Win through this for me, and you will never be alone. We can fight this, Fox. We can win." His hand moved to his shoulder, and the fingers touched something soft. Wonderingly, he stared mutely at the black feather, held in fingers stained with his own blood. His lips moved soundlessly. ****** "We can win!" He was awake in an instant, eyes wide in the darkness, breathing fast. A red eye blinked at him, on, off, on, off, on, off.... "No!" He groped blindly beside the bed, his fingers clumsy. Unseen objects fell to the floor, their sound harsh and shattering in the breathing darkness. His hand closed round something heavy, and he prepared to throw it at the camera, but his fingers were weak, without co-ordination. It fell. And the red eye watched him. He stopped breathing, held it, then let it out again. He was awake. He was dreaming. He was.... where? He ran his fingers over the sheets. The voice was there again, but different. His lips moved along with it: "they give you water, and a bed, and sheets, and light. They would make you their own." The sheets burnt as if they were soaked in acid. The warm air smothered him, depriving him of breath. The light under the door was a slash of horror. "No!" He flailed, as if fighting a monster. Something gave way with a rip of pain in his hand, and pain thundered in his chest. Sheets tangled round his feet and they seemed, in the grey darkness, to be white hungry ghosts, entrapping him. He kicked, and the pain left him breathless, dizzy. "No!" And he was on his feet, seeing only the slit of light under the door that was outside, that was freedom. He was weak as a new-born calf, but he dragged himself forward by force of will. He could - not - fall. He held onto the handle, gasping, then slowly, hope pounding in his ears, he turned it. Slowly, slowly.... A fraction, then a little more, then it stuck. There was a soft click. ****** Light assailed her eyes. She rubbed her eyes, blinking, struggling to adapt from the darkness. The whispering remains of the dream faded, and she did not mourn them. "Agent Scully." A silhouette in the doorway, tall, hands on hips. His face was blank in the darkness of the room, and a red eye blinked above him. "Agent Scully." She swallowed. ****** He ran. Hand pressed against his chest as if he could hold in his waning strength by a physical touch, he ran. White corridors flashed by, wavering, as if he was in a dream, or close to collapse. When he came to a door, he let himself hold on for a moment, needing those few seconds when he did not have to support his own weight, then turned the handle. They paused, then clicked, then opened. His breath was sobbing in his throat, catching on the fire of pain. Notices on the wall were like some obscene joke: "In case of fire, know your exits." He followed the red arrows, and the doors clicked through in steady procession, but still the walls enclosed him. He glanced behind once, and saw red drops of blood on the white tiled floor. Blood. Like Hansel and Gretel in the woods, and a trail for the witch to follow. Hard-eyes doctors and soldiers with guns.... He couldn't breathe. The whiteness muffled him. His knees buckled. "No...." A moan. Fractured with great heaving attempts at breath, it was all he could manage. "No...." A door was so close, so close. Cool air snaked beneath it to touch his cheek. It was the last door - the last door to freedom. He pushed himself to his knees and crawled. His fingers touched it. His right arm buckled, but his left arm could reach it - could reach it, just, if - he - just - tried.... Then there was nothing in his vision but a pair of feet, heavy and still. It took all his strength, but he balled his hand into a fist, and prepared to strike. He would lash at the feet, and pull at them. The man would fall, startled. He would grab the gun, and.... A drop of ash fell to the floor. ****** "Agent Scully." It was cold, without inflexion. She was sitting up straight in bed, but didn't move. "They want you. Get up, and get dressed." The red eye winked. She was silent. She had seen them the previous morning - a closet-full of featureless grey overalls, like a prison uniform. She would keep her own clothes until they stank rather than wear them. "Get up." The man stepped forward, and said the one thing that could make her obey. ****** Feet shuffled behind him and there was the unmistakable click of a gun, trained on his head. "Agent Mulder." The man crouched down, breathing out smoke. He was shaking his head - a study of bewilderment. "Why?" He clawed at the ground, trying to stand up, but it was all he could do just to stay conscious. Instead, he pulled his knees up to his body and held them, and said nothing. The man would not see him struggle again, and fail. "Why?" Gentleness did not sit well with the man. It grated. "You know what's out there. Why try to return to that?" And then he saw a sudden flash of Fry's face in the hospital, white teeth in the flickering light, and heard his promise of resistance. "I rescued you, Agent Mulder." The man turned away to breathe out smoke. "You are one of the chosen." A dark man, hair black as a raven's wing. Oh, but he wanted to smile at the wild heady pride of it. He blinked, and was aware again, and threw his head back and spat his denial. "I didn't want to be chosen." The man shrugged, and smiled. "I'm afraid you have little choice in it, Agent Mulder. The date was set long ago, and now it is come. You have always been of importance to the project." "Importance?" He dug his fingers into his legs to stop them shaking. "How?" "You will be told your role in time." His eyes sought the man's gun and held it. He would marshal his strength, and then fight. How could he do anything else? The man smiled. "Agent Scully, too." "Scully." A wild gasp. He hadn't meant to show his weakness, although the man's smile showed he knew very well. his eyes were saying. He was breathing deeply. He saw her pale on a slab, her body harvested to create the new breed of mankind for the world that came after. He saw her face twist in agony as they raped her and mutilated her and used her again and again and again. But he could not speak, not when hurt, curled on the floor - not when his words would be a whimper, not an assault. His throat ached with the effort not to cry out. "Agent Scully had her uses, once. They have been exhausted." The man gestured dismissively. "I thought you would be.... lonely without her. I saved her for you, Agent Mulder. I would have thought you would have been grateful." He brought a hand up to shoulder level, and tensed it experimentally. It would take his weight, and didn't collapse. "I don't want your kind of saving." The gun shone in the light, beckoning. "You don't want our kind of saving for Agent Scully?" The man shook his head, mock disapproving. "You would condemn her to die a senseless death in the street, in a riot over a bottle of water? You _want_ that for her?" He swallowed, refusing to envisage the man's words. "I will not make a choice for Agent Scully. I make this choice for myself." The man laughed - real laughter. There was something close to pride in his eyes. "I was right all along, Agent Mulder. You _are_ worth saving. Such spirit." He reached out and touched Mulder's chin, like a buyer examining a choice racing horse. Mulder flinched, and hissed in fury. The man smiled smugly, as if he had been given the reaction he wanted. Mulder froze, torn. He saw the gun, but.... "We put you through so much, and still you carried on, still you endured," the man continued, low and confiding, as if sharing a wonderful secret. "The world that comes after will not be easy. We will need that strength." He smiled. "Oh, it will need a little..... refinement, of course. A fighting spirit is not without its problems. You have a stubborn will to keep going, and that is good, but there is the problem of your disobedience...." He tensed, seeing the future clearly. Needles and electrodes and brainwashing and the loss of himself.... It could not happen. None of it could happen. He would fight. Even though he would fail - even though the man would laugh smugly - he would fight. Pale creatures swimming in the blue.... If he stopped swimming, he would die. With a hoarse cry, he lunged for the man's gun. As he touched it, feeling the cool metal like a surge of joy in the darkness of his clouded vision, a gun exploded behind him. Pain surged red in his chest, and he could no longer see. Like a beacon in the darkness, the gun was in his hand. But he could not see. ****** Splashes of blood on the floor. Blank faced, two guards flanked her, guns at their sides. She had eyed their size, and knew she could tackle one, but that to tackle two would kill her. Instead, she walked half a step ahead of them, reading the blood as a message just to herself. She would not let them lead her. They had passed through four doors. At each, one guard had silently swiped a pass card, glancing up at the ubiquitous red blinking light of the camera. The door had clicked softly, then let him turn the handle. At the fourth, he grimaced, making the first sign of feeling, of humanity, that she had seen. He snatched his hand from the handle and held it up, palm outwards. It was smeared with blood. "Why?" She spoke dully, bitter and disgusted. "If he was escaping, how did he get through the doors?" She gestured at the camera. "Did someone on there watch him and let him through? Did they want to play with him, letting him think he was getting close, only to crush him right at the end?" The guard shrugged vaguely, but said nothing. He wiped his hand on his overall. She swallowed hard. All the questions she had refused to ask were beating at her mind. She would find him first, assess, and then ask. A gunshot sounded ahead of her. She had to bite her lip to avoid crying out. Amid everything, she was suddenly furious with him. Ditching her again - leaving her.... She didn't want to be woken in the middle of the night and coldly told, "look after your partner," and to lose all her pride by obeying. She didn't want to be the one picking up the pieces. She didn't want to bear the responsibility for someone else's peace of mind. She didn't want to..... She half-closed her eyes, and fought the unwanted memory of an unwanted dream. "Mulder?" She spoke aloud, and let herself feel what she ought to be feeling: concern, anger for those who had hurt him, comfort for him. It had never been so difficult. Even when she rounded a corner and saw him, it had never been so difficult. She took a deep breath. "Mulder?" He was backed against a wall, a gun in his hand. His head was swaying from side to side, his eyes blinking and blinking, as if he was struggling to focus. She knew him. His vision was fading. He was on the point of passing out. "Ah. Agent Scully." She drew in a sharp breath. _Him_. At the sound of his voice, Mulder dragged the gun round to face him, steadying his gun arm with his other hand. Both were shaking. "Persuade Agent Mulder that it's safer for him to stay inside here - willingly." The man's eyes flickered, drawing her attention to the guard whose gun was pointed at Mulder's head from behind. There was a bullet hole in the wall. "The next shot may not be in warning." She stood. "Agent Scully." The man reached into his pocket for a cigarette, though she saw the faintest shake to his hands. Even the devil knows fear. "You know what it's like out there. If you stay here, you will be safe until.... until it's over. I couldn't seem to convince him. Persuade him of that, would you. You don't want him to die." "No." At first, she wasn't sure what she was saying no to. She cleared her throat, raised her chin, and spoke again. "No." She saw his hesitation - just a second, before he recovered. "We saved his life, Agent Scully. Would you have him die for real next time?" Mulder's head lolled, the gun drooping in his hands. As if in a dream, he pulled the trigger. The bullet missed its target by a full three feet, and the man didn't even need to dodge, or the guard to touch the trigger. She watched him fall. "No." She met the man's eyes. "I am not Agent Mulder's keeper." The man's face clouded, darkening with anger. He took in a lungful of smoke. "I am not responsible for him," she said, firmly. "If you want to stop him escaping, stop him, but I refuse to do your work for you. I have always respected his choices, even when I haven't agreed with them." She had meant it as a strategy - a way of staying ahead of their captors - but she found that she meant it, too. She spoke with sincerity, and treacherous tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back. The man breathed out a cloud of smoke. "His choice now is suicide. He needs medical attention." Yes. She nodded, sadly. _That_ was her duty, as a doctor and a friend. "Mulder?" She crouched by his side, letting her fingers brush across his wrist, feeling his pulse. His arms were slack in his lap, his body in a slumped sitting position against the wall. He opened his eyes, and they shone with unshed tears. "Scully." She turned round to the guard, and her eyes flashed fire at him. "Put that gun down. Somebody help me with him." "No." There was force in his raspy whisper. He raised his arm, swatting weakly at her hand. "By myself. I'll walk." He gave a faint laugh, terrible to hear. "If I have to live in prison, at least I can walk there by myself." He leant heavily on her shoulder, and his face was like paper, but he stood. He stood. (Continued in Part B)