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

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Resurrection (5/8)
by darkstar
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He unbuckled his gun and his ammunition belt, dropping both on the floor with an unceremonious clunk. The noise of it must have surprised him, for his eyes darted toward her as if fearing he had disturbed her "sleep". She closed her eyes in an instant, and counted a long fifteen seconds before chancing to open them again.By that time, he'd turned on a small lamp that divided him and the kitchen area between tawny light and shadow.

Mulder knelt on the floor before the sink, reaching far back into the cabinet until he withdrew two items-- a shot glass, and a tall bottle of something that glowed dark amber in the lamp light. Tequila, she thought, with horseradish bitterness. His brand of choice. Again he seemed concerned, nearly afraid, that she was awake. His eyes turned back to her, glazed over with a guilty man's sheen.

Scully eased her eyes shut again, thankful her half of the room was still swathed in darkness. A moment passed, then she heard the tinkling of the bottle against the glass, loud as the shattering of windows in her ears. The soft slash of the liquor in the bottle rippled in waves across her ears, chilling her to the bone.

Should she interrupt? Intervene?

No, not tonight. Not tonight. No matter how much she wanted to stop him, it would be more beneficial to both of them if she held her tongue and waited out the silent storm. The demons within him must be strong, if they drove him to this. She had to know what she was up against. And beyond all that, she knew from experience the impossibility of reasoning with a man while liquor possessed him. Bill Jr. had come home more than once in that state, and her attempts to calm him inevitably resulted in a screaming match as temper vied with temper.

/But Mulder would never act that way to you..../

Then, she did not know that. She had never had the chance to find out.

Now she watched him again, her gaze creeping around him with cat feet that avoided even passing contact with his eyes. The magnetism between them was too strong-- even when dulled on his end by his forget-the-world juice-- and she was afraid he would find her staring.

He was writing something, between drinks, and it was no small surprise his hands did not shake more than they did. He was either one of those men who naturally held their booze well, or he had been at it a lot longer than she had thought. That thought quickly dampened hope, and her fingers moved just enough to pull the covers closer to her chin.

Now, exactly at this moment, it would be easy to be repulsed. To condemn.

Instead she ached. Deeper than bones she ached, because she saw through the haze clouding his features to recognize the pain in the tightness of his jaw and the quivering of his lips. She was the monster here. She had turned him into this; she had been weak and he had killed because of it. Scully wanted to tell him this, to pour it out as water to heal the thirst between them, but she could not. First she must find a way to heal herself; broken vessels made poor gifts.

The thoughts had spun her into their web so completely that she only now realized he was staring at her again. Purposefully. And now moving, in her direction....

She pressed her eyes shut as if she could squeeze a prayer from them as his breathing neared her. The pungent odor of the tequila stung her nostrils until she held her breath for fear of coughing and betraying the charade. The floor creaked as he fell rather clumsily to his knees beside her bed. She could sense the electricity of him through the rice-paper thin barrier of her eyelids. She could feel the heat.

He sat perfectly still at first, and she could sense his eyes dancing a slow waltz across her face. Searching for something she wished she knew how to help him find. Then his fingers touched her skin, a light homage against her hair and trailed down to her cheekbones. Across her lips.

He burned her alive, and it took all the ice she had inside her to remain motionless. She hardly dared allow her heart to beat, for the slightest release might send all walls tumbling to the earth. She would rise, Sleeping Beauty awakened to claim her kiss, and pull him to her and they would forget everything....

When he leaned forward, the fairytale soured from the liquor on his breath, a taint so strong she could taste it. Taste the guilt. For a brief tug-of-war between fear and desire, she thought he would kiss her anyway. Instead he pulled back abruptly, leaving only a breath mark in her ear.

"Forgive me...."

Then he fell into his bed, and into the lullaby of a drunken man's oblivion.

Sleep did not come so easily for her. The tears that had hardened under the pressure of her self-control melted now, soaking her cheekbones and her lips where he had touched but not kissed. The skin remained moist until exhaustion, the savior of all troubled minds and beleaguered souls, came to tuck her gently into slumber.

Morning smiled over the east with the slow warmth of dawn, and in the first minutes after she opened her eyes, Scully swore she had dreamed the night. The windows of the apartment were open to the morning sunlight and a soft breeze. The same breeze diffused the fragrance of fresh coffee through every fiber of her sleepy muscles.

"I see someone finally decided to rejoin the living."

Mulder's voice-- firm and strong and clean of even the hint of alcohol-- greeted her and she looked up to see him standing already dressed in the kitchen. His hands were steady as he poured coffee into two black mugs, not a sign of a hangover about him. No circles darkened his eyes. No headache sharpened his words. Well, they did have drugs for that now. They had drugs for everything.

"I made breakfast." he said, his smiling as warm upon her face as the morning sun and in its own way just as blinding. "To make up for skipping dinner last night. Let's see if I can still get it right...Coffee, medium black, with exactly two teaspoons of sugar, and toast, lightly browned, with butter?"

"Impressive, Mulder." She returned the smile. "Of course, you have an unfair advantage. Photographic memory and all." She slid out of bed, legs tingling in adjustment to the lingering remnants of night's chill as she headed for the dresser.

Mulder tried not to choke on his next breath as he watched her cross the room, bare legs white and satin soft against the huge shirt she had worn to bed. Her hair framed her face in lazy curls and sleep-tangles, giving her the same girl-child innocence she had last night....

His grip tightened on the coffeepot, and he dropped his eyes to hide the disgust on his face. Fourteen days he had been sober. Fourteen days, he'd told himself it was over. That he no longer wanted the poison to eat his brain because Scully was here and she was enough. Only now that she was close enough to touch-- close enough to break-- he could not find the courage to confess. Last night's patrol had thrown him right back into the gutter.

What else can you do when you carry back from the desert the screams of the woman and children you killed? A mother and two innocent little boys, humans that bled as she did and as Sam did. Their crime? The father had been caught selling weapons to Imperials in exchange for food rations to ensure his family didn't starve when winter hit. The law demanded that the entire family die, innocents with the guilty. Arms dealing was a capital crime. But he might havefound a way to save the children....if only he'd had the chance....

/"You said to burn the house," his men had told him as flames roared over the screams. "So we did. We figured it'd be easier to torch them along with it....save the bullets."/

He had cursed them and he cursed himself but it was too late. The dry wood burned quickly; he could not even get the door open. The burns on his hands proved only that he had tried....

Mulder realized the cup was about to overflow, and set the coffeepot down, forcing himself to relax. In thirty minutes, he had a post-mission briefing with Nicolas. Nicolas knew how to take the pain away. Between now and then, he would smile for Scully and laugh for Scully and enjoy her beauty. It was the oxygen in his world, the life.

At least she had not seen him last night.

"How was patrol?" she called over her shoulder as she finished buttoning the jeans she had pulled on under the shirt.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Uneventful." It was a necessary lie. This would be over soon. Soon. "Just a few stray skirmishes here and there. Routine rodent-hunting." He laughed, knowing it would sound real, thanks to the hangover pills he had swallowed when he woke up. They were not normally his first choice--he figured that if he was man enough to drink, he was man enough to pay for it-- but things were not "normal" anymore.

He had to make her happy. At any cost.

She was walking in his direction. He reminded himself for the third time to smile.

"Is that how you did this? Rodent-hunting?" Scully took the coffee he handed her, but set it down immediately, reaching for his hands. The palms were wrapped in white gauze, and the skin around the edges of the bandage red and puffy. Burns? Why hadn't she seen this last night? It was dark....but....

She should never have pretended to sleep. He must have been in pain, and she should have been there to soothe and to heal. But why, then, hadn't he woken her?

"Yeah...umm....one of my flash grenades went off early." He flinched at her contact, even though she hadn't touched the wounds. "Fortunately I dropped it in time to save my arms, but as you can see I got a bit of a souvenir for my carelessness." He forced nonchalance into the words. As if it happened every day.

/Oh, but doesn't it?/ His demons hissed the words throughout his mind. /Go ahead, tell her how you set the children on fire./

"Mmm-hmm. I've heard that before. You'd better just be glad you've got a lucky streak to match." Scully smiled, even though the story she had just heard in no way explained last night. For now she had to let him believe she believed it did. "And that I keep you out of trouble."

"Always." His fingers encircled her wrists, capturing her hands against his just a second longer than accident. She knew it had to irritate the burn, but his eyes showed no pain. They rarely did, anymore. Once she could have looked at him and in one glance read his entire soul. Now the view was...clouded.

She pulled away, back to her seat to test her coffee. The liquid heat seared the tastebuds on the tip of her tongue, but the flavor was full and deep. Pleasure and pain at the same time. Her fingers traced idle circles around the lip of the cup. /Time to fish for an answer or two./ "Why didn't you have them healed?"

"A bit much for a mere surface burn, don't you think?" He took a sip of coffee, and his face curled in a mock grimace. "Now I know why you always made the coffee.."

"Be serious, Mulder."

"Seriously, Scully, it's not that bad. Healers are reserved for critical cases, anyway. Their talent is too dangerous for liberal use."

"Don't tell me you believe that too."

"What?"

"Never mind." Mulder's little diversions could be cute-- sometimes-- but here there were annoying. It meant he was trying to distract her from the real issue, not a good sign at all. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were in deep sleep, and I didn't have the heart."

/And you had other business./ "I wouldn't have cared. I'm your doctor, remember? I bandage all scraped knees and bruised elbows." Scully abandoned the information gathering as a lost cause, tuning the cadence of her voice to match the lightness of his tone.If he wanted to play games, let him. There were always two solutions to every problem. If he kept the front door locked, she would climb through a window.

"Better hurry and finish your toast." he said, the smile never wavering. Crocodiles smiled like that.

"Trying to get rid of me, Mulder?" /So you can toss back your coffee with a little drink?/

"Never, but your first shift starts in one hour. Dr Field gets a bit crabby if new doctors show up late."

"One hour??"

"More like forty-seven minutes, but I rounded up..."

Scully did not wait to hear anymore, scooting back from the table and moving with light speed to the dresser. /Now I remember why I hated med school./ She yanked the drawer open, grabbing underwear and a towel in one motion. /He did this on purpose, just to see me run around like a chicken on LSD./

"What do I wear?" she called out of the bathroom, kicking the door shut with one foot and reaching for the shower with her free hand.

"Your uniform."

"I don't *have* a uniform."

"It's in the closet." He was laughing. She could hear it. "I picked it up yesterday."

She might have laughed too, but from where she stood, the sound struck a different chord than it had only moments ago. Something strange and in a minor key....

Maybe it was just the water in her ears.

She knew better than that. Just as she knew last night was no dream.

She was gone.

A heavy breath deflated his lungs as his shoulders slumped, and the spandex-taut lines of his smile snapped back into mere creases around his mouth. He had always hated charades. Why didn't he just tell her everything, every detail, and hope she would understand? /Yeah, that's great, G-man./ The same imp inside his brain chuckled, refusing to leave him even a moment's peace. /While she finishes her toast you can tell her what the air smelled like after the fire died away, how the bone ash felt between your fingers. Tell her about your drinking habits too. You can talk about it when you walk her to her first day of work./

Mulder slammed his hand palm-down against the table, sending the toast jumping and creating miniature waterspouts in the middle of his coffee. Yes, it hurt. The pain swarmed like a hoard of fire ants throughout his arm and shoulder until he closed his eyes to hide sudden tears. He embraced it.

/Tell her the truth./ This time his soul spoke, a still small voice in the middle of a whirlwind. /When has she turned you away?/

Never. But that was...before...

/Love doesn't change just because the rest of the universe does./

He had no qualms about telling her everything. Everything except these secret sins, the leper spots on his conscience. Would she purify it or be infected by it? The fear burned icy cold that the latter would triumph. That he would....decay....her and disfigure that tiny portion of her that remained untouched by evil. There was another place he had failed, but that was a different penance reserved for a different time.

Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, he wanted to reach out to her. She would never imagine how brightly she shone in his eyes. Yet his doubt persisted, an eclipse over that sun.

Mulder lifted his coffee to his lips, savoring the bitterness against his tongue. He would take the matter to Nicolas. Nicolas had the answers, and if not, the man kept enough whiskey under his desk to more than make up for the lack.

/Is that really the kind of escape you want? Don't you want to be free of it all?/

Free. Hah. That word didn't apply to him. He had killed for the Colonists to keep Scully alive. He had killed for Nicolas to bring her back to his side. Now what good reason did he have? What justification was left him?

Atonement, Nicolas said. You buy your salvation in the blood of the enemy. But that blood wasn't supposed to be from children, now was it? Guess he'd find out.

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Before any words broke the silence, a star birthed inside his mind, a great glowing ball of red and black fire that blossomed from his subconscious the moment he heard the footsteps outside the door. The raw emotion of it chafed along the inside of his veins, rubbing the tissue until it tingled with the heat of pleasure. He knew these emotions, and he knew well the images they brought to his mindscape. Only one man possessed such passion kept under such bare restraint.

The door opened.

"I can't do this anymore."

Nicolas looked up, a smile already on his face, as Mulder burst into the room, his brow crinkled in the usual frustration. What was it this time, he wondered. More complaints about undue mission risk? Perhaps another petty quibble over the unnecessary violence. If Mulder was so concerned now, he must have been a real boy scout back in his idealistic days. It was sickening.

Yet, the death of that idealism, disgusting as it was, had left wounds on the man's emotional skin that were simply delicious. He had seen them, with his inner eyes, and he had painted them. Long jagged scars, and short but deep gashes, some partly healed but most open and exposed to any prying finger. How they throbbed today! Nicolas could feel the guilt, warm and sticky across his mind as freshly squeezed blood. Blood was a beautiful thing.

He shifted in his chair to calm the raging heat in his veins.

"Is something wrong?" Nicolas leaned forward, molding his face into a perfect mask of concern. If he did not keep control, his enjoyment might very well bleed into Mulder's emotions. The man was a tricky subject, harder to control than most due to the fiery and volatile nature of his subconscious. The key, Nicolas had learned, was to use that heat against the mind itself. To cultivate it, temper it until it burned just hot enough to keep the torment in place. If he released too much sympathy, the guilt would dissipate. If he allowed the pain to scorch the mind too much, the entire consciousness would melt. A broken tool was not useful. One day, there would be a time for breaking. He would relish that day.

Today, it was time to be a friend.

"Look at this." Mulder held out his hands, bandages stark white against the leathered skin. The ball of his emotions boiled with red-black geysers of lava that shot high against the blackness then fell back into the heart of the sun. Ah, anger flares. These were only mild, but they never failed to impress. Nicolas decided to wait before moving into manipulation, allowing the connection he had so carefully built into the man's mind to strengthen before testing it again.

"You're injured? How? I'll call my personal healer right away and he'll take care of it immediate-"

"You don't understand!" The man interrupted him, taking a step forward until he stood directly before the desk. His voice raised a half-step in pitch, but Mulder was doing an admirable job of keeping his outward restraint. Then again, that was expected of an Enforcer. Rumors whispered they were more kin to stone than men. Or, in Mulder's case, stone outside and black hole suns underneath. "I don't want a healer and I don't want sympathy. These are burns. Burns I got from a house where two little boys and their mother died because your men were too quick to kill."

Not this argument again. They had been over it all before, but not since the very earliest days of their agreement. He had hoped to build within Mulder a tolerance for violence. Obviously, things had not developed as he had hoped. Nicolas took a moment before answering, pretending to contemplate Mulder's words as he decided which emotion to press to his advantage. Some sort of calming effect would be desired.

He focused his energy over that emotion, watching the blue-white waves of peace flow from his mind into Mulder. The burning mass of pain and guilt absorbed the first few rays without so much as a flicker of change, but slowly Nicolas began to see a tinge of blue to the very tip of the flames. Not as much as he had hoped for, but that would do for now.

"You would have spared the life of weapons dealers."

"I would have killed the man responsible for the weapons. I would have saved the woman and the children. The Corps has a reputation for vigilance, but isn't there some call for a reputation as well for mercy?"

"Mercy." An iron cord of anger tightened his jaw into a strained smile. /Oh, but who does that little Boy Scout think he is? He sits there with blood on his hands and he dares to talk of *mercy* ? And even more, it is to be extended to the traitors who refuse to support the Cause! To the apathetic!/

This time he had to apply the calming trick to his own mind. Rage would ruin the facade of empathetic mentor that he had worked so carefully to erect. So Mulder wanted to know about mercy, did he?

Then he would learn of it until he was sick.

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"Let me tell you a story, Mulder. It's about mercy. About those poor innocent bystanders who you seem to place such a high value on." Yes, this proved a most fortunate opportunity indeed. He felt the eagerness in Mulder, the desire for some sort of answer to assuage his torment, and would use that hunger as a portal for his next manipulation. As he began to talk, he opened up every channel of his own mind. He knew what sort of emotions the past brought spinning to the surface of his blood. He wanted Mulder to feel it, pulse for pulse.

"Once upon a time, as all good stories start, a man and woman wanted a baby girl. They had been married for four years without children, and now it was time to bring one into the world that they could call their very own. They would give her the very best of everything, of course. It back in the days when America was the land of the best. So they waited and hoped and in the spring, a child was born. She had golden hair, just like a little angel, and eyes so much like her mother that to look into them was to see her mother's soul. And the man loved her, just as he loved his wife. Maybe even more. She was his bright cherub. His firstborn."

Nicolas paused a moment, trying to cut through the storms of his own emotions to gain some sense of Mulder's. There was still that eagerness, mixing now with an anticipation of sorts. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He wouldn't want to be a disappointment.

He continued.

"She was three when the aliens came. The man knew he had to protect her and her mother from the monsters. That he had to fight for them and for his country. Some of his friends felt the same way about their wives, about their nation. They began to organize a resistance, ready to fight until the death. But t hey never got that chance. Do you know why? The rest of the townspeople were afraid. They were bystanders, Mulder. Just like the woman and children you wish you could have saved. They had no notions of honor, or of love, or of courage. All they knew was the stench of their own fear and it poisoned them."

Nicolas watched Mulder flinch as the black shockwave of anger slammed full force into him. He made no attempt to soften the emotion. It was time for Mulder to hate....as he himself hated. Time for it to hurt.

"They told the man and his friends that they would fight, but in secret they surrendered to the Imperials. Just like sheep. As a token of their good faith, they turned over the names of each of the 'dissidents'. Early one morning, the man found himself pulled from his bed by a group of Imperial soldiers. His wife and daughter were torn from his arms, still in their nightgowns, and dragged into the street. The whole town was there. All of them, staring like vultures waiting for their breakfast. The man looked around and saw his friends there as well, with their wives and their children and their lovers. He thought he was going to die."

The next words were difficult, even after so many years. Nicolas blinked twice to hide the sheen of tears that would have been embarrassing to the exalted position of The Leader.

"He didn't die. None of his men did. Instead, the soldiers tied their hands behind their backs and placed guns against their heads and made them watch as their wives and children were nailed to the walls of their houses. It was a demonstration of power, you see. Just in case anyone else tried to rebel. Mercy? The man begged for it. He had never begged for anything before, but he pleaded with the soldiers to put him on the wall and let his daughter live. They laughed at him when they set the houses on fire."

His jaw tightened but he forced the words out between clenched teeth.

"And my wife and daughter burned to death while I sat and watched. Tell me, Mulder, how innocent those bystanders are now. They claim to have no interest in the war, but they are ready to betray any who stand up for the truth. I was taken by the Imperials, to the experimentation camps. I watched helplessly as my men were tortured day after day in the labs, and I was just as powerless to save myself. You can't imagine how much pain a man can stand before he dies. Believe me, it lasts a lot longer than your will to live. They meant to break me but instead they taught me that the only way to win is to match evil for evil. Blow for blow, no matter how extreme. We must control them as they would control us, or else we will be defeated. I carried this knowledge with me once I escaped. I swore to defend Humanity from the alien monsters and from the spineless weaklings who submit to them. All of them are guilty, Commander. Even their women. Even their children. They are taught the same treachery as their men. You must realize this. Look at the people you claim were so innocent-- the man was a weapons dealer. He sold guns to the creatures who kill our brothers. His entire family knew, yet they did nothing to oppose him. You say he only wanted to survive. That is the excuse they gave me when they nailed my wife and daughter to the walls. They are all the same, Mulder. They appear innocent, but they scheme and they lie and I will not allow them to kill any of our children, anymore."

"But to burn alive-"

"Judgment meet for their crimes. A painful realization, I know, but one that is true nonetheless."

Nicolas pressed his words deep into Mulder's mind, slashing the emotions across the man's subconscious with the quickness of a razor blade. He pried apart the wounds with his fingers and forced his hate into the blood that welled up. /Hate them, Mulder. Hate them as I hate them. Become what I know you can become./

It was so close.....

He could feel the tremble of Mulder's mind, the delicate balance on the verge of collapse into submission. The man's eyes shook. His fingers quivered. Any moment he would surrender and fall into the beautiful abyss. Any minute now....

Wait. Something was wrong. Something resisted him, a golden shaft of light that sprung from the core of Mulder's mind. It pushed the hate back, not entirely, but with enough force to keep it from overwhelming as it should have done. When he reached out to draw it into his own mind, hoping to identify it, he could not believe his senses.

It was love. Love that was weakened yet just strong enough to preserve hope and prevent the sway of total darkness. Repulsive, yes, but potentially deadly. The woman....Scully....she was responsible for this. The light had never appeared before her arrival. Now it took all of his concentration to smother it before it completely drove him from Mulder's mind. At least a little of the hate had seeped through the defenses, and Nicolas pushed against those seeds of darkness until he felt his temples swell to bursting point. /Feel the guilt. Feel your pain. Feel your anguish. If you will not hate, then you will suffer. You will suffer and you will bleed for me before you leave today./

Mulder's eyes already showed that blood as he faced Nicolas again. "I am sorry for your loss, Nicolas. Truly, I am, but....there has to be some other way." He sounded uncertain....it was about time. At last, Nicolas saw the light waning, burning low in fear when faced by the all-powerful black hole of the man's self-hatred. Nicolas wiped away the sweat on his face with a firm and confident swipe of his hand. He was again the master of Mulder's emotions. The connection was restored.

"If we do not protect our own people, who will?" Now that the pain began to bite, it was time to play savior. He would, as always, take all the nasty burdens of reality from Mulder's shoulders and tell him what a good man he really was. "But I see your point of view." He began to wrap tiny silken threads of sympathy around Mulder's emotions, spinning them lightly as a spider across a windowsill. "If you would prefer not to take part on missions that deal with civilians, it can be arranged. The Corps is not blind to the needs of her soldiers. All I have to do is sign a paper and you will be transferred to an anti-Enforcer unit." Nicolas dangled hope before Mulder's eyes and watched him devour it whole.

"You can do that?"

"I'm the Leader." Nicolas smiled warmly. "I know you, Mulder. You came to me searching for a way to atone for your past crimes, and when have I turned you away? I gave you one method of redemption and if that is not good enough, I have many more. But you have to keep the faith. The Cause will demand a sacrifice of her sons and of her daughters. Sometimes it is our blood. Sometimes it is the blood of others."

Mulder seemed to digest the words before speaking again, his question an abrupt change of subject that Nicolas didn't even feel coming. "I want to tell her that. Should I?"

Here was a new danger. When Mulder was alone, he had been easy enough to manipulate. Nicolas could keep the man coming back to him because he was simply the only one available to listen. But now there was the matter of this woman Scully. She was the light inside his mind, the force that could heal his every wound. Even if Mulder didn't realize it yet, if he regained his relationship with her, he would see it soon enough. The web of emotional control that had taken so long to weave would be broken.

Although Nicolas had already determined he would not allow that to happen. Mulder was his tool. His reluctant, yet deadly weapon. No mere woman would steal that away.

"That depends." He said. "How do you think she would accept it?"

"I wish I knew."

"Men like you and I have to be careful with our secrets, Mulder. We are often forced to do things that would shock someone who is less devoted to the Cause. Your Scully is new here. She hasn't had time yet to adjust herself to our way of life. I think that if you reveal yourself too soon, you risk driving her away. Wait, instead, for a month. Maybe two. Let her become one of us, and then you can tell her anything and be unafraid."

Mulder said nothing at first, but his eyes agreed. It had been a simple persuasion, really. Mulder had known before he ever walked through the door that he wasn't going to tell his woman the truth. He had simply wanted a validation of it. And validation, Nicolas thought warmly, was always easy enough to provide.

"A month."

"Maybe less, maybe more. You will know yourself when you are ready to talk. Until that time comes, forget about your doubts. We all experience them. I think that the change to anti-Enforcer work will be good for you. There is no better reminder of the complete evil we are battling. I do warn you, though, the workload will be more demanding. You will run difficult missions, and often they will be in enemy territory. This means prolonged time in the field as well. Just be aware of that before you decide." Nicolas ran his finger along the edge of the desk. Mulder's absence would give him an opportunity to investigate Scully. If she influenced Mulder's mind with such power, one could only imagine the strength of her own mind. Perhaps she was the one he waited for. The perfect painting. Would she be sweet, he wondered, when he broke her down or would it be more fire and spice? He could taste it on his lips, on the sides of his tongue. What a blow it would be to the people's beloved Hero when he returned from a field mission to find his woman belonged to another man. That her love lived in another's mind.

In the time it took him to indulge in the fantasies, Mulder seemed to have come to a decision. "Tell me when I start."

"Tomorrow." Nicolas smiled, the flush of victory warm under his skin. "You'll receive mission details at the normal briefing time. I wish you the best of luck in your new field."

"Thank you, sir." Mulder rose to his feet, his eyes a little less wounded.

"Don't mention it." Nicolas was glad some of the man's spirit was back. After all, a field operative needed all his wits if he was going to survive. Mulder had those wits. He made a fine killer, and had proven it time and time again. "Take the rest of the day off. Sleep. Relax. Take your woman to the officer's club and buy her a beer. That's an order." He grinned, all laughter and good ol' boy humor.

"I'll keep it in mind."

"You're dismissed."

As Mulder walked away, Nicolas slowly withdrew himself from the connection between their minds, leaning back in his chair as a deep satisfaction warmed his gut like expensive wine. He would spend the rest of the morning painting. He would capture Mulder's mind, a burning red star in an empty universe and he would steal from it the strange and beautiful light. He would possess that light.

And watch it bleed from his brushes to drip slowly down the canvas. He would watch it die.

Mulder's steps took him at a brisk march down the hallway, past offices and desks and secretaries to someplace where the air was clear and the sun shone and there was no fog inside his mind. He barely knew if he had breathed from the time that he set foot inside the office to the moment when the doors to H eadquarters shut behind him. He sucked the pure air into his lungs, letting it drift through his mind and blow away all cobwebs.

Something was not right. Nicolas did not hand out such favors to just anyone. The man wanted something; if it wasn't clear before, it was crystalline now. All that remained was the five million dollar question of "what". A thousand suspicions itched at his mind like burrs stuck under a saddle. The answers seemed so close, yet shrouded in a mist. Something whispered to him that the mist would always cloud his judgment when he was around Nicolas. That the air would never be pure when he was near the man.

The only question remained how did he proceed?

From the start he had accepted the fact that Nicolas would try to use him. He had planned to use the Corps right back. And wasn't he? He knew how to walk the line, when to listen to Nicolas and when to only pretend to listen. And now he had been given exactly what he had longed for. No more civilian life would be taken in front of him. Instead he would get the chance to strike back at the very enemy who had taken his dignity and his pride from him. It would seem he was winning the game. But there was that glint in Nicolas' eye, the rattle snake smile on his lips whenever they talked. It made Mulder wonder exactly what price Nicolas would demand in return for his generosity.

Every snake had a lair. He would discover the Leader's secret soon enough. In the mean time, he would do nothing to arouse suspicion. He would be every bit the son of Humanity he had been before; maybe even better. It would be enjoyable duty, if he got to kill Enforcers. They were like rats. The more of them that died, the less chance of disease. It would be just like in the old days, when he used to hunt Imperials with Scully and kill them in their sleep.

That thought brought a smile to his lips as he walked down the street. The fresh air indeed had cleared his mind, and in place of the mist, there was a clarity of purpose he welcomed.

Though Nicolas had been right about one thing, at least.

Scully was not to hear any murderer's confession. Not yet.

Not until he was worthy enough to confess. If that was the requirement, then he would push for that atonement, more and more every day. He would dream of it at night and bask in the hope of it when morning came.

One day, perhaps he would wake up to find himself ready. And then it would be beautiful again.

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

From eight o'clock to noon, Scully's world was consumed by a relentless flurry of charts, patients, and babies, babies, everywhere. Morning was spent in post-natal care, checking the littlest members of the Corps for sickness or deformity, as well as ensuring the health of their mothers. Che assisted her in this, via her special request, applying his talents as needed under her watchful eye. She knew Mulder would shield her from the penalties if they were caught healing without authorization, but Che had no such cushion. It did not take the two of them long to work out a system. He would note the girls in need of special care, and she would make sure to take a moment or two longer in her "check up". Just enough time to allow Che to work his magic.

When Mulder had dropped her off at the door of the infirmary, Scully had promised herself before she entered that she would maintain her detachment at all times. That she would be kind, but always professional. It was a resolution broken the first time she held a new baby in her arms, and watched the mother smile.

After lunch would come the real test : her first shift in the delivery rooms. The very sight of the straps and the tables brought such a rush of memories as to make her queasy. Che seemed to understand though he did not ask her to explain.

"You'll go in there for two reasons, Dana. To bring new life into the world and to protect existing life. Focus on that, and nothing else, and you will be fine. You will be more than fine. I'll light a candle for you when I go home for lunch."

He had placed his hand on her shoulder long enough to complete the reassurance, then left to finish teaching a group of giggling thirteen year-olds how to change a diaper.

These thoughts preoccupied her until she had nearly forgotten the unfinished business between her and Mulder. Now, sitting alone at the kitchen table before a half-eaten sandwich, that preoccupation melted away. He was keeping something from her,that was obvious. The drinking was only a part of it. The exact identity of this demon remained an enigma So she would go to the last place she had seen it manifest itself.

Scully pushed her plate away and knelt before the sink, opening the cabinet as she had seen him. At first, all that met her eyes was a clutter of pots, pans, and miscellaneous detergents. After her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, her attention lit on a telltale gleam of glass in the farthest shadows of the back corner. There'd better not be anything living back there. She tried not to think about that possibility as she reached into the bowels of the cabinet. Her fingers tripped over a thick pile of folded papers, which she placed carefully on the floor beside her. After that encounter, she met the coolness of the glass quickly, and withdrew a half-full bottle of tequila. A little exploring led her to discover quite a few other bottles.

Temptation itched in her finger to pour the contents of all of them down the sink.

Before the urge could strengthen, she placed the bottle carefully back into place, eyes drawn to the papers before her. The front of each was marked with a date, the time indicated spanning what seemed to be at least six months.

Whatever they were, Mulder had started writing them when he was still an Enforcer....

The dates led right up to last night. Her hand smoothed the surface of the most recent paper; for some reason the act felt almost profane, as if she were the violator of some holy secret. She could pray for forgiveness later. This was the only way she could hope to find out how to help him. The only way...

The sensation of intrusion remained, cloying to her senses as she opened the paper. It was his handwriting, all right. A bit messy, but still legible.

/Dear Sam,/

It was a wrench in the cogs of the world, the hitch that froze the universe for a moment before it continued to plod on its way, leaving her running to catch up. She read on, entranced. It wasn't hard to hear his voice in the words, as real as if he was beside her.

/Sorry if my writing is a little harder to read tonight. No, I'm not any more drunk than...usual. I burned my hands tonight during patrol, but only the outer skin. Not nearly deep enough.

We killed four more tonight. Would you believe I tried to save them? I didn't want them to die, especially the two children. Innocent children. I told the men to burn the house, but I forgot to tell them to let the family go. I thought they knew, or maybe I didn't even think at all. I left to report our "victory" and five minutes later, I heard the screams..../

Her eyes jerked away from the paper, flying up to the ceiling in attempt to escape the words, but inevitably, they were called back to face the awful truth. She had asked for it, and she had received a double portion.

/The family burned with their house. I tried to get the door open. As you can see, all I got for my trouble was smoke in my lungs and burns on my hands. Have you ever listened to a child scream? It wasn't the first time I'd heard it, but let me assure you it never gets easier. Never. And did it have to be fire? My old enemy, laughing in my face at my helplessness./

Her hands shook, and the paper with them, forcing her to strain to make out the words. She did not want to continue. She wanted to throw the letters back into their crypt and run. It did not matter where.....just away. But she read on.

/They called me their savior, once. I pretended not to hear it, but I did. I honestly tried, Sam, to live up to the name. I hear what they call me now. Deserter. Traitor. Judas. I can't even protect their children.

The irony of it is, we were upholding the Corps idea of law and justice. That was how they justified the skeletons smoking behind us when we left. The men accepted it easily enough. I don't know if I can anymore. The answers can't be that simple....that brutal....

They drank to celebrate, I drank to forget. I hold my liquor too well. I can still see the flames./

"Oh Mulder....no...."

Scully closed her eyes, gathering the will and the strength to finish the letter through the blur of tears.

/But I can see something else, too. She is sleeping in her bed, no more than six feet from me. Sam, she is beautiful. None of this has defiled her, yet. I won't allow it.

Not even if the corruption is mine.

Tomorrow I have to give my mission report to Nicolas. It is strange how my doubts concerning the man and the Corps diminish with every meeting. He says it's because I'm freeing my mind, although I only allow my belief of that to go so far. Sometimes the urge to trust is so overpowering that it awakens other suspicions. Time will prove or deny those. For now, he is the only one, besides you, that I can talk to of these things. I have to tell someone...

I know, you'd say to talk to her. But how can I give her the truth when it stinks of soot and charred flesh? She knows what uniform I wore, and she thinks she knows all that it meant, but she can't imagine the evil of it. Should I confess? Throw it all before her and wait for judgment? There is more than one kind of fire, you know. I fear hers most of all. Perhaps, though, perhaps she won't push me away. I look into her face, and love still lingers. At least for now.

At least for now.

Love always,

Fox Mulder./

Time streamed around her in velvet ribbons, all about her but not touching her. Her heart packed too full for speech or even for tears. Her fingers still quivered as she folded the letter back and laid it back with the others into their darkened shrine.

The words tumbled over one another in her mind, the off-kilter picture of a broken kaleidoscope. Burnt children and burnt hands and love still lingering.

/I will always love you, Mulder. As long as you will let me./

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

Love without truth is hypocrisy.
Truth without love is brutality.

- Anonymous

Three weeks later:

This day the sky caught fire, this day the clouds burned to ash and blanketed the ground as charred snow. A thousand tiny flecks of black ash stung her lungs with each breath. It seared her eyes to tears which ran as blood under the light of the scarlet sun. The wind whipped her hair about her face, cutting into her skin with the invisible sting of the most delicate razor blades.

The voices rode the wind into her mind, a sea of whispers without form or body. Only fear.

/Help us Dana.Youweresupposedtoprotect usbutnow we are torntorntorntorn torn.../

This day the earth froze, this day the ground turned to ice and the sea hardened into crystal. The numbing cold cut through her bare feet straight to her bones. No, it cut deeper. She felt the chill as an icicle impaling her heart and lungs. Daring her to breathe.

She couldn't breathe. She was fire and she was ice and she would be consumed. Again the voices swelled from the silence to skitter across the edges of her thoughts. Again, the whispers, and again the terror.

/Help usDana.You said wewouldbe safe butwearetaken away takenaway pleasedana help Find us.../

"Where are you?" She screamed, stumbling forward, arms wrapped around her body to shield herself from the razor wind and dagger cold. She saw herself lying slashed and cut to pieces against the surface of frozen oceans, her blood trickling between cracks in the ice to harden into rubies. Before she had time to blink, the image was gone.

/Find us,please save us, wearehurting heishurtingus/

"I can't see you!" The wind forced her eyelids together until all she could see was the ash and the sanguine horizon stretching before her without beginning or ending or relief from the pain. "Tell me where you are!" The earth beneath her feet trembled, and a second vision welled up from the depths of her mind. A metal chair in an empty room. Straps biting into her skin, pinning her to a nightmare that was neither dream nor reality but stretching over both. Red-hot pain exploding through every corner of her mind as sanity ripped in two...

Pavlov's voice, thick with delight. Intangible hands pressing against her forehead until the skin blistered.

/You want to save them, Dana? You want to take them from me? Are you willing to give yourself to me in their place.../

Pain...

"Mulder!"

/The dead cannot save the living.../

She opened her mouth to scream and the vision shattered into ash and wind. The whisper returned, louder than before. More desperate. /Hewilldestroy us, theywill killus, pleaseDana. Help us, help us./

Frustration, boiling her veins. "You have to tell me where you are! I can't help you if you don't tell me where you--"

The words died in her throat as the clouds of ash formed the shape of a man. A man with no face, no body, only Eyes. Electric blue, full of hate and lust and evil. A voice, not Pavlov's, but just as twisted as it lashed toward her mind.

/You want to see them?/ The ash wreathed into a devil's smile that brushed deeper than her skin, burrowing into her mind with dirty fingers that reached to her thoughts and scraped the innocence until it bled. /I will reveal them to you. I will reveal anything you want if you will open yourself to me./

She blinked and the eyes disappeared. The wind fell silent and the ash drifted more slowly through the air.

The voices whimpered, or did the sound come from her?

When she looked up, she stood at the edge of the petrified sea, and she was not alone. A body at her feet....a girl, with black hair frozen against her skull and dark eyes filled with terror as her hands clutched her swollen stomach.

/Aida.../

/Dana...run...he's coming back..../ The voice of the whispers. The voice of the fear.

Out over the ocean, the breeze began to pick up, the ash swirl and come together in the form of a man. The Eyes opened slowly, and Aida screamed.

His voice, again, inside her mind. /See, Dana, she belongs to me too./

/No! I won't let you hurt her!/

A demon caress against her mind. /Jealous, my pet?/

/Mulder will-/

/Mulder is beaten. Look into his eyes and you will believe that./

/Look into his eyes and you will see me. You will have to destroy me before you conquer him./

The Eyes flashed white anger and a blast of wind screamed toward her, knocking her back against the rocks. Bones shattering, ribs screaming. Aida's body, lifted by the wind and pinned between the white earth and bloody sky as she was dragged toward the Eyes.

/No!/

She forced herself up, gritting her teeth and driving against the wind even as it increased in fury and intensity. She reached the edge of the ocean, the ice chafing the skin of her feet until it was red and cracked. The razor blade edge increased and whipped the blood from her veins.

Until she collapsed, too weak to save even herself, against the ice. She had been warned of this in a vision, a dream within a dream, and she had not listened. Now it was too late.

Aida screamed again, the sound tiny and helpless against the laughter of the wind.

/Leave her! Please....she's just a girl.../ Begging now. Fingers outstretched, pleading.

His voice. /And would you be the one to save her, Dana? Would you be the one to bleed?/

Her body, jerked up by invisible force and flung against metal. Leather straps trapping her arms into helplessness, just as before. And the voice, ever louder.

/Would you give me your mind..../

Burning inside her mind....bleeding.... A scream.

/Would you give me your soul..../

Hands reaching out for her forehead. The skin would blister and burn and peel and she would be lost. He would be inside her mind, just as Pavlov before him. He would own her.....

Fear, paralyzing her lungs. Numbing her mind.

/No....leave me....leave me! Take her! Take her! Please....don't hurt me anymore..../

Her body dropped back to the ice. The Eyes disappeared and she was alone.

Guilt. Shame.

Tears.

And in the distance, behind the back of the wind, laughter...

/I didn't mean it....come back...take me....I didn't..../

Darkness.

"No!"

Her body jolted as if a live wire was pressed again her spine, arching up into a spasm that pulled her back into reality. Her eyes flew open, greeted not by burning skies and frozen worlds, but by the watercolor blue of pre-dawn light. Scully fell back against the bed, her fingernails digging into her blankets as she gasped for air, half-expecting it to taste of ash. It did not.

/You're awake./

She still felt...it...inside her mind.

/You're okay./

Her eyes traveled to Mulder's bed in search of mute reassurance, but landed on nothing more than air and shadows. The remembrance came that he was gone, called away on a week long reconnaissance assignment, and that he was not here to calm her fears. He could not hold her, soothe her, put his fingers on her forehead to heal imaginary burns....

Who was she fooling? He hadn't held her that way since he left her in Chile, a year ago. Maybe he would have, but now he was never around long enough for her to find out. It had been exactly twenty-two days-- she had kept count-- since he had come to her with news of his reassignment to some big-shot field unit. His chance to make a difference, he'd said. Well, he'd made so much of a difference that they were more strangers now than when she'd arrived.

At least he hadn't felt the need to drink since the reassignment. For that, she could almost put up with his almost continual absence in the name of "duty". She could be strong. Except for moments, like these, when she woke with sweat dripping from her skin and demon voices inside her brain...

Perhaps if she asked him to stay, he would, but then he would know her weakness and he would know how stained she really was, and then where would they be?

Scully rolled out of bed, half-disgusted at her weakness for even considering such an admission of fear. Skinner had told her, time and time again, to expect the dreams as part of her mind's natural healing process. He'd told her of the nightmares he'd had after coming back from Vietnam, how they faded in time, and she clung to belief that these demon visions would do the same.

/But if they are dreams.../ A tiny doubt inside her mind whispered to her as she wiped the sweat from her forehead, /if they are just dreams why do you still feel him inside your mind when you wake up? If they are mere fancy, why do you run to the shower and hold your head under the water until you can barely breathe, hoping to cleanse your soul?/

"Victims of psychological interrogation often undergo severe post-traumatic stress for long periods of time. This may include dreams, visions, and even physical sensations they remember from their captivity. In your case, your encounters with Pavlov. These feelings are normal and will fade given time."

She had recited Skinner's logic perfectly, almost word for word. A tiny smile of triumph broke out across her lips. She had survived the end of the world and the beginning of the new regime and she would *not* be cowed by something so simple as a nightmare.

Regardless of that assurance, it took her thirty minutes of scrubbing before she could convince herself she was clean, and even then she could not reconcile her finest logic with one cold question, eating at the inside her mind like a tumor.

If it was her nightmare, then why had Aida been the one to scream?

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

The underbelly of the rose petal flowed beneath his fingers, softer than his wife's skin on their honeymoon and perfumed with subtle incense no less as powerful than the candles that had burned that night. Nicolas closed his eyes as he traced the outline of the flower, inhaling the sweetness it left in the air until his lungs were filled with the savor. He'd given her roses on their wedding night, fifty of them to cover their bed and her silver gown and her rosewood hair. They had always been her favorite flower. Two days after he escaped the scalpels and the straps and the bleeding, he had stumbled across a wild rose in the desert and had carried it three hundred miles in his pocket until he reached the mass grave where her bones lay tangled with so many others. By then the petals were brown and dead, and he did not feel it worthy of her. It was then that he realized that he must make it worthy of her. Not just the flowers, but the world. He must purge out the weak, the corrupted, and leave only those who were as pure and loyal as she had been.

Already he had perfect roses, thanks to the creative genius of the genetics department.

Soon the rest of the world would be cleansed as well. He would see to that.

He pulled the petal from the rose, watching it flutter down to the windowsill in a silent scream. An unblemished flower was one of the few true beauties left to life, he believed. Of course, all of the flowers he kept in his office were perfect, thanks to the creative genius of Corps scientists. They offered him whatever he desired-- lilacs, tiny and glowing as if washed by the first spring rain; sunflowers, warm and full as the August sun; roses softer than Korean silk. His fancy strayed from flower to flower but inevitably the artist in his soul was drawn back to the scarlet beauty of the rose. It was, perhaps, the embodiment of innocence in its most natural form, stripped of all but the inner softness and fragility.

His fingers tore a second petal from the rose, half-imagining it shivered in pain at the loss of another limb. He smiled at the thought, then reached for a third petal. The beeping of the com link on his desk momentarily halted his hand.

"This is Nicolas." He inserted the listening piece into his ear and continued his game with the petals as he spoke.

"The Quarter raid was successful. We apprehended twenty unregistered Impures."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. That was Domingo's voice. He'd know it anywhere. The man was one of the oldest friends he had, and also one of the only to understand his particular....needs. Domingo headed all raids on the Impure population, with special instruction to bring any "interesting" subjects in for a little painting session. Perhaps his old friend had a little treat for him today...

The fourth petal tore away between his fingers. Then the fifth.

Nicolas flicked his tongue across his lips in anticipation. It had been nearly five days since the last girl died-- amid quite a pathetic show of whimpering for mercy. The hunger rode strong and thick in his blood. There was always Mulder's woman-- who would no doubt make a splendid feast once tamed-- but the time was not yet right for that conquest. For now, he needed something more readily accessible. Something he could feed upon.

"I trust disposal was not a problem?"

"Not at all. We cremated the bodies in the western furnaces, so that the wind would not carry the ash back into the city."

"Excellent. Do you have anything else to report?" The strands of alien DNA within his brain tingled in ready delight at the very thought of a new, untouched mind to bend.

"I think I have something you'll be interested in." Nicolas could hear the smile in Domingo's voice. "We caught her in the market, and would have killed her with the others if I hadn't noticed her reaction to their deaths. I think we got us a real, live empath here."

"An empath?" He shivered. It was rare to find such a creature, and even more to capture it alive. He had only experienced one such delicacy, but it was a pleasure that had kept him warm through many nights after. Now to find another specimen....it was incredible.

Six petals. Seven petals. Eight petals on the ground, deep red like tiny tears of blood.

"You heard me. She's a real prize. Her talent is stronger than any I've seen, and she's got a sweet little body to match. She's kinda young, but I think you will be pleased. She grows on you. In fact, once you're finished sponging her out, send whatever's left to me for a while. You can play with her mind all you want, but there's no use letting the rest of her go to waste."

They both laughed at that.

"You've done well, as always." He spoke quickly, though he tried to keep his voice from sharpening too much in excitement. "Take her to my quarters immediately. I'll meet you there."

He shut down the com link, pocketing it quickly, and headed for the door. The stalk of the rose stood naked against the window, the thorns bare and ugly in the sunlight that shone also upon the torn petals littering the ground.

Five minutes later, Nicolas stood in his private studio, a room linked to his bedchamber by doors to which he alone had a key. It was a pleasant little room, lit by a skylight panel in the ceiling and brightened by more of those exquisite roses. After all, every artist had to have a little atmosphere to get him in the mood....

He lined up his brushes one by one. Each had a special use, a special significance. The large, thick brushes would be used to produce loud, screaming emotions such as fear or hate or passion. Tiny feather-thin brushes could trace the filigree of love, hope, and tenderness. His paints had every color for every thought that ever passed through a woman's mind, and he, Nicolas, could capture those thoughts as he saw them. He could bend them into whatever he desired. He could lift a soul into bliss and just as easily cast it down into despair. He could enter the mind with gentle caresses of love or he could rip it apart with every violence of hate. The choice was always his. They were merely vessels to fill his hunger with their minds and fill his canvas with their souls.

Last, but not least, he set a fresh canvas on the easel, running his fingers against the rough surface. How exactly would he recreate the world of this empath? Large brushes or small? Soft strokes or hard ridges and lines?

A knock on the door to his quarters brought electric goosebumps to the surface of his skin. She was here. He could sense her even from this distance, and she was beautiful. The scent of innocence clung to her mind, a perfume not unlike that of his roses. Oh, she was perfect. He knew this before he even saw her.

He wiped the sweat of his hands on his pants as he walked into the main room, his ears ringing with the dull roar of anticipated pleasure.

"Come in."

The door opened and she stumbled into the room

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

Domingo was right....this one was young. Eighteen, nineteen at the most. Her eyes betrayed her age if nothing else did, wide and childlike in their fear as they looked at him. Her lips parted slightly with the rapid breathing of terror, a sound, Nicolas had come to discover, not so very different from passion. He found it hard to decide which was more intoxicating. He withdrew his eyes lazily from hers, his gaze wandering over the rest of her features. It was a pleasant journey. The smooth tanned lines of her skin cut pleasing contrast against soft raven hair that brushed her chin but not enough to hide an vicious bruise across her jaw. There was a cut across her left cheekbone, still bleeding and spilling the crimson down her face. Anger burned through him, sharp and hot as magnesium powder kissed by a match.

"Who bruised her?" The right to mar perfection was his alone. How dare anyone else so much as touch what belonged to him...

"I don't know, sir." The soldier nearest him saluted sharply, his voice betraying his nervousness. "We received custody of her after the arrest, but I was told she resisted."

"I see." Resistance? Could it be that between those delicate bones flowed real spirit? This would be sweet....he could taste it now like honey wine across his lips. "And does she have a name?"

Nicolas stepped closer to her, until he could almost smell her fear. As the heat of his gaze swept over her eyes again, she shivered, dropping her head so that her eyes met the floor. The gesture was not quick enough to hide the burn on her cheeks. She picked up on his desire already....this was a most promising sign. He pressed the emotion against her, rubbing it against her skin until the heat of it seeped through her pores. He wanted to be inside her blood.

"Her first name is Aida, if she's telling the truth. She wouldn't give us a last name and we couldn't get it from any of the others."

"Aida." He repeated the name to himself, and smiled at its simplicity. "How lovely." He trailed his fingers down one strand of her hair, following it to the contour of her face. She flinched away. He took the opportunity to sweep his gaze over the rest of her body.

It was then that he noticed, for the first time, the swell of her stomach. Pregnant. His stomach tightened in disgust. The little whore...

"And what of this?" He gestured to her stomach. "I was not told that she was with offspring."

"Do you want us to exterminate her, sir?" The soldier reached for his sidearm, and it was then that the girl's head snapped up, eyes flaring and voice pleading.

"Please....let me live....I have a child....I haven't done anything wrong." Her lower lip trembled and tears shone in her eyes. "I haven't done anything....let us live..." The words died away into silence.

"You are a member of an animal race, corrupting our city without permission or cause." The words were almost a snarl. "For this you should die. But I am merciful.." His eyes flicked back to the soldiers. "Wait outside. I will call you when I am finished for the day."

They left without question, saluting sharply as they went. Nicolas locked the door behind them, then turned back to the girl. She stood with her head bowed, her hands clasped together in their shackles as if praying. When he looked at her again, he noticed her lips indeed were moving, a steady mumble of words he could barely hear.

"So," He said, his voice twisting into a mocking smile as he walked back toward her. "She prays to God." He stopped directly behind her, placing his mouth against her ear. "He can't save you. If he even existed, he wouldn't care about filth like you. I am your god now." His hand slid up her back to rest on her shoulders. "Please me, and I might allow you and that little worm inside you to live."

"There is a God." She stiffened, and he sensed the pulsing defiance inside her mind. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she spoke, never looking back at him. "And he will punish evil."

"Is that what you think I am? Evil? " His sneer turned sharp and his hand tightened on her shoulder until she winced. "I don't see any angels here to stop me."

She did not reply.

He stepped away from her enough to look at her again, easing back into a chair. "So tell me, Aida, how you came into my city. Be a good girl and answer all my questions. I am still deciding whether or not to kill you." He extended his mind toward hers, reaching out for the first contact. There was no obstacle to overcome. The empathy trait within her did all that for him. She would sense all his emotions. All he had to do was provide a little extra push here and there, and she would be his. How to begin....

Ah yes. Desire. He wanted the tiny lips to move in the whisper she had prayed with, but this time calling his name....

The muscles of her throat worked in a slow swallow, as if she knew exactly what he was doing. The silence stretched one more long heartbeat before her answer snapped it like a taut rubber band. "I bribed a trader to smuggle me into the city."

"How terribly ingenious of you." She certainly must have suspected, for Nicolas felt the push of her mind against his. Brave child. In his mind's eye he could see her consciousness tuning itself to his emotions by instinct, yet she resisted. What did she think she could win? "And were you alone?"

"Yes." The word was a bare whisper.

"Aida, dear, look at me when I'm talking to you. You have such pretty eyes."

She did not move.

"Look at me!" He leaped from his chair, grabbing her chin and jerking her face back toward him. "You will do as I say, you gutter whore, or I will have your child torn from your womb this very hour! Do you understand?!?"

She nodded, a tear at last overflowing her eyes to slide down to his finger. He captured it unbroken on his skin and held it to his lips. It was the taste of her pain. He wanted to taste more of it. All of it. When he thought she'd had enough-- for the moment-- he let her go. So much for soft emotions and desires. Now it was time to make her fear. That emotion intensified whenever he approached her, flaring up inside her mind with images of screaming angels and serpents in gardens. To sharpen the image, he began to circle her, his body close enough to hers to ensure she picked up on the want emanating from him. In a moment he would touch. Just the shoulder, or the hair, or the face, or the curve of the back. Just enough to make her cringe.

"So where were we? Ah yes. Did you come alone?"

"Yes."

"Where did you get that?" He pointed again to her stomach.

"I was raped by a soldier."

"Lying is still a sin, even for little girls." He knew she was hiding something. Her consciousness reeked of it. She was protecting someone and he determined to find out who. "Do you want to know what I think? I think you're a little slut who attached herself to one of my soldiers and convinced him to bring you here so you could live off our society like some parasite." With every word he moved closer to her until he was face to face with her, so close his breath disturbed her hair.

She quivered, the tears running down her face, but her voice remained steady. "I am not a slut."

"Tell me his name."

"I told you the truth."

"Do you want to know why I know that's still a lie?" He placed his hands at her temples, stretching his mind until it filled hers as a storm cloud moving over the sun of the landscape of her emotions. Now he would take her. Her stubbornness wearied him and now she would pay. He would tear her mind to shreds and throw what was left of her to Domingo and his boys. Stupid little sow. "Because you're not the only one with a gift. You feel me, don't you? Inside your head?" He pushed harder, shoving against the feeble defenses she tried hastily to erect. "It's deeper than thought. It's pure consciousness, the kind you sense in others. Well I can feel it too, my dear." His fingers tightened on her forehead. "And I can control it."

"You won't control me." The girl impressed him with her relentless cling to hope even as her body shook with increasing pain. "I will feel nothing for you."

Rage bubbled from his soul, a caustic acid that washed over his senses, eating away at his restraint. It turned the world to red, the color of blood. Her blood, and he wanted to see more of it. "You will feel what I want you to feel!" His backhand would have knocked her to the floor if he hadn't grabbed a handful of her hair, twining it around his hand. "If not in your mind, then through that beast inside you!" He jerked her body against his, pinning her against him as he wrapped his hands around her womb. He could sense the child's mind, a whisper of a scream so far in the distant it was barely audible, yet growing louder each time he pushed himself further into the mother's mind. He would reach the child. He would destroy the son for the mother's defiance.

She was screaming, fighting, pushing against him with every fiber of resistance in both body and mind. It would not matter. He would triumph. He pushed pain throughout her subconscious, as blinding hot and vicious as nuclear fire, again and again until blood began to drip in tangible drops of crimson from her ears.

Yet still she resisted. It was as if she were shutting down one part of her brain at a time, focusing all her energy as a shield around her child. It was a shield he could not break. He hammered against it with every trick of mind and emotion he knew, but she stood firm. Defying him. How dare a mere girl, a *hybrid* deny him his pleasure?

Soon enough the fury erupted through his fists. He threw her down on the floor, stunning her with a kick to the base of her spine, and drove the next kick straight into her womb. She curled up in agony, arms folded in desperate attempt to shield her unborn, begging him to stop.

/Don't hurt him! Please! Tell me what you want me to feel and I'll feel it. I'll feel it....Please!/

But he did not listen. He did not stop, until her screaming changed in pitch and her body began to shake in contractions. Blood began to flow, but it was not red but an inhuman green. How utterly disgusting. The slut was going to give birth right there in his floor...

At least the fumes wouldn't effect him. He saw the shock in her eyes at that, the slight sense of disappointment. His lips curled in contempt that she, a tiny woman-child, would think she could hurt him.

"Your blood doesn't sting me, little one." He smiled. "Your alien brothers decided it wouldn't be helpful if their servants went around passing out every time we breathed their blood. They gave us immunity."

She groaned as another contraction hit her. "Help...me.."

"Let your God help you, if he can." He snarled, slamming his boot into her side one last time before joining his men in the hall. They stiffened to attention immediately, discomfort at her screaming lurking around their eyes, but Nicolas knew they would ask no questions. Only obey orders.

"Call a medic and send that filth to the infirmary. She's a hybrid...take the usual precautions. Make sure the offspring is disposed of and then send someone up here to clean up this mess. She is to be kept alive until I give further instruction." He wasn't finished with this one....no, not yet. Not by a long shot.

He needed his brushes. They called to him, cajoling him to release his passions while they still roared in his mind. Yes, he would answer them. He would paint her as he desired her to be, as he saw her in his mind. He painted fervently, the colors flowing from his fingers as if they were cut from his own blood.

Two hours later, the painting dried in the sunlight.

An image of the Virgin with child-eyes and raven hair just to her chin. Our Lady of the Crucifix. She hung and she bled from her hands, from her feet, and from the gash across her abdomen. Across her womb.

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

Scully closed her eyes as the warm water flowed over her skin, as the soapsuds cleansed her hands of another birth. Six hours of sweat and screaming and bloody latex up to her elbows as she tried to coax another life into a world that would never appreciate it for its innocence and beauty. It was only a baby to her and to the wide-eyed twelve year old who had given life to it. To the other doctors, to the Corps, it was a future soldier. A killer. A nameless, faceless boy that would take his first life by the time he was thirteen, and grow up into a good little devotee to the Cause, except for perhaps his dreams when he imagined life without bloodstains.

They all dreamed of that life.

She looked down at her hands, at the reddish-pink water dripping from her fingers down the drain. Dreams or not, there would always be blood.

A soft knock on the door disrupted her thoughts. "Scully..." It was Che's voice, low and tense with something that sent a chill through her spine even before she turned to see his face. The man was terrified. He was doing a good job of hiding it, every place but in his eyes. They screamed at her.

"What is it?" She dried her hands quickly on a towel, ignoring the smudges of red still left behind, her throat tightening. In the back of her mind, she already knew the answer. She knew it but she would not accept it. After all, it had just been a dream. Nothing more; it couldn't be.

Che shut the door behind him, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. "On my way home for lunch, they told me there had been a raid on the Quarter. Nicolas orders them from time to time....searching for unregistereds." He swallowed and his voice trembled when he spoke again. Whether from fear or hatred or both, she could not tell. "They told me Aida was stopped in the market. The others were killed, but she....was taken...."

"Taken." The inside of her mouth shriveled into sun-baked dust. "Where?"

His hands tightened into fists, the fear in his eyes partly overshadowed by obsidian hatred. When he spoke, his words dripped disgust. "Our glorious leader sometimes chooses to amuse himself with his prisoners before he executes them." He turned his eyes back toward her and Scully cringed at the pain. Now his voice was back to a whisper, a plea for denial.

"She was pregnant....what could he want..."

Scully's stomach tightened as if someone had shot a staple into it, anger and disgust flaring through her, but she forced herself to think. To remain calm and rational and all those other things she knew she was supposed to be. "Does Skinner know?"

"He left this morning to settle a land dispute in the western territories. He won't be back until tonight. By then it may be too late...but even if he was here, what could he do?"

A dangerous hint of desperation wrinkled around his eyes when he said it. As if he was only a moment away from charging Nicolas' quarters himself. She knew he would fight bravely. And die quickly. No, she had to think. Had to calm him down. Had to figure out what to do.

The voices from the dream hissed through the back of her mind, not helping at all. /Find us please, save us. He is hurting us./

She pressed her fingers against her forehead to silence the demons. "I will go to Nicolas and barter for her release." she said. "Perhaps he will allow me to buy her from him."

"Buy her?!?" Che spit the word out like it was a piece of dead meat clogged in his throat. "She is not a slave to be bought and sold like-"

"I know that." Scully cut him off, her voice rising momentarily as she tried desperately to keep him thinking rationally. Love was blind, but when mixed with rage it became a blinded bull. She had to keep him from giving into the hate. It was hard, she knew. In the camps, when they tortured Mulder, she had thirsted for the spilling of their blood. Che's muscles shook with that same lust for vengeance. "I know that." she repeated herself. "But it doesn't matter how we get her back, does it? As long as we get her and the baby safe again."

He nodded. "I have money. I've been saving it to buy land in the northern territories. We were going to be safe...."

She ached for him, but it was not a new pain. How many times had Mulder promised her the same thing? How many times since had they been torn?

"Keep your money," She said. "Buy your land. I can take care of the expense myself. Don't worry." She tried to smile but she had never been a very good liar. "We'll get her back." Her hand moved toward his shoulder but froze in the air when the sound of shouting filtered through the door into the room.

"Get her into the delivery room! Quick! Watch her blood....call the doctor. We have a termination order and it's going to have to be fast. He wants the woman back alive."

She felt her breath die in her lungs, saw Che's eyes kick up the heat until they seared her face when he looked at her, and then she saw him move, faster than she'd imagined anyone could. He spun, jerking the door open, moving forward as a predator gliding in for the attack, but then his body jerked to a stop. His fingers dug into the doorpost until they turned white; his knees shook like he would collapse.

"Oh God..." His voice shook like a man living his worst nightmare. She knew he'd seen Aida. Or whatever was left of her.

And Scully did not want to look, but she did.

Three orderlies wheeled the girl into the delivery room, her body convulsing with labor pains and a feeble attempt to free her wrists from the straps binding her in place. Not that she could run even if she was free, even if she wasn't giving birth. If the bruises covering her face spread to the rest of her body, it would be a miracle if she could even walk.

She screamed, begging them not to hurt her baby, the words were distorted by pain until it was more an animal wail than a human voice. Her face twisted with each new contraction, but Scully sensed that it ran deeper than purely physical agony.

Innocence was dying. You could smell it in the air.

Scully caught the tension of Che's muscles right before he began to move forward, and for this reason she was able to stop him. Her hands lashed out and closed around his shoulders, jerking with every bit of weight in her until she turned him to look at her.

His eyes were hollow, wild. They were the kind of eyes Mulder had the night the both of them were captured. Like the world was ending and for the first time you knew you couldn't do anything to save the one you loved.

"Che." She spoke firmly, her hands keeping tight grasp on his shoulders. His muscles quivered under her fingers, rage and hatred and pain all rolled into one. She was the only thing holding him together, the only force keeping him from flying into his passions. She would not let him fall apart. Not like Mulder. This time she was not the victim. She could save them both....she had to save them both.... His eyes stared straight at her but focused on nothing.

"Che, listen to me." She drove her eyes into him until he had no choice but to look at her. "You can't save her if you get yourself killed. And they will kill you, if you rush out there like some kind of animal. She needs you to be strong, right now. She needs you to wait."

"I can't stay here and let them-"

"I'm going in there. I'm not going to let them hurt her or your baby. I'm a doctor, remember? I can protect them, and I'm asking you to let me do that now. Are you hearing me?"

He nodded and she continued.

"You need to leave. If they even suspect you're with her, you'll be arrested too. Don't go to the Quarter...they might be watching your house. Go to my apartment." She fumbled in her pocket until found her keycard and pressed it into his hand. "I'll call you as soon as it's safe for you to come."

He hesitated, an agonizing pause, and then his fingers closed around the keycard. His shoulders moved up and down in a sigh that held all the pain of a helpless man. "Go. Save them. I will do as you say."

Scully tried to smile for him again, her hand squeezing one last reassurance into his shoulder as she rushed toward the delivery room, promising to burn incense to every saint she could remember if only she would not be too late.

Three steps away from the door, an orderly stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Authorized personnel only. This one is an Impure."

Aida screamed again, the sound cutting through Scully's soul.

If her gaze had been fire, it would have burnt him to a crisp within minutes. "My name is Doctor Dana Scully and I am one of the delivery doctors this shift. Get out of my way or I'll have you arrested for obstruction of treatment."

"There is already a doctor in attendance. I have my orders."

"Get out of my way, son." Her lips thinned into two steel lines. "I don't care what your orders are, and I don't think Commander Mulder would either once I told him you threatened me." Their eyes locked for one moment longer, for two.

He moved.

Scully grabbed a breathing filter and yanked open the door, just in time to see the doctor pick up a syringe filled with a pale yellow solution. She had seen them use it before. It was an neurotoxin genetically designed for use on fetal tissue. And that monster was going to use it on Aida's baby boy, the one who talked to his mother inside her head and told her he loved her even though he had never seen her face...

"Wait!" The word ripped from her throat in a half-strangled cry as she held her hand out toward the doctor. She advanced toward him, trying to appear professional and detached while burning inside.

"Dr. Scully," The man looked up in mild surprise. "Is there a problem?"

"A termination, doctor? Doesn't that seem a bit hasty?"

"The order came down from the Leader himself. Besides, it's the law. All Impure fetuses must be terminated to prevent contamination of society."

What a boy scout, she thought. He says it just like it's coming out of the Corps manual.

"I am aware of the law. My only concern here is the health of the mother. She is in no condition for the strain of an toxin-induced termination." It was no lie. Neurotxoin treatment was often as dangerous to the mother as it was to the child. It was only used as a last resort. A punishment for those who dared to give life without an official stamp of approval.

"We will have to take that risk."

"I do believe your orders were to keep her alive, weren't they doctor?"

She was growing desperate, and now she became afraid that they would sense it in her voice.

He eyed her a moment, then nodded slowly. "You're right." For a moment, Scully dared to breathe. Then he spoke again. "Give her 10 ccs of neural stimulus. It should neutralize the toxin's effects on her mind long enough to prevent any serious damage. We can address any minor injuries after the birth. But we have to inject the fetus now, before it leaves the womb." He smiled back at Scully, as if he had done her a wonderful favor. "How's that sound, Dr. Scully? Does it satisfy your conscience?"

No, she wanted to scream. You murderer!

She might have resisted. She might have fought them. She might have, if it was not already too late and the needle was not already inside Aida's womb. But there was something she could do.

She could hold the girl's hand. She could whisper words of comfort that meant nothing because there was no comfort she could give. She could stay beside her until the birth was finished, and the baby's body wrapped in plastic for disposal. Aida had lost consciousness somewhere in the final labor pangs, and she did not have to watch.

Scully watched.

Then when it was all over, after she slid her hand away from Aida's limp fingers to let the orderlies move her to a bed, she walked into the cleansing room. The water hissed from the faucets when she turned them on, hissing like Pavlov's voice inside her dreams.

/You want to save them, Dana? You want to take them from me? Are you willing to give yourself to me in their place.../

If she had said yes, would it have made a difference? Even if it was in a dream? Although she wasn't sure that's all it was, not anymore. She didn't know what she was sure of. Not of herself, she knew that. Not of humanity, that was certain. Faith? Truth? Love?

Where were they when the girl screamed?

She held her hands under the water until it burned, scrubbing until the skin turned pink. What was it about this place that she could never feel clean? Save them, Che had said. He had been in pain and he had been afraid and he had trusted her.

It was then that the tears came, spilling from the corners of eyes that had been dry far too long, streaking down skin that had not even felt rain in months She cried for the pain in Che's eyes, and the broken innocence in Aida's, and the emptiness in her own.

Mulder would have understood. Mulder could have intervened.

Mulder was not there.

to be continued... part 6