Title: Becoming Judas II : Resurrection
Author: darkstar
Email: clone347@aol.com
Rating: PG-13 for war violence
Classification: see part one
Disclaimer: see part one
Summary: see part one

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Resurrection (2/8)
by darkstar
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Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

-- The Hollow Men
TS Eliot

Evening in Paris was always beautiful, especially when the moonlight played off her skin. He had flung all windows open in attempt to coax air into the room, and the slight breeze brought with it a whisper of roses and wine. The luxury of the villa bordered the ridiculous, but she loved to be spoiled and he gladly obliged. Her pleasure meant his, in so many ways.

He found the wine and filled his glass, rolling over in bed so he could watch her as he drank. She slept now, the slender curve of her back rising and falling in time with her breathing. Even in sleep, she retained a delicate, almost feline sensuality about her. She wore it like normal women wore Chanel No. 5. Every move of her hand, curve of her lips, did things to him he had thought impossible.

The chardonnay by no means replaced good Russian vodka, although she considered that a peasant's drink so he put up with the softer, more sophisticated wine. Yes, he'd had to work quite hard to convince her he was more than uncouth hired muscle, but tonight the success was obvious..

She was beautiful. And deadly. Their affair was two-headed serpent, on one side paradise and the other poison. This night, however, was not a night to think of that. Only to savor, to enjoy. Tomorrow they would kill each other if they had to. Tonight, they were lovers.

He bent over to plant a shadow kiss on her lips, and came away tasting her in his next swallow of wine. As the drink passed down his throat, the moonlight flickered then died as if it were a candle that had been snuffed in a flame. The breeze turned into a wind and carried a northern chill that did not belong to Paris in summer.

Instead of a hint of roses, the air now stank of decay.

"Malish?" He called for her in Russian, using a pet name he had given her once in a fit of whiskey and adoration. His hand groped in the pitch darkness, a strange fear dripping acid into his gut.

When his fingers touched where she had been, he found only blood. Nothing else. There was no body, but out of the inky black, her voice began to scream. And scream. And scream...... He staggered from the bed, flailing through the darkness like a mad man but finding nothing. The sound of her terror was sharp and raw against his brain like daggers dragged along a chalkboard.

Then someone lit a cigarette, the flame from the lighter as bright as a torch in the ebony room, and began to laugh.

"Malish!"

His body jerked into a spasm of muscle and bone, arching upward. into a sitting position, beads of stinging sweat rollling down his foreahed and into his eyes. The cold metal of his gun rested in his hand before the rest of his body had fully awakened.Krycek blinked, half to clear his vision and half to convince himself reality was reality.

They were in a hotel room, not in France but in Washington DC, and the light of early morning spilled through the blinds to paint the room with a watery shade of gray-blue. There was no rotten-smelling darkness. Marita did not occupy his bed, or even a look-alike of Marita, but a strange girl-woman who sat up suddenly and stared at his gun with wide eyes. It took a moment for him to recognize her as the girl he'd picked up the night before.

"What is it?" She clutched the sheets to her chest as if she had some sort of morals left in her, her eyes wide and afraid. Marita had never showed her fear. Not even at the end...

"It's nothing." Looking at her caused a sudden disgust that he could not explain, and he stood abruptly to his feet, crossing the room to his vodka. A glass would take too much time, he reasoned, and poured the liquor straight down his throat. /There, let's see if any dreams can survive *that*..../

For the next few seconds, his senses crackled with clear fire, his eyes squeezing shut to lessen the intensity. Instead, he saw her face on his mind, a coldly breathtaking sketch of black and white memory. He hadn't dreamed in colors since she died. Only in black, white, gray-- all the shades befitting a man who could not even remember what color the eyes of the woman he loved had been. Sometimes he imagined they were blue, because he could remember thinking she had Russian eyes. He'd told her that once, meaning to compliment, but she had merely laughed. Sometimes, when the vodka was too strong in his blood for reason, he heard her laugh again.

His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle and he threw down another dose of forgetfulness. Once he felt he had control of his mind, he turned again to the girl in his bed.

"Get dressed." He picked up his pants from the floor and pulled a fifty-credit mark from the pocket. "Then get out. I am tired of looking at your face." He threw the money on the bed, wondering why he'd paid the little brat for an all-night session anyway.

/Just because you miss waking up beside something other than your gun..../

She obeyed, awkwardly, for his eyes never left her the whole time and he sensed her consciousness of it. Why it would matter to some city slut, he didn't know. It felt like something *Mulder* would care about, Mulder with his one-woman loyalty and devotion..... Krycek could hear the taunt inside his head. /At least the woman I love is still alive..../

He spat a curse into the vodka bottle as he raised it to his lips again. /I can have twenty women./ But he didn't want twenty. He wanted....

A fast swig of vodka cut the mutinous thought short.

"A little early to get wasted, isn't it?"

His head snapped up in annoyance at the interruption, but he grinned when he saw Mulder walk into the room. "Ah, my friend, back at last. Might I ask what kept you?"

"No."

"Oh, c'mon. I want to know her name so I can congratulate her on the honor of replacing Dana Scully for a couple hours. Not many women can do that, but of course you would know better than I--"

"Save it." Mulder tossed the words over his shoulder as he walked over to his bed. Krycek watched his partner grab a duffel bag and begin to fill it with an odd assortment of books, photographs from a folder, and ammunition..

He took another drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before he spoke. "Going somewhere, comrade?"

"I have a hunch about the suicide bombing. Gonna meet with an informant of mine down in the bar strip."

"And you feel the need to pack?"

Mulder's eyes darkened from hazel to green, spinning his words from casual conversation into something entirely different. "Never know what you might need on a mission."

"I see." Krycek set the vodka down long enough to pull on his jeans. Mulder was crazy if he was thinking about trying another escape. /You pull a stunt like that once and you survive, it's luck. You pull it twice, it's a death sentence./ "So is this going to be an...extended....mission?"

A hesitation. "Quite possibly."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the bottle again as he watched Mulder pack twin Sig Sauer automatics into the bag, concealing them carefully beneath a shirt.

"Expecting trouble?"

"Enforcer motto #457. If you aren't prepared, they will be."

"Since when did you start quoting the rulebook?"

"You know me." A grin, double-edged, revealing secrets without words. "Always a company man."

"Just don't want to stick around for the retirement plan?"

"The competitors have better perks."

There it was; official admission of the insanity. Time to end the double-talk and talk some sense into the man. Maybe he didn't go so far as to count Mulder a friend, but after a man saved your life in the field five or six times, you owed his at least a respect.

He took another gulp of liquor, letting it wash down his throat and into his stomach before he spoke.

"They'll kill you this time, you do know that."

Mulder didn't even bother to look up, his attention focused on a black and white picture of a woman he held in his hands. The woman had Scully's face. "Maybe."

"And her."

"Maybe."

"You stopped to think about that?"

A longer pause. Mulder's fingers traced the surface of the photograph as if he could touch the skin through the paper. He spoke in an abstract whisper, and Krycek wasn't sure if the man talked to him or to the picture. "I've thought about it. There is no other choice. I can't live this anymore."

"Is that what this is all about?" Another drink, another rush of satisfaction at the welcomed burn. "You just woke up and decided you were too good for the rest of us and that you were gonna go back to saving the world?"

"Something like that." The photograph disappeared into the duffel.

"And you're willing to risk her life just to keep your own hands out of the dirt. Sure, that's love."

"She'll be fine." His voice held no concern but a sheet of worry stretched tight over his eyes. "Arrangements have been made."

"Arrangements can go wrong too. Just what is so bad about this life? I mean, think about it for a moment if you can clear the delusions of grandeur from your head. The world is ruled by an alien dictatorship but we have power to move freely within that framework. We are the ones wielding the guns to back the threats. We get anything we want. Money. Liquor. Women. Anything."

"What about freedom? What about the ability to live with yourselves?"

"No one is free, Mulder. You of all people should have learned that by now. And the ability to live with yourself?" He held his vodka bottle out. "That's what they make this stuff for. I know you have a taste for it already. I've seen you in the bars."

"All the more reason to leave."

"You're a greater fool than I thought if you're going to give all this up on the slim chance it'll make you human again. You and me passed that long ago. Or is it for her? No woman is worth that kind of risk. Believe me."

"You would have taken the risk for Marita."

"I killed Marita, remember? Two shots to the forehead. Bang. Bang." Ouch, that stung more than he had planned. A quick grab at the bottle. Liquid absolution. Only it was never enough...

"You still love her. I can hear it in your scream when you wake up at night---"

"Shut-up. She has nothing to do with this." He pushed the conversation forward, away from the memory and something inside him that felt too much like pain. "I should turn you in. Call up security right now and have them haul your butt down to neuropsyche. Because you're insane. Flat out whacked."

Mulder zipped up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. "You could come with me, you know."

A casual, off-handed statement. A chance for freedom, simple as walking out the door and out of the city and... What was he thinking? The madness must be contagious. He didn't care what Mulder said, he had exactly what he wanted in this life. Everything he needed for a perfect world.

Everything except....

But he refused to think about her. Instead he smiled, the best and brightest denial he could offer.

"Thanks but no thanks, comrade. I told you. I like my life just fine the way it is. But here's to your glorious insanity." He lifted the bottle in a toast. "Now get out of here and carry out your 'mission'. You'll be worth more once you've escaped. This little conversation can bring me, oh, about ten thousand dollars if I play it right."

"And they say capitalism is dead." He grinned, but his eyes held an odd sobriety as he nodded once. "Goodbye, comrade."

"Goodbye."

Krycek would always remember the way the silence suddenly grew lead heavy, the way a strange notion filled his head that he had just lost his one and only chance at freedom.

He shook himself to rid his bones of the feeling. He had done the right thing. Mulder was the fool, not him. He had everything he wanted. Everything and more.

A flash-memory of Marita's voice, a question she had asked him their first night together.

/Don't you ever want more than survival? Don't you ever wonder what it would be like just to live?/

He had avoided the question with a kiss.

Now there was nothing to hide behind besides her ghost and a bottle of cheap vodka.

"I am Alex Krycek." He spoke aloud, the words ringing in the empty room. "I make my own rules and I am as free as I want to be."

Silence.

"I don't need her. I never needed her."

Silence.

/I killed Marita./

/You still love her. I can hear it in your scream.../

Silence.

Too fast, too fast, the memories came, and there was not enough vodka in the world to stem the flow.

/Midnight again, but you're not in the Paris villa this time. This room is damp, cold, the walls rotting with the stench of urine and vomit and fear. You're spitting up blood on the stone floor of an Imperial prison cell, and out of the corner of your eye you see her doing the same thing. Even through the darkness, you can watch her ghost white hands turn scarlet as she tries to wipe it away from her mouth. But it's never gone. There's always more. That's when you hold her hand, fingers laced through fingers. That's when you tell her it will be all right. That's when you know it is a lie./

Fingers twitched. Breathing quickened. His hands dug under his pillow until they came into contact with the hard metal edges of his gun. Metal cold in his palm as he screwed the silencer into place.

/The guards come to visit her later--in the "unofficial" capacity-- and they put you in solitary for a month because you kill one of them. When they come in to beat you at night, you remember holding her hand. This is why you do not flinch. When the officially sanctioned torture begins, you have reasons not to break. At first, she's one of them. She's beautiful and someday you might have told her you loved her. At first, you want your freedom more than anything else.

For seven days of hell, the will is enough to overcome the body.

On the eighth day, the pain is too much. Mind dissolves and instinct takes over./

The scars ridging his back burned as if they were the ghosts of the past coming to life again. Pupils dilated. Memory surged, convulsing into a seizure before the rest of his mind had a chance to catch up.

/Your body dangles from a metal hook, hands tied above your head and stretched until the shoulder muscles are strained to the point of tearing in two. That pain is slight compared to the fire that burns the naked flesh of your back....or at least what is left under the blood and torn skin. Between the crack of the whip and your own screaming, you promise you'll come back to the fold. You'll pull triggers and kill humans for them. They tell you to prove it. They bring her in, and she is thrown at your feet, small and trembling beneath the dirt and the blood.

They cut you down and put a gun in your hands. One bullet. Prove your loyalty to the cause. Her eyes widen and her lips form your name like a prayer to her only god./

The pressure built to critical mass. He exploded, his fingers pulling the trigger in jerky spasms that he did not initiate and could not stop. Then came the rage, emotions careening through his dried-out veins as the mask over his emotions slipped just enough to break. Then came the hate, no longer merely ethereal but transubstantiated into cold metal and hot lead. One bullet. Two bullets. Stop the memories.....stop......

/And you blow her brains out from three inches away./

By that time the clip had emptied and the floor riddled with bullet holes. His fingers kept working the trigger, mechanically.

/This is what you pay for freedom./

With that, the memory died. Not a muscle in his body moved, hands frozen into place around the hard, familiar angles of his weapon as the caustic scent of burnt powder ate away at his senses. His mind, panting from the exertion of restraining darker forces within his soul, whispered to him what had just taken place. A crack in the stone. A lapse in the professionalism.

Krycek stared down at the gun, at the floor, disgust pooling in his eyes. With one sudden flick of his wrist, he hurled the weapon across the room and watched it dent the plaster of the far wall. He reached for the vodka bottle, knocking it over upon accident. The clear liquor splashed onto the floor, onto the bed, across his hands.

That didn't matter. He could get more. He could always get more.

"I am Alex Krycek." He whispered, softer than before. A mere scrape against the smothering wall of silence. "No man owns me."

The words bounced off the floor and ceiling and walls and sounded very, very small. He said nothing more as he pulled on his shirt, then his jacket, then his gun.

Then Alex Krycek walked out the door to get drunk.

* * *

A living cloud of rage emanating from the office of Director Spender, and you didn't have to be a empath to tell that heads were going to roll. Intelligence Specialist Brian Midgette ran one hand across his uniform, ensuring every crease was straight. His palms sweated onto the folder he carried in his hand. In it rested all the latest details of the disappearance of Commander Mulder-- including the recent testimony of Commander Krycek, not that the man would be of any use for some time. Midgette could still smell the vodka on the man's breath. It went beyond disgraceful, the way some Enforcers used their status to blatantly disregard every rule for conduct the military had ever created. The interview had, to say the least, not gone well.

The boys in Intelligence had drawn straws to determine who would give the report to the Director. He had lost.

"He wants you now." He very nearly jumped when the secretary's voice broke into his thoughts. She flicked the words in his direction like someone would flick a bug from a windshield.

He straightened his jacket one last time, coughing to clear the cobwebs from his throat, and entered the lion's den.

"Mr. Midgette." The Director puffed away on his stick of happiness, but judging from the mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray, it wasn't working. "I do hope you have answers for me."

"Commander Krycek was inebriated, sir. My men have him in custody now but it will be sometime before he will be sober enough to answer any questions."

"We do not have time. Send him to medical and let them sober him up for us. I want him interrogated as soon as possible."

"Do you think he was involved in the kidnapping?"

The old man glared at him through a thin veil of smoke and anger. "This is no kidnapping. This is a defection."

"At least twenty witnesses attest to a capture by force and the ransom note itself indicates that--"

"You Intelligence fools have the brains of two year old children if you are deceived so easily." A momentary pause as Spender blew a cloud of bluish-white smoke into the air and then sucked it back into his lungs. Disgusting. "I know Commander Mulder. The capture and the ransom note were simple tricks to divert our attention-- which it has."

"Do you want us to shut down the borders?"

"Yes." Midgette could practically see the wheels turning inside the old man's mind. "Dispatch infiltration agents to every known Resistance transportation center. But follow a policy of observation, not interference. I want him to think he's gotten away with it."

"Why not arraign him when we have a chance? If he makes it to Freedom City, we will have lost him."

"I think not." The Director stabbed the butt of his cigarette into the tray. "Mulder will come to us."

"How, sir?"

"He has a woman, a Dana Scully. She is quite beautiful, really, and the perfect sort of leverage we need to instigate his surrender."

"We considered that option, sir." Midgette said. "She is off board. There has been no sign of her anywhere for some months."

"She has been in hiding in Chile. Do not bother to ask me how I know. I do. I dispatched a retrieval team an hour ago. I don't expect it will be too hard to locate her and her guardian, a man you have in your files as well-- Walter Skinner. I want them alive. You will oversee the retrieval and ensure everything goes according to plan."

"And then what--"

"He'll be sent to the processing center in Texas, naturally."

"And Scully?"

A thin smile stretched over the old man's teeth, and his eyes turned black with a sort of predatory glimmer. "She will be delivered into my care."

"Yes sir." A taint of disgust curled around Midgette's stomach at the implications behind the smile. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes. You may go."

Midgette saluted sharply and walked directly from the office to his quarters to change uniforms. The one he wore smelled too much like sweat and smoke and fear.

In a way, he pitied the woman. But she was the enemy and therefore the pity did not last long. Who cared what the Director did with his prisoners? All he had to do was bring her in and do his job.

He did not want to think what would happen should he stand in that office empty-handed.

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

TWELVE HOURS LATER

A north wind rippled panic through the sand dunes, whispering of menace unforeseen and as of yet, unknown. Something in her soul churned restless and on edge like a storm brewing without the clouds or the thunder, only lightning in her veins. Scully had not wanted to sleep, because when her eyes closed she could no longer keep the dreams from coming.

The nightmares were so real she swore at times they were really a secret universe lurking just inside her subconscious. They had plagued her for so long she had come to expect it, but that did not lessen the fear. Nothing could. Except for that one blissful week when Mulder had been with her again; not a demon had crept into her sleep then. He always did have that power about him, to cast out her devils.....

But when the cat was away, the mice would play.

Post-traumatic stress syndrome, Skinner had told her, with memories of Vietnam in his eyes. It would last long after the scars on her body had faded. She owed sanity to him for everything he had done to ease the healing process. When they had first arrived and she had been physical and mental wreck from the brutality of the alien monster Pavlov, he had been the one to shake her awake when she was screaming, to place an awkward hand on her shoulder when she cried. Those were wretched days. She had been alone, terrified, and haunted by the belief that her soulmate was lost. Skinner respected her grief, although more than once she had seen him sit outside her door when he thought she was asleep, watching her just in case she tried anything rash.

Scully wanted Mulder to put her back together, but it had been Skinner who collected the pieces and eased them into place again. But as dear a friend as the man became, he could not help her with the dreams. Only one could, and he was somewhere far away from her side if not from her soul.

No, she had not wanted to sleep but her eyes had grown heavy and all too soon she had slipped away, into the clutches of her nightmares.

"Scully!"

"No! Get out of my head!!!" Panic, fear.....who touched her? Skinner's voice. Skinner was a friend.

"Scully, wake up! We have to get out. We have to go, do you hear me?" The hand on her shoulder jerked her into reality, and half-pulled her from the bed before she could even open her eyes.

"What?" Sleep hung heavy in her words, in her mind.

"Listen!"

Scully desperately tried to connect her brain with her ears but all she could hear were screams. Hers, Mulder's. The laugh of a strange and cruel man.....

Then she heard it. Helicopter blades, close and moving closer by the heartbeat. Her senses jumped to full alert as if someone had touched a live wire to her bare nerves. /They found us./ "How??"

"Get dressed." He pushed a crumpled wad of clothing into her hands. "I'll start the jeep." His voice urged her to hurry There was no time for questions, only for actions, and seconds may cost them their lives.

She dropped her nightgown and pulled the dress over her head in one frantic motion. The instincts she built during her time on the run with Mulder served her well. She did not even have to think, only react. On the way out of the room, her hands reached behind the door to snag a sawed-off shotgun and two boxes of cartridges. They prepared for such a danger.

No one took either of them without a fight.

Out the door, out from her home, into the chaos of the night. The wind died to a mere breeze, its howling beaten by the chopper blades until it was only a terrified murmur. She could see the lights of the helo now, the red and green running lights and the great yellow spotlight that was the eye of the beast.

This terror was no dream. It wasn't after her mind. The bullets were real this time.

Skinner floored the gas pedal as she leapt into the seat beside him, her fingers fumbling with the shotgun and cursing her clumsiness. The beach rushed by in a blur of sea, sand, and distant mountains. Her whole world unravelled around her again and all she could think of was how to get the stupid cartridge in right. Her sole focus became a readiness to shoot. And kill.

She refused to let herself think why the enemy had returned. Mulder had said he had made a deal. Mulder had said he was handling it. Even if he was in trouble, she knew he would never willingly reveal her location. They would have had to torture him....

And even still she knew what it took to break him.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

/What if..../ The voice of the wind in her ears did not sound entirely unlike Pavlov. /What if he died in their dirty torture cells to hide your precious little paradise?/ Scully pumped the shotgun to make sure it was primed and ready to avenge his blood if it indeed had been spilled. It had been a while, but she had not forgotten how to kill a man.

Even as the jeep sped toward the sanctuary of the mountains, the bird of prey behind them shortened its distance. One meter, one gunshot, at a time. As it drew near, she could see the black silhouettes of the machine guns and the even deadlier ICBM missiles. Once the battle itself begun, it would as good as be over.

"You have been placed under arrest by the Imperial Government of the United States." The voice of the pilot filled the air through a megaphone. "We do not wish to resort to violence. Please stop the vehicle. Please stop the vehicle now."

The engine groaned as Skinner pushed the jeep into another gear.

"Please stop or we will open fire."

She glanced over her shoulder to gauge the distance to the mountains. "Are we going to make it?"

He took his eyes off the road long enough to look her in the face and shake his head. The lines of his jaw pulled taut with anger and desperation. "If we stop now, there's a chance they'll let us live. Do you-"

Instead of speaking her answer, Scully swung the gun up around and squeezed the trigger. The chopper veered away as one of the high-powered rounds hit the windshield. /That's right. You're not taking me back./ Wind whipped her hair across face but her eyes met Skinner's with a fierce smile that needed no words. He understood. "Just checking."

A barrage of machine gun fire ended their conversation, and Skinner shoved her to the bottom of the jeep as he attempted to duck and drive at the same time. The vehicle swerved back and forth as they played a deadly game of tag with the stream of bullets. Winning, for now, but only barely.

She stood up again to shoot but his hand closed around her shoulder and yanked her back down so hard her teeth shook. "Stay put." It wasn't a request.

Her spine stiffened, her fingers tightening around the gun. "You are not pulling this gung ho crap on me now."

His face showed h was insulted. "Save your bullets until they get close. Aim for the pilot."

The rumble of the chopper was almost deafening now, nearly loud enough to hide the thunder in her veins. Sweat from her palms was turned into steam by the heated barrel of the shotgun as she quickly reloaded. She placed two extra cartridges in her pocket. No more than that. If all three missed, she would be dead anyway. Only a few more seconds.....

There was a loud !pop! as the chopper's machine gun fire cut across the back of the jeep, blowing the two back tires. The resulting jolt sent her body flying hard and fast into the dashboard; for a moment stunning her. As she pulled herself back into position, priming the shotgun for their one chance at survival, something sharp and strong bit into her nostrils.

Gasoline.

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

A glance in the side mirror confirmed her suspicions. One of the bullets had ricocheted off the gas tank. Only the angels had kept the entire jeep from bursting into flames, but now they were leaking their guts all over the beach. They were losing speed fast. Too fast. Her view disappeared as a bullet shattered the mirror. In seconds the helo would be right over head and then it would be too late.

/Hail Mary, Mother of God bury me beside Mulder/

The universe slowed to the motion of a finger on a trigger as Scully pushed herself up, her arm bringing the gun toward the cockpit in one fluid motion. Bits of sand were flung into her eyes by the wind until tears came. Her free hand wiped them away as her finger tightened. The pilot realized her intent and the barrels of the machine gun swiveled to cut her down. This was the deciding second. Life or death. Freedom or slavery.

She fired.....and missed! The shot went wide as the jeep lurched forward, brakes squealing as they tried to gain traction on the slippery terrain. It pitched her over the seats, slamming her mercilessly into the back of the jeep. She kept rolling until she hit the side. Something felt like it had been dented..... whether it was the metal or her skull, she didn't have time to find out.

The first bullet grazed her kneecap and delivered an urgent reminder of her exposure. The second bit a tiny chunk of flesh from her shoulder as the vehicle buckled into a forty-five degree turn. "Skinner, what the-" Her words shriveled inside her mouth as she looked up to see a *second* chopper appear from over the mountains, bearing down twice as fast as the one on their tailpipes.

The abrupt turn proved to be the last straw for the struggling vehicle. It tipped to the side, the force of the motion hurling her back into the air to greet the not-so-soft sand face first. Her ribs shrieked and Scully choked on her own breath as it was pounded from her lungs. The acrid scent of burning metal forced motion back into her paralyzed limbs. She nearly snapped her own neck from the speed she jerked it in the direction of the wreck.

In the flame-kissed darkness she saw both the man, struggling to drag himself to his feet, and the pool of burning gasoline that soaked through the sand mere inches from his legs. Nightmares of burning flesh and charred bone spurred to her feet, and she ran. There was no time to listen to the pain.

In a moment her arms locked under his shoulders, pulling up with a fervor. He groaned, half-rising but collapsing again. "Go...." The words slurred. Concussion, the doctor inside her mind shouted. Might be slight, but he might already be bleeding to death inside his skull.

"Move!" She screamed, throat raw and burning from the gas fumes assaulting her face. The breath of the fire pressed heat onto her skin, prelude to the tongues of flame that desired to lick the flesh from their bones. Her ears recognized the sound of the chopper's blades as it hovered above them. Vultures, she thought. Just waiting their pick of bones.

/No time. No time. Do you know what it is like to die in a fire, Mulder?/ A spark flash of memory, burning firework bright in her mind and just that quickly. His voice, his words, another moment when death had seemed to be the victor.

/You stay alive, you hear me! No matter what occurs! I will find you./ And he had.

He was not dead. She felt that much inside her. It set off landmines within her veins, a keen desire for *life*. Scully gritted her teeth and pulled with the combined strength of muscle and resolve. He slid away from the fire what might have been an inch, if she was that lucky.

"On your feet, Marine!"

Skinner's legs began to dig into the sand, gouging deep ruts into the face of the earth as he attempted to help her. His arms pushed down on her shoulders as he pushed himself up and the weight of his entire body ground mercilessly against her bruised shoulder bones. She pushed back, trying to nudge him to his feet as red oceans of pain threatened to sweep her away. Then he was standing.

They ran. It was more like a half-stumbling, half-falling rush of panic, but they escaped from the fire grave that hissed angrily over the sand where they had been moments ago. The distance was not enough to cushion them in any great degree when the gas tank finally exploded. It was enough, however, to save their lives.

The shockwave picked them up like the invisible hand of a petty god, and carried them a good twenty feet, bits of metal nipping at their heels, then simply dropped them. Scully winced in advance.

Impact.

Her world cut to black. After a moment, reality flickered back to life, but it was as if she had been caught in the limbo between consciousness and oblivion. A heavy film seemed to coat her mind, clogging her thoughts and actions alike. Her body was lead heavy; she could not move.

A sense of childlike fascination curbed her fear as the first chopper moved directly over them. The still-burning wreckage of the car sent beams of orange light sliding down the smooth black metal belly. Any moment the beast would give birth to its children and they would consume her. No, she would not go. She would not......

But something happened. The helicopter wasn't stopping. It passed over them as if it had lost all interest, the rat-tat of its guns suddenly turned on something to their right. Her head protested even the small movement, but it was worth it.

The second chopper. In all the commotion, she had forgotten about it. What was happening? Uncertainty was worse than fear. The second craft was smaller than the Enforcer helo, but it positively bristled with a hodge-podge of weaponry. At first glance, it seemed that someone had merely taken random missiles and guns and stuck them in any available place. /Not professionals. Bounty hunters?/ Who knows what the price on her head was, and Skinner's would probably be double that, from what he had told her about his position with the resistance. Someone might want it bad enough to take on even the mighty Enforcers. After all, Chile was a long way from DC and no one would be coming to ask questions about body count....

From her past experience with bounty hunters, Scully believed she would rather take her chance with the Enforcers..

Her thoughts were distracted as a trail of white smoke shot from underneath the Enforcer helo toward its rival craft. So now they were playing with the big toys. The second helicopter danced out of the way, humming angrily as a disturbed yellow-jacket, but the missile arced up toward the stars then back toward it. A heat seeker. Whoever the second party might be, they were finished.

But the little chopper picked up speed, it's forward machine guns roaring as it charged the Enforcers. How oddly brave of a bounty hunter. In the last seconds before it came within range of enemy fire-- and certain death-- the helo banked up sharply. Here was where its lighter weight and superior maneuverability paid off. Before the larger chopper could counter, the second craft was *behind* them and quickly creating a buffer zone of distance.

The Enforcers were now in path of their own missile. The irony made a lovely fireball. An explosion lit up the beach in a regular Fourth of July celebration.

Although she doubted she'd be able to celebrate her independence for much longer. The victorious helicopter swung around and moved toward them.

Scully reached across Skinner and pulled his .45 Magnum from its holster. /You want this bounty, boys, you're gonna have to get your hands dirty./ His eyes met hers, thick and clouded with the drugs of pain and semi-consciousness. Between the livid cut across his forehead and heaven only knew what kind of internal injuries, she was surprised he still clung to reality. His mouth moved to form words but no sound came out.

She squeezed a momentary reassurance into his shoulder. /I'm not going anywhere./ A taste of warm blood soured the back of her mouth as she forced her fingers to close around the pistol. Her hands shook and it took nearly all her strength to cock the weapon.

The lights from the craft shone burned her irises as she turned her face toward the threat, but she refused to look away. Wind and sand rushed over her, pelting her skin and blowing her hair back from her face. Slowly, and oh so painfully, she began to pull herself up to at least a sitting position. Back ramrod straight, face set in stone. Defy until the end.

/Well, Ahab, Starbuck still remembers some of your lessons./

The helo touched down a scant fifty yards from them. Dim black shadows of men began to disembark. Her skin tingled from the cold metal of the gun. Her ears popped from the adrenaline acid in her blood.

A voice came out of the light. "General Skinner and Dana Scully-" General? Who were these people? Scully forced herself to pay attention as the speaker continued. "We are not with the Imperial Government or the Bounty Hunter Guild. We have been sent by the Humanity Corps to escort you to safety. Do not shoot."

She turned back to Skinner, eyes searching for some sort of confirmation. His head moved in a slight nod. Growing awareness of her injuries began to settle over her, a fog of pain that tugged her down towards unconsciousness. Relief washed the static from her nerves but still she sat frozen in her position and her fingers would not release the gun.

Shock, her doctor mind told her. You have to fight it. She couldn't fight it. She was drowning in it.

And then the men reached her, soldiers in brown uniforms who carried no guns. The leader wore the insignia of a Healer on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Scully nodded, a lie of course, because she did not want the man's hands anywhere near her. Strange hands. The medic passed her by to kneel beside Skinner. "Get a stretcher!" he barked over his shoulder. Somewhere inside her, protective instincts flared and she placed a hand possessively on Skinner's shoulder. His hand moved weakly toward her, fingers brushing her leg as the soldiers pulled him onto the stretcher.

They tried to help her to her feet. She did not move. She could not. /What if they're lying?/ Her voice hid from her to her, but her thoughts spoke loud as ever. /What if this is a trap?/ The gun, cold in her fingers. A choice to be made.

Her own body decided for her. Consciousness went out like a candle into darkness, and Dana Scully did not even feel the strange hands that invaded her space to move her onto another stretcher.

The chopper rose into the air and vanished over the mountains as the fire of the abandoned wreckage continued to eat at her home. But she did not know this. Therefore she could not look back to mourn.

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

Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

The pounding of her heart echoed inside her skull, inside her skull, slow and deep as thunder over the ocean's horizon. She felt as if she was floating in a warm sea, underwater yet breathing while her body drifted with the ebb and flow of the current. Thin shafts of light pierced the surface to color the water with the palest of golds. There was such peace, an entire ocean world of peace that she did not want to leave. Pain existed, but it seemed to grow less and less by the heartbeat. She did not know why.

Yet now she moved, pushed by the tide, toward a dark shore, shrouded by mist and fire. That was Awakening. That meant she would have to face reality-- she had been taken from the haven which had sheltered her so many months. She had washed up on the shores of the true world, and that place was cruel and frightening. She remembered that much.

With growing awareness of self came awareness of another, a foreign consciousness that surrounded her like the ocean. Wherever it touched, it destroyed the pain. She began to realize that this Consciousness worked inside her mind without her command. That it controlled her mind.

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom.

Her heartbeat sped in her ears as an icy undercurrent of fear began to chill the waters.

/Just like with Pavlov. Just like in the camps. While you were lying here asleep they could have done anything..../

As her outer senses returned, her skin began to tingle as she realized someone else's hands were wrapped around her head. Someone else existed inside her mind. Touching her thoughts.....

She screamed, hands instinctively flying up to fend off the attacker. The Consciousness abruptly vanished, taking its hands with it before she could break them, but she didn't stop swinging until she hit flesh.

"Give her some room, you idiots!"

Someone grabbed her shoulders, holding them in a gentle yet firm grip as a familiar voice pierced through her hysteria. "Scully. It's me. Open your eyes. It's me."

Skinner? His gravelly voice, warm with concern, called her to logic. "They're not trying to hurt you. Just open your eyes and see for yourself." She had to remind herself that this was Skinner. She was not alone. She still had someone she could trust.

/He let them inside your mind./ A razor whisper in the back of her head slashed words into her thoughts. /He's trying to save himself. He'll give your mind over to them to save his. This is the real world. No one trusts anyone. All that matters is survival. Remember that if you want to see tomorrow..../

Scully did not want to listen, did not want to believe, so she opened her eyes. She was not afraid. Not of the camps. Not of Pavlov. It had been a year and she was not.....

The first thing she saw was Skinner's face, creased with worry yet calm around the eyes. She felt his gaze lock onto hers, slowly draining the paranoia from her body. Her voice was rough from sleep when she tried to speak.

"You let them touch my mind." Disbelief. Accusation. She saw him flinch, his eyes dropping away from hers.

"They have a healer. You were bleeding internally....we couldn't wait for you to wake up. Something had to be done, so I gave them permission."

She swallowed hard, trying to stop the shaking in her bones. Every word he said was firmly grounded in logic and common sense. Every word, she knew, was true. Still, there remained a part deep inside her that logic could not quickly reach. Pavlov had infected this part long ago, and it ate at her even now, as she nodded to acknowledge Skinner.

"My apologies, Dana Scully." A strange man spoke to her, and she assumed it to be the healer. "My name is Che. I am sorry if I frightened you. We don't make it a practice to enter minds without consent of the patient." In his words she read a strand of defensiveness, the kind that grew on a person after so many false accusations. After all, the man was a hybrid. Among the colonists he might have been accepted-- to a degree-- but among the rest of the world, his people were openly despised.

It said something about the strange reversal of fate when she was no longer surprised to meet one face to face. Or felt any shock to learn of their talents. They were based not in mysticism but in science, abilities fostered by the alien DNA that intertwined with their human genes. Each hybrid manifested a singular "trait"-- empathy, healing, enhanced mental or physical powers. Survival tools, she thought. Nature's "forgive me" gift for turning them loose in a world that wanted them all to die.

"You did what you had to do." She forced her lips to turn up into a smile. "I'm just a little unstable when I first wake up from mild concussions." She meant it to sound like a joke, admittedly a lame one.

Che nodded in understanding-- of what she wasn't sure, because his eyes had a strange sense of comprehension as if he knew what really made her shake. Well, the man....no, the *thing*....had been inside her head. A fresh surge of nausea washed up from her gut, and she pressed her teeth into a thin line before she further humiliated herself by throwing up Skinner's shirt.

Now that she had seen the presence that had been mingled with hers, she could search his eyes for malice, and she found the opposite, a warm sense of compassion. Almost humanity. How odd.

But it was still her mind, and they still had not asked, so she refused to relax. Even if she was grateful.

"Thank you.....Che." Scully barely remembered to attach his name, and forced herself into awareness. "For healing me." The hybrid smiled. Another sign of almost-humanity.

Skinner had retreated a bit to allow her the personal space he knew she would want, but his gaze hovered close to her. He could see through her thin smile, see her fists gripping the edge of the bed with a desperation that didn't quite stop the shaking visible around her wrists and knuckles.

"All right, she's awake now." he addressed the room in his don't-make-me-repeat-it tone. "Give her a bit of privacy." The room cleared in moments. A satisfaction warmed his gut that he could still give orders.

"You don't have to worry about Che." he said. "I've talked to him and he's on our side."

She hadn't moved, still sitting ramrod straight on the bed, her eyes not quite focused on anything. It disturbed him just the tiniest bit.

"Are you-"

"I'm fine." She cut him off before he'd even finished, not even looking at him as she stirred to her feet. Well what had he been expecting? The truth? It wasn't so easy with her.

He didn't regret giving the hybrid permission to heal Scully, but he hadn't expected her to react so violently. /You should have explained to them. You should have told them she had scars in her mind./ He hadn't wanted to betray a confidence. Scully had only spoke of Pavlov to him once, explaining in supreme detachment only the bare facts. He knew the alien had interrogated her and Mulder when they were in the camps. He had learned of Pavlov's reputation early on, as a high-ranking official of the Resistance privy to all intelligence briefings. The creature had preyed on minds. With vicious relish.

Skinner had decided long ago that the monster had tried the same trick with her; after that he hadn't wanted details. It was more than enough to know that she woke up screaming, and he had to be the one answer her cries even though he was not the one whose name she called.

Now she claimed to be done with her demons, but he sensed them inside her. Maybe Mulder free her from them. If the man's own darkness hadn't consumed him, by now...

"They healed you too?" Scully said, more to break a silence than to ask a question. He had been staring at her too long without speaking, and she didn't like it.

"Yes. A few hours before you." He omitted the fact that he had been dying at the time.

Her eyes turned around the room in a methodical examination of her surroundings. The ceiling and walls were made of adobe brick, and several open windows allowed the morning sun to share its brilliance with the room. Outside, she could see miles upon miles of desert, flung carelessly in every direction under the azure sky.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere in Mexico. I'm not sure of the exact location, but we'll be here until we get cleared to move into the States."

"And Mulder?" She tried to keep the anxiety out of her tone. "Did you ask them about him?"

When Skinner nodded, she felt like she could breathe safely again. "They said he'll meet us. From what I can gather, he's left his former.....employers." The word caused a stagger in the air, several silent moments when each of them were reminded just what that meant.

/Employers./ Scully nearly shivered. She knew he had murdered his sister, and that he had done it to earn her freedom. That alone caused her to wonder if she could look him in the eye. But there was more. He never told her how many men he'd killed, but her instinct knew he had done things. Terrible, Colonist things that she wasn't sure she wanted to find out about. Ever. If she did, she might not be able to live with him.....

"Where do we meet him?" She didn't really need to know, but the question served as a convenient distraction from her fears.

"Freedom City." he told her. "It's the capital of our territories."

Her eyes widened. "The Resistance has territories?"

He hadn't realized she'd been out of the loop so long, but then again she and Mulder had always preferred to keep to themselves. "Over the past two years, we've acquired substantial holdings in the northwestern quadrants. Freedom City is the central headquarters. Most of our people live there, in between assignments. The territory was still disputed when I left, but from what they tell me, it's been securely ours for quite some time....."

She tried to listen to what he was saying, but her mind inevitably slipped back to Mulder. What would she say to him? What would she do? The questions went beyond the initial meeting. She had to decide how much she wanted to pretend. The last time he had visited her, they had avoided the truth. Oh, they touched the surface when he told her about Samantha, but both of them had known it was merely the tip of the iceberg. Something fundamental in both of them had changed. It had been easy to ignore that. After all, they had been apart so long, and the sheer need to be near, to touch, was tremendous.

So tremendous they played a weeklong game of make believe. A wonderful, beautiful game in which they were both the idealists they had been once, where she didn't taste the blood of innocent men inside his kiss.

Now she stretched her eyes out the window, scouring the desert from corner to corner, knowing that she could not pretend anymore.

"You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" Skinner's voice filtered slowly through her thoughts like a dust particle floats through a ray of light.

She shook herself out of her mind long enough to smile ruefully. "Is it that obvious?'

A cloud passed over the sun, turning the room into a patchwork quilt of shadow and light. A splotch of gold slid across his face as he spoke, slowly and carefully. "You don't have to meet him if you don't want to. If you need more time...."

"No." Scully stood to her feet, rubbing her hands up and down her forearm to shake away the chills she told herself were leftover from sleep. "I want to see him again. I just don't know what will happen after that." She turned back to face Skinner. "He isn't one of them." Her tone wavered, unsure even of itself. "He isn't." The core of her eyes raked Skinner's for some affirmation, some agreement.

"You'll have to ask him that."

/What if I don't want to?/ She whispered the thought softly to her innermost mind. /What if I just want it to be like it was?/

"What do you think?"

He didn't answer her immediately, crossing the room and picking up his gun as if he meant to inspect it. She wondered if he ignored her, but soon enough he spoke, slowly and deliberately. "I think he was a good man. I've never seen anyone like him. I think that you two had something remarkable. I've never seen anything like that either.

It was not lost on her that he spoke in the past tense.

"And?"

"We'll meet him in Freedom City. Talk to him. Ask him what you think you have to. If you find that you want to leave, all you have to do is say the word and we'll go."

His words settled into the air, and somehow they comforted her in the tiniest of ways. Her face eased into a smile that was pale yet genuine. "Thank you, Skinner."

Without warning she picked up her gun and left the room. Skinner watched her leave, noticed the gleam in her eyes that might have been a tear, and in his mind made a promise that if Mulder ever tried to hurt that woman, he would be dead before he laid a finger on her.

He said it knowing Mulder had been a friend once.

He said it knowing how killing changed a man.

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

Evil minds change good to their own nature.
- Shelley

He lifted the brush from the canvas, leaving behind a smear of reddish-black paint that blended delightfully with the fear in the air. There. Almost complete. Perhaps a greater hint of terror in the eyes, or a more pronounced tremble in the brow.....

He glanced from the painting toward the subject, a wisp of a girl shivering in the corner. Wet diamonds of sweat beaded her skin. Her fingers twisted through each other in knots and chains, sometimes breaking free to run in tangles through her matted hair as her dark eyes flared. The soft pink lines of her lips moved rapidly in an incoherent plea of mercy. A few more minutes in her terror and she would have no mind left to break. She made a beautiful subject, he thought. Delicate. Fragile.

And she bored him to death.

It had taken him a mere ten minutes to reduce her from an alert, rational human into a sniveling waste of utter fear. There had been only one attempt at resistance, a feeble thing that he had overcome without even breaking a sweat. At least the painting kept his mind occupied, yet it was a poor substitute for the mental conquest he so desired. Perhaps it was time to ease up a little. If continued too long, the emotions could grow stale. Now was the time for something fresh, something new... the final brushstroke he needed to give life to his latest creation.

He ran his eyes across the painting again, across the mirror image of the girl's face reflected on the canvas, his mind searching for the missing piece. It was in the eyes. The spark of life was missing from them, long since extinguished by his smothering. He wanted to restore it, momentarily, if only to capture it as it died again before his eyes. If he was extraordinarily lucky, it might even provide some mental stimulus in the process. Maybe.

Fighting off a yawn, he set his brushes down and began to walk toward the girl. He felt a fresh jolt of terror cross from her mind into his, sharp and bitter like gunpowder. But now was the time for peace. Wonderful, naive, bliss. After all, he had always told his colleagues that you had to give someone the world before you could really take it away.

His hand captured hers, felt the bones in her fingers tremble, five tiny butterflies caught in a net. She would not look at him. Not yet. He closed his eyes and began to enter her mind.

Slowly, very slowly, he waded through the black sea of her emotions-- trying not to be distracted by the wonderful maelstrom of fear whipping the air into a frenzy-- until he could spot a flicker of gold on the horizon. Ah, hope. Such a human trait. He fastened his energy on the remaining sparks, nurturing and strengthening them as carefully as a mother nurses her newborn child. After all, hope could be very fragile when damaged, and she had never possessed a strong will to begin with.

That vaguely annoyed him, giving him the sudden violent urge to rip her mind into pieces. He was forced to hesitate a moment until the craving had subsided. If passion did indeed keep men alive, he had learned that self-control kept them alive and well.

It would be so much sweeter to crush her when the time had ripened to fullness.

/Don't be afraid./ Now he let his voice fill the cavities of her mind, hidden just under her conscious thoughts. /I'm here to protect you. To shelter you./ A caress, disgustingly soft, across the back of her hand. He had found that slight physical touch often enhanced mental bonding.

Already he could feel her beginning to warm to him, in spite of her better judgment. /You wanted to be safe. We all do. You are safe, here. Now. I won't let anyone hurt you./ Time to awaken a little confidence. He touched the emotion gently, stirring it up in a flutter of whispers.

The fear began to quiet He could feel it in her mind, in her pulse. A pale shade of blue settled over the center of her mind. /Yes, that's a good girl. Trust me./

He opened his eyes to see her smiling at him. The spark of life he had searched for burned bright in her eyes, without any trace of the fear she had felt moments earlier. Even though the conquest had been easy, he could not help but feel a thrill at the power he held over her every desire. His lips broadened as he returned a smile. His mind reached deep into hers, as deep as emotions lie. It took him seven minutes to finish the painting. It had only taken him five to tear her apart.

Her body slumped in the corner where she had ultimately lost consciousness after the anguish became too great for her mind. Large red gouges ran the length of her face, self-inflicted by her fingernails during the chaos of the last few seconds. Blood ran from the tears her teeth made in her lips.

She was a member of a large refugee party that had arrived from one of the experimental colonies the Imperials used to test their latest bioweapons. They had walked for over a week, and most were half-dead from exhaustion but there was a joy in their eyes as they looked upon what they thought was to be their home.

Wrong. Exposure to the alien viruses was a contamination of the worst sort, one he could never allow inside Freedom City. The whole filthy lot of them had been shot dead in a dusty little valley behind the city. Well, almost all of them. At his request, Domingo had saved a few of the more promising females for him. After all, a week's hard journey through hostile territory was an act of defiance. An act of will. From that, he had hoped the girls would make a fitting challenge, but all had crumbled in moments. This shaking woman-child before him was the only one left. How weak. Pathetic. *Human.* No wonder the aliens were winning the war.

The shrill beep of his communications link brought him from his reverie. He picked it up and put it back in his ear before it could annoy him further.

"Yes?" The words were cold. Abrupt. He had left specific orders that he was not to be disturbed during his leisure hours. Full-humans were so....protective....of the sanctity of the mind. There might be misunderstandings.

"Fox Mulder is here. You wanted me to let you know."

He visibly relaxed when he recognized the voice as belonging to his second-in-command Domingo, an old friend who understood his....needs....and who often arranged for a fresh "painting subject" whenever he requested one. Yet at the mention of Mulder's name, little springs of tension gathered at the base of his spine, taut and waiting for release. His voice, however, showed none of this. "Is he now."

"He's demanding to know about the woman, Scully. Wants to hear some kind of progress report on her situation."

"Have we got a report?"

"I put it on your desk an hour ago."

"Give me fifteen minutes to review the file. Then I will talk to Mulder."

"I don't think he will wait that long."

"Then you'll have to make him."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and when you get a chance, the little sow you brought me from those Contaminates is in my room. She is no longer of any interest to me. Dispose of her in the usual manner."

Without waiting for the reply, he switched off the com-link and headed for his office, stopping once in the bathroom to wash the paint from his hands. After all, the Leader of the Humanity Corps must never appear to be anything less than professional. If you read the propaganda banners, he was the man who represented the finest elements of the human race; the demi-god who acted as political counselor, chief warrior, and brother of all people.

And he didn't spare one backward glance for the sobbing woman lying broken on the floor behind him.

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

Nicolas had been born a full human; now he was less so.

It was not visible on his skin, but deeper, etched forever into the grooves of his mind and his thoughts like DNA graffiti drawn by an angry street artist. Once it had not been his choice but now it formed an integral part of his life. He did not know how much the scalpel of his enemies stole from him-- if they fully completed their project or if they had only begun when he escaped. The details did not matter, only the results.

At first it had been strange, to see the dreams of others glide through the night with his own, to feel the whisper of their emotions against his, but he had adapted to the change like any good soldier. Adapted and evolved. His mind was his greatest weapon, responsible for the power he held over every man, woman, and child in the resistance. Thousands of cattle, all moving and breathing as he alone dictated. Those who resisted were cut down as straw and sifted into dust.

Yet now was not a moment to appreciate this power; rather his focus tangled about a possible threat to it. Two files lay on his desk. One told of the successful extraction of General Skinner and Dana Scully from Chile, reporting that the retrieval had arrived at a substation in Mexico and awaited clearance to proceed to Freedom City. Right on schedule. They could be here in three days if he so wished, but there was good reason to keep the squad and their two guests away. That reason could be found in the other folder, the detailed black-and-white evidence of a man some had only thought was a legend. How unfortunate he was not.

Name : Fox William Mulder.
Rank : Commander, Level Three.
Length of Employment : Fourteen months
Most current partner : Alex Krycek, Commander Level
Five.
Area of field specialty : Neutralization and containment.
Mission success rate : 95.4 %
Kill rate : 98 %

His lips tightened in tacit admiration as he skimmed the details of the folder. "Neutralization and containment" was government language that meant he killed anyone and everyone who became a "threat to the status quo." A gory line of work that took a firm hand and a firmer gut. Not that the man in question would have any problems with either. The Enforcer dossier acted only as confirmation to the many rumors of this Mulder.

First man to fight the Colonists, even before the Invasion. Taught humans how to kill them. Led the first organized attack against an Imperial stronghold; it was a victory. After the bounty on his head reached $20,000-- which didn't take long-- he left the organized resistance with his former partner Dana Scully and started his own private war. Neutralization specialty indeed. The peasants whispered that the two of them had killed over a hundred of the enemy, one by one. Some of them quite high-ranking. Like any heroes, their luck eventually ran out and they ended up rotting in one of the infamous Arizona camps. Most thought they died there.

Nicolas knew better. He had read the transcripts of the interrogations, which had been conducted by the Director of Intelligence himself, an alien mind-specialist known as Pavlov whose taste for power only barely exceeded his taste for cruelty. If one read between the lines, it wasn't hard to notice that the monster had preferred the woman to the man. Had most likely done quite a few nasty things inside her head. Surprisingly enough, she hadn't been the one to break.

The records listed only Mulder's confession, admitting his treason and agreeing to work for the Enforcers as long as he was able. Pardons for him and Scully were issued immediately. In a bit of interesting detail, a Samantha Ann Mulder had been buried the same day. Trusted sources reported Mulder had shot his kid sister to prove his loyalty to his new bosses. Talk about loving wisely but none too well.

Scully had disappeared as soon as she was released. Important people tried to find her-- none succeeded. Pavlov might have been close, but he died in a "training accident" at the Mexican border. The official records said nothing more, but then again the big brass never did like to admit when their own people were killed. Especially by one human, working alone. Yes, the rumors said Mulder had killed him. And it was true that he had been on "extended leave" when the tragedy occurred.

So what did he, Nicolas have on his hands? A man who knew how to kill but also how to survive politics as well as bullets. You didn't knock off the Director of Intelligence and live unless you were as smart in the head as your were on your feet. A soldier whose loyalty was as of yet unclear, except perhaps in his devotion to the woman he seemed so ready to kill for. Useful as an ally? Even deadlier as an enemy.

/Just wait until the masses get wind he's not some ghost. Ninety percent of them haven't even seen him, but they won't care. He's their bloody hero./ A thin film of disgust slid over his eyes.

/They scream his name when they charge enemy lines. Just the sort of man Skinner and his friends would love to put up for Leader./

The deciding matter lay in the delicate issue of control. Mulder was a killer, and most of them were just the same as the weapons they used. Simple tools, either for benefit or ruin depending on their controller. If he kept Mulder in his place, he gained an ally. If the man became a threat, well that took care of itself easy enough.

Heroes died every day.

Nicolas glanced down at the file on Scully, his brain moving bits and pieces of strategy into one coherent form. A passage from The Art of War came into his mind, and he could almost hear Sun Tzu's crusty old voice as the warrior divulged his secrets.

/Therefore when you want to do battle, even if the opponent is deeply entrenched in a defensive position, he will be unable to avoid fighting if you attack where he will surely go to the rescue./

Commander Mulder obviously placed a high price on the safety of this Scully woman. Cut her and he bled. Nicolas doubted Mulder would rest until she was safe again by his side.

However many weeks.....or even months.....that might take.

Depending, of course, on how well the man took orders. Of course, he could use his.....talents.....to speed the process. Men like Mulder lived by their emotions as much as by their logic. It proved very convenient. A slow smile spread his across his lips until the scar of the corner of his mouth twisted into a crescent moon. A challenge. At long last. He picked up his com link and keyed it to outgoing mode.

"Show him in."

Leaning back in his chair, he slid the file containing the report on the rescue mission into a drawer. That was business and businessbored him.

This was time to play.

Mulder's mind painted nightmares across the bland white tile of the floor until he was watching his own worst fears play out before his very eyes. He saw Skinner die a hundred different ways-- in fire, in bullets, in the camps-- and it was his fault. He saw Scully lying broken on the ground, her blood anointing her body like myrrh; or even worse, he saw her alive with dead eyes and a strange man's fingerprints on her skin. And it was his fault.

There should have been some word by now. Any sort of report would be better than this mind-ripping insanity of not knowing. /Don't worry,/ they told him when he handed them the disk to make the defection official. /Your friends will be fine./

Those had been easy words meant to placate him, and nothing more. The Corps had what they wanted. The disk had been sent ahead of him, a required payment before any rescue parties left for South America. Now they could just as easily decide that it was too much trouble for the lives of a mere two people, and cancel the mission altogether.

/We're so sorry, Commander Mulder, but we were too late. She's dead. Now take this gun and go kill for us like a good boy./

He closed his eyes, fingers gripping the cross around his neck until the edges left imprints in his skin. He promised Scully's God a thousand Hail Marys if only she could be safe. Heaven might not listen to people like him, but he had to try. It was not hard to ask the all-powerful for help when your own hands were tied behind your back.

Or even better, to confide his deepest woes to a tall glass of vodka....

A woman walked into the hall, her words as short and clipped as the sound of her high-heels on the floor. "He will see you now." She turned and began to walk back where she came from, obviously expecting him to follow. Mulder did, using all his self-control to keep from breaking into a dead run. The answers he needed were simply moments away. Some word, any word at all.

The woman left him at a plain door made of smoothly polished oak devoid of marking other than the large red insignia of the Humanity Corps-- a phoenix rising from the ashes of the world with a banner in his mouth proclaiming to all "Long Live the Brotherhood of Humanity".

Mulder took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in, it's open." The voice, a warm scarf of offered friendship, floated through the door to wrap his nerves in an oddly soothing warmth as he walked into the room.

From what he knew of Nicolas' background as a soldier, Mulder had expected a man much like the military leaders of the old times, with every bit of the cold impersonality. Nicolas' office went in direct contradiction of that assumption. The furniture was sparse enough-- a desk, a few chairs, a bookshelf-- but a surprising air of personality permeated the room.

In the left corner, an open window allowed a slight breeze to fan the leaves of a small potted plant growing bravely on the windowsill. Roses, so they appeared to be. He hadn't seen any for years.....were these genetic hybrids? Either way they were lovely and threw a splash of crimson against the grayish-blue walls and carpet. Directly behind Nicolas' desk, a large painting occupied most of the center of the wall. It showed a close portrait of a girl's eyes, large and doe-brown in a sea of reddish black swirls streaked with golden light. The eyes were beautiful, shining brightly with a sense of hope and joy, yet the longer you stared at them, the more you came to notice the hint of fear towards to back of the gaze. It was only a glimmer, so slight he could have imagined it, but it was there. Some of the paint looked like it was still wet.

It struck something vaguely unsettling far below his stomach, and Mulder turned his attention away before it could root any further into his mind.

"Do you like it?"

Mulder turned to face the man sitting behind the desk, knowing he was looking at one who possessed power not simply in name, but in every part of him. /So this is Nicolas...../ The Viking blue of his eyes glowed in striking contrast against his white-blonde hair and pale skin. The eyes were so intense that they seemed to pierce past the face and enter the mind like twin extensions of Nicolas' soul. He was at least a head shorter than Mulder, but built with enough muscle to more than adequately make up for the height. He wore no formal identification-- not that it was needed. An air of power flowed around the man, matched only by the sense of secrecy that rippled in undercurrents throughout the room, tasting every so slightly of danger.

/Don't listen to those stupid superstitions now./ He chided himself, knowing it was what Scully would have done had she been here. She would have told him exactly what he was now about to tell himself. /This is a man. One of the most powerful men in the nation, but he lives and breathes just like you do./ The thought gave him what he needed to break away from those eyes; he knew he came close to staring too long. It couldn't be helped.

"The painting....do you like it?" Nicolas repeated the question, and Mulder realized he hadn't answered yet.

"It is....strange.....but there is appeal to it. The sense of chaos around her plays well against the look in her eyes. Who was the artist?"

"I was." In that statement there was the pride of a child showing off his new chrome bike. "It's a way to take my mind off the war and the pressures of running the nation's largest freed city. I guess it's part hobby, part therapy, huh?" He laughed and the sound filtered deep into Mulder's brain. It struck a chord within him, something that warmed to the camaraderie in the laugh.

"As a psychologist," Nicolas continued, "I'm sure you understand the benefits of an escape. This one happens to be one of my new creations. Just finished it this morning." He craned his head back over his shoulder to face the picture. It was a long-standing habit of his to display his "trophies" after he had conquered them, but looking at this particular girl brought little pleasure. She had been too quickly beaten, too submissive. Not at all like the real women he desired, the ones who fought and struggled and then broken into a million delicate shards. "She is the younger sister of one of my assistants." The lie was a gauge, a test of Mulder's mental and physical capacity for emotion or control. "Charming girl."

Visibly, Mulder's only reaction was a momentary tension in the wrinkles at his eyes, but mentally the probe yielded far greater reward. A spasm of regret burst like a solar flare from the burning wall of Mulder's outer defenses. At the pupil of his mind's eye, Nicolas saw it, felt it run deep and quick like a scalpel blade through the marrow of his bones. Oh, there was deep pain here. The tunnel it left would probably lead him straight to the core of Mulder's subconscious. The defenses were many, but if he could harness even the tiniest piece of emotion, he could use it to influence a great many more. As the "flare" lessened back to normal, Nicolas extended his own mind, watching it reach out like a slender black vine to curl around the regret. He hoped to follow it past the outer wall, but found himself stopped short on the outside. His nostrils flared slightly, although he was not too concerned. He never expected victory to come with ease.

All this took place while his voice continued to talk, carrying on the normalcy of conversation to keep Mulder occupied. It was unusual for someone to pick up on subconscious intervention, but the cautious lived longer than the confident.

"Why did you come to see me?" he asked, his finger aching for his brushes and paints. This landscape of this mind was unbelievable! Most of the emotions he encountered in the subconscious were unorganized, wisps and muted colors of all the things that made men human. Not so in Mulder's mind. The sum of his emotions coalesced into a great ball of fire, as if it were the heart of a star. It burned predominantly black with remorse and shame and self-loathing, but breaks of color mottled the surface, here and there. White, scarce in most places but growing slowly, for hope. Red....lots of red....that signified his loyalties, his devotion, his love. In fact, most of the red intertwined with the black until it was nearly impossible to tell the two apart.

/The woman affects him more than I even imagined. Even in his darkness, she is every part of him./

All this he saw, but could not touch. An invisible wall held him back, pushing with the force of ten angels, and Nicolas was forced to cling tight to what little footing he had. Expansion, at this point was out of the question.

"I wanted to know if you had received any reports on Scully." Mulder answered the question, little red-black-white tongues of flame bubbling from the surface of his mind as he spoke.

Nicolas allowed his brow to furrow into a frown of concern, attempting to bleed the emotion into Mulder through the tiny gap in defense the regret-flare had left for him. He would need to speak this one, to add the power of words to thoughts.

"I received word a few hours ago. I am afraid it was not good." His shoulders sank in a heavy sigh. /Feel it. Feel the urgency./ Mulder shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tightening on the armrest. Good. That was a good sign. The tension in the man's eyes echoed as a blatant scream in his mind. Nicolas took care not to push so far as to alert Mulder to his presence. No, he merely sat and waited for Mulder's own emotions to rise. All it took were a few well-spun lies, and a mind quick enough to jump through the gap when it opened. And it would open. He honed his words into a razor blade that cut deep into the flesh. "There was Imperial interference."

"And?"

Oh just listen to that voice. The word positively tore from the man's throat. Delicious. The anguish would be obvious even to a normal human. He wanted to smile, but kept his face in a grave seriousness. "They escaped, but were forced to go underground. The border has been alerted, and it is nearly impossible to get through once the authorities are expecting you."

"So what are you telling me? That they have to stay in Mexico?"

"Until the pressure is off, yes."

"And how long is that?"

/Here it comes, here it comes. I'm gonna make you squirm like a little cockroach./ "Indefinitely."

Mulder's jaw tightened and his mind shook with all the force of thunder, nearly dislodging Nicolas from his foothold. His eyes crackled flame as he spoke but his voice remained cool, barely kept under control by a glacier of restraint. Very impressive.

"That's not good enough."

"It will have to be."

"No." The ice cracked along the edge, just a seam. Nicolas waited for the mental break but it did not come. Not yet. Mulder's voice remained steady as he continued. "It is not good enough. I was told she would meet me here if I gave you your information. You have what you want. Now keep your end of the deal, or I will have no cause to keep mine."

Ah, about time for a threat or two. To give credit where credit was due, he believed Mulder had every intention of carrying out his word to the letter. That could be a nasty problem. A renegade Enforcer with a grudge loose within the Corps......they'd lose half of their best people trying to kill him. Maybe more.

Nicolas leaned forward, his voice still aglow with friendship and more than a little patience. In his mind he sent waves of sympathy toward Mulder. The man's defense walls shivered a little. It was a sign the emotion was getting through. "Commander Mulder, there is no need for that. We are giving it our absolute best effort, given our limited resources."

"You don't look limited to me."

"There is a war going on here, man. We can't call every operative in from the field just to escort a woman across the border. I'm giving all I can spare, but we barely have enough fighting men to keep our heads above water now."

"I'm only asking you to send one more team to the border." His voice and mind quivered slightly with pleading. Desperation shone in the corner of his eyes. He would crack soon, and even if it was only for a moment, any big flare of emotion would be enough to open a doorway. "There doesn't have to be a fight...." Mulder said. "Just get them to bribe the necessary people."

Nicolas nodded, as if the idea left him deep in thought. Mulder fell into his role perfectly. A few more suggestions, and he'd be more than willing to kill again for the honor and glory of the Corps. Well, at least for the honor and glory of his woman. Killers were always killers. Some tried redemption, but it was always too difficult to erase the blood. Mulder would learn this. Besides, he was much more valuable to the cause behind the trigger of a gun rather than behind a desk. Nicolas tensed his mind as he began to move the final pieces into place.

"I have a man who is connected down there," he said. "but he is currently assigned to a patrol team in this sector. I don't have another man to fill that spot." He focused his eyes straight into Mulder's. "Unless you take his place."

"No." The answer was immediate. "I came here to get away from killing. Not continue it."

These were sensitive moments, Nicolas knew. If he pushed too hard, Mulder would grow angry and storm off to find her on his own. He'd probably succeed too. There had to be just the right balance, the right play between guilt and honor. He decided to incite honor first. "You don't have the stomach for it?"

"I will do what I have to when I have to." The words were soft. Words of a man who do not speak idly. "But I came here to change, and that is what I have to do now. No more death. No more murder. I came here to change."

"But this is change, don't you see!" Nicolas felt his voice rise and his thoughts along with it. "Your woman remembers the days when you believed in something. She will come looking for that man, not someone hiding behind a desk afraid to get blood on his hands."

The guilt was beginning to build.....only a little more. A little more was all he needed. He let his words trail off into silence, hoping it would grind away at Mulder's resolve.

When Mulder spoke again, his voice was quiet. Subdued, with a hint of strain. "She knows who I am."

"Yes, but will she find you are willing to do what it takes to redeem yourself? Or will she find that you do not love her enough to take that risk."

Mulder's eyes closed, his head moving forward as if he was struck by a great pain. For a moment, it seemed he would rush from the room.

But then his mind opened, and it did so all at once in a gaping wound of crimson guilt. Even without the knowledge of conscious thought, Nicolas could imagine what was going through his mind. Memories, no doubt. Mental records of the brutality he had committed. He didn't stop to ponder the details, but simply sent the tendril of his mind deep into the wound, probing and searching until he found an entrance.

By the time Mulder spoke again, his mind sprang back to full defense, but it had taken him a moment too long. Nicolas had a foot in the door. It was only a matter of time, now, until he was fully inside.

Only a matter of time.

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

"I will consider it." He said, hating himself for even saying such a thing but seeing no other way. The thought of her ached inside him, a slow nuclear burn that would never cool until he could touch her again. If he could ever prove himself worthy of such an honor. Memories flickered in and out of his mind in chain reaction after chain reaction. Holding dead children in his arms. Shooting a man and wife on their wedding night and not listening when the man had pleaded mercy for the woman he loved. Conducting "interrogations" on teenage kids that used tactics brutal enough to break Marines. The death of his sister, his beautiful innocent sister...

To return to that? His soul whimpered at the thought but if that is what it took....

"That is all I ask." Nicolas told him, blue eyes melting with understanding and empathy that might be real and might be crocodile tears. "That you consider. You will have to do what is right in your own eyes, but you might want to do it soon. The longer we wait to act, the slimmer the chance is we will reach the squad before the satellites pick them up. Deep cover technology only hides so much."

"Soon." Mulder said, making a conscious effort to keep his answer vague. A deeper-than-gut instinct whispered that he could trust this man, but there was something strange about the feeling, about the voice that whispered it through his mind one layer at a time. It set another chorus of voices rippling throughout his thoughts, that of the finely honed survival instincts he had acquired as first a fugitive and even more so as an Enforcer hunter-killer. They asked him how Nicolas seemed to know so much about him, to possess intimate knowledge of his strengths and weaknesses. He had no idea which voice to listen to, but he knew he had to get away from Nicolas in order to decide. Being near the man caused a sort of cloud to level over his mind, as if he was two thirds into a vodka buzz. Not a pleasant feeling.

He left the room and did not look back. Even though he *felt* he should have. So strongly it was almost.....unnatural. He did not pursue the notion, too wrapped up in Scully to see anything else at all.

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

Five hours later, Mulder had slid to the edge of desperation and climbed back up the slope countless times, only to falter again in the muck and mire of his doubt, and fall. And climb. And fall. And climb again.....

"Scully...." The words pressed hot and lonely between his clenched teeth, eyelids squeezed shut as if he could somehow block it all out. He threaded his hands through one another and tried to imagine one of them belonged to her. "Scully......I need you." He could pretend, couldn't he? That talking would make her appear?

/I need you to tell me what to do. I am blind without you, and in this place I am afraid of the dark.../

Until now, he had been so sure he knew how to find his way back to the light. You simply avoided the darkness. Now he was being offered another way, one that kept him in the twilight, within view of the light but still using the methods he had left behind forever. The offer tempted him. A much easier path.....

/But isn't that supposed to be a danger sign?/

He sighed heavily, his fingers combing through his hair. "You were the one who knew about faith and repentance and redemption. Not me. Is it supposed to be hard?" All he knew was that you were supposed to pay for your crimes. To him, that implied difficulty. Something had to be given up. So how could he possibly use his gun for good after he had used it for so much evil?

"I don't know if I should trust him, Scully. We're little more than strangers, but he knew....things....about me. More than intuition. Call me Spooky, but every word he said was like a double-edged knife, outwardly harmless yet pricking me in wounds I take great pain to hide. He is more than what he seems, I suspect. How much more? I can't tell."

Manipulation was nothing new to him. First they had used Samantha, and now that she was.....out of the picture...they would try to use Scully.

"I won't be led about blindly, but I don't have a choice. Not as long as you're in the open. I need Corps resources to get you back. Where I can protect you, like I should have in the first place. I should have made them take me with them. Forgive me for my fear of you."

He paused, teeth grinding atop one another in frustration.

"But on the other hand, some of his words fascinate me. He says I can become like I was before...when white was good and black was evil and we were both shining white. Not gray, not this filthy dirty gray and why aren't you here to tell me which way is up and which way is down?"

Simple. He stood alone because he was too proud to do what he had to in order to bring her to his side. /Why do you suddenly cling to morals?/ A voice from within bit at his soul, the tone hard and sharp like the click of his trigger when it moved into play. /You never felt a problem trampling on them before./ But he had felt something. That's why he was here. /All they want you to do is lead a patrol team. Just scout work. Probably not even ordered to fight. Who cares what Nicolas thinks he knows about you? All you have to do is behave for a couple of days, a week at the most, and she'll be here. Then you can decide for yourself what your next move will be./ Yet still, he had promised he would leave *all* of that behind. Not some of it. All of it.

His footsteps kept tempo with the struggle, wearing against the concrete as he crossed and re-crossed the small distance from wall to wall. The temporary quarters he had given closed in around him to produce an effect of an animal in a cage. Helpless.

"I want you so bad I can barely breathe." He whispered, stopping dead in his tracks and listening to the echo of his voice skip to the angels in the silences around him. "I have to have you to breathe. Everything I have done so far has been for that. If I can't have you beside me when I'm human again, then none of it will matter." He knew what he had to do.

His fingers touched the cross on his neck as he left the room. The kiss of metal to warm skin served as a soundless benediction or maybe the last dying flutter of a prayer. /They will try to control me. Nicolas, whoever or whatever he may be, will try to use me to fight his war for him. That's fine. I'll be the blind man and I'll act the fool but two can play at puppet strings. They will give me what I want. They will give me you./

"I'll do it."

He took no time for pleasantries, stating the reason for his visit as soon as he had set foot in the door. Nicolas looked up from the book he was reading and smiled.

"Excellent. I knew the Cause could count on you."

"When can your man leave for the border?"

"Tonight, of course. You'll take over his patrol immediately.....I've arranged for you to meet with the acting lieutenant in one hour to go over the basics. His name is Dodges.....a fine soldier who's been on the patrol shift a while. He'll show you how things are done until you get used to the routine."

It didn't escape Mulder's notice that Nicolas had made the arrangements *before* he himself had agreed. The survival voices hummed angrily. "What makes you think this is any different from the work I did as an Enforcer?" he said, throwing the challenge on Nicolas's desk as if it were a gauntlet.

"Your focus is all wrong, Mulder." Nicolas never raised above a soft lilt, although his eyes shone like they harnessed lightening. Mulder felt the "buzz effect" begin to grow in the back of his mind, like a sliver underneath his conscious thought. "The methods are of little consequence. It's all in what you're fighting for. What you believe." Although he was quiet, he spoke with the passion of a man who believed every word he was saying. Men like that were rare in the world today. It didn't always mean you could trust them, but it did call for at least a little admiration. "Do you believe in our cause?"

"I don't know what I believe in."

There was a moment of silence, and Nicolas' blue eyes shimmered and refracted the colors of the light into ribbons of thought visible around his pupil. "You feel you've lost your reason. You have survived many things, but only now are you're realizing all it took to do that. It's a hard thing to accept. I know because I went through the same thing you are experience now."

Mulder stood listening, every word an arrow driving deeper and deeper into his brain. It was like a throbbing under the skin, the way the turmoil in him reached out for someone else who shared the same burden. The emotion raged so strong it surprised him, for he half-wondered if it didn't come from himself. But where? Nicolas continued to speak.

"You will always have to live with the regret. We all do. But there are ways of atonement. Fighting for a pure cause. Bringing justice to those who betray it. These are the things the Humanity Corps was formed to preserve......justice, truth, the old ways. Many here are seeking the same things you are, and we give them means to do that. When you fight for something pure, Mulder, it acts as its own absolution for the mistakes you might have made in the past."

After the last word had sounded, Mulder took a deep breath, letting the statements filter one by one through his mind. /A pure cause. Absolution./ Things he desperately wanted to believe but surrender to. Not until he could retreat to solitude and hash them out for himself. For now he'd just accept them at face value, play the good soldier and get Scully back as quickly as possible. Nothing else in the world existed. Nothing mattered. "I do hope you're right." He said. "But if I find out you're wrong, I want a transfer immediately. Something away from field work. Understood?"

Nicolas nodded, a tiny smile playing the corner of his mouth. "Of course." He pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel's from a drawer beside him and filled two glasses halfway. "I think this deserves a drink. To a pure cause?"

Mulder hesitated as the ghost emotions in his mind pushed him toward the glass. He hadn't touched a drop since they'd left DC. Sort of a token to himself of his earnestness. But this was only half a glass and Nicolas couldn't know about his drinking habits. This was the only polite thing to do. "To a pure cause." His fingers closed around the glass and held to it to his lips but his eyes stared straight at Nicolas. "And a safe border."

He drained the glass and he quivered slightly, a sort of ecstasy erupting in long waves up and down his body. It was unbelievable the way he had craved this. He had tasted it in everything he drank, and ate and.....it felt ok. Lowering the glass, he noticed Nicolas had been watching him, the odd sort of gleam in his eye that had been present earlier in the day.

"Your team assembles for briefing in four hours. Dodges will help you put that time to good use. Don't worry about the mission. It's nothing like the stuff you pulled back in DC. A simple patrol....really nothing more than an exercise."

"I'll be ready." Mulder set the glass down on the table and nodded once in Nicolas' direction. "Thank you for the drink, sir...." He paused, deliberating his next words carefully. "And for the advice." /Yeah, you heard me. You'd better believe me too. Believe I'm your little sheep and you can just lead me beside the bloody waters./

"That's why I'm the Leader. My door is always open if you need someone to talk to. After all, I know redeeming one's soul can be a difficult business. It helps sometimes, to share with someone who has been there. I'd like you to come back at least a couple times a week until you've gotten settled in here. I usually refer new recruits to one of our staff psychologists, but I think I would rather you come to me."

/I'll bet you would./ Mulder didn't respond aloud immediately, his mind quickly dissecting the possibilities. On the one hand it could be considered a great honor, and while his spirits warmed with the prospect of release, he had no idea why this offer was being extended to him. Certainly he had done nothing to deserve it. For now it would be better to play along, carefully. His instincts had made him the Bureau's top profiler and he wasn't about to abandon them now.

In the end he chose honesty as the best policy. "I might just take you up on that, sir." He began to move away, but Nicolas pushed the bottle toward him.

"Take it. You might get thirsty between now and patrol."

Mulder felt the muscles in his hand quiver, twitching in the direction of the liquor. There were so many easy justifications. No. He was in control. He made the choices.

"No thank you, sir. I try to do my work sober."

"Very admirable of you."

"It keeps me alive."

Before he turned to leave, his eyes strayed back to the painting on the wall. The hint of fear that had caught his attention before magnified itself tenfold now, as if she was trying to warn him of something but couldn't quite find the words. The strange cloud-feeling inside his mind almost seemed to hover around the picture as well.

Impossible. /Don't go by superstition. Go by logic. That's what Scully would do./

As he walked away, Mulder did exactly that.

Nicolas had yet to prove himself a threat to him or Scully. The element of manipulation might be excused as one of the necessary skills of a leader during war. Then again it might be something else entirely. This was not the time to act, but to watch. Right now he needed the man and his organization. For Scully.

Maybe a little bit for himself too, the clouds in his mind whispered. He did not disagree.

A few minutes after he left the room, he noticed his head was clear again. Funny. Maybe it was something that had been in the air.

Later than night, Mulder discovered that very little of "patrol" had to do with observation, and a great deal had to do with "search and destroy". A drunken group of Imperials was found in a local bar and slaughtered quickly enough, along with the two women who had been entertaining them. The soldier responsible had blamed it on cross fire. A poor excuse at best.

The three officers among the dead men were decapitated, their heads and rank markings nailed above the door of the bar as a testament to Corps dominance. Mulder thought it spoke more to the townspeople than to any Imperial. He suspected intimidation was the point here. Dodges had explained that such a demonstration was usual after a kill. Just part of war.

Mulder agreed, reluctantly, but he made them bury the women.

When he returned to his room, clothes splotched with blood and hands smelling of powder, a bottle of whiskey was waiting for him on the table. Jack Daniel's.

He knew what it meant but right then the mental games meant nothing. There was blood-- fresh blood-- on his and it took half of the liquor before he could convince himself that this was any different than the place he had left.

Of course it was. This was the resistance.

These were the good guys.

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

Mexico/US border
One month later.

Scully's eyes bored a million critical holes into the glass her reflection cowered behind. Half of her mouth twisted down in a scowl of frustration, the other half in plain and simple disgust. This was what she was going to present Mulder with in just two more days? This....little scrap of a woman whose bones showed through her shirt more than her bust did? Whose skin was roughened by scars instead of flowing and soft like silk under the touch?

The disgust deepened. Her face remained pale despite all the time she had spent on the beach-- the Scully clan had always burned, not tanned--and the dull Gray of her dress drained all color from her eyes. It had to be one of the ugliest things she owned, that dress, a coarse and shapeless mass that hung off her like a tent. She would have thrown it away long ago, but it had belonged to her during her fugitive days with Mulder. She had not wanted to toss away the memories, but that didn't mean she wanted to wear them.

Looking at herself now, she barely felt female.

And he had been living in Washington, no doubt in easy reach of women whose skin was still smooth, whose bodies were more than proportionate, whose eyes were not old. Who owned beautiful dresses. He worked for the government, which in these days meant he could have whatever and whoever he wanted....

Frustation brought the tear to the corner of her eye, blurring the mirror and the gray ghost inside. A simple calculation decided that the view had improved so she did not bother to wipe it away.

A soft tapping on her door snapped her attention away from the mirror. It was Skinner. Had to be, because she didn't know any other ex-Marine who knocked on a door like he was afraid he would break it. It was a valid concern....she had lost a door like that when they first arrived in Chile. The man didn't always know his own strength.

"Come in." She spun from the mirror, as she spoke, hand deftly swiping the moisture from her eye before he could see. /Smile, woman./ Her autopilot voice piped up inside her head. /You look terrible./

One look at his face told her that if he had noticed anything, he was keeping it to himself. But that was a sneaky habit of his, she had learned. He pretended that he didn't have a clue what was wrong with her until she lowered her guard just a hair, and then suddenly he was seeing straight through her.

Skinner opened the door but didn't enter in the room, standing in the hall with his legs spread slightly apart and moving side to side just a little bit. She had never seen him fidget before. When it took him a good fifteen seconds to talk, she began to suspect he hadn't dropped by for a simple chat.

"We'll be leaving in two hours. I just wanted to see if you needed any help....packing." He stumbled a bit at the end, searching for a word she'd believe and then cursing for his lack of preparation. It was easier to run a combat mission in downtown DC than it was to slip anything past her. His left hand began to sweat onto the brown paper package behind his back; a slight worry took root that the moisture would somehow soak through the wrapping and damage the items inside. A hard swallow cleared the lump from his throat.

What if he was making a mistake? No, he couldn't think that way. /Be a man, Walter. You've seen combat time in two wars. Just hand her the package and complete the mission../ That's what this was. A mission. /You're familiar with that, right? Sure you are./

He determined to complete it. Ever since Scully had heard they were leaving to meet Mulder, there had been a strange shift in her attitude. She barely smiled, and even when she did it seemed forced. He had been puzzled at first, chalking it up to nerves before deciding there might be something more. With a Scully-problem, there usually was.

Then on his way to breakfast the day before, he had caught her looking in a mirror, shaking her head. She had turned away when she noticed him, but not quick enough to hide the disgust in her eyes.

Mulder wouldn't care if she walked up to him in sackcloth and ashes, but right now she would never believe it. In his best military fashion, Skinner had surveyed the problem, formulated a strategy with the help of a few of the other soldiers, and decided on a rational course of action. What Mulder would have done, he had thought to himself proudly.

It had looked much easier on paper.

"Pack." She echoed his last words in a dangerously non-committal tone.

Uh-oh, her left eyebrow was arching into her favorite "yeah right" expression, the one she used to give Mulder on a daily basis. "I don't have anything to pack. Unless you know something that I don't."

His right hand began to sweat as well. /Make the drop off and retreat. Retreat./

"Well, um, you do now." He set the package on the nearest table and vanished back into safe territory before she could respond.

Scully stood as still as marble in the moments that he left, her brain working steadily to comprehend what had just happen. A healthy dose of surprise slowed the process considerably. Two good minutes had passed by the time she crossed the room to the table and the mysterious package. The brown paper wrapping crinkled as she ran her hand across it, a Christmas morning sound that brought a brief but happy recollection of stockings, wise men, and angels on the top of a tree. Then she tore into it, her breath hitching in her throat as a brilliant blue hit her full in the eye.

She dispensed with the rest of the wrapping as quickly as Melissa used to rip open her presents, not sure whether she could believe her eyes. It was a dress. A soft, beautiful thing the color of the desert sky in April, embroidered with the tiniest white flowers around the edges.

It was more than a little different from the clothing she would have chosen is days gone by. The material hugged her fingers as she ran them across the dress; she could only imagine what it would do once it was really on her body. Especially when the only thing holding the whole creation were two spaghetti straps of the palest blue lace.

Skinner must have suffered his concussion harder than she had thought.

Yet she liked it, and that's what brought a slow and guilty smile to her face. As she held it against her, watching the light makes ripples in the fabric, it struck her how utterly different it was from the respect-me-or-else suits she used to wear, or the designer jeans she donned in off-hours.

But she was a different person. She didn't want a black pant suit or a faded pair of jeans. She wanted *this* dress, this utterly ridiculous thing that made her feel like a real woman every time she touched it. In this world dresses of any sort were few and far between, much less clothes with actual beauty.

The smile grew a bit wider.

The left side of her brain felt more than a little foolish for acting like some teenager holding her first prom dress, so she carefully laid it aside to examine the other contents of the package. There was a more practical set of clothing-- a pair of jeans that seemed to be in good condition apart from a few rips in the knees that she could easily mend, and a plain white cotton T-shirt-- but as she took them out for closer study, something else caught her attention. In fact, it screamed for her attention. Something that looked suspiciously like black satin.

/Skinner. You didn't./

He had.

Hooking the first, uh, *item*, with her forefinger, she held it up for inspection, not knowing whether to smile, laugh, or blush. The brassiere matched perfectly with the panties, staring up at her with a sort of naughty innocence as she tore a few remaining bits of paper away from them. Scully had been meaning to make a subtle request for some new underclothes, but her mind had geared itself more toward cotton than lace. Black lace, of all things.

*Now* she blushed.

She tried not to look at it as she removed the last items from the package. They consisted of a tiny silver tube of pale rose-colored lipstick, a powder compact, and a container of pink blush. It was unbelievable. She couldn't even remember the last time she had worn makeup. Once, maybe twice even since the Invasion. When you were running for your life, you didn't stop to primp, and in the camps she had gone to great lengths to do just the opposite.

The items before her, from the dress to the lipstick to the ridiculous underwear, seemed to say one thing in unison voice. /It's okay to be a woman again. It's okay./ The thought settled into her brain one layer at a time, sparking a relief she had not known she'd needed. Had it been so long?

She almost wondered if Skinner had known that. Clothing didn't come cheap these days. And makeup? Even when you could find it, it cost enough so that only the very rich or the very well connected could afford it. Skinner was probably the latter. She hoped so......he shouldn't be spending money on her wardrobe when they needed things like guns and ammunition.

Perhaps she should tell him that, just hand it all back and forget her foolishness....

Scully glanced back at the underwear. On the other hand, there was certainly no one else to wear them, and it wasn't like he could take anything back. Therefore, she had to keep them. It was the only honorable thing to do, given the circumstances. The logic worked very well, and by the time she had everything on, there was not a trace of guilt in her.

She was too busy remembering how it felt to be a woman.

And she loved every minute of it.

to be continued ... part 3