"Within" AS8X01 Originally written by: Chris Carter Rewritten by: Kristel St. Johns From the journal of Dana Scully September 18, 2000 "Once, I dreamed I was alone..." Sand, blowing and swirling around her bare feet...A small golden cross glinting in the midst of the maelstrom... "At a time in my life when something I'd never thought to have, or even to want, was given to me, and in being so gifted became the one thing I desired above all else, only to be taken away..." A cold, sterile hospital room where she lies beside the daughter she never imagined she had and waits for the inevitable end... "That you were there, to help and to comfort me, did not pass unnoticed, but nevertheless did not prevent me from embarking on the cold and solitary path I felt I must tread to make some sense of the tragedies that were without reason or logic. "Now, it appears my heart's desire has been granted, but only at the sacrifice of something equally as precious and vital to me. The irony that you should be taken at the one time I am least capable of pursuing is not lost on me. There is no question of yielding or surrender--this is not a sacrifice I am willing to make. Nor would you make such a sacrifice were our positions reversed, as they have been in the past. "Now I must begin finding my way through a maze with no beginning or end, in hopes that I may locate something I'm afraid cannot be found on this earth. Now I must take the final step I have feared so long. Our journey together has always been a balance, between your ability to believe and my own science. Now I must become what you were, but in doing so, I risk losing myself. That I must dismantle every belief I have ever known and somehow meld it with what you have always held true is the price I will pay to find you again, a price I know you would willingly pay for me. I will search for as long as I must, through the fire and fury and fear and truths I would rather not know, always seeking...always reaching...always lonely..." The soft, melodic sound of a heartbeat as she imagines the child nestled in her womb, her hand sliding protectively down her abdomen... "...but never alone." * * * * * She leaves the hospital at three o'clock in the morning after waking from a nightmare involving Mulder and the child she never was supposed to have. The dream, she is certain, will be the first of many. She isn't leaving against medical advice, precisely. A.M.A. implies she bothered to get her physician's advice. She hasn't and doesn't care to. No advice he can give her will alter what she knows she must do. Were she her own doctor, she'd have some choice words for herself, but likewise, they just don't matter. Four A.M. finds her in the X-Files office, wearing the same suit in which she collapsed in Skinner's office two days before, examining satellite images provided by Langly, Frohike and Byers. At five-thirty, her head is nodding until it comes to rest on Mulder's desk. At six-thirty she rises abruptly to bolt for the nearest ladies room where she brings up not much of anything from her empty stomach. "It doesn't matter," she mutters to herself as she splashes water on her peaked face in the small stainless steel sink. She doesn't recognize the woman looking back at her from the scratched and spotted mirror above the sink. The face and the hair are the same, as are the hands and the throat that no longer bears its ubiquitous crucifix, but the eyes...haunted, empty, listless...the eyes speak of years of tragedy with few moments of simple human joy. The eyes speak of sorrow, and loss, and a fierce determination. They speak of recent nights spent sleepless and mornings of ambition-depleting sickness. The eyes are old and tired, and they are not hers anymore. "It doesn't matter," she tells the strangers reflection. "Nothing else matters." She makes her way back to the office wrapped in a cloak of cold stoicism and competency. She won't allow anyone to see anything less. She stands alone and aloof, a force to be reckoned with, implacable and unstoppable. She is not prepared to encounter the invasion of the private domain she once shared with Mulder. She hasn't been gone more than 20 minutes, but it's enough. She stands aghast for a moment, before slow-burning rage ignites in her chest and sharpens the tone of her voice. "What is this?!" She might as well not have spoken for all the attention she gets. "Excuse me! Can somebody please tell me what's going on here?" One of the four agents heedlessly trespassing on her private territory takes a moment to respond, "We're collecting material." "For?" Her voice is cold as she makes the inquiry. The agent, whom she's certain she's seen before but whose name lacks any significance, replies, unconcerned with her burgeoning perturbation. "For anything that might be pertinent to the manhunt." "What manhunt?" she demands.
"Manhunt for who?" He doesn't even bother to face her as he continues packing files and papers and the other miscellany Mulder accumulated over the years. "You're kidding, right?" Drawing a deep breath and trying to tighten her rein on her paper-thin patience, she tries to reason with him before their hunt for "material" completely disrupts whatever data she might need for locating Mulder. "Look, there's nothing," she insists. "If you're looking for Mulder, you're wasting your time. Are you listening to me?" "I'm not the man to talk to," Agent What's-his-name replies, dismissing her without so much as a glance. "Well, then whose stupid idea is this?" she demands, her hold on her temper slipping as he walks away, disregarding her question. A.D. Skinner is glowering as she storms into his office, his jaw clenched as he growls at someone on the other end of the phone, "Yeah, well, someone might have had the courtesy to tell me." He slams the phone down and faces her. His manner shifts instantly, solicitousness and concern taking over. "How are you feeling?" he asks, a question she ignores as she comes to a halt before him. "There are agents tearing apart Mulder's office who say they're part of an FBI manhunt!" "I know," the assistant director replies tersely, brushing past her. "I heard. Believe me, this is not my idea. I just found out about it myself." "They're not going to find Mulder this way!" she protests. "You know that and I know that." "I told you last night, I will find him," Skinner says in an effort to placate her. "I'm going to do that. Okay? Now, I want you to just cool it. I don't want you doing anything to upset your pregnancy." Scully shifts uncomfortably at the admonishment. She needs no one to remind her that her pregnancy is almost certainly going to come into conflict with the need to find her missing partner. "Thank you for your concern, Sir," she replies with stilted politeness. "But that's not the issue here. I can't afford to be sidelined because of this--why do you think I asked you to keep it to yourself? If you mean what you say about finding Mulder, you need me here. Now, if we can get back to the issue at hand--?" "Of course," Skinner replies mutedly. "You're the Assistant Director. Who's going over your head on this?" "Our brand new Deputy Director," Skinner answers, his expression conveying volumes about his opinion of that particular situation. That's when the phone rings. The caller I.D. tells the rest of the tale. 7:30 AM "A.D. Skinner, Agent Scully," Deputy Director Alvin Kersh pauses in packing his effects to sit down and face them as they enter. "Thanks for getting right over. I don't want to lose any time. We have one of our own missing and the only acceptable outcome is that we find him safe and alive. I'm sure the two of you agree. " Of course, we agree, Scully thinks irritably. The question is what the hell Kersh is trying to accomplish by getting in her way of finding Mulder. "That goes without saying, sir," Skinner replies with contrived deference. "Good. This comes at a stressful time, with my new appointment. But I'm thankful for your cooperation in the hunt for Mulder." At last, the opening she's waiting for... "Our cooperation? With due respect, there aren't two people better qualified to be directing this action--sir," the title comes with difficulty to her tongue. "Right now, you and A.D. Skinner are the two primary witnesses to Mulder's disappearance. I want your statement taken ASAP." It takes a concerted effort to remain calm. Her voice grows cold as her shoulders stiffen. "You make us out to be suspects, sir." Kersh stares at her, and Scully suddenly realizes that there are many who would be happy not only to have Mulder gone, but to have the two people most invested in finding him discredited. "Taken by who?" Skinner asks, trying to steer the conversation away from that particular minefield. "My task force leader on this, Special Agent John Doggett," Kersh answers. Scully stares at him, her expression neutral. The name means nothing to her. "He's waiting to hear from you now." It's a pointed remark; she and Skinner are being kicked out so that the Deputy Director can return to his critically important packing. Her lips tighten in an effort not to sneer. Kersh is a puppet; he doesn't have the guts to do the dirty work himself. Distantly, Scully wonders when she became so jaded, but dismisses the question as irrelevant. Excused, she and Skinner turn in unison to leave. They are brought up short as Kersh once again speaks. "One more thing. Anything leaves this building about aliens or alien abductions or any other nonsense that might cast the Bureau in a ridiculous light-- hey, you can forget about looking for Agent Mulder. You'll both be looking for new jobs." There it is, then. Kersh will pay lip service to wanting Mulder found, but won't countenance the inclusion of the only real truth of the matter in the scenario. Without the acceptance of that truth, there is no way to find Mulder. Which, she is sure, will please some parties just fine. Kersh puts his glasses back on and returns to his papers. "That's all." "Sanctimonious ass!" Scully mutters irately once the door has closed behind them. "This isn't about finding Mulder. This is about Kersh protecting the FBI's image," Skinner remarks. "Why do I get the feeling they'd be happy if we never found him at all?" she asks, wincing. "Look," Skinner stops her outside the door of the bullpen where Kersh's task force has assembled. "I saw what I saw. I have to make a statement in there. I'm not going to tell them it didn't happen." "Well, you heard Kersh. They don't want the truth. You give them the truth, and they'll hang you with it." "They can hang me with a lie, too. I'm not going to sell Mulder out." Damn. Skinner will do it, too; fall on his sword for the sake of the truth. Scully doesn't have that luxury. In the interest of sheer expediency, she needs Skinner's support. "What good are you to Mulder if you give them the power to ruin your career?" Skinner has no answer. His jaw flexes, but he remains mute. She glances sideways through the open blinds covering the windowed wall of the bullpen to see dozens of agents milling busily and fruitlessly about. They’re not going to accomplish anything here. "Look," she says, glancing away impatiently. "I need you to cover for me. Tell them I became ill again, tell them anything. I can't be wasting my time here." "Where will you go? What do you think you can find?" the Assistant Director reasons. "You were just telling me not to antagonize them, and now you think you're going to bail out of giving statements we’re under direct orders to provide?" "You know that every minute we waste here is a minute we won't have to find Mulder," she replies, her tone raising with exasperation. "And we both know there's one man who has the answers to all of this--I need to see the smoking man." "Yeah, well, you can't," Skinner sighs. "You think anyone can stop me?" "I've already tried to see him, Scully. Last night. He's dead." Scully's breath leaves her in a rush, the blood draining from her face as hope fades. She had felt that the smoking man, of anyone on the planet, might magically have the answers she needed. Optimism was replaced with a bitter, aching despair that threatened to choke her. "Are you sure?" Skinner nodded tersely. "I saw his body myself. He was thrown down a flight of stairs. Ribs broke and punctured his lungs; the coroner says he drowned in his own blood." "Krycek." It's not a question. "He can't be located. He's probably left the country again by now." Her skin tingles numbly, and she wonders if she might faint once more, or if this numbness has nothing to do with her physical state but rather her sudden sense of hopelessness. "Scully--we'll find him," Skinner tries to reassure her, though she senses his confident declaration masks a world of uncertainty. "We just have to find another way. Now, come on..." he opens the door to the bullpen for her, and silently she walks inside. * * * * * She's relegated to waiting on the wall while they take Skinner's statement. It's a calculated insult on a number of levels. They are, indeed, being treated as suspects, their statements being taken separately to catch any discrepancies in their tale. Making her wait is part of the game, a cop trick to fluster a nervous suspect. She toys briefly with the idea of storming out and catching the next flight to Oregon. She doesn't have time for this crap. Another agent sits on the row of chairs two seats down, going over a file. At a nearby desk, an agent brings a quivering jelly-covered doughnut to his face and Scully feels her stomach turn. She tries to be circumspect as she raises a hand to wipe away the beads of perspiration that pop out on her upper lip even as her mouth tightens in an attempt to curb her unruly stomach. She turns her head and looks away from the sight of the agent devouring the pastry, her face pinched with her unease. A hand with a paper Dixie-cup appears before her. "Water?" the man holding the cup asks. She notes the agent who had moments before been sitting nearby. She'll have to be more discreet if he picked up on her discomfort so readily. She can't afford to be seen as infirm or unable to handle herself at such a critical time. "It could be a wait," he remarks conversationally. She accepts the proffered cup, trying not to appear too grateful or desperate, though she is both. "Thank you." He sits down again, returning his attention to his file for a moment before he speaks without looking up at her, his tone casual. "Weren't you his partner? Mulder?" A prickle of suspicion raises the hairs on her arms. Anyone in this room, as a part of this task force, should already know that. It's not as though she and Mulder hadn't gained their share of notoriety over the years. Her investigator's instincts go on alert. "Yes," she replies cautiously. "I guess nobody's beyond suspicion on this thing," he shrugs, and she detects something deliberate in his avoidance of making any prolonged eye contact with her. Her already thin patience isn't going to sustain these questions for long. There's a possibility he's not part of the task force, but just another "witness," she tries to reason with herself, though she doesn't recognize him and can't possibly imagine why he'd be here. "Why are they talking to you?" she asks, coming to the conclusion that if he's a witness, she needs to hear what he has to say. "Me? I knew Mulder back a bit. They're developing a working profile--character background." Scully mentally tries to go over acquaintances Mulder made in the VCU to help her identify the man. His badge is twisted around and unhelpful, and he hasn't introduced himself yet. She feels another surge of impatience as his words sink in. If they need insight into Mulder's character, she's the person to be speaking with, not this stranger who hasn't talked to Mulder in years. "I'd say they have all the character profile they need on him." "Certainly his reputation," the man remarks. "I doubt we agents ever really truly know each other--even our partners. Not at the end of the day. Their real lives, their friends, girlfriends, deeply personal things, issues..." Scully's eyes narrow in annoyance. "I think I know Mulder as much as anybody." "Yeah, probably so," he replies negligently. "I always took the rumors with a grain of salt." "What rumors are those?" she asks contemptuously. "Well, you know..." He meets her gaze and she lifts an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. "Well, that, from the beginning he never felt a real trust with you, that you were ambitious." Despite herself, her back stiffens defensively. "Where'd that come from?" He laughs briefly. "There are women here at the Bureau that he would confide in. I don't know if you knew that or not." Her first inclination is to respond hotly and deny this, which she nearly does, her patience stretched beyond the bounds of reasonable restraint by the implied insult. It occurs to her as she swallows back a heated retort that this man has very easily managed to manipulate her past the point of discretion. Suddenly she understands that this was his purpose all along. A sneer curls her lip as she reaches out and turns his name badge around. Then she snorts. "Special Agent John Doggett. I might have known. You could have just told me who you were." "Well, I was getting around to it," he shrugs with a smug grin. Scully shakes her head in disbelief. "Agent Doggett--just what the hell do you think you're doing?" she demands coldly. "I believe I was questioning a witness in Agent Mulder's disappearance." "No, you weren't. I know exactly what you were trying to do, and frankly, I resent your insinuations. I'm an F.B.I. agent, Agent Doggett, just like you, and if you're going to deal with me, you'd damn well better give me the respect I deserve as a fellow agent. Now, if you want to ask me about Mulder's work, or my work with Mulder, you go right ahead. Otherwise, you're wasting my time." She rises and tosses the nearly full cup of water in the waste basket beside his chair, unconcerned as a plume of water flies out and splatters his arm and the file he's holding. Meeting her furious gaze, Doggett negligently wipes the water off the papers. "Maybe it's not the work that's going to answer the question of where Mulder's disappeared to." "Oh, it is, Agent Doggett. And if that's not where you're looking, you're not just wasting my time--you're wasting yours." She strides purposefully past him and out of the room, not bothering to wait for a reply. * * * * * She isn't sure she remembers the last time she visited her mother. They meet for mass sometimes Sunday mornings, or go to dinner together, but she hasn't been to the house in months. Now she finds standing before that familiar door at once alien and comforting. It has ceased to be home, and yet will never cease to feel welcoming. There is no answer to the doorbell, and so she sits on the front stoop, her knees drawn up to her chest, waiting in the mellow afternoon sunlight. She feels she should be doing something, searching, finding the answers, finding Mulder, but she knows there is nothing she can do until she finds a way to get around Kersh's task force. If she gets in their way right now--or worse, disappears to conduct her own search--it will only mean that much more trouble down the line, when she actually has something to go on. Sitting, however, raises whole new issues. She can't afford to think right now. When she thinks, she begins imagining. Half-buried memories of her own abduction collide with confabulation from dozens of other abduction stories to bring to the surface of her mind the most grisly and terrifying images of what her partner might be suffering. She closes her eyes as her psyche is buffeted by pictures from a familiar nightmare-- A bright white room, Mulder cold and alone, his eyes wide open and terrified as a spinning metal drill approaches his face, unable to scream as it cuts into his flesh... "Dana?" Her eyes jerk open to meet her mother's concerned gaze as Margaret Scully touches her shoulder. * * * * * "Oh, my lord," Margaret Scully breathes in surprise. "But I thought you couldn't--" "So did I, Mom," Scully mutters, blinking against an unwelcome rush of tears. "I don't know what to say, Dana," the older woman frowns, concerned. "Are you all right? Is everything--" "Fine, normal, yes. As far as we can tell so far," she sighs, closing her eyes tiredly. "What does Fox have to say about this? What are you going to do?" Margaret asks, her mouth tensing just a bit. Her mother has nothing personally against her partner, Scully knows, and is even somewhat fond of him, but Mulder and the work go hand in hand and Margaret would be just as happy if her daughter left the work forever. She knows her mother doesn't quite dare to ask if this means Scully will leave the F.B.I. She's sure there are many questions her mother wants to ask that are going unspoken. She shakes her head. "He's gone, Mom." Her eyes shine wetly despite her best efforts. "Gone?" "We were investigating a case in Oregon and he disappeared...like I did," despite her determination to remain open-minded, the words come with difficulty. "He was abducted." "Oh, my God...Dana--Are you--? What are you going to do?" "I don't know, Mom," she says softly. "I'll do what I have to do." "But the baby--" "I have to find him, Mom. I don't have a choice." * * * * * From the journal of Dana Scully September 19, 2000 10:47 P.M. "He's everything you would consider suspect..." The words on her computer monitor tell the tale. Military History 1977-1983 - US Marine Corps 9/1/82-10/30/83 - Multinational
Peacekeeping Force, Work History 1987-1995 - New York Police Department 1995 - Graduate, F.B.I. National; Academy, Quantico 1995-Present - F.B.I., Special Agent, Criminal Investigations "From his involvement with what you'd call the industrial/military/entertainment complex to his current fast-track record at the F.B.I., everything in me says he's the wrong man for the job of finding you. Maybe that's the point. He doesn't believe. To believe is to become the one thing they fear the most--someone who won't reject the truth when they see it. And then I wonder--is this how you felt seven years ago when they sent me to you?" The monitor swims before her eyes as a wave of dizziness washes over her. Her skin becomes hot and prickly as her stomach twists queasily and she breaks into a cold sweat. Seconds later, she's dashing for the bathroom to rid herself of the meager supper she'd managed to eat. Of course it would be her luck that her morning sickness is in no way confined to mornings. She rinses her mouth and face when it has passed and shuffles back into the living room, her energy depleted between the pregnancy and the long, sleepless nights since Mulder left for Oregon. She knows she should rest; the very nature of her pregnancy makes her high-risk, but she isn't going to find Mulder lying down. The sofa beckons and she ignores its siren call, reaching over it instead for the phone where it rests on the charger. She enters a speed-dial number and a moment later a voice answers. "Skinner," his voice sounding distant over a weak cell-phone signal. "This is Scully. Were you able to get that information I requested?" "I'm with Langly, Frohike and
Byers now," he replies. "They--" "Hey! Not on the phone, G-Man! Jeez!" she hears an exasperated voice call out from the other end. She thinks it's Langly. "I used to think Mulder was paranoid," Skinner mutters irritably to her, not responding to Langly's admonishment. "Mulder was--is paranoid," she corrects him, disconcerted at her own slip. "And these guys know their stuff. Let me know when you have--" A sharp crackling sound, louder and more defined than static, intrudes on the line and Scully freezes, the phone pressed to her ear. "Skinner?" "I'm here, Agent Scully. As I was
saying--" "You can tell me at work tomorrow," she cuts him off, hanging up quickly. The hand holding the phone falls to her side slowly as she steps cautiously forward to peer out the window at the street below. Through the rain-splattered glass, she sees a tall, lean, darkly clad form standing beneath her window, staring up at her. For a moment, her heart stops, thinking there's something achingly familiar about the figure, but then it turns and walks away, and she realizes any similarities are in her mind. Whoever it is, it can't possibly be Mulder, and she suspects she knows all too well why the person is lurking beneath her window. She lifts the phone and speed dials the F.B.I. switchboard. Seconds later, her call is patched through to the appropriate extension. "John Doggett," answers the voice on the other end. "You damn well better have a court order!" Scully snarls into the phone, pacing her living room angrily. "For what? Who is this?" Doggett demands over the line. His perplexed queries fail to cool the red-hot fury seething within her at the invasion of her privacy and dignity. "How many phones are you tapping? How many agents are you doing surveillance on?" He finally gets the message. "Is this Agent Scully?" "Thank you. You just answered all my questions." She hangs up the phone, slumping wearily against her desk for a moment. Her eyes drift shut and she thinks she may fall asleep standing there until a creaking sound grabs her attention. She glances toward her front door, where a shadow breaks the light seeping in from beneath it. Alarmed, she casts an anxious glance at the sofa table where her service weapon sits in its holster. She is well aware of how far some parties might go to prevent her finding Mulder again. Cautiously, she watches the dark feet as they stop before her door and then slowly move away. Quickly, she snatches up her gun and moves for the door, jerking it open to find the hallway empty. Someone had been there, someone who had business with her. Maybe business that could help her find Mulder. Without thinking to close her apartment door, she jogs down the hall to the stairwell, and then down to the next floor. She is about to continue down to the next floor when a sound on the fire escape draws her notice and she aims her gun at the open window. "Stop there! Right there! Now come on through the window nice and easy." "Okay, I'm coming!" a voice replies, mixed with equal parts worry and exasperation. "It's me, your landlord. I started fixing the antenna on the roof, and..." Chagrined, Scully lowers her weapon, helping the soaking wet man out of the rain. "I'm sorry, Mr. Coeben. I'm sorry. There was a man. There was someone in the building. Did you see anyone?" "Yeah, yeah, you know him, he works with you. Tall guy, brown hair." The hope which blossoms in her chest has no basis in logic, but is as unstoppable as the tide. "Who? You--you don't mean Mulder?" "Yeah, Mulder." The older man confirms with a decisive nod. With her heart in her throat, Scully dashes back for her apartment and through the open door. "Mulder?" she calls, closing the portal behind her. If Mulder is back, it might not be a wise idea to advertise the fact just yet. Despite the rational part of her brain that tells her there's no way Mulder can possibly be anywhere near her apartment tonight, the ache of needing to see him again is sharp and excruciating and all she wants is a way to ease the pain. Her voice trembles, echoing in the empty stillness. "Are you in here?" She tours her apartment hurriedly, but there is no one. Her chest is tight and her eyes burning as she returns to the living room, setting her gun aside. She turns back to her desk and gasps in dismayed surprise. Her computer is missing, gone from where it sat only moments before. The power cord and other cables lie forlornly on the now-empty surface and she inspects the desk with an air of resignation. From the journal of Dana Scully 11:23 P.M. "After all these years, I still can't accept the fact that no matter where I look, they're two steps ahead. Their goal is not the discovery of the truth, but its concealment. How can I possibly find you when the very truth I am at last ready to accept is always just beyond my grasp...?" * * * * * Mulder's apartment is echoingly empty as she unlocks the door and lets herself in. It feels vacant, devoid of the energy with which Mulder's presence had imbued it. The silence hurts her ears. His computer is missing too, the wooden desktop empty. The monitor is a pile of cracked plastic and broken glass where it was shoved carelessly onto the floor. There is a large circle bare of dust where the base of the monitor had protected the wood, and across the rest of the surface the dust is disturbed, as though swept away by something brushing over the desktop. Brief snapshots of recollection flash behind her eyelids. A plume of particles filling the air and coating the seat of her slacks as she's gentlysettled onto the desk to sit while mouths meet and clothing is shed... She turns from the desk and glances about the living room, seeking memories in each item her eyes touch. Sitting companionably side by side on the sofa, drinking beer and watching a movie...a gentle touch on her face as he pushes her hair back and covers her with a blanket...her arms slipping around him as he presses her down into the leather cushions... She walks slowly from the living room to the bedroom, turning on the light to look around. The bed is still unmade as it had been when Mulder left three days ago. The last suit he wore lies in a pile on the foot of the bed. She pulls his blue dress shirt from the jumble of clothing and presses it to her chest as she sinks down onto the bed and curls into a ball, closing her eyes and letting the memories come... Flashes of silvery-pale skin reflecting the streetlights outside the darkened room... ...until finally, she sleeps. * * * * * "You want to tell me what's out here that we couldn't discuss back at your office?" Skinner demands of Langly, Byers, and Frohike as they reach the satellite dish on the hill. "It took some serious voodoo," Frohike states as though providing an answer. "Major satellite hacking," Langly adds. "But we got your data," Byers finishes, laying out a large printout of satellite images. "What am I looking at?" Skinner demands impatiently. It's Byers who replies. "You're seeing real-time images right off the JPL Topex Poseidon." "We're wired right into the dish," Frohike clarifies. "We're not able to find raw data with U.F.O. activity on it," Byers tells him. "But Langly was able to hack into the data storage here and pull up something just as tasty." There's a hint of smugness in Frohike's tone. Byers explains the schematic. "You're looking at U.F.O. activity in the Pacific Northwest just prior to Mulder's abduction." "All these markers correspond with reported alien abductions. It's a regular shopping spree," Langly comments. "So Mulder's abduction..." Skinner begins slowly. "...Was a U.F.O. whistle stop on the way to the next pickup," Frohike finishes for him. "Where?" Skinner demands. "Where's the U.F.O. activity after Mulder's abduction?" "Like we said, we can't tell yet. Not from the data we're pulling down," Byers answers apologetically. Skinner leans forward intently. "Look, if we can figure out where that ship was going, where it was gonna be, we've got a chance to find Mulder." The Lone Gunmen nod gravely as they meet his eyes. "I need you to get me that data." * * * * * Her dreams are nowhere near as pleasant as her memories. Images of what she might have gone through--or only imagined she went through--during her own missing time replay in her head. Only this time, it’s Mulder. Mulder, surrounded by cold white light. Mulder unable to scream as strange figures loom over him and strange instruments invade his body. In her own memories, the figures are men. But those who stand over Mulder are not. And then she is alone in the cold white room, unwillingly but implacably drawn toward the shining wall of stainless steel drawers that are terrifyingly, gruesomely familiar to her. She shakes her head, refusing to open any of them even as her trembling hand, of its own volition, reaches for a handle. A stainless steel autopsy tray slides out at her and Mulder's pale face and blue lips are there, filling her vision, growing larger and more detailed as they come nearer. Suddenly the eyes open and stare up at her, and the lips part... "Scully?" * * * * * She bolts upright on the bed, still clutching the wrinkled blue shirt to her chest. The hand that had reached out to her recoils as she lifts confused eyes to meet the concerned gaze of A.D. Skinner. "It's just me," he says in an attempt to soothe her. "Are you all right?" he asks solicitously. "I'm fine," she shrugs away the inquiry, despite the racing of her pulse and the shallowness of her breath as the dream fades. She wipes away the sheen of perspiration on her forehead as she rises from the bed. A glance around reveals morning sunlight streaming through the windows. She slept the entire night, or what was left of it by the time she arrived here. "What are you doing here?" "I tried to call you at home and on your cell, but there was no answer. I took a stab in the dark," Skinner answers awkwardly, following her as she walks past him and out of the bedroom. "Kersh wants you to report to Agent Doggett pronto. Apparently Doggett has some questions he thinks you can answer." "What, the wiretap wasn't helpful enough?" Scully asks bitterly. "What are you talking about?" She angrily snatches the fish food off the shelf and drops a few flakes into the tank, speaking over her shoulder to Skinner. "Agent Doggett is tapping my phone." "No," Skinner denies. "You're under my direct supervision. I would have been notified if they were doing surveillance on you." "Unless they're doing surveillance on you as well," she points out, leaning against the bookcase tiredly. "Or unless it's not a Bureau-sanctioned tap," Skinner replies. "I'm sure Agent Doggett isn't the only party with an interest in Mulder's disappearance." Her reply is drowned out by the ringing of a cell phone, and Scully glances around, looking for hers, while Skinner pulls his out of his coat pocket and answers it. "Skinner." He's silent for a long moment, his expression shifting from irritation to distress to disbelief. "What? No--that can't be right...I don't care...yeah, well, it's wrong...All right. Yes, I've found Agent Scully. We'll be there shortly." "What?" Scully asks anxiously as he hangs up. "What did they find?" "Entry logs to secured areas of F.B.I. headquarters late last night--using Mulder's passcard." * * * * * Skinner enters the bullpen right behind Scully, standing protectively at her back as the pause to find the entire task force there. Agent Doggett and Deputy Director Kersh watch them approach, looking grim. "Assistant Director, follow me," Agent Crane gestures back to where Kersh and Doggett wait. "Agent Scully, if you'll take a seat, we'll be with you shortly." He hears Scully make an annoyed sound at being relegated to the wall again, but she breaks off and takes a seat as the agent, Gene Crane, Skinner remembers, leads him to a chair across the table from where Kersh stands glowering. "Have a seat," Crane directs, taking a chair facing Skinner. Agent Doggett closes in, standing beside the A.D., and Skinner recognizes the old cop intimidation technique. His jaw clenches irritably. "Assistant Director," Crane begins, "an unknown person came into this office after hours and removed some material. Files. We don't know exactly what just yet." "And you think that someone was Agent Mulder," Skinner concludes, sighing. Crane doesn't appear to notice the idea isn't one Skinner finds remotely possible. "His card was definitely used. It sometimes takes a while to get them deactivated. We're wondering about Agent Mulder's state of mind. In your statement," Crane pauses to flip through some papers, "you said prior to his disappearance Agent Mulder had felt threatened by the FBI." Skinner shakes his head, avoiding their trap. "No, no. No, that's not what I said. I said he felt the X-Files were threatened by budget cutting." "Is there anything you're not telling us about Agent Mulder or his attitude?" Skinner doesn't bother to answer Crane's question, so the agent tries again. "Do you think he'd ever retaliate against the F.B.I.?" "Agent Mulder was only after the truth," Skinner denies the possibility, recognizing the treacherous ground on which he stands. One misstep and they'll have their excuse to write Mulder off and discredit his work. "As are we, Assistant Director," Kersh assures him, but the words are hollow. Skinner gives Kersh and Doggett a scathing glare. "So far, Agent Scully's whereabouts last night are unknown," Crane points out. "And we see from your phone log, you were here until at least after 10:00." Skinner accepts the proffered phone log, a disbelieving smile crossing his face. He doesn't bother to read the handouts, instead tossing them on the table disdainfully. "You think I came in here last night using Agent Mulder's card-key? Or Agent Scully?" "You were the last person to see Mulder. You and Agent Scully. And it wouldn't be the first time Agent Mulder has disappeared and left Agent Scully to lie and cover up for him." Skinner rises from the chair and leans over the table, bracing his fists on its surface, and glowers at Crane, then turns to Agent Doggett. "You're making implications that could very well end my career--and Agent Scully's. If you are going to level accusations at anyone, you'd damned well better have more than a phone log to back it up, or I will personally--" His warning is cut short as another agent approaches and murmurs something to Doggett, handing him a file folder. Doggett glances through it, then turns to Skinner. "Thank you, Assistant Director, you've answered our questions. If you'll excuse me..." Leaving Skinner, Crane, and Kersh all staring after him, Doggett turns away and walks across the bullpen floor to Scully. * * * * * Scully looks up as Doggett approaches holding a file folder in his hands. She rises and favors him with a cold stare as he comes to a stop before her. "In case you've forgotten, Agent Doggett, my partner is missing. I don't appreciate being told to cool my heels here when I can be out looking for him. If all you're going to do is waste my time, I've got better things to do." She turns to walk away and he follows her into the corridor, reaching out to stop her. Her glare turns icy and dangerous as she looks from his restraining hand to his face and back. The hand falls away. "I have some receipts here from Mulder's credit card," he says, holding the folder out to her. "Airline tickets to Boston and car rental receipts four weekends in a row in August. And now we've found purchases at a florist in Boston each corresponding weekend. Care to explain who Mulder was buying flowers for, Agent Scully?" The insinuation sets her teeth on edge. She shakes her head in amazement. "You just don't know when to stop, do you, Agent Doggett? I warned you before about treating me with the respect due a fellow agent..." "Respect like you showed me last night when you called? Give a little, get a little, Agent Scully." "Who ambushed me with the phony chitchat about Mulder and then put a wiretap on my phone?" "That's bull." "Apparently not, because you're still trying to pull the same crap, treating me like the little lady rather than Mulder's partner. What? You think by trying to push the right emotional buttons and implying you know anything at all about my partnership with Agent Mulder I'll get flustered enough to just blurt out whatever answer it is you think I'm hiding? That old boy's club crap might have been okay back at the N.Y.P.D., but I'm not going to tolerate it." "I'm just trying to find Mulder," Doggett replies. "You wouldn't know where to look," Scully retorts, handing the folder back to him with a scornful expression. "Agent Mulder grew up in Massachusetts. His mother died last spring, so he's liquidating his parents' estates on Martha's Vineyard and in Greenwich, Connecticut. She's buried next to his father in Boston. The flowers are for her grave." Doggett doesn't reply, and Scully's voice softens as she concludes, "You're looking in the wrong place, Agent Doggett. None of this has anything to do with what happened to Mulder. It might be the nice, pat answer Deputy Director Kersh wants to make sure the Bureau comes out of this smelling like a rose, but it's not the right answer." "Then what is the right answer, Agent Scully? That he was abducted by aliens?" Scully snorts. "Nice try. You know I can't answer that question. If I say yes, I'm out pounding the pavement for another job and I'm no closer to finding Mulder. If I say no, well, none of us are any closer to finding Mulder, are we? And why do I think that's the whole point?" "So paranoid mumbo-jumbo aside, that is what you believe?" Her chin lifts defiantly. "You said it. I didn't." "I guess I just find it hard to swallow that a scientist, a serious person, could buy that. Ever see an alien, Agent Scully?" "Not personally, no," she replies, unfazed. "But I have seen things that I cannot explain. I have observed phenomena that I cannot deny. And the fact of the matter is that unless you believe what Mulder believed, unless you understand his work and what drove his search, you have absolutely no hope of finding him." "So you think he was abducted?" Doggett presses, and Scully sighs tiredly, looking away. "I'm just trying to find him," Doggett assures her, and Scully shakes her head in disbelief. "Then what are you doing here, Agent Doggett? Why aren't you in Oregon, at the scene of the crime? That's where I'd be, if I were heading the investigation." "Waiting for a delivery," Doggett replies, gesturing with a nod down the corridor, where another agent carries a cardboard file storage box in their direction. * * * * * Scully stares in disbelief at the work order and invoice in her hand. It was one of the first items Doggett had pulled from the box of papers. It's for a stone mason in Boston, dated a week prior to Mulder's disappearance, and the work being ordered is an additional inscription on the headstone that Mulder placed on his family's plot the previous spring. The headstone, which bore the names of his mother, father, and sister, now carries one more name at the bottom. FOX MULDER, 1961-2000 Sensing someone approaching, she looks up to meet Skinner's eyes as he sits. He glances at the sheet she holds as she covers her mouth with her other hand, trying to contain a humiliating display of emotion in front of all the other agents. "I don't know what to think," she whispers. "I don't believe it, Dana. It just doesn't make any sense to me," Skinner replies. They both look up as Doggett joins them. "All right. I got some light on this. Maybe you can help me out here, Agent Scully." He hands her a file. "What is it?" "Agent Mulder's medical records--recent stuff, over the last year. Did you know about a medical condition?" Doggett queries. "Either of you?" "No," Skinner supplies the answer for both of them, and Scully lets him, too busy scanning the documents. "A year ago, Agent Mulder was hospitalized. Ring a bell? Something to do with his brain?" "His temporal lobe," Scully corrects distractedly. "An undiagnosable condition, it says. Irregular brain activity," Doggett continues. "All right, but he recovered," Skinner replies. "There was a full recovery." "Was there?" Doggett asks, that note of insinuation in his voice again. Scully looks up sharply. "You know Mulder; he would've told us if there was anything," Skinner says to Scully and she nods, looking back down at the file. "Would he?" Doggett insists. "Did he tell you about this? About his headstone?" "He wouldn't need to, Agent Doggett," Scully says finally, rising from her chair and dropping the file on the table. "I would have known." "I'm sure you'd like to think so, Agent Scully," Doggett says in a tone she's certain is intended to be comforting. "We all like to imagine we know everything there is to know about the people we're close to, but what if Mulder kept it from you? What if you didn't know?" "Didn't know what?" Skinner demands, his voice rising in irritation. "According to these so-called medical records, Mulder was dying," Scully answers, her voice muted. "What?" "It's all right here. Supposedly, for a year, he was going to doctors. These files record his decline." "How well did you really know him? How far would Mulder go?" Doggett presses. Scully's jaw tightens angrily. "How far would he go for what?" "The truth-- his truth. Whatever it was he was trying to prove, how bad did he need to prove it?" "It was his whole life," Scully murmurs, looking away. Skinner rises from his chair, his posture defensive. "What are you trying to say?" "That Agent Mulder found himself in a place none of us want to go. Life threatened, work threatened, and all for naught. Nothing proven. No mark left. Unless he rolled the dice, took one big last chance to make it." Skinner shakes his head, bewildered. "You think that Mulder was here? That he broke in to steal those files?" "Broke into Agent Scully's apartment; stole her computer. Took his own computer. Gathering it up." "To what? To prove it?" "Or cover it up. Create doubt." Doggett leans forward confidentially. "I get Mulder, I get him. I understand obsession, believe me. But the question is: how far would he go? I mean, so far as to stage his own disappearance?" Skinner stands, his body tense with anger. "I know what I saw. I not going to sit here and listen to this. I watched it happen." He opens his mouth to explain the events he witnessed the night Mulder disappeared, but Scully's sudden motion as she rises from the table interrupts him. She flings the file away in disgust. "No." She says, her voice low but forceful, drawing everyone's attention. "Agent Scully, I know you don't want to believe--" "Don't patronize me, Agent Doggett," she interrupts with calm, cold fury. "Do you think there has been a single medical procedure Mulder has undergone in seven years that I haven’t overseen, as a medical doctor? Do you think there's a single detail of his medical files I haven't reviewed personally? These records are false." "How do you know that?" "Agent Mulder was hospitalized four times this past year for injuries sustained in the line of duty. I was there every time, Agent Doggett. In Winston-Salem, North Carolina, his lungs were infested with beetle larvae, which could very well have deprived his brain of oxygen, so there were neurological tests performed, and M.R.I.s, to assess what damage to his brain might have resulted, and I was there for each and every one of them. None of it, none of this--" she gestures to the folder with a sweeping gesture of her hand, "existed. Mulder wasn't dying. These files are a lie." "For what purpose?" "To deter the search for Mulder," Scully replies intently. "To provide a nice, pat, plausible explanation for why he disappeared that will satisfy Kersh, and your task force, and most of all, the people who don't want him found, the people who don't want the truth." "Agent Scully, I can't ignore the very hard and real evidence in front of me just because you don't like what it says, especially not to go chasing after some wild theory that gets us no closer to finding Mulder than we were before." "Then you're never going to find Mulder, Agent Doggett. You're looking in the wrong place, the place where they want you to look, because they don't want anyone to find him." "This is unbelievable," Doggett scoffs. "Why are you so paranoid, Agent Scully?" "I don't know," she answers in a murmur. "Maybe because I have a hard time trusting anybody." She leaves the bullpen at a fast walk, not running, but just barely. Skinner pauses a moment to pin Doggett with a hard glare before following her. * * * * * He doesn't catch up with her until they reach the parking garage, and now she is running, a fist pressed to her mouth, her shoulders hunched against sobs to which she refuses to yield. "Scully! Scully, wait!" Skinner sprints to overtake her. Her run slows to a limping shuffle, her head rocking adamantly back and forth as if in denial of some thought he's not privy to. When she looks back at him, he can see her eyes shining with unshed tears, her expression tense with an effort at control. She will not break down now, not here. "Where do you think you're going?" Skinner demands, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. "To find Alex Krycek," she answers in a snarl, shaking off his hand as she continues to stride toward her car. "You don't think I've already tried? He's gone, Scully." "Yes, he's gone," she whirls on Skinner suddenly, surprising him. "And how is it a wanted felon manages to waltz in and out of F.B.I. headquarters with impunity? You brought him in. You brought him to Mulder and let him send Mulder back to Oregon." He doesn't deny her accusation. "I didn't have a choice." "He's the one," she states, almost as though chanting, turning away and continuing to her car. "He's the one who insisted Mulder go back to Oregon and look for the ship. What if this was a setup from the very beginning? What if Krycek wanted Mulder taken? What if he's the one burying the evidence now? We have to find him!" "We can't, Scully. I swear to you, I tried. But there's someone who might be able to set us on his trail..." * * * * * Scully looks up as the blonde woman in a gray prison jumpsuit is escorted into the interview room. The guard leaves at Skinner's nod of dismissal, and Scully seats herself at the table across from the woman. She looks different from the last time Scully saw her just a few days ago, face devoid of makeup, hair not so immaculately groomed, divested of the armor of designer suits which she usually hides behind. The last time they met, Marita Covarrubias had glittered with cold brittleness. Now she is without her defenses, but she still doesn't look ready to crack. "Where's Alex Krycek?" Scully demands without preamble. "If I knew, do you think I'd be here?" "You're here because the police believe you were party to the murder of C.G.B. Spender," Skinner replies. "No, I'm here because Krycek is sending me a warning. He wants to be the next power player, but in order to do that he needs my cooperation. He needs me to play by his rules." "C.G.B. Spender's nurse identified you," Scully pointed out. "It doesn't matter," Covarrubias answers calmly. "It's part of the game. The charges will be dropped, eventually, and when Krycek decides he needs my help, he'll be in touch. Meanwhile, I get a brief stay at the county jail. This is the Ritz compared to some places I've been. It’s Krycek's way of reminding me that he can arrange for something much worse to happen." "Why did Krycek want Mulder to go to Oregon?" This from Skinner. "For exactly the reason he told you; he wanted Mulder to see the truth. Krycek's agenda isn't Spender's agenda. The smoking man felt cooperation was our only way to ensure our survival. Krycek wants to build a new resistance. He wants Mulder to be the flagbearer for this resistance. In order to do that, Mulder needs concrete proof, proof he can use to convince the world." "You're lying," Scully's voice is cold as she rises from the table. "We both know Krycek knew about Mulder's neurological condition last year. He had to have known that it was a medical condition shared by the Bellefleur abductees. He knew there was a likelihood Mulder would be taken. He most likely falsified medical records relating to Mulder's health for the last year to deter anyone from finding him." "I have no reason to lie, Agent Scully. You, me, Krycek--we're all on the same side. Mulder's side. The side of stopping this thing before it's too late for all of us. It didn't occur to us that the cerebral trauma suffered by Agent Mulder and the Bellefleur abductees was a factor. The people being taken from Bellefleur were all previous abductees, and Agent Mulder wasn't." "That still doesn't answer my question--where's Alex Krycek?" Covarrubias meets Scully's eyes dispassionately. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say he's doing the same thing you're doing--looking for Mulder." * * * * * "These are records of microburst activity," Skinner explains as they stand around Scully's kitchen table with Langly, Byers and Frohike. "What we read as U.F.O. activity since Mulder's abduction." "I think this is a waste of time," Scully says impatiently. "No, it's not. Just look at them." "I'm looking, and what I'm seeing is activity all over the southwestern states." "That's right." "Mulder disappeared in the Pacific Northwest." "And if Mulder is on that ship, this is where he is now," Skinner concludes. "Here? In the Arizona desert?" Scully stares at the satellite image printouts. "This is what we have," he replies apologetically. "Okay. Say this is true,"
Scully reasons. "Why Arizona?" There's a long pause until Langly speaks. "Maybe it's where they're going to find the next batch of abductees." Scully closes her eyes, bracing her fists on the table as she blocks out their voices, blocks out the images they're showing her, and tries to picture what Mulder would do with this data. Her thoughts keep returning to the revelations of earlier in the day. Could it be true? Could Mulder have possibly been dying? Her head jerks in violent denial as her eyes snap open and land once more on the satellite images. "Arizona..." she whispers. "Arizona. That's it. It just came to me." "What?" Skinner asks, puzzled. "What you saw, why they took Mulder, why they're in Arizona now--it all makes sense." The four men stare at her as she continues. "If you're right, if Arizona is where they're headed next, then they’re going to be looking for a very specific group of people. People like Mulder, and the abductees in Bellefleur, Oregon. People who have experienced the same physiological and neurological symptoms Mulder and the other abductees all share." She pauses as she attempts to arrange her wild, tumbling thoughts into a logical progression. "Why do people refuse to believe in aliens and U..FO.s after all these years of sightings and eyewitness accounts? Why did I refuse for so long?" "Because there's no real proof," Frohike answers. "Because, maybe, if there are aliens they're simply going around and...and they're removing all of the evidence before it becomes proof." "Then why Arizona?" Skinner asks. "Because there's someone in Arizona who is the embodiment of that proof they're trying to hide, physical proof which is not in my computer or Mulder's computer or in the files that were stolen from the F.B.I. Someone who is the link between them and humanity, who has all the symptoms Mulder and the people in Oregon experienced, but none of the trauma. A little boy named Gibson Praise." Skinner pauses thoughtfully. "Gibson Praise was never found again, after the last time you and Mulder saw him." "No, he wasn't. But he was last seen in Arizona, and I'm betting he's there now. And we have to find him...before they do." She whirls on the Gunmen. "There was an A.P.B. out for Gibson after he disappeared, but somehow he slipped under the radar. I need hospital records, police records, juvenile court records, from 1998 to present. Can you get them for me?" * * * * * "Agent Doggett?" Agent Gene Crane approaches Doggett, who looks up from the file on his desk. "They've located Agent Scully and A.D. Skinner. They took a plane this morning to Phoenix." "Any idea what they're looking for out there?" Crane shakes his head. "Get the team together. I'm going to see if we can charter an F.B.I. jet and cut some time off their lead. Send someone down to the X-Files office, and someone else to look up Mulder's old 302s. I want to know what they're doing out there." * * * * * In a large conference room, Doggett distributes photocopies to the aseembled task force. "This photograph's a few years old but take a good look because the objective in this case has been reframed. Subject's name is Gibson Andrew Praise. A child prodigy, pint-sized chess champion Mulder and Scully first investigated in 1997 after a failed attempt on the boy's life. His files were the ones we now believe were stolen from this office. In his investigation Agent Mulder came to believe the boy was experiencing abnormal brain activity. Unexplained activity. In his field notes here he says Gibson Praise could, and I quote, 'read people's thoughts.'" Doggett pauses, giving the words an ironic twist. The agents on the task force chuckle. Doggett allows them this levity, but his own manner is grave. Mulder believed what he wrote, that much was certain. The question was, how far would he go to prove it? "Agent Mulder went so far in one report to claim that the boy may have alien physiology." This is met by another round of laughter. "Agent Mulder may be looking for the boy, who was last seen in Arizona. So maybe to find Mulder we first have to look for Gibson Praise." He gestures to Crane and Crane gets the agents started. "Let's go, people! Let's move!" As the task force begins to file out, Crane approaches Doggett with the picture of the boy. "How do you want this handled?" Doggett sighs. "I want you to put that on every TV station, post office, and fax machine in Arizona and the southwest. I want to make that face famous." * * * * * The dreams are getting less detailed and more surreal. Half-buried memories of her own abduction combine with images from a horror film. Mulder being tortured, Mulder screaming for her help, Mulder dying...she jerks awake, trying to conceal her distress from Skinner, who sits behind the wheel. "You better?" he asks. "I need some navigation." "Um, uh...yeah...Give me a minute." She draws a deep breath, orienting herself. Outside the car, endless stretches of desert roll past. After a moment, she picks up the map that tumbled to the floorboard when she fell asleep and opens it. "According to hospital and juvenile services records, two years ago, a juvenile John Doe matching Gibson Praise's description was admitted to a hospital just south of Phoenix. Based on the information the Gunmen found, he displayed no ability to speak and didn't appear able to hear, so he was released to the state and sent to a school for the deaf a hundred miles north of Phoenix." "Which is where the U.F.O. activity appears to be now," Skinner concludes. "Aside from the school, what's out there?" "Well, according to this map, a whole lot of nothing. If they're after anything, they're after him." * * * * * Doggett glances down from the helicopter windows to the desert landscape below. A voice crackles over his headset. "This is Special Agent Crane calling for task force leader". "Yeah, this is John Doggett." "Just confirmed a location on this kid. Department of Juvenile Services has a John Doe matching his description. He's at a school for the deaf in a place called Flemingtown. Little dot on the map about 90 miles from where I am now. I just talked to the school principal there." "Is the kid in school now?" "Yeah, he lives at the school." "All right, have the principal take him out of class and put him someplace where they can keep an eye on him until we arrive." "Got it. Gonna take me an hour, an hour and 15 to get there." "All right, well, I'm going to see if I can cut some time off that." He gestures to the pilot and the helicopter banks into a turn, heading in a more northerly direction. * * * * * Scully wipes her face with a paper towel soaked in water, than leaves the dingy gas station bathroom. Skinner is waiting for her outside. "The attendant says the school is twenty minutes from here." Nodding, praying Skinner won't comment on her pallor, she climbs back into the Explorer and gravel flies as they pull onto the road again. * * * * * The helicopter settles onto the dirt and Doggett jumps out, ducking until he's away from the propellers, and enters the school to be confronted by the principal. "Where's the boy?" he demands, flashing his badge. The principal holds up a hand, physically blocking his way. "You're just going to have to slow down and explain a few things to us before we let you..." Doggett ignores him, pushing past as he sees a woman standing protectively in an open doorway. "Is he down there?" "He's in my office." Doggett runs down the hall and the principal begins to follow him when Scully and Skinner walk through the door. "Hi. Um, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the F.B.I. We're looking for a boy named Gibson Praise." "What is this? There's already someone here--" Doggett comes sprinting back up the hallway. "Kid went out the window!" he snaps at the principal, then turns to Scully and Skinner. "I'd ask what you're doing here, but I already know the answer. If anything happens to that kid, I'm going to have you both up on charges of obstructing justice." "What are you doing here?" Scully demands angrily. "Trying to keep Mulder from making the biggest mistake of his life," Doggett replies brusquely, charging past her and out the door to the parking lot where Crane has arrived with the rest of the task force. "Kid's on the move. Spread out!" he yells to Crane as he charges past. "The kid's on the loose!" Crane barks to the task force. "You have the photo! Move!" * * * * * Behind the school, Gibson Praise walks rapidly away from the building, glancing around nervously. He rounds a corner and stops, his eyes widening at the tall man before him in the gray t-shirt before him. He tries to back away, but the man seizes his forearm and begins to pull him implacably out toward the desert. * * * * * It’s Scully who discovers the small footprints in the dirt outside the school and follows them to the point where they are joined by a larger pair and veer out into the desert. She breaks into a run, following them into the blistering heat and sunshine. * * * * * "Let me go!" Gibson pleads, tugging against the unyielding grip on his arm. "Let me go!" Scully catches up to them, winded from her run, and pulls her gun, aiming it at the man holding Gibson. Her chest aches and tears fill her eyes as she realizes who it is. "Let him go, Mulder!" she cries, her gun lowering as the pair turn to face her. "Please, Mulder--you don't want to do this." Mulder stares at her, unspeaking, his face expressionless, and suddenly realization dawns on Scully. "No..." she whispers, raising her gun. She feels, rather than hears, the hum filling the air, the tingle of energy prickling her skin like static electricity. She fingers the trigger of her gun, resolve hardening her face. She is vaguely aware that Gibson has drawn back as far as he can within the man's grasp and is staring up at him intently. The man slowly turns his cold gaze from Scully to Gibson. The subconscious humming gets louder; she can feel it in her belly, inside her brain. Something is happening between the man and the boy. The vibrations increase until she doubles over, her stomach muscles cramping with it, and before her eyes, for a flicker of an instant, Mulder's face changes, flickers into another visage she recognizes terrifyingly well. It's the face of an entity she knows only as the alien bounty hunter, but it's only an instant before Mulder's features return. There's the shuffle of footsteps behind her, and Scully realizes that someone else has found them, but whatever is transpiring between Gibson Praise and the creature wearing Mulder's face has her paralyzed, unable to move. "Let the boy go! Let him go, Mulder!" she hears Doggett bark. "Don't shoot!" Scully yells, unable to turn to face the other agent. There's an explosion of--something--invisible and silent, that causes her to cry out in agony even as Gibson Praise is thrown by an invisible force a good twenty feet across the terrain, back behind her, out of her field of vision. The creature clothed in Mulder's form turns away from them, ignoring Doggett's shout, and leaps off the rock wall into the canyon below. TO BE CONTINUED... |
