CARDBOARD GALAXY

This one is a little dark, folks, so
anyone afraid of the dark should probably read another story or at 
least find a good nightlight.


Author's Note: The events in this story occur sometime after the events
in "Anasazi" but notably before Samantha's appearance in "Redux II". 


DISCLAIMER: These characters don't belong to me, of course. They
belong to somebody important like Chris Carter or Fox Broadcasting or
1013 or maybe some other faceless corporation. Me, I'm just the person
in the dark corner writing about them.


SUMMARY: When Mulder finds himself imprisoned by his enemies, he finds
himself having to deal once more with the ghosts of his past and his
wishes for the future.



Cardboard Galaxy



CHAPTER ONE 

"...uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Encircled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds by essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of ever more deformity..."
From Coleridge, "The Dungeon"





Mulder's eyes fluttered slowly open. It seemed to take great effort 
for him to turn his head over to face the source of light. There was 
no sounds of life anywhere in the room, but as he tried to rise, he 
found himself bound to the hard boards which he laid upon. He 
struggled to focus his eyes. He felt disoriented and after attempting 
to move felt dizzy and somewhat nauseous. The pain in his arm told a 
tale of an injection, but he didn't remember that or much else.



Mulder looked around the somewhat dark room, lit only by a small desk 
lamp on an adjacent table that was otherwise unremarkable. Besides 
himself, his makeshift 'bed', and the table, the room was otherwise 
empty; there were no windows in the concrete walls, and the only other 
notable point was a rusting metal door to his left.



His arms were bound at his sides with white rope that intertwined with 
holes in the boards, as were his legs, knees, and torso. His head and 
neck were free and lay on the hard wood. He was wearing only a black 
T-shirt and jeans; his feet, cold in the stagnant, damp air, were 
unfortunately bare.



Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember 
anything, any clue as to why he was there. The last thing that he 
thought he remembered was watching an old black and white movie on TV 
and falling asleep on the couch in his apartment.



The effects of whatever he had been injected with were beginning to 
subside, and he began to realize that he was very thirsty and that his 
skin was beginning to feel hot and painful under his bonds almost as 
if burnt. He struggled against them anyway, but stopped after a few 
seconds, realizing the futility of it. He was trapped and he wasn't 
going anywhere until his captors wanted him to, and there was not a 
thing in the world that he could do about it. What's more, his ribs 
began to ache and laying on hard wooden boards didn't help the pain. 
Mulder rolled his tongue over his dry lips and furrowed his brow, 
grasping in his mind any glimmer of an idea as to how he had gotten 
there. He turned the situation over and over in his mind. Over and 
over he considered everything he could think of. Unable to move, 
unable to do anything but think, Mulder was lost for hours in his 
mind. He thought of Samantha. Scully. His father. Krycek. The 
cigarette-smoking man. His mother. He watched the players of his life 
make an encore in his thoughts and relived each of his glimpses at the 
truth. As always. The daily drama in his mind was no less difficult 
the thousandth time through. The humiliation of losing, each time, 
what he had looked for all of his career. Seeing it, feeling it in the 
tips of his fingers, grasping futily at a truth too elusive to tame, 
and each time it was gone, gone, and even Scully, even Scully could 
not, would not always believe him. 



Seeing the doubt in her eyes.



Watching her reaction, seeing her smile, almost laugh, at him.



Laugh.



Laugh, at him.



No, Mulder, he thought. Scully will see. She will, if I have to pull 
out my own eyes and stuff them in her eye sockets. She will see the 
truth. I know she will.



She won't allow herself to see. Presented with the evidence a thousand 
times, she couldn't believe unless it fit in her nice, comfortable 
scientific world.



Mulder. Her lips forming the word seemed to define the name in his 
mind.



Scully is all you have. Scully is the only one you can trust. She 
wouldn't betray you. You're just throwing away the only person in your 
life that you know and trust, it's not her, it's you. She trust you. 



You trust her.



And yet, like clockwork, the phrase came to mind: "Trust no one."



Mulder awoke without realizing he had fallen asleep. His wrists and 
ankles ached a lot more, he was even more thirsty, and his feet were 
colder, but most notably, there was now another person in the room. He 
sat on a stool on the opposite side of the room from the door, in the 
darkness that the desk light could not illuminate, and Mulder could 
have sworn that stool hadn't been there before. Not that it mattered. 
It was just nice to think about something new, his mind wearied from 
his endless considerations. 



The man was looking at Mulder, not expectant of him to say something, 
not looking at his bound and helpless state with compassion, but with 
rather the distant curiosity of a scientist observing a lab rat. He 
studied him, not intently, but with somewhat of an interest. The man 
was middle-aged, portly but not fat, his dark brown hair balding and 
his round, reddish nose crowned with wire spectacles. He wore a white 
laboratory coat open over a brown suit and held a clipboard in one 
hand, a pen in the other, the end of the pen touching his lips 
absently, completing the somewhat quizzical expression to the man's 
face.



After a few moments, saying nothing, the man began to write something 
on his board.



Mulder, while trying to maintain the best outward decorum, asked, "Who 
are you?"



The man, for his part, didn't even blink at the question. "Who are 
you?" Mulder demanded, this time more forcefully, hoping that there 
was no fear in his voice. "Where am I? What do you want from me?"



After the man didn't even look up, Mulder struggled at his bonds, 
angrily yelling, "What do you want from me? Why am I here?"



At last the man looked up, but, Mulder soon realized, not because of 
what he had said, but because someone else was now standing in the 
open doorway. Mulder swung his head around to face the intruder. As he 
locked eyes with the entrant, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.



The portly man nodded slightly and continued writing.


CHAPTER TWO


"And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free."
--John 8:32


The dark, suited man crouched in the shadows, waiting. After a few 
moments another, similarly dressed, fellow trotted from an adjacent 
shrub to crouch next to him, pistol in hand. The newcomer said nothing 
but looked at the man expectantly.



The first, taller fellow nodded and swiftly rose to his feet, padding 
silently across the dark road, carefully avoiding the circle of light 
created by the streetlight. Several other suited men soon fell into 
rank as he entered the apartment and headed intently, silent as a 
spectre of death, towards Apartment 42.



He pulled out the key he had been given and turned it over in his hand 
for a moment, savoring the anticipation. After a second, he placed it 
in the lock as quietly as he could, looked to the other men and 
nodded, then opened the door swiftly and sprang through the opening, 
gun swinging across the room, looking for his prey.



His prey was not far away, slumped over his couch, the television 
providing a lovely cover of noise to their activity. Though all was 
going according to plan, the man felt a bit of disappointment. Part of 
him had wanted a struggle. That way he could have an excuse to hurt 
this troublemaker that had so often gotten in the way of their 
carefully designed schemes. 



One of the other intruders kicked the pizza box that was lying on the 
ground, grinning. It had all been so easy, hadn't it? Trusting fool. 
And now he was unconscious, lying there, waiting for them to come and 
collect him. 



The tall man snorted at the immobile man in contempt. He rolled the 
agent's limp form over onto the floor and Mulder landed with an 
ungraceful thud. The tall man cocked his head and looked at him for a 
moment, then kicked him, hard, in the side. He smiled. He kicked him 
again.



"It's time." One of the other men stepped close behind him. The tall 
man nodded. Several men swarmed over Mulder, briefly searching him, 
then pulled him upright, and dragged him out of the room.



The rest of the plan was flawlessly executed. Mulder was spirited out 
of the building without the other residents even suspecting any foul 
play. He was taken to a nearby vehicle and driven away to the point of 
rendezvous. No snags, no problems.



But then again, these people were professionals, and their employers 
permitted only perfection. 



In that world, there were no second chances.



Mulder was passed from hand to hand, never staying in the hands of any 
one party long enough for them to get too curious. Every handoff was 
executed with perfection, each individual assuring that the parcel 
would arrive undamaged, none knowing exactly who Mulder was or where 
he was going. The only one who had known of Mulder slipped back into 
the shadows. Such men have no homes or families. Like a phantom, the 
man who felled Mulder for his superiors was gone again, disappeared 
back into the urban mist.



"Fox." Mulder said nothing. Even if he were able to compose himself 
enough to be able to speak, he could think of nothing sufficient to 
say. "Fox..." the old man's voice was weighted with the weariness of 
age and guilt. 



Mulder closed his eyes and unconsciously furrowed his brow. It 
couldn't be. It couldn't be. This was all a fake. He had felt the cold 
body. He had seen the life ebb from this man, had lain this man's body 
on the couch and wept over his lifeless body as his killer had fled. 



It wasn't possible. He was not alive. Not alive. No. No. "Fox... Fox, 
my son. I wanted to tell you..." No. Dad was dead. All of the secrets 
that his father wanted to tell him were dead, too. Dead. Gone. Gone. 
No. Not alive. Dead. "Fox..." the old man's hand reached down to touch 
his son's. "Fox, I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please." The man's eyes 
glimmered with earnest-looking tears.



"No!" Mulder yelled at the top of his lungs. His eyes glared at the 
old man, full of tears and anger. "You're not him!" My father is 
dead!"



"Fox... it's me..." his father seemed to be slipping away from him, 
being pulled backwards out the door. "Fox... 



"Fox..."



"Mulder." Someone stepped where his dad had been. Mulder blinked away 
the tears to see the newcomer. A familiar odor filled the room from 
the wisps of smoke coming from the man's mouth and cigarette. 



"You," muttered Mulder. The cigarette-smoking man smiled that cocky, 
evil smile that he always flashed at Mulder, the one that said, "I 
know something you don't." The man lifted the cigarette to examine it 
idly and replaced it in his mouth. 



"Mr. Mulder, you are no doubt wondering as to why you are here. I am 
here to fill you in and to act in the capacity as your guide." The 
cigarette-smoking man smiled when Mulder frowned and turned away. "Mr. 
Mulder, I am a closer ally that you might think. It is because of me 
that you are not dead right now. My associates are not very forgiving 
and it was debated that the consequences of your death might be less 
damaging than any further damage you might cause to the Project. "As 
per my request you were removed but not destroyed, at least not 
immediately. You see, Mr. Mulder, I had a large part in your 
construction. I am one of the great shapers of your life and have 
spent a great deal of time on you, and I am not a man to see his work 
lost so easily. But, as your creator in a sense, I feel obligated to 
show you the truth before you die or leave the FBI for good. Whatever 
happens, Mr. Mulder, I want you to acknowledge how well I know you. 
You have given us little choice. You are no longer of use to us and 
you have caused greater complications than you can really know. But 
you will see your precious truth, Mr. Mulder, and it will destroy you. 
"But I am ahead of myself. You see, your quest is not without a price. 
There are those who have a score to settle with you and you have been 
promised to them." With those foreboding words the man with the 
clipboard rose and a third man entered the room.



Mulder's eyes narrowed in recognition of the black-clad young man. As 
the cigarette-smoking man and the other observer departed, two other 
strong-looking men in black entered the room also, standing behind the 
first.



Krycek smiled evilly as he stepped closer to Mulder and looked down at 
him. "I am fortunate enough to have resolved my differences with 
certain parties due to our... common interests." Krycek lifted his 
cloned arm and clenched a fist. "Just as good as the original. Isn't 
technology grand?"



Mulder only stared back at him, his jaw set, his arms in fists at his 
sides, still bound to the boards.



With a snap of Krycek's fingers the two men in black clothes unbound 
Mulder and tossed him to the floor, one with a knee on his chest to 
make sure he didn't move, the other taking the furniture and removing 
it from the room. The man who was holding Mulder pulled out some 
handcuffs. Mulder struggled but the drug he had been injected with had 
obviously stolen some of his strength and he was easily subdued. His 
hands were bound behind him and he was left, lying on his side, on the 
cold cement floor, as the second of the two men in black took the 
remaining furnishings and left.



"What kind of sick plans do you have in mind for me, Krycek?" Mulder 
spat at his captor's feet with an odd little smile on his face. "You 
bastard, I wish I had gotten to kill you when I had the chance." 
Krycek, still smiling, squatted next to the agent and eyed him 
jovially. "Too bad your partner decided to take a shot at you instead 
of at me." He smiled. "Maybe she was too caught up with my natural 
charm and good looks."



Mulder's face tensed even more in that grimace of anger.



"Mulder, Mulder, Mulder. You have no idea how much I relished the 
possibility of this moment. How I ran through my head over and over 
again what I was going to do with you. I bet you're afraid, aren't 
you. I can do whatever I like with you." Krycek pulled Mulder by the 
front of his black t-shirt to a partially upright position to look him 
in the eyes, and then traced the edge of Mulder's chin and jaw with 
his forefinger. Mulder pulled his head away and looked to the opposite 
wall, wishing he could fight back somehow.



Krycek pulled a small chain and lock from his pocket and lashed 
Mulder's cuffs to a ring embedded in the floor, forcing Mulder to lay 
on his hands, faced upward. Though he struggled futily when Krycek 
chained his ankles together and to the floor in a similar fashion, 
within moments Mulder was helpless and hopeless, bound on the floor 
before his enemy. 



Krycek, no longer smiling but with a more cruel expression, pulled out 
a switchblade, relishing a moment his prisoner's tensed body and his 
struggles. Mulder realized that to speak again or struggle further 
would only please Krycek more and kept his mouth shut, resolved to 
deny Krycek anything that he could. Krycek's knife came nearer and 
nearer to Mulder's exposed neck and the cool metal rested for a moment 
on his skin; Mulder's head turned away, his hazel eyes closed, biting 
his lower lip. The knife turned, however, and cut into the fabric of 
his shirt. Krycek methodically cut away the t-shirt that Mulder was 
wearing and discarded it, leaving Mulder wearing only his jeans. 



Krycek's little blade traveled down, down, until it reached his belly, 
just above the waist of his jeans. Krycek pushed the blade into the 
skin and Mulder gasped involuntarily from pain. Krycek removed it 
after a moment, leaving a small bleeding cut on Mulder's belly. 
Mulder's face was twisted in an attempt to deny the pain and 
humiliation he felt. Krycek chuckled and cut him again, a little lower 
on his belly and a little deeper. Mulder paled but didn't move. Krycek 
unzipped Mulder's jeans and pulled them down as far as he could 
without removing the bonds and, while holding Mulder down with one 
arm, unbound his feet and quickly pulled off the jeans, leaving him 
only in his gray boxers. 



Rebinding Mulder's ankles to the cement floor, Krycek couldn't help 
but grin a little in anticipation. Mulder's head was still turned away 
but Krycek could feel the fear radiating off his body in waves. 



When the little knife cut away the boxers, Mulder started to squirm 
again briefly, and he unsuccessfully tried to bite his lip harder to 
keep from saying, "No. Don't." Krycek breathed in with pleasure at his 
now unclothed captive's fear. He chuckled a little and waited, 
savoring the moment. Then his grin turned to a snarl as he whipped the 
blade up and then thrust it downward into Mulder's thigh. Mulder 
winced and cried out and his body tensed and shuddered in pain; Krycek 
held the blade in place, the two inches of steel in Mulder's leg 
cutting more as Mulder struggled uncontrollably for a second or two. 



Mulder regained control over his body as to stop causing more damage. 
Krycek wiggled the blade as he slowly removed it. As Mulder bit into 
his lip to keep from crying out again, blood ran down his chin as well 
as down his thigh. He tasted it in his mouth, he felt it flowing from 
his wounds, the blood, his blood... the terror that he felt...he 
started to feel the room move... felt himself slipping off...



Krycek slapped Mulder hard across the face. "Already? I thought more 
of you, Mulder. After all, these are only little cuts... you've 
practically had worse from shaving." Krycek snorted in disgust. 



Mulder felt ashamed of his weakness. He had imagined his resolve in a 
situation like this, never giving in, waving a fist in the eyes of his 
captors, and yet he was already feeling faint.



Krycek rose from Mulder's side and kicked him, hard, in the ribs that 
already felt sore. Mulder wished he could roll over, his face and 
chest pressed against the cold wall, his back to his tormentor, to 
press his face against the cool cement. Mulder hoped that Krycek 
couldn't see the tears of pain he was trying to hold back when he was 
kicked again. Mulder hoped that Krycek didn't notice his trembling. 
His eyes still closed, his head still turned away from Krycek, he 
dared to wish that Krycek would leave him to regain his resolve. 
Mulder was not that lucky.



As the beating continued, Mulder's tears slipped down his face and he 
wept, more in despair and fear than pain. Mulder tried to block out 
the pain and put himself somewhere where he felt safe, but all he 
could think of was Scully's kind face, her hand on his, her fingers in 
his hair, her speech soothing him. Imagining Scully sitting by his 
side, Mulder no longer felt so afraid, but instead wept now in surety 
that he would never see Scully again, would never be able to apologize 
for all the times that he had wronged her, would never thank her for 
all the times she had come to his aid. That he could never tell her 
that she was the only one that he had ever trusted, the only one, even 
including his family, that loved him and nurtured him in utter honesty 
and innocence.



That he could never see her face again. 



That he could never be proud as she walked beside him again.



That he would never have his partner with him again.



Never to walk into danger again.



Never again.



Never.



Mulder slipped out of consciousness, mercifully spared of his fear 
unintentionally by his captor's repeated blows, blows that could never 
hurt as much as Mulder already did inside. 


CHAPTER THREE


"Lest you give your honor to others, and your years to the cruel one;
lest aliens be filled with your wealth, and your labors go to the house
of a foreigner; and you mourn at last, when your flesh and body are
consumed..."
--Proverbs 5: 9-11


In the beginning, there was Mulder. And from above came a partner, and 
her name was Scully. And though she was supposed to spy on him, she 
did not. She helped him and stood by him. And in the face of his 
enemies, she supported him.



And it was good.



Very, very good.



In the beginning, there was Mulder. And he had a sister named 
Samantha, and it was good. But then she was gone. The dark angels came 
and struck her from the earth, but the angels of heaven were not 
without mercy and gave Mulder someone else, and she was Scully. And 
Mulder and Scully were like stars in the sky, they were of the humor 
of poetry and epics. They slew giants and they toppled empires. But 
then the dark angels took Mulder into the darkness to tempt him, and 
he was gone from the earth. Gone where even the light of heaven could 
not reach.



In the beginning, there was Mulder. And he lived and died and he knew 
that he was made in an image shared by one other, and though she was 
gone, he could feel her while he lived, and knew that he would see her 
again, and even from the depths of despair, where heaven could not 
reach, there was Samantha.



And there was Scully.



And it was good.


CHAPTER FOUR


"Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose
In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish concieved, no thought exprest,
Only a sense of supplication;
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest." 
from Coleridge, "The Pains of Sleep"


In the darkness, even a single candle is the sun.



I have learned that, here, wherever here may be. I know now that what 
we think is nothing is in fact everything if we have nothing else. And 
now that I have nothing, the past that I once found painful is now a 
source of joy for me. 



In sorrow there is a certain joy that one is alive to feel it, and in 
joy there is a certain sadness, that it will end. And now my joy is 
most certainly ended, and I wait for my final end with no regrets. I 
look back and I smile, for how many can say they have lived a life 
like mine? I have followed my truth, even to the ends of the earth, 
and I have never submitted to my enemy. And even when they cut me and 
beat me, I still have myself, for I will not give in; and when I am 
gone, my memory will not be gone. And when my memory is gone, the land 
I walked will still be here.



I look back and I think of Scully. It has been so long, or it has 
seemed so long, that I can hardly see her anymore. I feel her, though, 
and the tactile sense of her near brings more comfort than a thousand 
images of her. I think that she's okay. Scully was always okay. I'm 
sure she misses me. Oh, God, I miss her. But it's all right. I'll see 
her again. I'll see Samantha again, too.



Perhaps my truth was always before me, and I could never see it. But I 
see it now. From the darkness, it is amazing how much you can see; 
even the smallest bit of light, light that in the day would be 
invisible, is a thousand suns.



I think of Dad. I wonder if it was really him. Even now, it plagues me 
still. If I would die now, I would die without fear or misgiving, but 
I would wish that I knew. Sometimes I like to think Dad's waiting for 
me. Proudly standing at the gates of whatever is to come and watching 
me. He told me that he was proud. My politics are my own. I have never 
given in. Even the last time, when they burned me and I screamed and 
the white heat consumed me, even then, I could not accept their truth. 
I would not say yes, that I give in. But it makes me uneasy. I think I 
would like to sleep. To lay down and to sleep and know no more. But I 
think the thought of Dad would make me toss and turn and awaken me 
from even the most restful sleep, even from the dark, dark, final 
sleep.



They're coming for me again soon, I know. But I can't sleep. I think 
of Dad and I wonder. But my mind is tired. I don't want to think 
anymore. I want to feel Scully's arms around me. When they hit me I 
think of Scully a lot. When they come for me next time, I think it 
will be the last time. I haven't eaten in a long time and I can't even 
stand up anymore, even if the hurt wasn't so bad. I'm thirsty too. 
Maybe if I scream louder next time they will give me some water. They 
did once. That time, as I fell to the floor, I thought, I will lay 
down and sleep. But they gave me water and I thought of Scully and I 
could not sleep.



I can almost open one of my eyes now that the swelling has gone down. 
I pressed it against the cool wall in my cell and it hurt a little 
less. And I thought of Scully and she whispered in my ear, and I think 
I was asleep for a while but I can't remember. Even with my eye open 
there isn't anything to see. My world is darkness still. I think I 
remember the light. I saw the light once in Scully's eyes. The man 
with the cigarettes said he would show me the truth. Maybe he did and 
I missed it. It's too dark to see anything. Or maybe I just don't 
remember.



I remember Scully, though. 



I remember Samantha too.



they brought me back again i was wrong i didn't lay down to sleep this 
time but i think i will i will pretty soon but not yet the next time 
maybe i will maybe i will this time they hurt me with the white pain 
and i dont remember but i would not sleep even though i cried and i 
would not say okay i could not say okay because then scully would be 
mad because im not supposed to say okay even when they hurt me a lot i 
think that im getting pretty tired but i cant sleep i wonder if i 
could dream of scully and dad and samantha or if i would have no 
dreams maybe in dreams scully would hold me again it doesnt hurt so 
much when she holds me and says my name but i cant sleep not yet maybe 
soon but not yet its dark here and im scared a lot of the time but 
then i think of scully and samantha and stratego and the wind over the 
grass and its okay but i can't say okay to the men i can't say okay 
because then the men will be glad and they will tell scully and she 
will be mad scully im sorry that i have to sleep but im so tired but i 
didnt say okay i never said okay but im tired and i want to dream 
again i wish i could dream again they want me to say okay but i cant 
because scully doesnt want me to and i want scully to hold me i hurt a 
lot but mostly i am tired maybe tomorrow i can sleep and then i wont 
hurt anymore im sorry scully but im tired maybe if they dont hurt me 
again tomorrow i can wait some more but im really tired im sorry 
scully im sorry but i never said okay i wont ever say okay not even 
when i go to sleep i wont say okay



CHAPTER FIVE


"The miserable have no other medicine / But only hope."
--William Shakespeare


Scully couldn't keep the tears from her eyes. Mulder was gone, had 
been gone, and maybe now he was dead and he would be gone forever. 
Scully had just gone to see Mulder's mother. She was making the 
arrangements for the service. But he wasn't dead. There was no body.



Now that Mulder was gone, Scully knew that she had nobody. Mulder was 
gone. Just like that. She had gone to his apartment and there was 
nothing there but an empty pizza box and Mulder's things and some 
sunflower seed shells and a few spots of blood on the carpet. 
Mulder's. He was gone. She had seen him only a few hours before she 
visited his apartment with a case file. She was him leave the basement 
office, when he put on his trench coat and smiled, muttering one last 
joke before he went out the door and was gone.



Assistant Director Skinner has assured her that an investigation would 
be done, that she should take some time off, but she didn't. She 
followed up every area of the investigation, making sure every lead 
was followed, that every piece of evidence was analyzed and 
reanalyzed. But now there wasn't anything left to do. Whoever had 
taken Mulder away, they knew what they were doing. So there was 
nothing to do but let the tears wash over her cheeks and remember him. 
But he wasn't dead. Mulder couldn't be dead.



God won't let Mulder die. Will He.



Scully awoke to the ring of the phone. She had softly cried herself 
into a restful sleep and now it was morning. She reached to her coat 
that lay on the floor near the couch and picked up her cell phone.



"Scully," she intoned without feeling.



"Agent Scully." The voice on the line was not unfamiliar but she 
couldn't quite place it. "Come to Mulder's apartment in one hour." 
Click. 



After the second sentence Scully realized that it was the voice of 
Mulder's government informant, the one whom he summoned with the 
masking tape on the window. She knew from the tone that he intended 
her to come alone, and she put down the phone, trotting towards the 
bathroom to get herself ready.



Scully had entered the apartment and no one was there. After a brief 
check to assure everything was in the order she left it after the last 
time she had come there, she sat down to wait with apprehension. She 
did not wait long; after only a few minutes, the door opened to reveal 
the man she was waiting for.



"Do you have news about Mulder?" she asked immediately, before he had 
even closed the door. He gave her a stern look for saying it so loud 
while the door was still ajar. He closed it and approached her.



"Agent Scully. I am acting on behalf of some of my peers. They 
insisted that I come to you immediately. Mulder is alive." Scully 
didn't even wait a moment to feel the relief wash over her. She 
immediately started firing questions: "Where is he? Who took him? How 
can I find him?"



"Agent Scully, he has already been found. He was in an abandoned 
warehouse near Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He has been taken to a local 
hospital." Scully's eyebrows raised at the last statement. "He's very 
lucky to be alive. He had been severely beaten and tortured. He is in 
stable condition. You have a flight to catch, Agent Scully. Tickets 
are waiting for you at the airport."



As the informant turned to leave, Scully grabbed his shoulder. "Who 
did this to him? Who tortured Mulder?"



"There are some limits to my knowledge, Agent Scully. The flight 
leaves in under an hour."



With that, he left. Within a minute, Scully too was gone from the 
apartment.



CHAPTER SIX


"My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd and barr'd -- forbidden fare.
But this was for my father's faith,
I suffered chain and courted death...
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place. "
from Lord Byron, "The Prisoner of Chillon"


As they left me lying there on the cold floor, half-dead and barely 
conscious, I remember the smell of the smoke in my nose and the sting 
in my eyes. That's not why the tears ran down my face; I cried because 
I thought they were going to hurt me again. But they didn't touch me. 
The cigarette-smoking man must have been there, though he said 
nothing; he stood over me and the men did not touch me. I knew then 
what he meant to tell me, but I knew he could say nothing.



I never saw him after that first day, the day Krycek came. I know he 
was there at the end and I could sense that he was near many times. 
But he stood back, as if to say, it is not my fight. These are the 
blows of other men. I am here to show you the truth. 



I know that my time behind those cement walls was not his doing. But 
he was there and he knew what was going to happen to me. I guess that 
a dark man knows about darkness and knew that from there I would see 
the light.



I found my truth, there in the cell, lying on the floor, half-naked, 
bruised and bleeding, in pain. What stayed with me until the very 
end--that is the truth.



I know that he knows, too.





Scully came today. I was asleep but when she put her hand on mine and 
summoned me. As I awoke I couldn't really see, but then I saw the 
light from the window in her eyes and I saw her smiling. The world 
came back. She talked with me about what happened and I told her all I 
could. But what we said didn't really matter. It was the same eternal 
conversation between us. 



I couldn't tell her about the darkness. There are certain things that 
friends cannot tell one another. I couldn't tell her, but she knew, as 
I awoke and saw her she must have seen the darkness behind my eyes 
that will never leave. I wanted to weep and laugh and shudder. But I 
did none of those things. I smiled my little smile and I told her a 
joke. She laughed a little but I could see the pain behind her eyes 
too. I wonder if all the times that I felt her arms around me, her 
holding my head close to her and whispering that it would be okay, if 
she remembers. If she felt me like I felt her. But if she doesn't, 
that's okay. She's here now.



I went back to work and I do the same things. I follow the truth in 
all of its forms and with the same old gusto. And though Scully has 
asked me many times since if I wanted to talk about my time in 
captivity, I never have. I think she knows that I can't. And though 
the darkness has never left me, though it still dwells deep in my 
heart where light cannot reach, Scully touches me there sometimes and 
it doesn't hurt so much. Where I hold Samantha and Dad and where I 
know what pain and hate and fear are. There, where nothing can reach, 
Scully sometimes goes. 



I wonder what she sees.



End