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Resurrection (3/8)
by darkstar
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"Do you want a drink?". The sound of a metal cap being unscrewed skittered across the room like a pebble along cobblestone.

"No. Why would I want a drink?"

"You're worse than my little brother did when he was waiting for his wife to give birth to their first son. I'll tell you what I told him. Take a deep breath and relax. This is just one of those woman things we men can never understand."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I am as relaxed as I've ever been."

"Sure. And you've just cleaned your gun three times in twenty minutes because it's something you enjoy doing?"

Skinner looked down at the gun on the table and the rag in his hand. Three? He could have sworn he just finished the first time. Without saying anything, he sat the rag down-- carefully-- and scooted his chair back as he tried to recall his marriage with Sharon. How long did it usually take a woman to try on a new outfit? He discovered he had no clue. /Perhaps that's a hint that you've been the Corps Most Eligible Bachelor for a bit too long.../ Skinner pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time.

Maybe she was taking so long because she hadn't liked it. Or maybe she was offended. He sent a stony glare in Che's direction. "Tell me again why I let you talk me into buying that idiotic lingerie?" The things had cost him a good three clips of ammunition, but no, he had to stand there like a gringo sucker while Che and a greasy little Mexican smuggler had banded together to convince him every woman needed some fancy underwear once in a while.

/Way to use your head, Marine./

"Because you want her to feel like a lady, right? Believe me, we chose the right thing."

"You, chose. Not me."

"Hey, you picked the colors." There was a bit of laughter in Che's voice, hidden but not well enough.

Skinner contemplated checking the trigger mechanism on his gun and using the hybrid as a target when a small Scully-like cough sounded at the doorway. The cough was soon followed by a distinct choking sound from Che's general direction. Very, very slowly-- after all, he had to try to preserve some shred of dignity throughout this-- he turned around. And was stunned. Instantly.

He had worked with her for eight years and lived with her for nearly two, but he had never seen her look quite like she did now. She stood in the doorway, arms hanging loose at her sides and her eyes half-dropped as if she felt everyone staring at her and didn't quite know what to do. The dress flowed over the outlines of her body like honey, slow and soft and warm, the rich blue coloring contrasting against the smooth white of her skin. Not too much skin, though. The v-neckline showed only a bit of her....attributes.....ending in just the perfect place to force the imagination to take over the rest.

When she began to walk toward him, it was with the unmistakable glow of a woman who felt as beautiful as she looked. That was incredibly beautiful. She had used the makeup, but discreetly, so that it only enhanced rather than masked. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a few of the soldiers. It looked like he might have to issue a warning or else she would end up breaking someone's hand. Mulder had no idea what was about to hit him. No idea.

/You had better tell her just how beautiful she is, Mulder. You tell her or I'll relocate your jaw./

Scully reached him, her eyes making contact with his in an overflow of gratitude. She looked like she was about to say something, right in front of the entire room. Skinner couldn't help feeling a bit uncomfortable at the thought of all the witnesses. Rumors did get started that way...

Her hand reached past him to a shotgun lying beside the table, and she picked it up, pumping once to check the action. "I just came in here to borrow this for a while. If we're going to be travelling through Colonist territory, I need to get in a bit of practice." She said this like nothing in the world had changed, but a spark of a smile leapt from her eyes into his. He did not even flinch.

"Help yourself."

Without further ado, she left the room. Nothing was said, not one word, but her smile spoke clear enough. After she left, he became aware that all gazes still rested on him in what seemed to be expectation.

He stood to his feet and slid his gun into the holster on his hips. Steadfastly refusing to grant any of them eye contact,

"We're leaving at dawn. By the time the sun hits the horizon, we need to be on the road to the first sub station. I want all vehicles prepped and ready by sundown. That gives you exactly three hours and thiry five minutes."

Silence.

"Time is moving, boys. Shouldn't you?"

A flurry of motion for the door as the men seemed to dislodge from their stupir all at once.

Once they had scattered to their respective tasks, Skinner allowed his mouth to relax into a wisp of a smile, and more than a little relief.

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

Scully felt like Eve must have on the second day of her banishment from paradise, bone weary and soaked to the soul with heat, astonished at the difference between the gardens she had left behind and the wasteland she saw. The metal of the truck bed pressed hard and unforgiving into her back, and a trickle of sweat rolled down her neck to squeeze between her backbone and the wall. Now she knew why she had decided not to wear the dress on the trip. This kind of heat would have melted the fabric from off her skin. Her eyes burned from the glare of the desert, yet she refused to look away. This was her home. Whatever was left of it.

The cracked skin of the ground blistered under the unforgiving heat of a nuclear summer, scalded in some places to the point where all that remained was the charred naked bones of the earth's rocky skeleton. Occasionally there was life, but even the vulture and the coyote-- long time natives of the heat and wind-- seemed to be made more of ash and ember than feather and fur. At first glance, it would seem that the land had simply given up.

Then you saw the tiny bird's nest hidden in the shade of a cactus, or spotted the tiny clump of purple wildflowers that thrust their chins defiantly at the sun. Then you saw the eyes of the people who carved an existence from the land, gouging enough water from its veins to plant their tiny fields and raise their tiny children. This was still America. Perhaps not on the skin, but on the soul.

Her body jolted forward as the ancient brakes of the truck ground to a stop.

"I hope it isn't bandits this time," She sighed, her hand moving wearily toward her shotgun. "I'm too tired to shoot anyone." /Not unless it means we can get off this stupid thing and rest a while./

"Not bandits," Che said, leaning against the wall across from her and looking criminally oblivious to the discomfort. "We'd have heard them by now. My guess is it's time to stop." He said it as if it was no great matter.

Scully hardly dared hope he was right. She had almost forgotten what the ground felt like when it wasn't being shaken into her bones. The front doors slammed shut and then the leathered face of Commander Gardner appeared outside, crows-feet of weariness crinkling the skin beside his eyes. It had not been an easy trip.

"We'll break here for thirty minutes. Get your liquor and get back here as soon as you're done. Three glasses is the limit. If I catch any one of you drunk, I'll have you hog-tied to the bumper and dragged until you swear you'll stay sober for a month."

The soldiers, who had just moments ago seemed to be in a sort of waking coma, suddenly reanimated, scrambling over one another as the first four attempted to get out of the truck at the same time. They emerged in a sort of human knot, kicking and punching but miraculously disentangling by the time they hit the ground. Che simply sat back and watched them go, a wry smile on his face as he caught her incredulous look.

"Simple people, simple pleasures," He said, winking as he climbed from the truck, offering his hand to help her down. She accepted, too tired for any show of independence. "You should see them on leave."

The lines of her mouth turned into a smile for a moment. "I'm not sure if I want to." Once they were outside of the shelter of the truck's canvas cover, she realized just how hot it really was. The air had been stifling in the truck but the canvas had provided at least some shade from the glaring sun. Not anymore. She was almost afraid that if she breathed too deeply, her lungs would shrivel from the heat.

"Is it always this hot?" She asked, wiping a sheen of sweat away from her eyes.

"During the summer, it's bad," He said. "Freedom City is a good eight hundred miles to the north, so it's a little better than here, but we still get pretty scorched. As you know, the Army nuked most of southern California in a last ditch stand during the invasion. We got the backlash of that. When the Colonists took over, their little scientists cleaned up the land enough to live on, but the weather has been permanently screwed. Even in the dead of winter it only gets down to about seventy-five, eighty degrees."

"How do the people grow food?"

"Some of them dig wells but most use genetically altered seed. Humanity Corps scientists came up with a corn variant that can live on only 5% the amount of water as the old stuff. It tastes just about the same."

"Amazing."

"We sell it to the farmers in our territory in return for a share of the crops."

"That's all?"

For a moment his eyes darkened. "Depends on who is doing the collecting."

She was about to ask what he meant when Skinner appeared beside her, mopping the sweat away from his brow with his sleeve. "You look like you could use a drink."

"That bad, huh." She gave a sort of half-laugh and nodded. "Well I feel worse, so let's stop talking and lead on to the ice water."

"Nothing stronger?" Che asked, a mischievous grin on his face. "I'd like to see what you're like with a bit of tequila in your system...."

"You don't want to know."

They stopped talking as they reached the front of the bar. Or rather, the dusty pile of boards with a sign attached to the front claiming to be a bar. Crazy Horse Bar and Discount Ammunition Surplus. /Guns and whiskey./ She thought, a dry smile on her face. /How nice./ Judging from the bouncer on the front porch,-- a man the size of a small mountain with enough tattoos to make a Hell's Angel jealous--the owners had taken adequate precautions. A ripe mix of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and unwashed bodies clogged her nostrils and stung her eyes. That was to be expected. Seen one, seen them all. It couldn't possibly be worse than some of the dumps she and Mulder had used to hide out in for a night or two.

She braced herself and stepped onto the porch.

"Jest a minute there, ma'am." The bouncer spit a mouthful of black tobacco onto an unfortunate spider at his feet and flipped his greasy ponytail over his shoulder before standing up. "You and your friends can't go in jest yet."

Scully estimated that if she stood on her tip toes, she might reach just to the I Love Muffy tattoo on his chest. /Don't tell me he's one of those big but cuddly types..../

"Is there a problem?" Skinner moved up to stand beside her, his hands on his hips in a seeming gesture of nonchalant interest that conveniently put him in easy reach of his gun. The bouncer either didn't notice or didn't care. Judging from the size of the knife in his belt, it was probably the latter.

"No problem, if yer human."

"What?"

The man pointed to a board nailed to the wall beside the door. Letters of peeling white paint spelled out HUMANS ONLY. BLOOD CHECK REQUIRED. He held up a hand-sized black machine with a less-than-sterile needle on one side and a cracked computer screen on the other. "If you could jest prick yer finger right there, I'll have it all cleared up in a jiffy."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Che's mouth harden into a firm line, bitter but not surprised. So this wasn't an unusual thing after all. Scully knew she had never seen it before. Well usual or not, there was no way they were getting her to put her finger on that thing, after heaven only knew what kind of filth.

Skinner obviously shared her sentiment "What does it matter? Human or not, you still get your money."

"We don't want no mutts in here." He spat the word at their feet like it was a mouthful of bad tobacco. "Jest real humans. So either you let me look at yer blood or you and your friends stay outside."

"I told you it's not necessary. The lady here doesn't like needles much and neither do I. " In Skinner language, "you are pushing the line." His hand moved almost imperceptibly toward his gun.

For a moment, Scully wondered if she'd end up shooting someone after all. If Skinner had to fight the big man, it'd start a brawl at the very least. A small war at the worst. And all she wanted was an ice water....

"Let them in." A new voice cut the tension in the scene, and she recognized it as Commander Gardner. "They are new around here and aren't quite familiar with custom. I'll vouch for them."

The bouncer looked back at Gardner, keeping part of his gaze locked on Skinner. "Well they might git themselves familiar soon. Not everyone's as forgiving as I am." He moved aside to let them pass. Scully had almost reached the door when the Commander spoke again.

"No, not the Mexican." he said, pointing at Che. "He's a hybrid."

Che stopped in his tracks, his eyes obsidian hard as they glared at Gardner but his face a mask of unemotion, not changing even when the bouncer grabbed his shoulder in a none too friendly squeeze. Not the big cuddly type after all, she decided.

"Is that right? You some stray mutt looking to drink with the purebreds?" Che's jaw tightened, his fists curling like he wanted to hit the man. Instead he stared at Gardner one more time and simply walk away.

Scully wasn't about to stand there and watch in silence. Skinner, however, spoke first.

"Commander," he said, using the man's rank as if to remind him who was higher. "Back when I was your age, a soldier looked out for his buddies."

Gardner was nonplussed. "Che's a good soldier." He said. "But you have to keep those hybrids in their place. If you let them have too much room, they'll start thinking they're human or something." He shrugged. "C'mon. The bartender's a friend of mine, and he's giving drinks on the house."

Skinner looked back in Che's direction. "No, thank you." Without another word, he walked off the porch, the muscles in his back tight and rigid.

The Commander turned to Scully, a bit of a smile on his lips. "I think you're friend belongs to the old school. It's a dying breed....won't be around much longer. Can I get you something?"

"No, Commander, thank you." She turned away, suddenly not thirsty. "I'm afraid you'll find I'm from the same 'dying breed'."

Scully left the porch and hurried to catch up with Skinner, who plowed through the air like he was trying to cut it into pieces.

"What just happened back there?" she said.

"Something that's probably happened to him at almost every bar in Corps territory. His kind has to drink at places designated for mixed breeds, and those are few and far between."

"Why didn't he say something?"

"Because he didn't want to get the crap beat out of him by a mob of drunken human supremacists. His 'soldier buddies' would have just sat back and watched. Who knows, they might have even helped."

"Why?"

"Politics." The word came out almost as a growl. "We're definitely in Corps territory."

"People tend to mimic the sentiments of their leaders."

"But I thought the official line was one of tolerance. Anyone who wants to fight, does it with a blessing."

"That's the old way. Things have changed. You and Mulder never kept close ties with the resistance, but do you remember hearing anything about the power shift? Two years ago, I think it was."

She shook her head. "That was right about the time we were captured. Not a time we were interested in politics."

"Let's just say the new regime has its own ideas about tolerance-" He cut his words short as they reached the truck to find Che sitting on the tailgate, flipping through a book but not really looking at the pages. The hybrid looked up in genuine surprise when he noticed them.

"What are you doing here?"

"Not thirsty." Scully said, keeping her tone nonchalant as if she had made the decision on a mere whim. "You don't mind if we wait here with you?"

Che shook his head, a half-grin on his face. "You're Catholic, aren't you."

"Why?"

"Because my mother was too and you're both horrible liars." The grin faded. "Seriously, you two don't have to be here. I am used to this."

"We don't have to do anything." She said. "But we're here so be nice." She slid onto the tailgate beside him, grabbing a blanket and putting it under her to spare her tailbone at least a little. "I guess there aren't many like you in the Corps, huh."

"More than you might think. Public opinion might be a little rotten, but I expected that when I signed up in the first place. It's better treatment than we get from the Imperials. You'd think that if they created us, they'd be a bit more understanding but I think they hate us even more than the humans."

"What do they do?"

"We're created to be their servants.....mindless drones they can use for anything from cheap labor to military personnel to guinea pigs for their viruses. If we rebel against that purpose, they kill us."

"So you were born in a laboratory?" Scully tried for a moment to imagine that kind of life. She found she couldn't. "Nope." Another grin broke out across his face, wider than the first. "I was born into a colony of free hybrids. So were my two sisters. My mother used to tell us stories of my father; how he saved her from the testing rooms and led the very first escape. He gave his life for our freedom. His memory was great among us."

"You must be very proud of your family."

"I am."

"Do you get to see them much anymore?"

"No." He paused, the lapse in his voice pained. "Shortly after I left home, the Imperials discovered our colony. They slaughtered everyone, except for the few they took back to the labs. My sister was one of those survivors. When I heard that the resistance was raiding the experimental facilities, I joined the Corps hoping to look for her. I haven't found her yet, but I will. Soon."

"I am sure you will."

/So much like Mulder...../ A pain of her own settled deep in her chest as she remembered the passion and devotion that he had poured into the search for Samantha. /Only to waste her life on something as trivial as my freedom...../ She shuddered.

Skinner noticed the shadow that had come into her eyes, and took advantage of the momentary silence to change the subject towards less weighty matters. "While we're waiting, we might as well get the truck filled up. Gardner said there was a gas tank on the other side of town." He saw Scully nod in agreement, blue eyes clearing once more as she shook herself from the past.

Not for the first time, he wondered if it was a good idea to send her right back to the man responsible for those memories.

The Crazy Horse Bar was on the outer fringes of the settlement, which turned out to be larger than the other towns she had seen. Che mentioned that it had become a trade center for the region, but that traffic had been down recently due to attacks made on incoming traffic by a nasty road gang that was trying to expand their territory. The local Corps garrison attempted to control the problem, but like any other rodent, bandits were extremely hard to kill. For every one you shot, three more scurried out from under the ground.

Maybe that's why none of the people would meet their eyes as they passed, why a small child took one look at the truck and began to wail, his mother frantically trying to hush him as she hurried into a building. The woman paused at the door to look over her should at them, fear glazing her eyes. Why? Perhaps they had been mistaken for members of the gang or as Imperials. No, that was impossible. Commander Gardner had uncovered the identification marks on the side of the vehicle as soon as they had entered friendly territory. The Corps insignia was plain to see, and should have been a reassurance. Instead it seemed to have the effect of the mark of pestilence, driving the people from the street as men pushed their wives behind them and the pious crossed themselves and looked skyward.

Their behavior disturbed her in a way she did not understand. It would have been a simple matter to dismiss them as ignorant peasants, were it not for the all-pervasive feeling of foreboding that hung over the streets like a thunderhead. The same thickness that had clung to the air back in the camps. Something *had* happened here. Logic did not tell her this; instinct spoke. She let the thought rest on the center of her mind as they turned the corner to the filling station, deliberating on what she should believe.

Scully had closed her eyes for a moment to relieve the beginning pangs of a headache when the truck came to a screeching halt abrupt for even the decrepit brakes. Instinct screamed now. No matter what, keep your eyes closed.

She did not listen. Soon she would wish she had.

Her eyes opened and horror sliced across her stomach, sickening as if someone was gutting her with a dull spoon. The roof of her mouth turned dry as Atlanta cotton, tongue swelling as moisture drained away. She wanted to look away but it was too late. She could not.

A few hundred yards in front of the truck's dashboard, jutting in sharp relief against the blue horizon, three straight wooden posts pierced the sky, a little taller than the height of a man and roughly the thickness of a telephone pole. Lashed to each one lay what might have been a man once, bodies twisted in a hideous contortion of flesh and bone and agony. From this distance she could not even be sure they were human. Echoes of ghost screams rose and fell in the air, a crescendo of whispers that was just beneath audible hearing.

Her fingers crept to her neck to seek by habit the reassurance of her cross even though it wasn't there as a breathless prayer moved across the voice of her mind.

/Mother of God and all the saints..../

She could go no further.

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Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou wouldst, when all have
given him over
From death to life though might'st him
yet recover.

- Michael Drayton

Scully took a deep breath and willed the pieces of herself to stay together as a wash of bile rushed to her throat, acid sour in the taste of week-old death. She covered her mouth with one hand, forcing herself to breathe in and out. In and out. Focus on the rhythm, Dana, not on the way the backs are ripped open straight to bone, still leaking blood drip-drop-drip on the shreds and onto the sand. Five quarts of blood and then a man runs empty. Two quarts before the life ebbs away. But don't think about that. Don't look at the flies buzzing around the torn flesh, or at the tiny white piles of eggs visible along the edges of the wounds, some already hatched into gray squirming cannibals. Don't look at the chunks of flesh torn from the bodies by the vultures.

In. Out. In. Out. Death is nothing new to you. You walked in and saw it every day for months.

Yes, but she had tried so hard to forget....and even back then, killing was a mere function. This was not the cold impersonality of a gunshot to the head. This was ripping life away with one's own hands. Taking satisfaction in it. She'd seen that before, but only like this in the human monsters Mulder used to stalk. In Pfaster...

The secret places of her blood between the arteries and the tips of her fingernails tingled with whispers of butchery and madness even though she doubted whoever-- whatever-- did this would care much for the judgment of the sane. When Skinner laid his hand on her shoulder, she thought he trembled until she realized that she was the one who was shaking. She wanted to respond to him, to at least look at him to let him know she was fine, whether she was or wasn't, but her body refused to move. Her eyes couldn't break the hypnosis of the whipping posts and their silent carnage.

"It wasn't personal." He said, as if he had read the dual layers of the horror in her eyes. "Purely judicial."

Judicial. Beating men until their flesh hung in strips from their bodies then leaving them to die slowly under the fury of the sun was judicial. She believed that, sure. The Resistance condoned torture. If that was so, then how were they different from the butchers with the Imperial logo?

"Scully." His voice was a little stronger, as if he reached hand over hand to pull her out of a deep black cenote. "Look away from it. You can look away now."

She could? She could. As if an invisible tether had ripped in two, her eyes tumbled to the ground, mind spinning in swirls of reds to match the patterns of blood in the sand. /You will never escape the death. It will follow you until you run and run and fall but it will never let you go./

"Scully, talk to me." Skinner again, pulling her once more to the surface of her thoughts just when she was about to run out of air. "Are you okay?"

As if someone whispered it in her ear, she remembered fragments of her past life as a forensic pathologist and a medical doctor. She had seen far worse than this. Now was the time for science and the answers it could provide. Faith might come later, once she was far away from the shadows of broken men.

"I'm fine." She exhaled the words in a single breath as she lifted her eyes to meet his in demonstration that she meant it. He scoured her face for a long moment, his eyes filled with weariness and disgust but not one shred of shock. Didn't he feel it too? Did he feel at all?

Scully remembered the novocain days, and wondered if she returned to them when she crossed the border into America.

Skinner glared back at the three dead men, his jaw working back and forth as if he was in deep thought. Or perhaps deep memory. "It's always hard the first time you see one." he said. "I've fought everything from little yellow Communists with big rifles to alien soldiers who change faces into your best friend, but when I first ran into this it was different from anything I'd seen in my life."

Out of the corner of her eye, Scully noticed that Che nodded in agreement with Skinner, but that he seemed to be even less affected. Mild distaste registered on his features; that was all. She wondered if it was because they weren't his kind or because he had seen so many of these "public displays" that he had become numb. How many did that take? Did she really want to know?"

"You've seen this before?" Her mind pulled muscles trying to wrap itself around the thought. "Where?"

"Pretty much anywhere you go within the boundaries of Corps territory. It's a form of punishment that doubles as population control. Once you've seen a man whipped, it makes for wonderful inspiration to do what you're told and not ask questions."

"These men weren't just beaten. They were left here to die."

"Most likely because their offense was capital."

"So these men are criminals." It comforted little and justified less. You punished crime. You did not butcher men this way. That constituted another thing entirely.

"Yes, they are." Skinner moved closer to the posts, his eyes squinting up to a piece of paper tacked above each man's head. "Apparently they were members of a local gang that were caught during a raid on a Corps supply depot. This is a statement execution to the surviving members. Executions of this kind usually are meant to deliver some sort of message."

She nodded, a form of grim curiosity picking at the edge of her brain. If she had a scalpel and a table, she might be more than a little tempted to try to find some answers of her own....

Disgusted with herself for even considering that, she shoved the thought aside and tried to concentrate on the information Skinner had given her. "I don't remember seeing anything like this when Mulder and I were here." she said. "We saw just about everything else, but not this."

"This didn't start until after you left. I guess you could call it the signature of the Humanity Corps and their great leader Nicolas."

"Who's Nicolas?"

"The self-proclaimed, widely beloved savior of the human race." He snorted, his eyes flitting up to the crosses as if to connect the irony. "C'mon." he spun on his heels and walked back toward the truck. "The others will have finished by now and they'll be ready to leave."

"I want to know about Nicolas." she said, her teeth running across her bottom lip just like they used to when Bill Jr. tried to bully her out of something. "Who he is and what gives him the right to do this."

"Later, Scully." The words hit her like a slap in the face.

"Don't you 'later' me, Skinner." She hated when he got into his "General Skinner" mode and decided she should know only what he thought she needed it. "If you knew about this, why didn't you say something to me before?"

He paused, his face half-turning in her direction as he tossed his words over his shoulder. "Because I spent the last year and a half hoping it would have changed."

As she watched him climb into the truck, jerking the door handle as if he was throttling it, Scully realized she misjudged Skinner. This had affected him, in a much deeper and long standing way that she. Why? The thought played on the forefront of her mind as she followed Che into the truck, shutting the door fast against death and evil but unable to resist a last look out the window as they drove back toward the saloon.

Three corpses, their thin shadows etched by charcoal and blood onto the skin of the desert in garish rendition of a tattoo. As she watched, a vulture fluttered from behind a building and began to take his lunch from the second man's stomach. It was then she turned away. Skinner was wrong.

This was very personal.

And she refused to let it go until she knew a reason why.

Night had come and Skinner had not spoken to her, taking all necessary means to avoid her as much as possible. Che would not answer her questions either, putting her off with nothing answers and vague words. At length she tired of both of them, and retreated to her corner of the truck to pass the time in a mix of alternating frustration and anger.

Now the full moon dipped a finger of silver across every feature of the earth and drawing shadows from everything that moved and breathed. Everyone else slept. She did not. In her mind, every one of those shadows was in the shape of those posts, stark and profane in the desert sand. Every moan of the wind across the tailgate of the truck was the anguish of men, slow and horrible in the night. The heat had not lessened much with the darkness, but she could not help but shiver, to close her eyes and try not to look at their faces. It only did so much good; she saw them inside her head.

/A dried up ocean filled with matchstick death poles each bearing a paper-doll man, his edges singed to a crisp from the sun. Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani. God has forsaken everyone./

She closed her eyes and prayed for rain that did not come.

"He controls it all, you know."

Her left eye cracked open just enough to see a familiar mass of shade and shadow ease into a sitting position beside her, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder in summer. Skinner. So now he decided to talk to her. She cracked open her other eye to scan the truck. If anyone else was awake, they weren't paying attention. Maybe now was the only time he could talk.

"Nicolas does."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Four years ago, the Humanity Corps did not exist. You remember how it used to be. We were just a bunch of little units, loosely connected by our common enemy but lacking any kind of central leadership. That was before Nicolas. He was the leader of one of the larger, more powerful substations, comprised most of ex-military boys he'd served with before the Invasion and a collection of civilians with guns almost as big as their grudges against anything alien. Nice people, you can imagine. The group had a sort of dual reputation, both commended for their efficiency and criticized for their excessive violence against non-hostiles."

"They killed innocent people."

"They killed just about everyone who wasn't a part of the resistance. It was Nicolas' idea to merge the single stations into one big organization. More power, more freedom was their slogan. A lot of people bought into it too." Here he paused for a moment, his eyes taking on the look of a man watching the past unfold inside his brain and not enjoying what he saw. "Nicolas is a brilliant man. As a soldier, you won't find many that are better. He has studied many of the old generals.....Caesar, Napoleon, Sun Tzu.....and consistently finds ways to apply their tactics to our modern warfare. No one can fault him for that. But there is another side to him as well. He has an uncanny ability to convert people to his line of thinking that reminds me of the old videos of Hitler."

The comparison was not lost on either of them. Scully sat in silence, the skin between her eyes wrinkled in thought as she concentrated on his story. "He convinced most of the leaders to sign an alliance treaty that formed what is now the Humanity Corps, promising of course to hold elections for a board of joint leaders as soon as possible." A shard of moonlight scraped across his face as it hardened into a grimace.

"After a few sweeping victories-- fought his style with heavy casualties on both sides, although his people doctored the numbers--they were screaming for his leadership. Some of us disagreed with so much bloodshed and so little regard for human life. We were branded as cowards and traitors to the cause. When the "election" came, the vote was closer than Nicolas had expected, but a win is a win. Everyone knew he'd get into office one way or another. He appointed his buddies as the rest of the board members, and has run things every since. Sure, the victories have increased, but we're only different from the Imperials in name now. We use the same methods and kill the same ways.

"Nicolas considers anyone not a member of the Corps to be on the side of the enemy. Even the non-hostiles who are just trying to survive....." His voice paled to absent-minded frustration and she noticed his fist had clenched. Suddenly she was very glad she and Mulder had left the organized resistance when they did. That brought another, more frightening thought to her mind.

"And Mulder is working with these people?"

"He probably doesn't know what he's gotten into. At least not yet anyway. I hope for his sake he catches on soon.....Freedom City can be about as dangerous as Washington DC if the wrong people get after you."

"They would hurt him?" Her breath drew into a hitch in the back of her throat. If they had done anything to him, a beating would be merciful compared to the death she would personally deliver to each one.

"Maybe not. But you have to realize the kind of people we're talking about here. They know their power lives off their corruption, and use of force, and that makes them very jumpy. I don't know if you two realize it, but you've got a good bit of a reputation from your free-style days. People remember what you stood for. Some of them might consider Mulder a potential candidate for Leader."

"He'd never accept." He had told her once that he never wanted to lead, only to fight. He said he didn't mind risking his own life but he couldn't take responsibility for so many others. Of course, he was a different man now. She wasn't sure how much weight he placed on things like casualties and human life.

"That doesn't matter." Skinner was talking again, and she She forced herself to listen, to concentrate. "Nicolas will see him as a threat. He will either seek to control him or eliminate him."

A taste of chalk and medicine powder sprang into the back of her throat. "Which do you think it will be?"

"I've been wondering that myself. Control first, most likely. He will seek to use him if he can."

"Doesn't everyone?" There was a tinge of bitterness to her voice before she fell silent.

Her eyes met his. "I'm not going to let that happen again." There was a fine edge to her promise, subtle yet hard as Toledo steel.

"Be careful, Scully," he leaned closer to her, worried at the resolve he saw in her. If she thought Nicolas was harming Mulder in any way, he knew she wouldn't hesitate to charge in, guns blazing until they cut her down. But guns and brute force could not win this battle. Not when Nicolas had the love and adoration of half a million starving peasants who called him savior. "There are ways of fighting, but you're going to have to trust me when I tell you to follow my lead. You have no idea what you are up against."

"He is just one man-"

"So was Stalin. So was Castro. You know as well as I do that men like that don't stand alone. They are the first head of a greater dragon. Elements of the Corps have been working very carefully during the past twelve months to subvert his regime. I instigated the movement back before we left for Chile. Che has informed me of its current status. We've made substantial progress, but a rash move on the part of any one person..." His eyes latched onto her to make sure she understood. "....could jeopardize everything."

She hated to admit he was right, that she must stand by and watch instead of act, but she nodded her assent. /This was why Mulder and I shunned the regulars. Too much politics and deceptions and it's so much easier when you can just point and shoot./ Those days of clarity were gone forever. When she looked back at Skinner, the moon carved hollows in his face, sunk deep shadows under his eyes and outlined the way his shoulders bent as if a heavy weight had been placed back upon his shoulders. He looked like a man who had fought a costly battle and lost, and now paid for it, day by day.

"I think you would have made a good Leader, sir." She lapsed into the formal title out of habit, her hand brushing momentarily against his before leaning against the floor to sleep. His eyes widened in ivory-silver moonbeam surprise. "How did you know I was the one who ran against him?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Now you're talking like Mulder."

"He's rubbed off on me."

As she closed her eyes, her mind crackled with a mix of fear, anticipation and joy. In the morning, she would meet Mulder. Twelve hours to go. Seven hundred and twenty minutes. Forty three thousand and two hundred seconds. How many heartbeats, again?

She fell into sleep as she counted them.

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

Mulder had returned from the patrol well over an hour ago, and though his bones ached with the weariness of violent peacekeeping, he had not slept, nor would he for a good while. He sat alone; his roommate had gone out for a mission two weeks ago and never came back. As the commander of sector's first ranking patrol unit and personal tactical advisor to the Leader, he was entitled to keep the extra space. This suited him well, for his thoughts spoke loud enough for any six people. The dim glow of a bedside lamp did its best to dispel the shadows from the room, and created instead a landscape of gold and darkness, both of which played on his features as he sat motionless at a small table. His uniform still smelled of blood-- he hadn't bothered to change yet-- and the shot glass beside his hand was filled to the brim but untouched. He barely seemed to be aware of its existence, barely seemed to be aware of any thing at all, save one.

His right hand clutched a piece of paper as if it were all he had left in the world, knuckles showing veins through his taut skin. It was a simple typed note, short enough, that he had found sitting on the table when he had entered the room. He had read it and reread it twenty times since then. This was twenty-one.

Commander Mulder,

I have some pleasant news for you. All border complications have been overcome, and your friends Dana Scully and General Walter Skinner will arrive in Freedom City sometime tomorrow. The General, of course, is well known to us and greatly held in our honor, but I look forward to meeting Miss Scully for the first time. From the way you speak of her, I am sure she is enchanting. Good hunting on tonight's patrol, my friend. I will await your full personal report tomorrow morning.

Nicolas.

Mulder didn't know exactly what to think. He had heard many promises concerning Scully in the past month, with little change. But he'd never had a personal note from Nicolas before. /What if she really is coming?/ A fluster of panic rushed across his stomach like a quail flushed from a bush. Certain he'd have to think of something to say, make arrangements for her quarters-- although there was a rooming shortage-- find a gift for her, perhaps.....to welcome her...... /Can out the whiskey cabinet.../ So much to do! So little time. Yet something froze him where he sat, keeping him from carrying out his preparation. Something inside his mind, dark and heavy as a typhoon, that sent a cloud over his joy. He had to clear his chest to someone. The one person who always listened to him, that he could trust completely. Flipping over the memo, he snatched up a pen and began to write.

Dearest Sam,

I know it has been a long time since my last letter.....sorry about that. The past month has been strange in many ways, but all of them have been time-consuming. I made it out of DC in one piece, and managed to join the resistance as a field operative and personal tactical advisor to the Leader. Your old brother's moving up in the world, I know. Instead of killing people for the aliens, I do it for the good of humanity. What's the difference? To be honest I'm not sure. Sometimes I'm convinced it's for a good cause, as they tell me; other's I just think that blood is blood and I want to quit. Just go somewhere peaceful and live like any other man. I've seen those "other men", plowing their fields or mending their houses. They are almost poorer than the dirt they work, but they've got a wife and family and peace when they close their eyes. I wonder if that's enough for a man. Guess I'll never know. Killing seems to be my destiny, whether I asked for it or not. I suppose I did ask for it....I signed the papers and drew the guns-- but I'll never like it. No matter whom it's for. I pretend to be using them as they use me, yet I wonder if I am not slipping deeper into the rut I came here to escape.

Yes, I'm rambling now. I didn't write to bore you with my inadequacies, so I'll go straight to the point. Scully's arriving tomorrow. We'll be together again-- for better or for worse, you might say-- and I don't know if I'm ready. Do I want to see her? Only badly enough to drive me insane. But can I face her? Can I look her in the eye, each of us knowing what I've done, and then what will I see?

I wanted to clean myself up before she came, and I've tried everything I can. Accepted the missions, even the ones I disagreed with. Executed them well. My team is the first ranked unit in the patrol division. Nicolas says I have come a long way; most of the time I believe him. I didn't trust him at first, but I have come to believe that he is at the least an ally and perhaps even a friend. Each time I visit him, the guilt I normally feel isn't the same. Instead there is this incredible sense of honor, loyalty, and pride. Those are as foreign to me as a smile. Nicolas has given me a way to restore my honor without taking away who I was, and for that I thank him.

Yet, I do not trust him fully, for there are times, like these, when I wonder if it's enough. Something feels wrong, something I can't put my finger on......I sense it in my head at times when I'm with Nicolas. A cloud settles over me, almost like it rises from the subconscious part of my brain itself...... Like a second instinct is growing within me, tainting the normal perceptions I have used to survive this long....

She doesn't know I drink. She doesn't know many things.

Tell me I'm recovering, Sam. Tell me I'm on my way back up. I've been down so long I can't tell directions. But I do love her. I do.

Love,
Fox.

His pen swiped the last word across the paper but then he noticed his fingers were shaking. Just like any other spineless weakling who needed his bedtime alcohol fix. Did he ever mention that he hated being a drunk? He wasn't even sure if he ever had liked vodka to begin with. Another of Krycek's tastes he'd picked up.....remind him to thank the little rat if they ever met again. His eyes strayed from the letter to the whiskey. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't.

He would...not...

His arm nearly tore itself from the socket when it shot out toward the shot glass, sloshing a bit of moisture onto his hand and onto the letter as he dumped the entire contents of the glass into the sink. The golden brown tequila swirled in a tiny whirlpool around the drain, disappearing....

He flinched.

/This is for you, Scully. I am going to be everything you deserve. Even if it kills me first./

The overwhelming smell of spilled drink. The craving.

The door slammed behind him as he ran from the room, out into the night, not caring where as long as he could not hear his addiction inside his head.

On the table, in the now-empty room, discarded letter, the spilled drink soaked through the ink and into the paper, causing the words to weep in tiny puddles of blue-black tinted liquor down onto the table.

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

Prison bars of white light blocked the darkness from her, but its claws could slip through the gaps and slash at her until she could barely stand, skin ripped and bleeding through shredded clothes and torn thoughts. Little remained to hid her innermost soul from the man-beast whose eyes raked in vicious stabs across her......seeing more than her body, deeper....than that.....her mind....

Hell black eyes. Hell black eyes.

Run, Dana, run.

Can't run. Can't move. The voice of a demon inside her head, reading her mind like a pulp fiction comic book. Invisible hands pawed her hidden memories with sticky, greedy, fingers. Satan's own caress.

/Get out of my head./ A demand. A plea.

/You can't ask me to leave when I'm so deep inside you...deep inside you....deep inside you..../ Echoes of black laughter and hell eyes. Hell eyes. Not human. Worse than human.

Now would come the part when he would tear her mind, his invasive thoughts, sharp and brutal daggers that slashed at her in her last temple. /Please, don't let him inside my mind./ The birth place of her dreams, now the bed of nightmares. The air stank of his greed and her cracked sanity. She tasted it in tiny grains beneath her teeth. The fear.

A woman screamed and she recognized the voice as her own. A woman screamed and begged for mercy. It would not come. The bars would shatter, her protection gone, and he would pull her mind into the darkness, and pin it underneath his thoughts. Then he would possess her.

But he was turning! Towards a circle of light, a chair in the center with a man handcuffed to it, his eyes wide with pain as the demon sank talons into his mind. A scream raked fingernails across the chalkboard silence.

/Scuully!/

Mulder! No! No!

Anger. Hatred. Blood-boiling passion. /Leave him alone!/

The monster ignored her and began to feast.

A man was screaming. A man was screaming her name and begging for mercy.

/Take me!/ The thought burst from her mind so hard her brain itself began to rupture at the seams. She watched it hurtle through the air, a silver lance straight to the heart of the creature. The alien paused, still facing Mulder as his jaws dripped thought-blood.

Then he turned toward her and her heart stopped not from fear but shock. This was not the creature from her every nightmare. This was not Pavlov. This was a.....man. A cold, cruel man she had never seen before but knew instinctively to fear. Shadows hid his face, but his eyes burned through the darkness, a hungry shade of intense blue as they clung to her. Seizures of trembling swept over her body in waves as he advanced; her arms covered her head in effort to ward him away.

His shadow blocked Mulder from her view. A low hiss slithered out from the darkness.

/I'm looking forward to getting to know you./

The eyes closed in around her and she could not breathe....

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

Her body jolted from sleep, pupils dilated and hands swathed in a delicate filigree of sweat. The tremor of her ribs shook through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, a ragged in-out-in-out that matched the uneven pace of her breath. Sleep, these past many days, had rested her eyes but certainly not her brain. She would almost rather stay awake than face the monsters inside.

The muscles of her throat constricted in a dry swallow. She would not think of the dreams now. Not of the alien-man-beast with strange eyes that seemed to have taken Pavlov's place in her night terrors. Scully turned her eyes outside, wanting the fire of the sun to purge the images from her brain only to discover that a spiderweb gray mist hid the morning light behind a veil of shadow. If you stared at it long enough, she noted, it crept into your every sense and slowly began to smother you. A muted smell of electricity danced along the edges of the air, the acrid odor blending with a whisper of static that was felt more than heard, pulling at the hairs of her arms and neck until they stood straight at attention.

"Why have we stopped?" she directed the question at Che, uncurling her body from sleep and suppressing a groan as her stiff joints protested the change. "And where is Skinner?"

"We are at the main gate to the city." He said it as if she was supposed to know what it was, but continued when he caught the question in her eyes. "Electric fences. They have to check our clearance before they'll turn them off to let us through."

"And then what?"

"You and Skinner will go to processing. I'll debrief with the rest of the men and then head over to the infirmary."

"You're a doctor?" .

"No." His voice never changed tone but his lips pressed together in a small white line. A sliver of her attention was diverted to the other soldiers in the truck and she realized that they were all listening to what he had to say with every bit the attention she was. They feigned disinterest, yet it was clear they were just waiting for him to say something "anti-human" as Skinner had called it. He had warned her of spies. If she saw them, Che certainly had, but the flow of his voice remained the same, as if he was in a room alone with her. "Under Corps law, hybrids may serve only in the rank of private. We are not permitted to treat humans, although we may assist the medical staff as long as we are under close supervision of our commanding officers. This does not include use of our traits. That is forbidden unless specific written permission is obtained."

She saw the anger in his eyes, not heated but cold and hardened. Tiny teeth of indignation nipped at the back of her mind as well; she quieted them and kept her voice carefully neutral as she phrased her next question. "How long has the law been in effect?"

"Since Nicolas opened the city to hybrids." His eyes darted momentarily to hers to press silent emphasis on the word "Nicolas." The stiffness in his spine betrayed the casual shrug of his shoulders. "Our laws are made for the 'good of all people'." The barest hint of sarcasm slipped under his detachment as he quoted part of the Corp's founding creed. Perhaps the others had noticed; perhaps they had not.

She nodded in a non-committal way that would be perfectly impossible to turn against her. /Politics./ Her teeth ground the word into powder and her next breath expunged it from her body for good. She hated the games.

Voices in the mist turned her attention to the two men walking back toward the truck. Skinner's broad shoulders and distinct stride were easy to distinguish despite the gray, but her eyes fell more heavily on the shotgun in his hand, on the way his fingers gripped the barrel as if he suspected to use it soon. A slender tentacle of uneasiness snaked around her nerves as they passed by. Why couldn't it have been sunny? Sunny and pleasant and nice instead of gray and foggy and...sinister. She hadn't believed in monsters since she was four, but this would be the kind of place they lived. In fog, in clouds that hid their fangs and claws until they close enough to strike.

Scully flicked the thought from her head, a derisive smile playing across her lips. That was a Mulder-thought. She knew perfectly well that weather was nothing more remarkable than a by-product of the earth and sky. This was certainly no time to let her emotions spill from their neatly arranged boxes and cloud her judgment.

Too late.

She'd just have to work with what sanity she had and hope for the best. Worry at this point produced nothing useful. There were too many miles behind her now for any change of mind, even if she wanted it. Her gaze drifted back into the fog as the vehicle rumbled forward, and the clouds seemed to whisper to her, planting seeds of discouragement into her mind. /Run away./ t hey said, soft and primal like the breath of ancient souls. /Run away and we will hide you and you will never have to stop./

No. She had never run from him. Not since the first time she'd stepped into that office and into the considerable charm of Spooky Mulder. Granted, the quest had not always held her belief, but she had never doubted the man behind it. At least as long as she thought she knew that man.....

Those doubts were not from the mist, but from herself. They were very real in her spirit, but much stronger ached the desire in pit of her stomach that demanded to see him. To be near him. /Moths to a candle, baby. The brighter he burns, the more I am consumed./

As they passed through what must have been a gate-- although there was no physical structure save a small guardhouse manned by two identical clones who stared at her blankly as the truck rolled by-- she felt her insides hum with a sensation like she was inside an electric current but encased in a protective bubble. The energy was all around her yet not touching her directly. Che hadn't said anything about waste radiation, but she felt a wash of relief as the humming faded the further they drew away from the Shield.

Seconds, minutes at the most, passed before they stopped again, the brakes screeching like a wounded animal as the vehicle lurched to a stop. One of the front doors slammed shut then Skinner appeared at the tailgate.

"They are going straight to post-op," he told her, lowering the gate as he spoke. "There's a jeep waiting to take us to processing and command central." His fingers still kept close communion with his gun. She didn't know why but this was his turf. He had his reasons. If he kept his weapon, so would she.

She grabbed her pack and slid her gun from its holster, the cool metal turned warm and moist by her palm. Che moved aside to let her pass, his eyes unreadable as ever but the wrinkles beside his mouth turning up in the fringes of a smile.

"Take care, Dana Scully." Quiet words, the wrapping to a quiet offering of friendship that she sensed he did not give away easily. His voice was hesitant, as if he was not sure of her response and was tensing himself for the customary rebuke. To their left, one of the other soldiers gave a sudden "cough" that sounded very much like a laugh. She didn't need the trait of mind reading to guess their thoughts. /Hybrids don't associate with humans. They aren't good enough./

They were watching again, waiting for her to "put him in his place." They'd see something all right. She let her face soften into the warm-as-sunlight smile she used to give Mulder on special occasion. /Hope you're paying attention, boys. You wouldn't get this smile out of me if you walked up and handed me a dozen roses./ "You too." she said, her hand lingering for a moment on his shoulder. "I hope we meet again."

He merely nodded in reply, but as she climbed down from the truck, the corner of her eye caught the smile that had spread across his lips. A small smile, yes, but it flashed in the eyes of his comrades and asked them who was laughing in the end.

Scully would have smiled herself if she hadn't suddenly remembered where they were going. Command central. Mulder. No more waiting. No more pretend. She pulled her head up a little higher, determined not to allow her eyes to bleed any of the weakness in her knees as she joined Skinner in the jeep. She could do this. Wasn't it what she always wanted?

The reply that came to her mind was simply a wish that she had gotten a chance to put on the dress and maybe even those ridiculous undies. Anything to reawaken the confidence that lay weak and listless at the bottom of her veins.

The jeep puttered to life and began to move toward a red brick wall topped with coils of razor wire that captured the growing sunlight and flashed it back to the mist. Guard posts of dark metal stood five hundred feet apart like robot sentinels with white searchlight eyes and machine gun arms. She could barely make out the smaller forms of the guards inside, whom stood at constant attention, little toy soldiers complete with toy rifles that shot real life bullets. The road led directly to a cast iron gate guarded by two men who had the build of linebackers but the wariness of Marines.

This wasn't exactly the confidence booster she had hoped for. It felt more like she was being led back to the prison camps than arriving of her own free will at the greatest human city left on earth.

"Friendly place you have here." she said to Skinner.

"It pays to be careful."

"I see." She glanced back at the wall. "Funny. From the way that wire is slanted, it would almost do a better job of keeping people in than out."

"You catch on fast."

"So this is the price of freedom?"

"If you listen to Nicolas."

His jaw set into silence as they slowed to a stop at the gate. The two guards stared at them for a long moment then lumbered back to open the gate, their movements slow and ponderous. It reminded her of the male gorillas she had seen when she last took her nephew to the zoo. She mentally tagged the men Ape Number One and Ape Number Two.

Then they were forgotten because she saw the City.

It sprawled before her like some terrible dragon that slept but yet lived, a mass of solid shadows that stood in charcoal contrast to the silvery mist. Golden spears of sunlight pierced through the gray to slide along the corners of the buildings and spin drunkenly into darker alleys, thin spider legs that branched from the main road into the bowels of the city. The sudden immensity of it all stole her breath from her lungs, and her eyes stretched from south to north to east to west, searching for an end but finding none. It fascinated and terrified, a paradox that fitted very well the nature of man, if this was indeed man's sancturay.

"It's huge," she said, when she could speak.

"I know." Skinner said, his own eyes scanning the buildings as if acquainting himself with a long lost friend. "We founded this long before the Corps started, as a sort of haven for refugees and for our own people between assignments. No one thought it would grow like this. People heard there was a place to go and be safe, and they flocked here by the thousands. If they didn't settle around us, they settled within fifty miles. We were starting to feel like a people again." He looked back at the razor wire and grunted. "Guess it didn't last as long as I thought it would."

The jeep rattled along the cobblestone road, the gate whining in metallic protest of the effort as it swung shut. Now that her eyes had adapted to the change of landscape, the transition from clear sky to cement walls, they picked up on other things about the scenery as they passed. People materialized in the field of her vision, pale as incarnations of the mist itself and all but dead around the eyes. Scully found herself watching them, or rather they demanded to be seen, their faces screaming the injustice their mouths never challenged.

She had seen starvation before, and here it was again, protruding from their ribs and the stark angles of other bones through thin clothing. She had seen futility before, and here it looked back at her from the eyes of man, woman, and child as they passed. Color did not exist. There was black, and gray, and brown, but nothing bright. Nothing alive, save one tiny blue flower that winked at her from a little girl's hair. A smile of hope began to creep toward her lips until she noticed the child's hands. They moved with skillful purpose, cleaning out and polishing empty ammunition casings for reuse. A bit of rag and straw that might have been her doll lay beside her, forlorn and forgotten in a patch of mud. She couldn't have been more than four years old.

/The price of freedom./

She forced herself to look away, ghosts of dead little girls with blonde hair and green blood haunting her mind. Her gaze hovered on the buildings for a moment, seeing for the faces behind the cracked windows and inside the doorways. There was the blank stare of a fourteen-year-old girl balancing a toddler on the curve of her pregnancy-swollen belly. The wet cough of an old woman whose bones shook as she covered her mouth with a bloody rag. The hard mouth and lead eyes of a young man leaning against the door post, one leg firm and strong and the other cut off at the knee. His bittnerness hung around him like the cloud of smoke from his cigarette, the sharp and deadly disillusionment that only belonged to ex-idealists. Part of her mind wondered that if the Corps could spend who knows what in money and human life to obtain their new war technologies, why they couldn't find the time to retrieve the new gene therapy formulas that repaired and even recreated human tissue. Somehow she didn't think that ranked very high priority here. War came first, and war's business. Life had to crowd into whatever small space was left over. This was not the exception, but the rule.

The rest of the journey proved that to be true. Guns and weapons and the "official" complexes were in fine working order, yet the brick and stone of the residences crumbled into powder before their very eyes. Soldiers filled their bellies with bowls of hot soup and thick chunks of white bread on one side of the street while on the other a two-block long line of civilians waited for rationing tickets.

"Seems a little uneven, doesn't it," she said, looking at him so she wouldn't see the faces of the children. "Even if we are at war."

"Not all injustices can be traced back to a government, or a man." he told her, his eyes peering over her shoulder, unafraid to look at each of the people in the crowd. "If the soldiers are too weak to fight, the civilians will die anyway. This is a simple truth of war, and it will not change until the fighting is over. People understand that."

Well, that sounded selfless enough. A tightness had settled deep in his chest at returning to find the society he helped create in ruins. Knowing he should never have left. But Scully and Mulder were friends....he couldn't have abandoned them. /Yeah, you tell yourself that, big guy. You can tell her that too. Spout your "righteous indignation" crap all day but you know why you left. The time was coming when you couldn't walk the middle line anymore. You were going to have to stand up and be counted for your beliefs....and you wanted a way out. Mulder just gave you an excuse. You really think that saving her will give you an excuse for turning your back on them all?/

He had never planned on returning. Having to look his men in the face and hope they believed his reason for leaving. Even if they did, they'd expect him to be their fearless leader. The man who'd bleed for them, die for them. Yes, he was willing to bleed, to die, but only if necessary. Not before. The middle man approach had saved his life a hundred times before, yet he'd always known he'd have to give it up someday.

Perhaps that day was today. Skinner wasn't sure how much longer he could watch and still pretend to swear loyalty to Nicolas' regime. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the little girls with swollen bellies that he had once taken an oath to "protect and serve."

/It was never supposed to be like this. Never. Then I blinked and everything we'd worked for was gone./

Ten silent minutes later the vehicle stopped in front of a large cement building which stood on the outer rim of what he remembered as the nexus of the city, the center of the military and political life that determined all other aspects of existence. Curt black lettering told them that they had reached Naturalization and Processing. He had almost forgotten that Scully was still officially an outsider. The line outside the building was almost as long as the ration lines, and he hoped that arrangements had been made in advance.

It turned out he was right. Somehow it didn't ease the metal band around his lungs, or quell the rebellious longing to grab his rifle and blast his way back out into open territory. He ignored both as he followed Scully and a duo of escort guards into the building.

Three cheers for home, sweet, home.

If she hadn't seen the sign outside, Scully could have sworn she was back at Enforcer Headquarters, marching through the door with Mulder as the prisoner of the illustrious Commander Krycek. That had been the first day of a nightmare she had yet to forget. /Just let that little rat cross my path again once. It wouldn't be murder. It'd be extermination./ An extremely nice mental image followed of a huge metal mousetrap and a wriggling Krycek sandwiched inside.

She almost laughed, then wondered just how nervous she really had to be in order to even find it funny.

/Easy, Starbuck. Show some of that steel./

The escort took them away from the main room and its never-ending lines of tired naturalization applicants and bored registrative secretaries, into a private office with a sign on the door reading Director of Naturalization Peter Burwell.

The Director, a short man with mustard stains on his tie and stringy yellow hair hanging down over his collar, rose to his feet as soon as he saw them. His pudgy fingers shoved his glasses back on his equally pudgy nose while his eyes flicked from the guards to Skinner. The Adam's apple in his throat bobbed in a hard swallow.

"Ahhh, General Skinner, uh, sir. We've been expecting you." As he spoke, his hands fumbled through the disarray of papers on his desk in vain attempt to restore order. "And Miss....uhhh...." his eyes fell on a sticky-note attached to his phone. "Scully." He seemed pleased with the small victory, the corner of his mouth twitching into a brief half-smile. "Please sit down and we'll get this over with as quickly as possible." He motioned to a chair covered in some kind of synthetic orange leather that crinkled when she moved into it. The sound seemed to put the poor Director on pins and needles, and she wondered whom he was more afraid of, Skinner or herself.

Skinner remained standing and the guards melted out the door to blend into the woodwork until needed again.. Director Burwell didn't push his glasses up quite so often after he noticed they were gone, instead dividing his attention between her and a very official looking form, full of blanks and boxes and places for signatures. She noticed that all of those had been filled in, and a large red APPROVED had been stamped at the bottom of the paper. Mulder's handiwork? He must be farther up the food chain that she first imagined. That might be a good thing, but the opposite was just as easily true.

"Full name?" Burwell's voice was more confidant now that he was back among his papers and his forms.

"Dana Katherine Scully."

"Background with the resistance?"

"None." He coughed and seemed a bit uneasy until she added, "No organized resistance. My...partner....and I preferred to work alone."

At this, he visibly relaxed and checked off the appropriate box. "Do you have any special skills?"

"I am a medical doctor and a forensic scientist."

"What about family?"

She traced a circle on the hideous orange upholstery before she answered. "None living."

"Marital status?" His eyes inevitably trailed back to Skinner, but she caught the gaze and sent it whimpering back to the forms.

"Single." she said.

"Children or dependents?"

"None. " The word scraped like a useless needle across an area of her emotions that was more a callous now than a wound.

"Any outstanding medical conditions or diseases?"

"No." There was the chip in her neck, but that might not go over big with a bunch of human purists. The phrase "witch burning" came to mind.

"Preferred area of service?"

"Medical if at all possible."

He scribbled the appropriate notes to the side of the page and then set his pen down, and pushed his glasses up with a gesture of finality. "We're all, uhh, finished here, Ms...uh, Dr... Scully. Here is your Citizen Identification card. Keep it with you at all times." Um, Just step outside and your escort will take you to medical for your, ahh, entrance physical. Welcome to our, ah, city." That said, he slumped back in his chair, the tension draining from his body and leaving him looking for all the world like a partially deflated balloon.

Despite the pretentious title, the "entrance physical" turned out to be little more than a formality. Again her papers had been approved in advance, all the necessary signatures and stamps in place. It took little more than five minutes for the doctor to make what he thought was a convincing show of checking her eyes, throat, ears and blood pressure then drawing a small sample of her DNA for analysis. Needles sank into her flesh but the doctor assured her it was only a routine antibiotic cocktail given to all immigrants upon arrival.

He could have filled her full of black oil and she wouldn't have noticed. Mulder was a matter of minutes away. Only a matter of steps, tiny questions beat into the earth with her feet and smothered by the pavement until no one heard. Scully counted time on her fingers, tapping them against the hard black surface of the examination table while pretending nothing else existed. Like any mechanical doll, her lips formed automatic responses to the doctor's questions, although his words faded in and out of her mind like static TV reception. Her ears heard but her mind was occupied elsewhere.

"Are you allergic....."

"No." /Does he still eat sunflower seeds and leave the husks on his desk so that I have to be the one to throw them away?/

"Have you been exposed to any...."

"No." /Will he still tease me about my height and drop those corny jokes of his into everything he says?/

"Do you plan on having any children?"

"No, I'm infertile." /Would he want children, someday?/

"We have a variety of fertility programs..."

"No, thank you." /He would be like me. He would never be responsible for bringing an innocent into this kind of world./

"Do you have medical....."

"Yes." /Will he say hello or will he say nothing and try to kiss me again?/

"How long..." More static. "....as a doctor."

"Since Before." /Will I let him?/

"....that just about wraps it up. Thank you for your time, Dr. Scully..."

"Thank you."

Her mind hadn't moved but her body stood up, mumbling some formality of courtesy and shaking his hand as she moved toward the door. Skinner was outside, talking words that made no sense inside her upside down mind.

/How many men has he killed?/ The thought dropped like a fallen angel straight into the pit of her stomach. /You promised not to think of that just yet./ She began to follow the escort back outside, walking faster to shake the pictures from her mind.

/I remember too much./

For five minutes, they traced the coils of the street through identically boring cement buildings, most connected to its neighbor by a covered hallway or sidewalk like links in a chain. The only break in the monotony came in the form of a reddish brick building, set off a distance from the road. Its immaculate courtyard boasted real grass, she noticed. A crimson flag stirred lazily in the breeze, emblazoned with the phoenix insignia she had seen on most cars and buildings. Underneath the emblem, the Corps motto unfolded in thick black letters. Long live the brotherhood of humanity. Glowing in the first rays of real sunlight, the words might have seemed convincing.

Until you walked the streets.

Scully did not think about this long. She felt her emotions swell more and more with each step into the building, a giant balloon that any minute could burst and leave pieces of her all over the steps. Between the red dots flashing back and forth in her vision, she read the sign by the door. Barrack Station 1 : Officers Only.

Four hallways and one flight of stairs later, she found herself on the second floor, standing in front of Room 428. Now Necessity forced her to listen to the escort guards as they explained her rooming assignment.

"Commander Mulder is in a tactical advisory meeting at the moment. He instructed us to show you to your quarters and tell you that he will be out as quickly as possible." The first guard, a tall dark man with an accent as deep as Georgia summers, held her duffel bag for her and gestured toward the room.

More waiting. She had to bite her tongue to try and keep the frustration from coming across acid strong. "When do you think that will be?"

"Any minute now, ma'am."

"And what of the General?"

"The Leader has requested that General Skinner join the meeting. As a senior officer he is sorely needed."

A quick eye telegraph with Skinner confirmed that he was already aware of this and had considered ulterior motives in advance. "Then I will not keep him." She remembered the graceful smile and the too-warm voice her mother had used when dealing with the Navy. It wasn't hard to mimic. "If you will please hand me my bag, I will be excusing myself." The effect was pleasing, all stars and stripes and no questions asked. /See, Skinner, I know how to play the game./ She glanced back at him, her eyes flashing a last warning for caution before turning to leave.

The doorknob turned under her sweaty guidance and she entered the room to begin the last wait. The longest wait. A million tomorrows had come and died and aged her to be an old woman before the door closed behind.

She was left alone.

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

Her duffel bag dropped to the floor beside her as she began to acquaint herself with the lay of the room. It was a more pleasant place than she had come expecting. At the far wall, a large window gave her a view of the yard behind the building, which boasted a garden of small yet vibrant red roses and two identical black stone benches that lent a Victorian flavor to the scene. A wall made from the same brick as the building hid the outside streets from view, but from the second story room she could see enough to remind her where she was.

Scully's interest diverted from the window to the interior as her eyes traveled slowly from corner to ceiling. The furnishings bore great resemblance to a double-occupancy hotel room. Two twin beds, both fitted with austere black blankets folded in military precision, sat near the eastern wall. The space in between was enough to accommodate a nightstand, and the wall above each had been fitted with a small bookshelf. Two doors were built into the western wall, and after some exploration she discovered that one was a bathroom-- with a working shower, luxury of luxuries-- and the other a closet. A small ceramic sink sat beside the window, three cabinets built above and below. Back beside the door, she saw for the first time the dresser and the note taped to a bag of sunflower seeds.

The writing was unmistakably Mulder's; it had taken her a good two years to learn how to decipher it so she wasn't likely to forget. The message was brief, yet it brought a lump halfway from her heart to her throat.

Welcome home.

He didn't have to say any more. It was a promise they had made to each other long ago, when they first became nomads and began wandering the desert only steps ahead of the law. They were to keep going because one day they would find a place that would be safe. A place that would be home. Some nights, she recalled, they would lie awake on the ground with only the stars for a roof and only each other for warmth and he would tell her what home would be like. Each detail was there, from the color of the wallpaper to the type of flowers in the garden. Grown-up fairytales, she used to call it, but that didn't stop her from listening. And hoping.

Now he welcomed her to the place he had described. The offer didn't need any more explanation. They could settle here, like real people who wanted to share a real life. They could forget the ugliness of the world and live forever off memories of better times and the better people they once were. They could be happy...

Or they could tell the truth. And face whatever consequences it held in store for them. Scully folded the note carefully, fingers sliding along the edges like a caress before she tucked it into her pocket. Perhaps he had not changed, so very much, after all. This she wanted to believe with all the faith that he had ever spent on his theories and his "extreme possibilities."

A doubt, treacherous and cunning, coiled at the base of her mind like a snake dropping around an egg, and she began to unpack with a single-minded purpose that could not quell the ever-faster beating of her heart. If he did not come soon, she might as well go mad as continue in this shadowland between want and fear.

Her only clothes-- the beautiful dress she had not yet worn and the underwear she was saving for just the right moment-- went into one of the empty dresser drawers in a sigh of silk and lace as if they were wondering what they had done to be rejected. Jeans and a T-shirt were much more practical for traveling across deserts, she had told herself. Mulder would expect her to be nothing else but what she was.

/And what does he think that is? The woman he knows or some idealization that has crept into his head?/

She put her handgun on top of the dresser, checking the ammo rounds by force of habit before she was content to step away. The rigid, unbending metal had always been a strange reassurance to her. A constant in a universe suddenly turned volatile. Now her hands lingered on it a moment longer than necessary, seeking the same comfort that part of her never changed.

/You know you've idealized him too. Admit it. When have you ever said what he really was? A killer. Maybe you both are, but he's different. He's played both sides./

No. Stubborn wrinkles formed at the edges of her lips. He was Mulder. That was all she needed to admit. All she needed to know.

/For now./

The mirror above the dresser reminded her that there was still grime on her face and tangles in her hair from the trips, that it made the circles under her eyes stand out even more than usual. This was something she *could* change. A short hunt through the bathroom produced the necessary items-- washcloth, brush, and a bar of white soap-- and she went about her business with a focus perhaps more intense than needed, but one that at least filled the time. The everlasting time that dragged by in the slow shuffle of an old man out for a walk.

Cool water rinsed the dirt from her face; she imagined it cleansed her mind as well, washing out the sledge of worry from the hollows and corners of thought. She fought and won the battle to regain control of her hair, but it was much harder to stem the rising tide of anticipation. Any second. Any minute. Those idiots had to make her wait, didn't they? She needed a magic word, something she could mutter three times under her breath to conjure him before her.

The pale lipstick smoothed her lips like icing, and the powder erased the hollows from her eyes until they were less than shadows. A touch of blush, dabbed in the right places, feigned the youth and innocence she had outgrown at twenty-one but now knew she missed. Life should be as easy as makeup. A swipe here, a blot here, and everything was as it should be.

Like she and Mulder deserved it to be. They had done their time on the front lines, even in the years before the battle when no one but "fools" believed. They had earned the right to peace.

When all was complete, she stood in front of the mirror and determined to smile just to prove her trembling fingers wrong.

/Please like me, Mulder. Please want me./

There was nothing left to do, but wait and see.

Tactical meetings never had kept his interest like a good Knicks-Bulls playoff, but they had never bored him either. There was an element of challenge, the process of outwitting the enemy intriguing him enough to warrant his attention.

Not today. Not when she was coming any minute.

Today the minutes were hours. The coffee was only half as stale as the arguments of his colleagues over the merits of Plan A as opposed to the reactionary impact of Plan B and yada yada yada. It was supposed to be a military meeting not high school debate club. Due to his experience in the many bore-sessions of the FBI, Mulder knew how to keep the cocklebur annoyance under his skin from his face. Talk about things you never know you'll appreciate.

But everything had a limit and it had began to stretch. Especially in the last fifteen minutes or so since the Special Advisory Windbag or whatever his real name was had taken it upon himself to point out all the "blatant deficiencies" of the attack strategy Mulder had spent all of last week developing. In a thin reedy tone ill suited for his fleshy red face, he spoke of the need for a "higher concentration of troops" and "an exponential increase in ammunition density."

The idiot didn't even deserve the courtesy of a dirty look. This mission had to succeed. In the past month, the western fringe of the Corps territory had been menaced by a garrison of Imperials who operated from a cluster of heavily armed bioweapons fortresses. Two previous attempts to storm the facilities had been disastrous. A third would be nearly fatal for the thinly spread Corps forces.

After analyzing the data streams from the failed missions, Mulder had discovered the problem. Even with a larger force, outside attack would be costly given the nature of the facilities and the lethal viruses protecting them. The focus should be within-- two man specialty units sent to infiltrate each facility and set explosives in reactors that powered the buildings. Loss of life, if any, would be slight. Potential impact would be tremendous. It wasn't just theory-- he and Krycek had run several identical missions and all had proven successful.

Nicolas was impressed. Therefore Windbag, the other tactical advisor, obviously felt the need to demonstrate his superiority. Mulder didn't have the patience to argue with him. If they wanted to slaughter their own troops trying to claw their way in through Level Five pathogens, more power to them.

He wanted to see Scully and he wanted to see her now.

What would she look like? Beautiful, of course. That went without saying. But the only memories he had in his mind were those of her in a time when he could feel her ribs through her clothes when he reached to hold her. When her skin was cold and her eyes dark with heavy memories. His visit to Chile had come months after her release from prison. Too late to put his arms around her when she needed it the most, but right in time to see the scars left by the struggle.

He knew Skinner had done his part. It was both a relief and a source of envy, that his place should have been filled even partially by another man. /Not anymore. Once I have you back I am never leaving you again. We'll be home. At last./

If she wanted him.

If.....

/Please.....want me/

A knock at the door cut Windbag off mid-sentence, but Mulder paid little attention until he heard the voice.

"General Skinner is here."

His head snapped up as if yanked, not fully believing until sight proved hearing to be truthful. Skinner stood just inside the doorway, shoulders straight and hands resting loosely at his side. One look convinced Mulder that this was his element, that this had always been and that every man in the room knew it. Even Nicolas.

"I salute the Leader and my brothers in the Cause." He gave a traditional greeting, his hand touching his forehead in a razor sharp salute.

No one moved. Some seemed shocked that he was a man and not a ghost, but others hid smiles inside their eyes and exchanged knowing glances. Windbag's ruddy face blanched to wax along the edges, his mouth open and gaping like a dead fish.

"We thought you were dead..." he stammered. The fat rolls along the sides of his jaw quivered with every word.

"Of course the General isn't dead." Nicolas smiled, the congenial tone in his voice not quite reaching his eyes. "He's merely returning from a slight....leave of absence. Isn't that right, General."

"Yes." The voice and the face behind it were granite, professional and unreadable. Mulder knew it was a normal expression on the man, but suspected it was intentional here, for whatever reason. Skinner turned his gaze from Nicolas to include the entire party. "I took a leave of absence to tend to personal matters in South America." His eyes met Mulder's for a long moment before he continued. "They are resolved now and I have returned to carry on my duty with the Corps."

"The Cause is grateful, you can be sure." There it was, right underneath Nicolas' words. Sarcasm. Just a hint.

Mulder couldn't be sure, however. His mind was far too preoccupied with Her. She was here....now....waiting for him....

Skinner spoke as if he hadn't even heard the comment. His words were nothing but polite. Each one exactly chosen. "If the assembly would like me to sit in on this session, I will be honored. If not, then I ask the Leader's leave to return to my quarters, as it has been a long trip."

"Stay, stay." Nicolas swept his hand toward an empty chair. "The opinions of a respected leader such as yourself are always welcomed." He smiled again, using his lips and not his eyes.

Whatever those two had between them could stay that way. Between them. Mulder would think about that later. In these seconds, one thing filled his mind to overflowing, pushing away all else.

/She's here. She's here. She's here./

It scared him to death but it felt so good.

"Sir." He stood to his feet and addressed Nicolas directly, breaking protocol and caring about it as much as a dead ant under his shoe. They could try to stop him if they liked. "My part in this meeting is completed. I have explained the mechanics of the attack strategy and provided a plan for carrying it out. The committee will make up its mind with or without me. I request permission to return to my quarters." There was a hesitation, but he didn't wait, pushing his chair into the table and gathering his folders into a neat pile.

"Permission granted." The word "permission" grated against the air a bit harder than normal. A reminder even though it would be ignored. "Thank you for your analysis."

Mulder was already to the door and disappearing from the room by the time Nicolas finished. This was why he never saw a thin blue fire enter the Leader's eyes and flicker there for a moment before dying away. He would never feel the tentacles withdrawing from the belly of his mind.

By this time, they were deeper than thought.

He ran the block and half from the Command Central to the Officer's Quarters in the heat of a sprint, each step bringing him nearer to Her and increasing in the fire under his skin by powers of ten. Time stretched long and slow down the street and between the buildings, but in an instant it snapped back to an acceleration and he realized he was standing outside her door.

Paralyzed.

/What if this is a mistake?/ To walk into the room was to be with her again. To hold her and to kiss her, but also to be unveiled before her. The murders, the guilt, the scarlet sins. If he walked away, they at least had their memories. If he continued, would even those end in ruin?

His head rested against the cold plaster of the wall, eyes closed against the tearing in his chest. Liquid drums beat a wild war dance louder and louder in his ears and between the walls of his veins. Chaos. Insanity. Hope.

can't. can't. can't.

How much do you love her?

want. want. want.

Enough.

Can't. Can't. Can't.

Enough to open the door?

Want. Want. Want.

His hand clutched the doorknob.

Can't.

Want.

Mulder stepped into the room.

A woman stood in front of a mirror, her hands frozen in her hair, as a reflection of her face bounced back at him in disbelief. The hair was redder than in his memories, the color no longer smothered in dye meant to kill an identity. But the eyes were just as blue as ever. He was just as lost. All he could manage was one word, half-caught between a whisper and a question.

"Scully...."

The woman turned around to steal his breath but he would have gladly surrendered it. She was not a memory anymore. She was real. Perfect from lips to fingers. His hands were already tingling with memories of softness, holding those fingers in the dark and feeling each butterfly bone beneath the skin.

(It had always amazed him how something so delicate could be so strong.)

"Mulder." Her voice. Now he couldn't be dreaming. She had spoken to him. Those lips had moved, and he wanted to make her talk so they would move again. Slowly, against his.

/Think of something. Don't stand there staring./

"Hello." The longer he looked at her the more she threatened to sweep him away. Words were not enough. He could use them, yes, to tell her how much he had missed her, how she was the only beautiful thing he had ever called his own. He could tell her or he could show her.

"Hello." Two conversations took place underneath one another. Her words echoed his, but their eyes tangled through one another and spoke a different language entirely. Questions. Invitations. Desires. He was mesmerized to the core, and resisted none of it.

Their voices died entirely as he walked toward her, never breaking away from the eyes that widened in uncertainty yet pulled him closer at the same moment. His hands touched hers, fingertips working gently to uncurl hers and press them length to length against his owns. A tremor slid down her arm and into him, up his body and deep into his brain. He did not stop to think what he was doing, or why, as he brought her hand up to his lips.

Five tiny kisses, soft and barely dusted on each of her fingertips. The tremor came again. She did not advance but she did not pull away. Waiting. Mulder searched her face for some sign of rejection.

There was none. No fear. Not a line of condemnation.

His lips touched her shoulder next, pressing soft benediction through the thin cloth of the T-shirt. One hand remained intertwined with hers and the other encircled her waist, and her free hand reached up to meet him, running up his spine to the back of his neck. Her eyes were so close now. So close.

He leaned forward and kissed her hello. Sweet and soft but building, slowly. They could live like this forever. Forget the past and the demons. Forget the pain it cost to save your own soul. They could live off kisses alone and be happy.

Then the dream ended.

Her body stiffened mid-kiss, pulling back sharply. Confused, he moved with her, still caught up in the burn, until her hand moved from his neck to press firmly against his chest.

Mulder realized what she was doing.

The pain hit him right before she pushed him away.

to be continued ... part 4