Run by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) CATEGORY: XA - X-Files, Angst RATING: NC-17. Profanity, graphic scenes, dark and disturbing angst. SPOILERS: Up to, and including, Gethsemane. SUMMARY: When the cure is worse than the disease, your savior becomes the enemy. Where do you go when there is nowhere left to run? AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the end of the story. EDITORS: Meredith, Miki and Deb -- a trio of wonderful and insightful women who I am honored to have as editors and friends. FEEDBACK: Will write more for feedback. Really. I will. This story is dedicated to Sister Carrie, my patron saint. Without her, this story would have languished on my hard drive forever. ======================================================== A man is too apt to forget that in this world he cannot have everything. A choice is all that is left him. --H. Mathews ======================================================== Run 1/10 by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) They watch the man without being observed. His trail led them here, to a place filled with dust and tumbleweed and rusty colored rocks jabbing into the sky. For a long time they believed him dead. Then, three days ago, they stumbled upon the waitress by accident. Frizzy-haired and energetic, she served them coffee and flapjacks the size of frisbees at a nameless truck stop in the middle of the desert. She remembered the face of the man in their picture, specifically his sad smile. A nice looking guy, she told them. Quiet. Came in this way about three months ago. No, I don't know where he was headed. He wasn't the talking sort. They politely thanked her and left. The four men waited for her in the parking lot. It was dark, it was late, and her car was parked in the corner of the lot where the light had been conveniently shot out. They drove her out to the hills, casually raped her, and took the thirteen dollars and seventy three cents from her purse. They strangled her and dumped the body near the highway so it would be found. Now, they watch the man through a telescopic lens, comparing the striking resemblance of him to the one they seek. His hair is a dirty blond and his goatee the same color. He is a bit thinner but the eyes and the nose and the way he walks are the things which give him away. Still a damned fine looking man, despite the minor alterations. The possibility of completing their mission is exhilarating. They debate taking him immediately, before he becomes aware of their surveillance. But the mistake they made in Atlanta still haunts them. No. They must be careful. They must be sure. They take pictures with a digitized camera attached to the telescope. Soon. If the visual program makes a tentative identification, they will take him and verify his fingerprints. If they match, he will be interrogated. The information required will be retrieved and he will be killed. Until then, they will wait. And watch. ========== He is running, the motion automatic, forcing his mind to be blank, to forget the things from which he runs. Squinting into the harsh morning sun he determines his route, drops of sweat breaking out along his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes shining purple in the sun. He pushes his body to the extreme, the sweat dripping down to soak through his shirt. His jaw is clenched in concentration, hands at his abdomen, curling into tight balls, running through a land filled with dust and tumbleweed and open spaces, none of which hold any beauty in his eyes. Each landmark, each element only serves to isolate him, to cut him off from a world he wishes to disown. But he cannot. The ties which bind him, which keep him prisoner here, are those of his own choosing. Right foot. Left foot. Swinging his arms gently to his side, working up his pace, measuring the distance and then disregarding it. Right, left, right. The rhythm slowly works its way though his body, vibrating from the soles of his feet to his shins, up the backs of his legs, into his abdominal muscles. His teeth are pressed firmly together, the jarring sensation of each stride satisfying him. One mile. Two miles. His mouth is dry and dusty, filled with gritty grains of sand that work their way up his nose, cling to the back of his throat. All this fucking sand. Everywhere he looks. He hates this place, hates the blankness of the land, the empty futility of all this space. Like staring into a reflection. Nothing on nothing. A symbol of the summation of his achievements, he thinks darkly. His feet pound against the ground. It feels good to strike at it, to push his weight against this earth which is a constant reminder of his failure, of what he has been denied all his life. Red sand. Beige sand. Rocks jutting up to the west. The sun hits the top of his head, hot and fierce. Six o'clock in the morning. Even hell doesn't heat up this fast. Three miles. His breath comes faster and shorter; the thick air scorches his lungs. A pain shoots along his right side, growing in intensity as he pushes himself further. Harder. Sweat drips into his eyes, blurring his vision. Four miles, maybe. Long enough. Breaking his rhythm, he turns to the left and begins to retrace his route, running back to his hideout, his prison, the place where he waits for the news that she is cured. After three months, he wonders if it will ever come. ========== She is reborn in the darkness. The dim memories of squeezing, panting, and torn flesh, haunt her dreams. Blackness, as viscous as blood presses into eyes, nose, and throat. Thick and slimy and cold, running like snot down the back of her throat, tickling, choking, cutting off the passage of air. She struggles, fighting blindly with fists and legs, biting, snapping, fierce and primal, her will to survive strong. Wire cuts into her face, a pattern of heat crossing her cheeks, stinging, mixing with salty sweat and tears and the darkness which moves over her like liquid. Slow, seductive. Intimate. Softly teasing her tongue, the roof of her mouth, the delicate shadow at the base of her neck, spreading, taking in her warmth with a sucking greed, wanting more, needing more, feeding on her body, her mind, her soul. Light. Bright. It flashes in the darkness like jagged strips of lightning, burning her eyes with the sudden contrast as the darkness retreats. Crests and breaks and subsides, washing out of her body with a reluctant sigh. Leaving flesh chilled, skin taut and trembling, hands on her shoulders, under her neck, pressing, probing, lifting, turning her head from side to side, the hum and buzz and electronic crackles of a large piece of machinery whispering in her ear. Whirring, it rotates just outside her field of vision. She's lost. Light, a doctor, faces looking at her, masked and gowned, peering over the green squares tied over noses and mouths, loose words bouncing against tiled walls, the slap of flesh against flesh, the wail, the sound coming from her throat, thin and high like the cry of a newborn ripped from the womb. Her body is released, slips into a softer darkness, a lonely place, a safe place, the darkness shifting around her like a tidal pool, lighter, darker, lighter. A different touch on her body. Spiny fingers poking into her back, her buttocks, soft in places, stretched out straight and flat. A mattress. A bed. A pillow gently elevating her head. Lighter. Darker. Lighter. Night light seeping into the room, her heart as loud as thunder in her ears as it pounds out a warning, drumming, thrumming, masking another sound. The sound which woke her from her dream. Dream? Sound? What sound? Her hands are clamped into fists, tights balls, fingernails cutting into flesh, holding them so tense, so still, quiet now, be very quiet, her breath a prisoner in her lungs, being very quiet, listening, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace. Damp cotton sheets cling to her legs, twist around her ankles like ties, ropes which hold her captive to this bed, this darkness, this rebirth. Not so dark. Shapes. She looks hard around the room, straining against the unfamiliar, struggling to assert control over this new universe, pain pressing like needles behind her eyeballs as she attempts to discern shape and movement and meaning. Where is she? Movement. Displaced air brushing the tendrils of hair not soaked in sweat, tickling, touching her cheek with sharp hungry kisses, a rash of flesh puckering along her arms. She's cold, freezing, realizing simultaneously that that she is naked and that there is something in the darkness with her. It moves off to the side, hidden, stalking, hunting, shadows against shadows. Oh- jesus, what is it? One sharp tooth catches her tongue, ripping the flesh. A taste like copper. Bright and wet and thick inside her mouth, reminding her of a bitter taste, another taste. Squeak-squeak. She draws her knees to her chest, hot flesh pressing against her nipples, skin sticking to skin as the sweat mingles, cold, so cold, movement off to the right, something big, it's here, shadows, shapes, the progressive squeak-squeak-squeak as it moves closer across the dark room, an arm's length away. Oh no. No-no-no. She forces air into her lungs, a large breath, holds it down, muscles shaking and screaming in protest. Keep it there. She's drowning. Drowning. The air burns, pounding against her lungs for release, a fire inside her rib cage, her muscles shaking with currents of adrenaline as she prepares to fight, to run. Squeak-squeak-squeak. Oh god. What is it? What is it? ========== The computer powers up, the hum from its battery jarring among the stillness of the desert. They scan the images from the camera's built- in card to the hard drive. The 4 gig whirs, the hard drive light blinking. After the transfer is complete, they pick the best photos and enter them into the Visual Identification Simulator. The software matches bone structure, the distance between pupils, facial muscles, and skeletal proportions. Things that can not be altered by quick plastic surgery. They watch the screen of the Thinkpad as the matches are made. Bone Structure: 98.76 percent. Orbital Difference: 99.1 percent. Facial Muscle: 88.60 percent. Skeletal Proportion: 99.6. The software verifies their suspicions. The chances of this man being Fox Mulder are 96.53 percent. They will take him. ======================================================== Run 2/10 Hands, warm and strong touch the back of her neck. She flinches, shoving her body up against the metal frame of the headboard, rails digging into her spine, nowhere to go, nowhere to run, trapped by the presence next to her, insistent hands holding her forearms, pinning her to the bed. Her own ragged breathing, a pitiful sound in the back of her throat as she struggles to free her hands, kicking out, twisting her lower body on the bed, feet hitting, connecting with something soft, a grunt, a groan, kicking out again and again and again. "Mark? Mark, I need some help in here." A young woman's voice, frightened, the sound of feet rushing on floors, squeak-squeak-squeak, rubber soled shoes on waxed floors, hands, stronger, larger, on her arms, her legs, all over her body, confining her to the mattress. Arms stretching, legs out, naked, spread-eagled, her body manipulated by their touch, binds chafing against wrists and ankles, soft and hard. "There. Got the restraints on. Jesus. This is the third fucking time this week, Cindy." "I suppose I'll have to make the call." "He'll be pissed." "More if I don't call him." The mix of their voices fade as they leave the room. She shifts her weight, yanking at the restraints, hoping one would be loose enough, twisting her wrists inside the padded cuffs, slick with sweat, turning, turning, trying to get out, jerking against the metal frame of the bed, hearing it rattle and shake. Small grunts of frustration with every tug, sweat dripping down her forehead, her neck, running in broken lines. Exhausted, body trembling, she finally ceases to struggle, lying captive, eyes wide. In the darkness she is reborn. Again. ========== He bends his knees and sits on the hard packed dirt on the north side of the cabin, staring at the morning sun. Bright and harsh against the lid of his eyes, it remains the only constant variable in his life. In hers. No matter where he runs, the sun, like his memories, are never far behind. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and makes a conscious decision to not think about it. To push it away. For a moment, his determination takes hold as he stirs crystals into bottled water. Then it is upon him again, his heart as bitter as the taste of the instant coffee. Resting in the shade and watching the sunrise, he thinks it ironic that he is dead. Most of his life has been spent this way. Dead. Walking among the land of the living while searching for ghosts. Now, the situation has reversed itself. In the land of the living, he is the ghost. Poetic fucking justice, he convinces himself as he tosses the remainder of his coffee into the dirt, staring at the dark pool seeping into the ground. He checks his watch. 6:47 am. Thirteen minutes to waste. In the desert, it is interminable. But it is also nothing at all. ========== They watch the man's movements with the telescopic lens while determining the best approach to the cabin. The bare ground affords them little cover in the morning light. It is a pity that they cannot wait until nightfall when the element of surprise is guaranteed. They know how dangerous this man is. They read the reports. They prefer to take him without a struggle, without hurting him until the questioning begins. However, time draws short and the information must be retrieved quickly. They cannot afford to wait until nightfall. Fixing the man's position, conveying details with hand signals, two men head west, two head east. They move as they have moved many times before, restlessly crossing the bare ground, their forms silent and deadly, intent on the pursuit of the hunt. They are invisible in a wasted land inhabited only by ghosts. ========== The man hears a noise, a scrabbling like the sound of a scorpion in the dirt. Small. An animal perhaps? He glances out over the northern edge of land, toward the mountains painted blue by shadows, and sees nothing. Looks at his watch. 6:58. Two minutes. Almost time. Rising, his hand at the small of his back, he stretches his cooled muscles, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. What the hell? Before he can turn, there is pain, something hard hitting his back, throwing him off balance, sending him sprawling into the dirt, his field of vision narrowing to the hard packed sand inches from his face. Weight presses into his back, the bone of a knee digging into his spine as hands pull his arms, cold circling his wrists, the metal snap of handcuffs locking into place. He is dragged to his feet. Three dark shapes. No four. Shadows. Men dressed in camouflage. Who are they? Who are these men? No faces. The sun glares at the line of their shoulders, right into his eyes, burning, blinding him, keeping their faces hidden. He squints into the sun, blinking away sweat, the forms rearranging themselves, moving toward him, moving away. Who the fuck are these men? Have they finally found him? "Inside," a disembodied male voice says, shoving him toward the door of the cabin. He stumbles over the wood frame of the door and he is shoved again, sent sprawling on the cabin floor. The room is dim, and as his pupils expand to compensate for the contrast, he is momentarily blinded, straining to make out the forms, the men who move through the cabin. Color seeps into the gloom as his vision adjusts, white faces, dark eyes, two men, a mustache on the tallest guy. The leader. He can tell by the way the man moves inside the cabin, by the way the others defer their gazes. Typical submissive behavior in the presence of authority. He's never seen the man before, doesn't recognize the face. Who has sent them? What do they want from him? "How long is this going to take?" the one with the mustache snaps. "Twenty minutes." The shortest man is at the scratched kitchen table, pulling papers from a leather case. He has a face like a goddamn baby. Jesus. How fucking stupid could he be to let someone so young sneak up on him so easily, so effortlessly? Shit. After all the precautions, all the planning, someone had found him. But who? Who? He considers making a break for the door, his eyes checking out the distance, calculating the odds of getting more than ten feet away, running in the heat of the afternoon with his hands cuffed behind him. Body tense, he nearly bolts before two forms block the doorway. The other men, craggy faces, older, brawny and thick with muscles enter the cabin. Hans and Franz, he thinks. Maybe his age. They look tough, jaded, their faces devoid of emotion as they place cases on the floor of the cabin. Professionals. He can tell by the way they move with calculated efficiency. Hans holds a black laptop case, reaches inside, removing the computer, and setting it up on the table. Franz fiddles with the contents of a larger case, a black bag like a doctor's bag. A doctor's bag? His stomach clenches in fear. Baby Face and The Mustache approach him and drag him to his feet. "It'd be better without the cuffs," Baby Face says nervously. "Make it work. I'm not taking any chances with this one," The Mustache replies, withdrawing a gun and pointing it at him. "I don't want. . ." Baby Face begins. "I don't give a rat's ass what you want. Do it. That's an order." Baby Face approaches him with caution, circling behind, taking his fingers. Rolling. Pressing. Rolling. The Mustache stares at him during the whole routine, brown eyes calm, calculating, the gun pointed directly at his chest. Silently daring him to move a quarter of an inch. Showing with stance and body language that the trigger will be pulled in a heartbeat. The instinct to survive roots him to the spot as Baby Face performs his task. Maybe if he waits, if he feigns submission, they will grow careless and he can escape. A slim chance, but the only one he has. "Done." Baby Face crosses to the table, a complete set of his fingerprints on a small white notecard. Sitting in front of the computer, Baby Face fiddles with paper and some kind of peripheral attachment. The device hums, flashes. A scanner. Scanning his fingerprints into some kind of identification software. Baby Face keys in commands and sits back in the chair. He wonders how much time has passed. Ten minutes, maybe? Five? Enough time, he thinks. Maybe. "It's him. Fox Mulder. The prints pass the ten point match," Baby Face announces. "Let's get started," replies The Mustache. ========== Darkness is dispelled by a thin shaft of light as sharp as a knife. Cold. It pierces her eyes and she tries to shut them. Fingers force her eyelids open, smooth fingers and she cannot look away. Cool skin touching hers. Soft hands holding a bright light. She tries to fight it, push away the intrusion but her arms will not move. They are heavy. No. Tied. She's tied down. A man's voice beyond the light. Familiar and strange. The light is off now, but the after-image burns her eyes, makes them water. She sees the image, the outline of his face, blurry and undefined as if he is under water. She barely catches the movement of his mouth. "Seems to have more response. Better than last week, at least. We should be able to cut down her medications, Cindy. Perhaps try the anti-hallucinogens. I'll write up a new script. For now, I'll give her a light sedative. It'll calm her down but won't put her out. You should be able to take her up and down the hall on short walks tomorrow." "Do you think that will be OK, Dr. Jeffers? Last week she. . ." "I still am under the impression that her outings do more good than harm, despite their orders. Get Mark in here to take these fucking restraints off her. We're not running a concentration camp." "Yes, Dr. Jeffers. I'll go get him." The voices stop. Click-click. A sharp sound like the rapid fire of a gun. Fabric rustling. The man's face leaning closer to hers, still fuzzy, still encapsulated in water. He fades in the distance. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Shoes on the tiled floor as they leave. Will they come back? Will they untie her? A tear slips from the corner of each eye. The watery shroud is gone and her vision is clear. There is nothing left to see. ======================================================== Run 3/10 John Byers is a precise man. His exactitude is neither vice nor virtue. It is simply the way he lives. As he stares at the face of the watch on his left hand, he is aware that is it three minutes and twenty five seconds past the hour. The call has not been received. Inconceivable that three months have passed without any glitches. Now this. He stares at the inactive tracking software on the laptop, hoping that he is wrong, that somehow the inevitable has not come to pass. "I don't like this, Langly," he states into the teleconference line. "Four minutes. I'm getting a bad feeling." Again, he looks at his watch, the digital display counting the seconds as time progresses. "Did you sweep the line?" Langly asks, his voice hollow and distant over the phone, the low sound of rock music in the background. "Might be interference from a tapping source or a blocking device." "It's clean. The chance of the signal being blocked is unlikely. By design, the re-routing should act as its own shield. I'll wait another two minutes in case the traffic with the system is busy. If not, I'd advise making the call, Frohike. Will your contact be ready?" He glances at the Picture Tel box on the screen of his laptop and the image of Frohike nods, raises his thumb. "Ready on this end," Frohike says, picking up an old fashioned rotary phone which sits next to him. Seconds pass. Small increments of time, but their total sum is enough. Langly breathes on the other end of the conference line. Frohike works at pulling the rotary dial. The wheel screeches in protest as each number is turned. One. The area code. Seven digits. The last seconds have disappeared. It is time. "Six minutes," Byers calmly states as his watch hits 10:06 am. "I'm terminating the conference connection and the video connection. The emergency procedures are now being put into motion." The software is terminated, the computer shuts off with a beep, and he packs it away in its padded case. Byers picks up his coat and heads out the door, moving quickly down the faculty hall. At the end of the narrow passage, he stops. A woman in her fifties with gray hair looks up in surprise. "Mary, I'm canceling my classes for the rest of the afternoon. Can you have it posted?" "Oh my. Yes, of course. I'll have Randy take care of it. Is it that nasty flu that's been going around, Dr. Byers?" she asks in concern. "Yes. It is." Byers is out the door and in his car. He heads west toward the warehouse. ========== Franz stands over him and holds a long needle which glistens at the end. The plastic end attached to the needle is filled with evil- looking yellow liquid. They have tied a thick rubber hose around his right bicep, and the thick vein is raised and throbbing. He wants to struggle, to kick and fight, but Baby Face points an automatic rifle at his head while Hans points another at his heart. Oh, god. Has it finally come to this? It was only three months ago, wasn't it? Three months ago when he had taken the mission with a perverse sort of pleasure. Fox Mulder would die. His staged death would bring about Dana Scully's cure, would act as the catalyst to her rebirth, her cure. Three months ago he arrived in this desert, in this fucking barren land, waiting for the call, always imagining, always hoping as the sun dipped behind the horizon that the next day it would come. Their plan would succeed and his quest would be continued. It never did. Someone had found him first. Franz taps the needle once to ensure all the air bubbles are out of the dispenser and leans forward to grab his arm. His heart races, drums against his rib cage, and he resists the urge to flinch as the mans draws closer. What do they want from him? Why haven't they killed him? "I've cut the dosage by 8 percent to compensate for the weight loss," Franz tells The Mustache in conversational tones. "Too much sodium pentathol and he'll fall asleep. If it isn't enough we can up the amounts in small increments. It'll be safer that way." The Mustache nods his approval. The needles is in him, pricking his skin, pushing past the epidermis to the raised vein in his arm. It punctures his flesh and he feels the invasion inside, fuck-fuck-fuck, moving as the plunger is slowly depressed and the contents released, pushing into his veins, cold metal, cold fluid, so cold it burns his blood. His heart jumps inside his rib cage, pounds fast and furious, pumping the chemical through his body, to his brain, his nerves, his fucking mouth which will open wide and blurt out the name of his first fucking girlfriend if they want to know badly enough. What will they ask? Who will he be forced to betray? "We'll have to wait. Let it work into his system. Fifteen minutes." Franz drags a wooden chair across the room, places it next to the bed where they have handcuffed his left arm to the metal frame. The man watches him closely. He stares back at Franz, the man so close that he can see the dirty and clogged pores around the edges of his nose. Smell the sweat. Nicotine on the man's breath. "Fuck you," he groans. Franz only smiles in return. The heat builds inside his body, rolling like a wave, beginning in the center and reaching outward. He's hot. His forehead is hot, his skin is hot and it feels as if he is on fire. His cheeks are flushed, feverish, the skin pulling taut against his cheekbones. Sweat beads on his forehead, in the pits of his arms, down his belly. Hot. So hot in here. Is it the drugs? Or is it afternoon already? How much time has passed? Enough? Maybe. Maybe not. The nausea comes next, on the heels of his imagined fever. The first flutters of discomfort in his stomach, then the walls of his abdomen clench and unclench, squeezing the meager contents of his stomach upwards, in his throat, the acid scorching as it travels, his mouth filled with saliva. He fights the urge to vomit, pushes his tongue to the roof of his mouth and holds it there. He won't give them the fucking pleasure. Won't puke. Screw them. Franz watches him as his body reacts to the chemicals, nodding when he is satisfied that some critical level has been reached. The man is gone and The Mustache leans over and fills his vision. "It's time for a little chat, Mulder. The chemicals would not have been necessary but your past history has shown you have a proclivity towards lying. Since time is of the essence and our mission imperative, this is the easiest way. Now. First question. Where is Dana Scully?" The question confuses him. Where is Scully? His tongue is swollen and dry, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of chemicals. Where is Scully? Why do they want to know? He doesn't have the answer to this. Doesn't know what to say. The truth, the truth, the truth, his brain pounds in time to the rhythm of these words. There is no truth in ignorance, he thinks. Only failure. He doesn't know. "Scully? You should know, shouldn't you?" he whispers. The Mustache looks at Franz, who shrugs. "Don't fuck with us, Mulder," The Mustache clips out in even tones. "I'm asking you where she is." "I. Don't. Know," he spits out. The Mustache looks toward Franz. "Check the dosage. This fucker's not talking." "His reactions look good," Franz tells The Mustache. "I'd have to say he's telling the truth, or his version of the truth." The Mustache leans back over him, close now, so close he thinks for one wild moment that the man is going to kiss him. The man's mouth parts, but only words come out. "Let me ask this a different way, Mulder. When did Dana Scully disappear?" "I don't know. I was too busy being dead," he replies sarcastically. "It's nice to see your sense of humor never changes. Now what do you know? Are you aware of who made the arrangements for Dana Scully's disappearance?" He doesn't speak immediately. He knows the answer to this, knows that he doesn't want to tell these men. He fights the urge briefly, sweat popping out on his forehead, the air in his lungs stale as he holds it in, one hand held in a rigid ball at his side, the other gripping the metal of the cot where it is handcuffed to the frame. Blood pounds in his ears so loud, so fast, he thinks his heart is going to explode. Skinner. The Smoking Man. The words form inside his head and before he can block them, his mouth says them aloud. "Skinner. The Smoking Man." "Goddamnit," The Mustache swears as he crosses the room. "Uncuff him from the bed. Pack all this shit up and be ready to move." Hans uncuffs him, pulls him to his feet. Baby Face and Franz begin shutting and snapping the leather cases. His hands are behind his back, the gun digging into the side of his ribs. His legs feel shaky and unsteady and he stumbles. Hans roughly pulls at his shirt and sits him in a chair. The Mustache dials a cell phone. Listens for a moment and identifies himself. "It's me. The questioning is a dead end. . . He does not know the location of the woman. The one who handled the arrangements is the traitor. . . How do you want me to deal with this?. . . Fine." The Mustache folds the cell phone into credit card size and tucks it into a pocket, eyes cutting across the room. They are hard and cold and glitter in the light which filters through the dirty windows. "We'll dump him in the middle of the desert somewhere. Five minutes. Move it." ========== Time begins in a fit. Stops. Starts again like the reluctant beat of a diseased heart. She realizes there are green beans on her spoon. She does not know where they came from or how she came to be eating them. They rest limply in the metal hollow halfway to her mouth in an unconscious gesture she must have repeated for some time. There is the remnant of a meal on her tray -- pieces of brownish meat, white bread with chunks ripped from the center, a lump of red jello pushed off to the side. She can't remember the meal. Can't remember eating it. Reflexively, she completes the action, shoving the spoon into her mouth, the metal utensil scraping against her front teeth. The green beans have a sour taste like vinegar and it makes her mouth water. She chews the vegetables, their consistency like paste. Thick and sour. She gags and forces herself to swallow them. She reaches for the yellow plastic cup on her tray. Water. The flutter of movement startles her, makes her flinch and she turns in that direction. Someone is watching her. A woman staring at her from the room across the hall. Her skin is white and transparent, and for a moment she thinks the woman is a ghost. Until the woman blinks. Fevered eyes circled by darkness. This woman is all skin and bones, colorless, except for the limp red hair which hangs to her shoulders. The woman looks very sick. She looks away quickly, embarrassed that the woman has seen her staring. Her stomach lurches in pity and fear. Skin and bones. They should shut the door to the room across the hall. The sight of the woman scares her. She looks at her green beans again but she can't eat them. She mashes them with the blunt end of the spoon, squashing them into a gray-green putty which sticks to the tray like mucus. She puts the bread on top of it because she cannot look at it anymore. She drinks some water. The flash of movement across the hall. She doesn't want to look but she is drawn against her will. The sick woman is drinking, staring at her, copying her movements as if she is issuing a challenge. Look at me. Look at my sickness. See the suffering in the contour of my bones, the weakness of my flesh. These words inside her mind are compelling, hypnotic. She turns her head toward the corner where the woman sits. Her gesture is mimicked, duplicated in perfect time. She raises her spoon in mid air, daring the woman to follow. Without hesitation, without pause, the woman moves fluidly as if she has anticipated the movement, known it in advanced and has been waiting for it. Chills of fear run down her spine. Who is this woman? Why is she watching her? She lowers her spoon. The woman lowers her spoon. She opens her mouth in a round "O" of surprise. The woman's mouth does the same. Oh-jesus. Oh-jesus, oh-jesus, oh-jesus, she thinks, her heart beating wildly in her chest. The spoon is clamped firmly in her hands, the hard metal digging into flesh, indenting white skin with the pattern of anonymous hospital flatware. Something dark and furious wells up inside as awareness penetrates her dulled state and she hurls the spoon toward the sick woman. It bounces off the surface of the mirror indifferently, small vibrations shaking its frame, the sick woman's face, skin, and hair shimmering like a mirage. It is her reflection. The darkness comes like a wave and strips her of her identity. This time, she welcomes it. ======================================================== Run 4/10 The sun is bright and pregnant with the heat of the afternoon. It bites into his flesh with rays so intense that his skin is already red and sore. The horizon shimmers in the distance, changing texture and form. If he blinks, squints his eyes, there are buildings in the distance. Buildings? Where did they come from? He blinks again, sweat stinging the lids of his eyes. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. The heat of the chemicals and the sun are working together to confuse him, he thinks. One more he looks into the distance. The buildings are gone. The land is empty, inhabited only by mirages and wishful thinking. He jerks forward, the movement too quick, and falls onto his face. Sand in his mouth, the tiny grains squeaking against the enamel of his teeth, stuck to his eyelashes in clumps, grating against the sensitive surface of his cheek. He tries to spit, to clear the sand from his mouth, but he has no saliva. Swallowing convulsively, the granules scrape as they work their way down his throat. He struggles to his knees, his hands useless, cuffed behind his back and chained to a second pair on his feet. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey and left in the oven to bake, he thinks frantically. Except this will be one dry bird. All the juices baked right out of the thing. Shit. He has to get up, he has to move or he will die here. He begins to inch along the shifting sand, sharp rocks digging into flesh already opened by the sharp edges of other rocks. Blood mixing with sweat and sand, grinding into wounds and burning like salt. Sweat drips into his eyes and his visions blurs, clears, though there is nothing to see but empty land. Which way? He is disoriented. Which way? The sun is at his back and he moves toward where he believes the cabin is located. He has to warn them. Warn her. Scully, he thinks, wanting to say the word aloud, to hear her name escape his lips like the invocation of a prayer. But his swollen tongue cannot form the words. They stick inside his mind and he wonders if death is the only thing which will free them. ========== Her hand moves in jerks. What is she doing? Circles and loops and crosses. What is she doing? A thin object is clamped in her hand, fingers red and white from the constant pressure, scratching, scratching, as the tip travels hypnotically over the paper. The floor is cold on her bare legs, warmth seeping from the thin gown, her teeth chattering and clicking in rhythm to the scraping of the pen against paper as she crouches near the window. The darkness is washed in blue, her arms, her hands, the paper resting on the floor stained by the natural light of the moon as it streams through the ornate design of the bars which cover the window. She pauses, wondering how or when she left her bed in the middle of the night. Where the paper came from. The pen. Why she is crouching, hiding, her hand cramped from holding the pen for a period of time she cannot remember. She turns toward the window. An owl rests on the outside ledge, perfectly still, head turning from side to side, surveying the terrain below. She can see him from where she crouches on the floor, sees the contour of each individual feather, the sharp pointy edge of his beak, the glow of his eyes. A predator's eyes. She rises, her bare feet hitting the tiled floor with a slapping sound. She moves toward the window, aware of the coldness seeping through the glass. Blue light, moonlight, kisses the white skin of her chin and she raises her face toward the limitless sky. The moon is full, hangs like a paper cut-out in the darkness. It is orange. A harvest moon she thinks, pressing her hand to the window, the glass smooth and slick and cool under her fingers. She rests her forehead on it, the shadows of the metal grill shaping dark tattoos on the surface of her face. The bird looks in her direction, blinks his yellow eyes, and flies off into the distance, his wings brushing against the bars. The darkness of the night swallows his form and she is once again alone. She turns, her feet slapping on the floor, the sharp sound of flesh on tile, and she crouches down to pick up the papers. Four sheets. Different colors. Writing on top of writing. Small and tiny and cramped. She tips the pink colored sheet toward the light and reads what has been written over a copy of a typed report. Dana Katherine Scully. The name is written a hundred times, over and over again, the lettering precise. Exactly the same each time, the letters invariant in their formation. Dana Katherine Scully. She clutches the papers against her chest, hands trembling in fear. Her lips move, soundlessly at first, then softly whispering into the emptiness, the darkness which has become her life. "Dana Katherine Scully-Dana Katherine Scully-Dana Katherine Scully." The name is a breath, a chant, a prayer on her lips. She is holding the papers so close, so tight, sitting cross legged on the floor, the sheets crumpled and smudged from the sweat of her palms, rocking with the motion of her words. Her name? There are tears on her cheek. She places the papers on the floor, the white one, taking the white one and smoothing it against the floor, pushing the wrinkles from the paper with the dampness of her hand, the ink smearing onto the paper, her hands. She begins to read the words of a dying woman, a woman she remembers only on occasion when there is no darkness. ========== Mulder, I write this in haste and desperation, the same manner in which our decision was borne. There is little time left. For months I have counted the remaining days by the cancerous presence inside my body. Now, my life is dictated and rationed by the methods of their cure. Even now, as I write these words on a medical report I stole from my charts, I wonder when the darkness will come. When I will forget. It happens so quickly, without warning, and I am unable to fight or control it. I have tried, but it is too strong. They offered their cure and it was accepted. You must know that it was my decision as well as yours. Hope blinded me as effectively as their lies blinded us both. It was a choice. I made it freely and without reservations. No matter what happens, this is the greatest of truths. I write these words for you so that you will understand. I write these words for me so that I will never forget. ========== The smoke declares his presence before the shadows reveal his hiding place. The Smoking Man watches the other man carefully, rolling the cigarette between two fingers, the taste of tobacco bitter on his tongue, and steps into the pooled light at the edge of the parking lot to speak. "What can I do for you?" The weather is cold for September and the Well Manicured Man hunches his shoulders into the warmth of his coat before replying. "The group is worried." "What would they be worried about?" "The location of the woman," The Well Manicured Man answers. "Fox Mulder has her. Find him and you'll find Agent Scully." He smiles after this and stares off into the distance. The cigarette rolls between his fingers, smoke curling up through the night air. "Mulder is dead." He shows no fear, no discomfort at the man's news. His hand raises and he draws smoke into his lungs, the tip flaring bright red before growing dark. Breath and smoke mix inside his lungs; he releases both with a sigh. "An interesting development, indeed." The Well Manicured man pauses, shifts inside his coat. "The group knows what you've done. They are aware of Peter Jeffers involvement -- he has been eliminated. The woman has been tracked down to a medical facility in Virginia. She, too, will be removed from the equation. The date will proceed as planned, in spite of your interference." He drops the cigarette to the ground, grinding it with the heel of his leather shoe. "Then you need nothing more from me, do you?" The Well Manicured Man smiles, raises his gun from beneath his coat, the shot sudden and startling in the silence. "Only to tie up the loose ends." He walks out of the parking lot and into the night without looking back. ======================================================== Run 5/10 He is lying on his side on the ground, watching the path of the sun's decline across the hard blue sky. The sun is different. Softer. Fat and red as it sinks into the horizon. When the sun was at its apex, he had fallen. Was it hours ago? Or only minutes? He realizes it could be days for all that it matters. Does it even matter? The sand shifts to accommodate him, softer than any bed he has known these past three months. He could lie here forever, staring at the sky and the sun, watching the days slip by in unhurried motions. After all, he thinks bitterly, he has done it so well for so long. He rolls over, pins and needles pricking the calves of his legs as his blood begins to circulate. His legs spasm and jerk involuntarily, rocks scrabbling as they are dislodged by his feet. The sharp edge of one jabs into the flesh of his calf as it hits the ground, pinching his skin. The area begins to throb and sting and as he moves his leg he hears a sickening crunch, feels something wet and hot and hard sticking to his calf. Shit. He blinks and looks down. There is something stuck to his leg. Fear floods his body with adrenaline and he is on his torn knees scrambling across the sand, stumbling, nearly losing his footing as the handcuffs linked together throw him off balance. There is an insect crushed, sticking to his leg. A scorpion, yellow shell cracked and oozing, its shape adhered to his skin, the tail still curved and intact. Shit. Shit-shit-shit. A smear of blood by the puncture wound, the rim of the bite already turning white, swelling. Think. Think. Think. Is it poisonous? Yellow ones are, he knows that. How long before the poison hits his nervous system? His heart races, jumps erratically inside his chest as he tries to remember. The pounding is in his heart, his throat, starting, stopping. Racing so fast that he thinks it will explode. Jesus. Cardiac arrest. Is it a symptom or a result of the adrenaline? He doesn't know. Convulsions, paralysis. Those are symptoms, too. Shit. He stumbles over a dried piece of brush in his path, twisting at the last second to avoid falling face first into the sand, hitting a rock with the side of his head. The world spins and tilts underneath him, his ears ringing, buzzing, a hail of wind stirring up the sand, scouring his skin, stinging like the scorpion. Poison in his blood. Chemicals. Heat. He's so fucking thirsty, his mouth is swollen with thirst. The damned ringing in his ears is louder, cutting off abruptly, the world spinning with dizzying force. Stop. Stop it. Feet hitting the ground, someone running through the sand, he can hear the vibrations, sense them along the side of his face pressing into the earth. Hands on his back gently rolling him over, checking his vital signs, fingers pressed into the burnt flesh at the side of his neck, on his forehead. A face he has not seen before, old, long dark hair in a braid, a full beard, bright blue eyes staring into his, searching his pupils for a reaction. Another mirage? "Hey can you hear me buddy?" He blinks. The mirage is talking to him, asking him something. Too fucking real. A mirage? "Hey Mick. This dude is seriously fucked up. Radio Frohike and tell him we found his G-man." The man lifts him in a fireman's carry. No mirage, he thinks. Too fucking real. ========== Voices in the hall. She pretends she is asleep. Words filter through the crack underneath the door and she forces herself to lie perfectly still, not daring to breathe or move or relax a muscle. There is a rustle of papers, a crinkling under the sheets of the bed. There are papers in her hand. How did they get there? Straining to hear the words, she clutches them protectively against her chest. ". . . Dr Jeffers is. . . impossible. I just talked to him. . . Oh god." ". . .need to move Shelly Hinkle. . . the facility. . . new doctor. . . you understand?" "When will. . .?" ". . . about an hour. . . need to. . . before we move her. She'll. . . sedated first." Footsteps recede. There is the metallic rattle and clang of a cart being wheeled down the hall. No more words, no more whispers heard through cracks, silence seeping and pervading the corners of the room. They are gone for now, coming back with plans, with sedatives, with darkness. Light. Bright. Hands poking and prodding and turning her face. The whir of machines just outside her field of vision. Panic rises inside her, forcing her stiff muscles to move and flex and she pushes herself out of bed. Crossing the room silently she puts an ear to the door. Hears nothing. Pushes the door open slightly, just a tiny bit, her left eye pressed to the opening. Sees nothing. She lets go of the door and it swings shut. She paces to the window, to the door, back again. Each time faster than the last. Her breath comes in hard hiccups, burns as it hits her lungs. She has to get out of this place. She has to run from these whispers, these plans, this darkness broken by lights and sounds and the feeling of invasion. Dirty. It makes her feel dirty and used and scared. The overwhelming urge to run builds inside of her body like a force and she trembles with need to release it. She is back at the door listening. Hears nothing. Opens it a crack. Sees nothing. The papers in her hand rustle. The papers, she thinks, holding the pink one up in the light. The words on the paper. Dana Katherine Scully. She draws strength from the three names and like a talisman she repeats them in a whisper. "Dana-Katherine-Scully. Dana-Katherine-Scully. Dana-Katherine-Scully." She pushes the wood with her hand, the door resisting. Is it an omen? she wonders, hesitating. Thinks of the words. The names. Her name? Pushes harder. The door opens and she is in the hallway headed for the door with the bright red "EXIT" sign. Down the stairs, one flight, turn, another flight, shoving at the long metal handle, opening the door, the cool breeze of late afternoon on her face, her bare legs, her feet. She waits. Listens. Hears nothing. No alarms, no screams, no footsteps running behind her. To the left there is a parking lot. To the right a fence, high, barbed wire, too high to climb and certainly not in a thin cotton gown where the wire will cut and chew through her flesh. She is too weak anyway. Already her legs are trembling, her vision spinning. Where then? Where should she go? Where can she hide? Choosing left, she crosses the blacktop, pieces of debris sticking to the bottom of her feet. She crouches between the cars, their warmth reflecting onto her skin, walking low, bent over, up one aisle and down the other, checking the cars, pulling up some handles, pushing others. The door of a green Pontiac Grand Prix opens and she is inside, the air hot and stuffy, sweat breaking out on her skin immediately. She shuts the door, locks it, locks both doors just in case and climbs between the seats into the back seat. Using the last of her strength she searches the gray cloth covered seats, finding a small loop and yanking it with the little strength she has left. Her back presses into the driver's seat and provides leverage. With a snap and a plastic pinging, the seat is loose and she is scrambling into the trunk, hiding in an artificial darkness, pulling the seat back into place. Dana Katherine Scully is on the run. ========== "He's in bad shape." Frohike hangs the phone up. "But he's alive?" asks Langly. "Mick says barely. " Frohike swings his chair to face Langly. "Mulder has an uncanny knack at cheating death. Among other things, he was pumped full of chemicals. Sodium pentathol, Randy thinks. Won't know for sure unless we run a blood test." Byers watches the interplay in silence, the glow from the computer next to him bleeding into his features, his blue eyes nearly transparent in the light. It is late, he thinks, glancing at his watch. 11:31 pm. Just shy of thirteen and a half hours since Frohike made the call. Byers should be relieved at the latest news but too many questions are left unanswered. Too many unsolved variables left in the equation. "Why spend three months looking for someone, who in theory, is dead? Why resort to chemicals known to produce erratic responses in subjects?" he asks thoughtfully. "There must be some compelling factor which would explain why someone went to such great lengths." Frohike looks puzzled. "Revenge?" "Information?" Langly crosses his arms and leans against the desk. "Files, names. . . Something only Mulder would have access to. . ." Frohike breaks the silence with a name. "Scully?" Byers shakes his head slowly. "Assuming it is the same people who arranged her disappearance, it doesn't add up. Why go to the extreme measure of questioning Mulder by chemical injection if they need information on Scully? They are the only ones who know where she is. It would be easier to simply retrieve the information from her, not him. " "Maybe she disappeared again," Frohike states. "Or one hand doesn't know what the other is doing," Langly answers. "Opposing factions with conflicting agendas." Byers looks at the other two men. "Langly? Have Mulder's contact run a check on this. I have a bad feeling. If someone is wasting this much time and resources to locate Scully, chances are high that she may be in immediate danger." ======================================================== Run 6/10 No one answers the phone. Again. Walter Skinner lets it ring a total of forty-one times before slamming the receiver down. The line has not been forwarding since late last night -- the first time in over three months. Where is that son-of-a-bitch? he thinks. What the hell is going on? His shoulders are tense, body posture rigid and straight as he reins in his emotions, face impassive, light glinting off the surface of his glasses. He sits at his desk and weighs his options carefully. He received the encrypted e-mail from Mulder's contacts hours before. The words cautiously explained the circumstances of Mulder's return from death only hours before and requested him to check on the location of Agent Scully. He called the man who knew, The Smoking Man, but the line went unanswered. Hours later, he is still unable to make contact. Where is the bastard? Why has he suddenly vanished? What the fuck is going on? There are few options left. He is desperate, tired of playing a game in which there is no winner, the stakes rising with each move and counter move. Frustrated that no matter which choice he makes, it will not be the right one. Picking up his phone, he dials a second number, one he has also committed to memory. It rings once, twice, then the line is picked up and Marita's voice, smooth and cool, answers. "Hello?" "I need some information." His words are clipped, barely making it through clenched teeth. A slight hesitation before she answers. He immediately understands that there is someone in the room with her, someone else involved in this deadly game. Skinner wonders if her line is tapped, if his line is tapped. He needs to proceed carefully. Silent, he waits on the line for her lead. "I would be happy to help you, if I am able. What may I do for you today?" she asks. "I am trying to reach a prior. . ." he begins. She cuts him off before he is able to finish the rest of his sentence. "The person you wish to speak to no longer works here. He has been terminated." Her words are tense and underneath he senses a current of fear, of information she cannot reveal. He grips the phone tight against his ear, the plastic slick from the sweat of his palm. "Terminated? That comes as a surprise. I spoke with him last week. Can you tell me the circumstances of his termination?" "I'm sorry, all I can say is that he is not eligible for rehire. Any other information you require should come from his previous employer. A Peter Jeffers, I believe. Thank you for calling and I wish I could have been more helpful." The connection is terminated and Skinner is left to weigh his remaining options. ========== Pretty. The trees are so pretty, green lace edging the sky, sections tinged red, yellow, orange. The leaves are vibrant in their near death, the wind rustling them one against the other as they sway and sigh into the silence. Above her she sees the open sky, more gray than blue, the sun suspiciously absent. A few weak rays escape through the dense trees which surround her. So many trees standing around her like sentinels, circling and protecting her from harm. She is safe here. Free. It is a dream, isn't it? This can't be real. The coldness sinks in, seeps into her awareness, and she realizes she is sitting on the ground, back pressed into the rough bark of a pine tree. Brown needles scatter the ground, punching through the fabric of her jeans. She brushes at them with her hand, dislodging them, realizing that she is touching denim, jeans. The texture confuses her. Jeans? Where did these jeans come from? She moves, the ache in her back spreading to her legs and arms and neck, the bark of the wood pulling at her hair, her coat. Bit of debris in her hair. Needles, bark, mud. She combs her fingers through her hair, standing up, a muscle in her thigh quivering in protest. She bends over, pressing her hand into her leg, kneading out the cramped muscle. A red flannel shirt peeks out from under the sleeve of a wool coat. Her clothes? Where did she get these clothes? They are too big on her, they hang and sag in all the wrong places. Not her clothes. Even the tennis shoes with the purple and pink stripes down the side are too big, her feet slipping inside as she shifts her weight. Shoving a hand into the pocket of the coat, she comes up with a wad of kleenex and a few pennies. Nothing else. She searches the pocket of her jeans finding nothing but a thick square of papers folded together. White papers. A pink paper. The pink one. A name written hundreds of times. Dana Katherine Scully. Her forehead scrunches in concentration as she stares at the words. This woman. Who is this woman? Why does the name seem so familiar to her? Tired, cold, she rubs her hand wearily against the side of her face. More debris in her hair, stuck to her cheek now, wet and dirty. She's spreading it along her skin. Mud from the ground, dark and sweet smelling. She stares at her hand. Not mud. Blood. There is blood on her hands, on her face, in her hair, on the wad of kleenex she pulled from the pocket of the coat. She drops it on the ground, frantically searching herself for scrapes, injuries, places where the blood could have escaped. There are no wounds on her. No place where she is bleeding. This cannot be her blood. Oh-jesus. Jesus-jesus-jesus. It is not her blood. Whose blood is it? Terror grips her and she runs blindly into the forest. ========== He watches the three men, isolated from their actions, their questions, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle, the newest pieces of information he has received from Skinner. Peter Jeffers. A name he has seen before. Where? Where has he seen the name? He struggles to remember, the heat from his skin burning into his mind, so tired, so fucking tired, why can't he remember? The computer casts cold light on his face, skin red and shiny and taut from exposure, eyes withdrawn, thinking, watching The Lone Gunmen search databases and records and classified files with the press of a fucking button, information right there, at his fingertips, why can't he remember? It's Scully, he tells himself. Scully. Remember, goddamnit, remember. Langly looks up from the screen, light reflecting off his glasses, excitement in his voice. "Got it, Mulder. Dr. Peter Jeffers was a virologist at John Hopkins University. He headed the 3rd Annual Conference on Retroviruses and Opportunistic Infections last year in Washington, DC. He was a colleague of Dr. Kevin Scanlon. Both worked on staff twice a month at The Lombard Research Facility." The Lombard Research facility. A wall with a list of doctor's names on call. On staff. Dr. Kevin Scanlon. Dr. Peter Jeffers. That is why he recognizes the name. He has seen it before. How fucking stupid that he remembers when it is too late. So much for his eidetic memory, he thinks with a twist of his mouth. The sun must have burned the talent right out of his fucking brain. Langly flops into the seat next to him and he can feel the cushions move against the back of his thigh, scratching his flesh like sandpaper. Langly is so excited he doesn't notice his discomfort, simply continues to talk. "He specialized in lentiviruses -- members of the complex subgroup of retroviruses. You know -- like HIV." Specailized, he wonders. Past tense. As if someone is already out there, covering up the truth, burying them with lies so thick so deep that eventually they will be accepted as fact. "What happened to him?" he asks, though he already suspects the answer to this question. "Killed in a car accident 5 days ago. Hit and run." Frohike rolls his chair to the computer stuck in the corner of the warehouse and initializes the modem. "What's the significance of Dr. Jeffers' research?" Mulder looks at Byers as he reads something off the screen. "Lentivirus genes are incorporated into a cell's own chromosomes and enter a latent state until some unknown agent or event triggers them into activity," Byers explains. "If such stimulants are infrequent, or if many are needed, the lentivirus genes can remain dormant for very long periods while giving no hint of their presence. "Their most intriguing attribute is that they posses the RNA to DNA step -- their RNA is copied into DNA using the viruses' own genes in a process called "reverse transcription." This new DNA is, in turn, permanently integrated into the infected cell's DNA, and begins to produce new virus particles. . ." The technical jargon distracts him, but the implications are processed. New virus patterns. Branched DNA. A doctor with a background in opportunistic infections and latent viruses. Shit. What the hell where these men doing to Scully? What had they done to her the first time? This time? "Could this new virus have caused Scully's cancer?" he interrupts. "It's possible," Byers pauses. "It could also have been the causative agent of the branched DNA we found in Scully's system after her abduction. In which case, it's been there for some time." "They're getting tricky with their security since last we called," Frohike announces from the other side of the room. "Good thing I took liberties with their system and created a false id." Mulder rises slowly, his stomach fluttering in warning from the change in position, knees like jello, and he glances at the computer screen. Staring at the words, an emotion pulls at him, fills his chest with the ache of gratitude and hope. Some things, he thinks, never change. "Funny. I would have thought the name Pamela Anderson Lee would have set off some alarms," he tells Frohike. Frohike shoots him an imperceptible glance -- gratitude? -- before returning his attention to the display. "Here it is. Peter Jeffers. . . Interesting. He requested a temporary leave nearly three months ago. Personnel lists his emergency number at The Karkomas Cancer Institute forty miles north of Roanoke, Virginia." The screen flickers, breaks, and goes blank. The mechanical components of the hard drive whine in protest as the power supply is abruptly cut off. "What the. . ." Frohike stares at the computer. "Spontaneous reboot, Frohike. I programmed the machine to react to IP tracing software," Langly flips the power switch on. "Looks like someone is very interested in who might want to access Dr. Jeffers personnel files." So he was right. The race had begun. Those who knew the truth would seek to bury it, to hide it from him. He turns angrily from the screen, biting down the tide of emotions that threaten to weaken him. He takes a deep breath and holds it, regaining control before he turns to the three men who watch him in silence. "Who's got a full tank of gas?" ======================================================== Run 7/10 The woman looks sick, Danny Beals thinks, looking up from his freshmen Chemistry book as the bell rings. Pale flesh, dirty red hair, dark circles under her eyes. Her skin is tight against her bones, so tight that it reminds him of pictures of the concentration camp survivors. Danny is surprised the woman is out by herself so late at night, that she even has the strength to open the door. The woman ignores him, wandering up and down the aisles of the convenience store, her eyes unfocused. Her movements are jerky and uncoordinated and she nearly knocks down the big Halloween Frito Lay display at the end of aisle three. Drunk? No. Probably on drugs or something. Some heroin dealers had been busted a few counties over. Maybe she was one of those strung out chicks they kept around for big customers. Wild. The biggest thing around this two-horse town was the occasional joint. His homework forgotten, he watches her from behind the counter as she pauses near the refrigerated sodas. She peers through the glass, her nose nearly touching it. Must need glasses, he thinks, and she turns so quickly, so suddenly that she catches him staring. Embarrassed, he drops his eyes back to his book. Sheeeee-it. Busted. He feels like a geeky 19-year old asshole. As if that's a novelty. He hears the woman move down the aisle, her sneakers slapping against the linoleum floor. Whew. Maybe she hadn't caught him gaping like a hayseed. He takes a chance and sneaks a peek. The woman is in front of the Hostess display, performing an examination of each wrapped treat. She holds a package of Twinkees to her nose and sniffs. Sets them back onto the rack. Picks up a box of Ring-Dings and holds it to her ear. Shakes it. Puts it back. Jesus, lady, Danny groans internally. It's not like picking out fruit at the market. The woman bends down, reaches out to the lower level of the rack, holding a package of pink Sno-Balls in her right hand. She stares at it, turning the package from side to side, inspecting the contents with a frown on her face. Her shoulders shake convulsively and it looks as if she is crying. From this angle, Danny can't see any tears on her cheeks. Just her shoulders shaking. Maybe she's laughing at some private joke or something, he thinks. She rips the wrapper open, shoves the pink ball into her mouth, and takes a bite. "What the fuck? Hey lady. You can't do that. You gotta pay for it first," Danny yells in surprise. The woman stares at him, her eyes so dark they look black, her mouth rimmed in pink. She smiles. "What's the matter with you? Did you hear what I said? You have to pay for that FIRST." The woman does not react to him. She shoves the rest of the Sno-Ball into her mouth, chewing, smiling, staring at him with that wide unblinking stare. "Oh for Pete's sake, lady. Are you retarded? Do you even understand what I'm saying?" The woman hears something. Jerks her head toward the front door of the store. Danny looks, but the parking lot is empty. The woman drops the other Sno-Ball on the floor and bolts for the door, pushing it open, the bell ringing as she exits and heads off into the street, running. Jeeee-sus, Danny Beals thinks. Why do all the freaks come in on my shift? ========== He waits with Langly and Byers in the Ford parked at the back of the lot, wondering if at this very moment she is only several hundred feet from where he sits. Is she cured? Is she alive? Or have they found her first? A man appears in the glass doors at the front of the Karkomas Institute and his heart leaps, beats erratically for a moment. Frohike. Does he have her? But he is alone, and silently the three of them watch the man cross the parking lot toward the car. Frohike opens the back door, breathless and excited. "They denied treating anyone under the name of Dana Katherine Scully. I found this at the nurses' station after the fire alarm was conveniently activated." He removes a sheaf of papers hidden inside his coat. Mulder stares at the pages. Medical reports. Things they have done to Scully. Amino acids, nucleaic acids, proteins. High levels. Medications. His fingers crunch the edges of the paper in frustration, and Byers is there, turning in the front seat, holding out his hand for the papers, asking without words, his eyes steady and calm. Mulder nods, hands him the reports. Byers scans the documents, no sound but the rustle of paper as he shifts the medical reports in his hands. Mulder watches him, fixed on his face, on the way his eyes dart from side to side. "It's a medical chart for a. . . Shelly Hinkle. Interesting. Protein in the blood work, amino acid levels I've only seen once before. . ." ". . .On Scully's medical charts," Mulder finishes the statement. "Are you saying you think she was treated here?" "That would be my assumption based on the similar nature of these reports. However, there is something non-standard in the lab tests that I haven't seen before. A variant in the nucleic acid levels that was not present in Scully after her abduction," Byers explains as he hands the report to Langly. "Hybridization?" Langly asks. Byers nods slowly. "That's my guess." Hybridixation? On Scully's charts? What the hell have these men done to her? What has he done? He doesn't want to know, doesn't want Byers to tell him, but he cannot stop himself from asking. "Why would the nucleic acid levels on this chart indicate hybridization?" "Hybridization applies and extrapolates the technology of nucleic acid manipulation to the single cell level," Byers clarifies. "In combination with the artistry of cytochemistry and immunocytochemistry, it permits the maintenance of morphology and the identification of cellular markers to be maintained and identified. . . even altered." "So whoever has been curing Scully has crossed her DNA with some unknown element? Is that what you're saying, Byers?" "Mulder, whoever did this cured Scully's cancer. The tumor is gone." "But Scully may not be Scully anymore." It has come to this, he thinks as he stares out the window. His heart twist bitterly inside his chest, a lonely pain that makes him feel incredibly old and ancient. It has come to this. And I am the one who is responsible. ========== She is running. There are lights in the air. Bright lights sweeping the rough terrain, hitting the trees at crazy angles, retreating, sweeping, retreating. Searching the night for something. Someone. Her? She runs, panting, her breath loud in her ears, stumbling over hidden depressions in the earth, over roots, the trees tearing at her coat. Oh-jesus. The lights. The lights are after her. Which way should she run? Where? Where-where-where? How had they found her? Branches claw the bare skin of her face and arms, leaving behind thin red scratches. Bleeding. Blood. Mud. The wood of a sapling grabs and bends, some of it breaking off, bits and pieces tearing at her hair, sticking to the front of her shirt. Terror and momentum propel her forward at breakneck speed reducing her environment to a blur of sounds and motion and the gripping need to run, to hide. She stumbles forward. Her foot hits a patch of something wet and slimy: Moss and wet leaves and rotting bark. Her right foot slips from underneath her and she lands on her butt sliding and tumbling through a thicket of bushes. The trees are thinner here, she is skidding by them so fast they all look the same, not hitting any, thinner now, trying to grab one with her hands but she can't. No trees. Tiny bushes now, pricky bushes scraping her jeans, slowing her fall, leaves and pointed pine needles sticking to her skin and hair and clothes. Sliding. She can't stop. Skidding down the wet earth like a fucking water slide. Has it rained recently? She thinks disjointedly. The mud is wet, slick, she is going faster now, faster, heading toward an outcropping of granite rocks a hundred feet away. Pebbles dropping. Rocks bouncing and falling. Falling? she thinks in confusion. Falling? They click like popcorn as they hit other rocks, rocks she can't see, rebounding once, twice, she can't keep count. She twists her body forward, her head snapping, her teeth biting into the soft flesh of her tongue. She tastes dirt and leaves and the bright thickness of blood. Oh-shit. Rocks ahead. Pushing out into the sky. A cliff. A fucking cliff. Her fingers dig into soft reticent earth, leaving behind long marks, claw marks, she can't stop her plunge down the mountain. Oh-shit. Too late. Too fast. Rocks bite into her arms and back, bruises all over her body as she bumps and grinds against the scarred terrain. Faster. She is airborne, nothing above, nothing below, hanging suspended for one moment, darkness surrounding her as she squeezes her eyes tight, gravity sucking at her body, falling, floating. She braces herself for impact. ======================================================== Run 8/10 Danny Beals looks up from his Chemistry book as the bell over the door rings. Great. First Freak Chick and now The Three Weird Stooges. Like he needs another distraction. He's been stuck on problem number three for the last twenty minutes and chances are good that he'll flunk his quiz tomorrow if he doesn't figure it out. Shit. Why do you have to be a math genius to take a stupid Chemistry course? He sighs and leans against the counter. He better keep an eye on these guys. They look like trouble. Not the tall guy in the suit and beard. He looks pretty harmless. Like his dad. The other guy is the one that worries him -- the short one wearing the leather vest. Now he could be one of those drug dealers. And after Freak Chick was in here not too long ago eating shit off the shelves. . . Well. Danny doesn't think he can be too careful. The blonde one looks kind of like him. Normal. The suit guy goes to the refrigerated section where the sodas are and takes out a couple of plastic bottles. The blonde and the short guy head down the snack aisle. They stop in front of the Halloween Frito Lay display Freak Chick almost knocked over. The short guy makes some remark about the life sized picture of Elvira. Danny is too far away to hear it, but it must be funny because the blonde guy laughs. Danny glances outside. Must be their Ford Imperial parked out by the gas pumps. Only car in the lot besides his beat up yellow Maverick. There's a fourth guy out there on Pump 2 filling up. Under the harsh yellow lights, this dude looks almost as sick as Freak Chick. His face is all red and burnt and he doesn't walk too fast, he kind of shuffles his feet along the pavement. Maybe the four of them are here for a drug buy. Sheeee-it. Should he call the cops? Or would they kill him and dump his body over in Fisher's Lake? The suit guy is standing at the counter so quiet that Danny doesn't know he's there until the last second. His heart starts beating in his chest as the guy reaches into his coat. Danny wants to swallow, but all his spit is gone. He's sure the suit guy is going for his gun. What should he do? Throw his Chemistry book at him? But the guy's just holding his wallet in his right hand and giving Danny a look like he's a fucking moron. Danny cashes out the suit guy, including the gas on Pump 2, and all three of the men leave the store. Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll start looking for a new job. ========== She is holding a gun, the weight of it heavy and slick in the palm of her hand. A gun? Where is she? Why does she have a gun. The heat from the barrel comes off it in waves, burning her fingers and she almost drops it. Hot. Too hot to hold. Doesn't that mean it was fired? Did she use it? Is this her gun? She stares at the silver metal, the black handle in horror, then holds it as far away from her body as she can. Points it at the ground. Where is she? She is in a forest, her coat is gone and she is freezing, the red flannel shirt torn and dirty, unable to keep the cold air away from her skin. Big rips in the knees of her jeans, the fabric stained with mud. Blood. Her teeth are chattering, clicking against each other. It's cold. Wet. Liquid on her cheeks. Is she crying? No. It's raining. Hitting the top of her head. Splashes of water, like tears, cold ones, angry ones, all over her body. Plop-plop-plop. The rhythm building in tempo as the raindrops grow in density and number. It's raining. Where is she? She moves in a circle. Trees all around. Big rocks, white and looming, glowing in the moonlight like grave markers. Markers. They look familiar but she doesn't remember why. More trees. Dark trees, broken by shafts of light sweeping, retreating, sweeping. Not in the air this time. In the trees. Bobbing a few feet from the ground, moving left, moving right, faster, faster, coming after her in the darkness. The sound of voices not too far off in the distance, coming closer. After her. Hide. Where? Where-where-where? The rocks. Her feet hit the earth and she realizes she isn't wearing shoes. Her white socks are covered with mud, nearly black, soaking wet. Cold. She's shivering all over, her skin trembling uncontrollably. She forgets about the gun and almost drops it as she begins to climb the rock. Hangs onto it tighter, even though she fights to keep her balance with one hand. Tired. She's so tired. Her muscles are aching, burning, straining as she climbs the big rock, nails breaking on the surface of the granite, shoving with her feet, pulling with one hand. Almost there. Almost to the top, the lights bobbing and weaving, getting larger and brighter. She's at the top, panting like a dog, coughing as the cold air abrades her lungs, bent over, trying to catch her breath. Over. Over. Back down the other side of the big rock, down, down, easier this way, her hands slipping on the rock, losing her grip on the wet granite, nearly twisting her ankle as she falls the last four feet. A crevice, a cave, a little hole even darker than night. She crawls into it and waits. ========== His hands are shaking. Under the florescent glare of the lights, they are reddish-green and shake as they press the lever of the gas nozzle. He grips the hard plastic handle more tightly, wondering if the chemicals are producing side effects. He hasn't felt well since crossing I-81 into Virginia. Fevers, chills, shakes -- tension building up in the pit of his belly. Pushing too hard, he thinks. When will he ever learn? When every fucking person he loves is dead? When he finally takes a gun to his own head and blows his brains out for real? He stares grimly at the numbers as they flicker on the display of the pump, using the distraction to assert control over his emotions. Unleaded. 2.45 gallons. 3.38 amount. The numbers change rapidly, hypnotically, the pump shutting off with a loud metal click. Tick. Tick. 10.35 gallons. 14.28 amount. Jesus, how did he fill up the tank so fast? Where had his mind been? His hands tremble violently as he hangs the nozzle of Pump 2 into the correct slot. What the hell is wrong with him? he wonders. The fucking chemicals are transforming him into a walking zombie. He steps off the concrete island and stumbles, off balance, hitting the door of the Ford with his right hand which prevents him from falling. The shock of the impact vibrates up the bones of his arm. Shit. He needs to sit down. Rest for a minute or two. He'll be fine if he can just sit down for a minute. Opening the door of the car, he slides into the back seat, the worn cloth seats easing the pressure and aches in his body. It feels good to sit down. To rest in the silence. Just for a minute. He leans his head back against the seat, staring out the passenger window into the night, waiting for The Lone Gunmen. The four of them will head back to DC to seek answers and questions and lies. Plop-plop-plop. Raindrops splatter against the windshield of the car, fat drops of rain running down the glass in erratic patterns. The pattern thickens as the drops grow larger and more frequent. Plop. Plop-plop-plop. The sound is soothing and vaguely familiar and when he closes his eyes there is darkness. For the first time. ======================================================== Run 9/10 It has lain dormant in this form since Men put It here. One or twice, It has sensed Another, an entity of its own nature, but a threat has never been issued. It remains quiescent, watching through Mulder's eyes, learning, listening, but never needing to rise to ascendancy. Now It senses The Other, weak at first, but stronger as Mulder travels I-81. The Other is very close now, very dangerous, and It is threatened. Taking control of Mulder' s form, It opens the handle of the car door and guides the man's feet on the wet pavement, directing his legs in fits and jerks. Quickly, It becomes accustomed to the manipulation. Where is It? Where is The Other? The Other must be killed. Must die. Killkillkill. It looks around, Mulder's head snapping from side to side, the bright lights of the gas station hurting, blinding as it looks through Mulder's eyes. It blinks and turns his eyes darker, a shade of black that reflects the light away from the cornea, allowing It to see better. There is a forest, a dense thicket of trees across the highway, and It senses The Other hiding there, in a hole, no, a cave. It heads in that direction. Men yell behind him, feet running across the pavement, yelling StopMulderWhereAreYouGoingMulder. It halts at the edge of the forest, turns to see the three men under the glow of the lights, Its eyes dark and wide and unblinking. LanglyByersFrohike. It turns Mulder's back on the Men and begins to run, gaining speed and rhythm, Mulder's legs strong and familiar with the motion. In the darkness It seeks the enemy. It seeks The Other. ========== The Other senses It and rises to ascendancy, taking control of Scully's form. The Other is in darkness now, a small place, confined, hiding from Men who seek control over what they have created. They have killed for this right, will kill again, and will destroy this form if they must. The Other sees the gun, forces Scully's fingers tight around the handle, makes her crawl on her hands and knees, through the mouth of the cave, around, behind the rocks, waiting in the darkness. The Men who hunt The Other, who seek to control it for their own agenda, run past the cave, oblivious to where the entity hides, waiting for It. Soon. The Other senses It very close. It must be killed. Killed. Kill. Kill. Kill. ========== The darkness slides from his body. He is freezing, cold air on his face, something struggling underneath him, an animal fighting underneath him. Where is he? Where the hell is he? No. Not an animal, a person, he's holding wrists, tiny wrist bones in his hand, pushing them into the soft mud, the body underneath moving violently from side to side trying to buck him off. Blood and mud on his face, on his eyes, his eyes, oh fuck it is coming out of his eyes, it is crawling down the sides of his face. It moves by itself, thick and oily, dripping, splashing onto the skin of the body beneath him, the blackness is spreading along white skin, oozing. Oh fuck it's alive, it's crawling into her nose and eyes. Her? Oh god, it's Scully, it's Scully underneath him, skin and bones, white skin covered by wet hair, face stained dark with the thing that flows and creeps and invades her body. From him. It moves from him to her. Oh christ what have they done? What have they made him do? Scully? Her body bucking, struggling, teeth snapping, hissing, scratches on the wrist of his hand, he can see them, red welts, burning, oh god is this Scully, really Scully? Her eyes are black and wide and flat. This can't be Scully. It is. It isn't. He rolls off her in surprise, hesitates, and she sits up, lunges at him, clawing scratching, kicking with her feet, rolling off to the side, and scrabbling in the mud, frantic. There is metal in her hand, something black and gleaming, a gun, oh god the thing has a gun. He scrambles to his feet, pushes his hands into the soft mud, wet mud, slips, falls to one knee. The thing points the gun at him, red hair hanging into eyes, black eyes, Scully, but not Scully. What have they done to her? "Scully?" He says her name out loud, in surprise, in shock, in the hopes that a spark will ignite behind those flat eyes, those dead eyes, the eyes which are ScullyNotScully. They've done this to her because of him, because of the fucking truth, because of a million things that no longer matter. There is no cure, no fucking cure, only horror and darkness and loss. "Scully?" Her name is a denial on his lips. "Sssssss . . . sssssss-ssssss-ssssss. . . ," the thing hisses, barring teeth, stretching the skin tight against her cheek, bones and sharp angles and hate radiating from the thing. "Sssssss . . . sssssss. . . Scull-eeee. . ." The eyes blink, black, then blue. Black. Tremors run like currents, flesh trembling, convulsing, motion under the skin like hundreds of crawling insects. The thing's eyes roll into the back of its head, the gun falls into the earth, into the water, a soft plop. The air leaves its lungs in a whoosh, Scully, not Scully, falling to the ground, jerking and twisting in the wet earth. He drops to his knees, next to her, holding her arms, her legs, pressing his body into hers, keeping her steady against the ground, her white skin slick with mud and blood and something else. Oil? What the fuck is this stuff? It is on his hands, his fingers and she is slipping from his grasp. Tighter. Hang on tighter. He pins her wrists to his chest, pins her against him, her body vibrating, head thrown back, a flicker, a change in her features, oh god he can see it crawling in her skin, underneath. Her body jerks. Stops. Jerks and folds weightless, motionless, sinking into his embrace, not breathing, oh god he can't feel her breathing, her chest is not rising. He lies her on the ground, straddles her. He pinches her nose, inflates her lungs with his oxygen, pumps her chest with his hands, one two three. Pinch. Air. Pump. One two three. Breathe, breathe, goddamnit, rain in his eyes, his nose, he can't see, can't feel her chest move. Do it again. Again. Breathe, breathe Scully, goddamnit breathe. Her chest hitches, moves and she is coughing, fighting the weight of his body, gagging and rolling away from him sucking air into her lungs, a hand pushing the hair from her face, from her eyes, wet and trembling, one hand immersed in the mud. Her head turns and she stares at him with blue eyes, eyes the color of the desert sky, a reminder of the prison, of the place in which he lived and died. Scully? Oh-christ. Scully. She stares at him, confusion on her face, her shoulders shaking as one tear traces a path down her muddied cheek. He is there, he has her in his arms, soothing sounds, no words, rocking her against his body, in the mud, in the earth, in the place where they have both been reborn from the darkness. For Mulder, for Scully, there is nowhere left to run. ======================================================== Run 10/10 EPILOGUE The Well Manicured Man is pleased, smiling at him from the other side of the desk before speaking. "The first test case finished with excellent results, Mr. Skinner. Most excellent. The altered hybrid for this phase was unsuccessful at assuming ascendancy. While this is disappointing, to say the least, we are still quite pleased in the data that we have gathered with this little experiment." "I did what you asked. I've held up my part of the bargain. Don't call on me again." "And we did what you asked. Agent Scully is cured, recovering nicely. She should be back on active status within the month. I'm sure Agent Mulder is gratified with the results. As you should be." "Why are you here? My part of the deal is over. . . " "Yes. So you have stated. In exchange for Agent Scully's complete cure you would bring the two entities together in a. . . natural environment. Our attempts to force the ascendancy in a controlled setting produced erratic results. Your help was. . . appreciated. Feeding Agent Mulder the lead on Dr. Peter Jeffers was a stroke of genius. I'm beginning to think you have a true calling for this subterfuge. We have had a rather recent opening, you know. A shame really, but this person thought they could control the hybrid entity for their own purposes. " "You son of a bitch. This ends here. I will not be. . ." "But you will." The Well Manicured Man smiles and rises to leave Skinner's office. "You see, your work has only just begun." ========== It senses Another. Still weak after the battle with The Other, It cannot rise to ascendancy and take control of his form. Instead, It remains quiescent, gathering strength. Waiting and watching. When the time comes It will rise. It will kill again. ========== THE END Author's notes: This began with the very simple thought: What if injecting Scully with the oilen substance was the method of her cure? Unfortunately, this simple idea ended up a complicated and twisted conspiracy plot. And "Run", it its many forms and revisions, ended up in this final form. All the technical information about lentiviruses and opportunistic infections is true. Dr. Peter Jeffers' name is actually one of the doctors on staff at The Lombard Research Facility -- as we saw in Memento Mori. Everything else comes from my twisted imagination. Many thanks again to my wonderful editors. Without them, I would have failed miserably. Special thanks to Sister Carrie who really kicked my ass and made me finish this piece at an especially busy time in my life. You owe me one, you know that? The nest larger piece currently in the works is "White Death" which I am co-authoring with Meredith. Keep a watch for it around the late October/November. Thanks for sticking with this wild ride! It has been fun, rewarding, and downright exhausting. GirlGone, respectfully submitted 9/29/97 Visit my home page for an archive of all my works at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/6423/index.html