"Nothing So Loud" (part 1 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and any other names you recognise are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox and we are borrowing them purely for our own twisted pleasure, not for profit. TIMELINE: This story is set in January 1998, when various inconvenient fourth season developments are but a bad memory. NOTES: A note from Rebecca: Elspeth and I started this story almost a month ago as an experiment, an attempt to have fun writing a story. From the very beginning our only rule was that we were not allowed to plan ahead, and that whatever the other person wrote would be accepted with no reservations. To my utter delight, this arrangement worked out wonderfully, something I don't think either of us foresaw. What you have here is largely untouched. There are two distinct writing styles in this story, and while you may be able to distinguish between the two, I hope the transitions will not be so noticeable as to draw attention away from the story itself. I hope you have as much fun reading this as we did writing it. We would love to hear from you with any comments you might have. A note from Pellinor: Everything Rebecca says. More notes at the end. POSTING: 5 today, 4 tomorrow Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk rrusnak@Lconn.com ****** No-one saw it approach. No-one resisted it. No-one would suffer from it, but one. It was a light. It moved in the stillness, slowly, even languorously, as if so sure of its success that there was no need to hurry. It passed through a night that was total silence, total darkness. There were no street lights tonight, and no murmur of distant traffic. The windows were blind as neighbours slept, their faces turned inwards. As it passed beneath the unseeing eye of the security camera, it paused, two small pinpricks of light answering it from the shadows, then swung round. Blood glistened on the ground. The light fell on the cat's face, frozen in wariness, all white and deep shadows. No threat. The light moved on. No-one resisted it. No-one would suffer from it, but one. It was as it should be. It was faster now, more urgent, as if scenting its prey. Doors were no bar, as its passage had been planned, its way prepared. It made no mistakes. It knew who it was seeking. He was asleep, arms wrapped around his body against the cold of a winter night without a blanket. His face was turned towards the blank square of darkness that was the television. The light reached out to him, shining on his face like a caress. No sound. Fox Mulder groaned, turned over on the couch, but sleep held him. It held him, still, as the light embraced him. ***** This time she let it ring to twenty before disconnecting. Scully put the phone down, folded her hands in her lap, and removed all emotion from her face. There was nothing else to be done. "I'm sure I needn't remind you that I ordered that report for nine o'clock, Agent Scully." Skinner's face had grown more angry with every ring of the unanswered phone call. "As you know, there are.... those who do not appreciate being kept waiting." "Mulder will bring it to you as soon as he arrives, sir." She held Skinner's gaze defiantly, refusing to break contact. "He must be stuck in traffic. I know he was working on it until late last night. He wanted to do a good job." There was a moment's silence. Skinner's mouth twitched. "Are you lying to me, Agent Scully?" She didn't blink. "I am a federal agent, sir." Skinner looked away. His eyes seemed to scan the room, as if taking in every detail of Mulder's obsession, lingering on them, his face unreadable. Scully's knuckles were white with strain. "May I ask you something, sir?" The words surprised her, fast in the tense silence. She had been scared he was about to say more. He was silent. He took his glasses off, rubbed them slowly, then passed a hand over his forehead. He looked weary, strained. "What is it, Agent Scully?" he asked, at last, his words firm, almost snapped. Scully blinked, surprised. Within seconds the glasses were back and the face matched the voice again. "I..." She cleared her throat. "With respect, sir, why did you come down here? It's only an hour late. Is there something else - something wrong?" Skinner picked up the file on Mulder's desk, glanced at the title, then threw it down again. He cleared his throat, seemed reluctant to look at her. "I'll be honest with you, Agent Scully. I don't know." An awkward laugh, sounding strained. "Isn't there always with Mulder?" "Mulder?" She couldn't help herself. Her voice was sharp, pouncing on his words. "Have you heard something?" He shook his head. "A.... mutual acquaintance was in my office this morning. He seemed most.... gratified that Mulder was late with his report." "Gratified?" The fear was there again, feeding on every second that passed on the clock. "Has he....?" Then she stopped herself, breathing fast. Skinner didn't know - mustn't know - her worries. No yet. Only an hour late. "I...." Skinner looked down, twisted a pen between his fingers. "I told him I had given Mulder an extra day. I saw no reason to give them another thing they could use against him. I was going to call, but he was there." Scully's smile was sincere, grateful, but she saw Skinner's embarrassment and said nothing. Her mind was racing, her hands itching to pick up the phone again. "Are they planning something, do you think?" Her voice was surprisingly calm, but her hand rubbed the back of her neck, remembering. The feeling of their deadly grip closing in.... "I don't know." Skinner looked thoughtful. "Is Mulder onto something - something that might involve them?" Scully shook her head, but was unable to keep the doubt from her eyes. Even after everything, he shut her out of so much. "I don't *think* so," she said, slowly. "He called me last night, said he had a new case. He was going to tell me about it this morning. His voice wasn't...." She shrugged, unable to express what she meant, and unwilling, too. Some cases touched him so closely, and she had learnt to read it in his voice. Excitement, despair, guilt.... None of those the previous night. So where *was* he? She shut her eyes briefly, refusing to look at the memories. It wouldn't be like this *this* time. It was too early to worry. "Well, Agent Scully." Skinner's voice was strong and firm. "Send him up *when* he gets in." The stress was slight, but it was there. She straightened her back, irritated that her concern had been that obvious. "I will, sir." She stood up, smiled. "May I *talk* to him first, sir?" A cloud passed over Skinner's face. "Don't be too hard on him, Agent Scully." The door closed before she could ask what *that* meant. She sighed, put her hands on her hips, and let anger and worry wage a war within her. A small picture of a Navajo sand painting was pinned behind his desk. No contest. "Mulder!" She heard the words, knew she'd spoken aloud. She reached for the phone. ***** Of all things, it was tidying that became a comfort. As her hands reached for papers, piled, sorted, she almost smiled at the irony of that. Dana Scully, career woman with a gun, finding comfort in tidying, in cleaning. In imposing order on chaos.... She froze, suddenly recognising it for what it was. Order. Control. It was.... it was *pitiful*. Mulder was.... There was no need to check her watch. The passing minutes burnt into her mind, painful and too fast. Mulder was two hours late, and she was dealing with that by sorting out her autopsy file. But what else could she do? She couldn't worry, not yet - couldn't call the police or start searching. It was too early. It would be pushing. It would be against their unspoken barriers, and need to assert privacy. She couldn't.... But then there was a noise, and there were no other thoughts. "Mulder?" She reached for the comfort of her gun, remembering Skinner's troubled face, his unspoken warning. "Mulder? Is that you?" She was breathing fast. She stepped forward to the glass partition that led into the main office, her body tense, her heart loud in her ears. "Mulder." He was facing away from her, bent over a file. He didn't look up, made no sign of having heard her. "Mulder. Where *were* you?" For a second there was an immense relief, but already there was anger. "Are you all right? You didn't call. Where were you?" A deep breath. "Skinner wants to see you. Your report...." Mulder shrugged. He turned a page in the file, but was silent. Scully took another step forward into the office. Only one. There was something not right here, something that made her limbs leaden and slowed her heart rate until the pauses between each beat stretched out excruciatingly. With a snap, Mulder closed the file he had been looking at and straightened up. He started to turn around and Scully had a dreadful moment where she almost cried out, , afraid of what she would see when her partner faced her. Then he was looking at her, file in one hand, a faintly bemused expression on his face. "Guess I should run this up to Skinner before he chews me a new one," he said. He had turned and was headed for the door before she could say a word. He was reaching for the doorknob when she found her voice. "Mulder! You're two hours late. Skinner's already been down here looking for you. Now where *were* you?" She walked toward him, anxious to see his face when he responded, knowing from experience it was the only way she could catch him if he chose to lie. "Mulder?" "I was...." He stopped, came to an complete standstill before her. His hand dangled in the air before the doorknob, his fingers still spread to grab the chrome sphere. She caught up to him in time to see his slack face, his utter lack of expression. As she watched, animation flooded his features again. "...stuck in traffic," he continued, as if he always punctuated his speech with thirty-second pauses. "There was an accident on the Beltway involving a tractor trailer. Traffic was backed up for miles." Mulder looked down at her, and a fond expression crossed his face. "I'll be right back, Scully." He opened the door and left the office. Scully shivered in the draught from the closing door, and sucked in a deep breath. What had she been thinking? That something was not right here? Her lips compressed into a fine line to dam back the hysterical laughter that threatened to escape. Something was more than just not right here. When your partner and best friend came unplugged before your eyes, something was a hell of a lot more than just not right. Oh, God, his *eyes!* She shuddered again, this time from reaction. She had only seen it for an instant, but it had been enough. When Mulder had stood there, a mute automaton, there had been nothing in his eyes. No emotion, no recognition, no indication whatsoever of any thought processes. It was as if she had been staring at a mannequin named Fox Mulder. ***** Somewhere in the mountains The lab technician hated cigarettes. The smoke got into his finely tuned instruments and wreaked havoc; after this man was gone it would be his job to re-calibrate them all. It was a task he would willingly take on, however. He didn't know much about all the experiments that were run from this lab, and he didn't need to know. His job was to keep the instruments up and running, and he did so with a pride in his work. Whatever the doctors and scientists did here, it was only possible with his help, with his expertise. In the late evenings, with only a skeleton staff around, he could pretend this was *his* lab, and all the computers and monitors and centrifuges belonged to him, and *he* was in charge. It was a fantasy he indulged in only in secret, but as the lab tech looked at the men in black striding around the lab, he felt sure they could read his thoughts, that even his innermost fantasies were available to their prying eyes. He swallowed and tried to blend in with the computer he stood next to. Tried not to inhale as one of the scientists walked by him, smoke trailing from a cigarette. he thought. It was all the defiance he dared allow himself, and he knew it was a vain hope. *They* were busy today, tense yet excited too. "It is proceeding as planned. Stage one is exceeding expectations. Stage two is.... promising." He stared intently at a screen, all his senses attuned to listening to the low conversation. Figures flashed up, but he didn't read them. "How long?" Another voice - one he hadn't heard before. He didn't dare look up. "Three days, perhaps." The voice was smug, eager to please. "Maybe a little less." "And is everything ready?" "Just a little fine-tuning." A laugh. "And the.... 'merchandise', of course." "That will be taken care of." There was an answering exhalation that could have been a laugh. Smoke wafted to his nostrils, but he suppressed the cough, afraid of alerting them to his presence. "The merchandise will, shall we say, deliver itself." He coughed. ***** Cold water dripped down Mulder's face. It did not soothe him. He shut his eyes, leant forward so his head rested on the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. It was solid, sure of itself. He needed its comfort. Her words echoed in his head, pounding relentlessly, giving him no peace. "Where were you, Mulder? Where were you? Where were you?" So insistent he was sure she was there, watching him. "Stuck in traffic." He muttered the words aloud, defiantly, opening his eyes. There was no-one in the mirror - no-one but himself. It was so vivid, the memory. Fingers drumming on the warm steering wheel. Snatches of music on the radio, summoning up voices and images from the past. The air thick with fumes and curses. The numbers on his watch flashing away the hours, showing him images of Scully's concern, of Skinner's anger. "Stuck in traffic." He spoke again, eyes staring at his reflection, as if he was convincing *that*. "I remember." But he hadn't. He sank to the ground, knowing he needed to think before he saw Scully again. She would be so full of questions. He *hadn't* remembered. She had asked, and there had just been nothing - just a vast grey void of nothingness. He had been unable to scream, unable even to think a scream. But then.... He sighed, rested his head in his hands. Then the memory of the traffic had come to him, sure and comforting, and he had clung to it, let it banish the void. Scully hadn't moved. It had felt like an eternity, but was only a second. She hadn't even noticed. There was no need to tell her. His hand was on his forehead before he noticed. No blood, not this time. It was different. It was.... Fear brushed across his skin, making him shiver. There was nothing known. It was different. It was.... "Scully." He whispered her name, a silent cry for help. But *she* wouldn't know that - wouldn't know it was different. He had nearly pushed her too far that time. If she thought he had tried again she would..... "No!" He pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his face dry, smoothing his fears with his fingers. He had been stuck in traffic, that's all there was. No need to tell her that the memory was like a snapshot, vivid yet somehow flat, unreal. No need to tell her about the void. No need to tell her how he *never* slept through the night, but had lost twelve hours. No need to tell her.... The void clutched him. A blank mask stared back at him from the mirror. Nothing. When it released him, he remembered the feel of the sleeping pills in his palm, and the lump of them in his throat. The memory was flat and unreal, but he let himself smile. ***** "Vampires!" Scully smiled, gesturing towards the file. It was not the way she had planned to greet him on his return from Skinner's office, but perhaps it was for the best. Mulder shrugged. His hair was damp, his face pale, but he was smiling. "You know what they say, Scully. Sleep all day, party all night. I thought it sounded cool." She turned the page, averted her eyes from the photo, all flesh and leather. "I can see why you might find some of them.... appealing, Mulder." A cloud passed over his face. She stiffened, half rose to her feet. "That's not mine, Scully." His smile was weak, but he was *looking* at her. "Frohike." "Ah." She nodded, pulled a face. Anything else was beyond her. He reached for the file, then paused. The clock ticked loudly. Five, six, seven, eight.... "Mulder!" Her voice was sharp. She pushed the chair back, loud in the silence. She was breathing fast. "Another one." There was nothing unusual about his tone, though he blinked at her, frowned slightly. She opened her mouth, but shut it without speaking. She was a scientist. Watch, observe, then act. Not before. "Not this case. Another one. A new one." His hand fell to his side. "Did Skinner tell you about it?" She kept her voice casual, veiled her worry. He shook his head, slowly. She couldn't see his face. "Not Skinner. I knew...." He cleared his throat. "Before." His voice rose slightly at the end. "But not last night?" she asked sharply. "Did someone tell you about it. An informant?" She counted ten seconds of silence. "I don't mind you having informants, Mulder," she continued, softer now, speaking almost as to a child. "I would just like to know.... things. We're partners, Mulder. Partners." "An informant. Yes." He spoke fast - ashamed at his concealment? "A new one. He came last night. I saw him. His feet were soft on the floor. He told me. A case. I trust him." "A case." There was so much to ask, so much to challenge him on. This, first. "What sort of case?" Silence. He raised his hand to his forehead, then lowered it, almost guiltily. "Where?" A long pause. "Mulder, if I'm supposed to come with you, I need to know more." She laughed, needing to lighten the mood but knowing it was impossible. "I need to know what *clothes* to pack, Mulder." "A case." He looked at her. His face was so normal, so Mulder. What had she expected? "In the mountains." "What case?" She needed to laugh hysterically. It was so *ridiculous*. "What mountains? Where?" "I need to go, Scully." His voice was so earnest, but his eyes.... She couldn't *read* them. It was something more. "Why?" she asked, desperate to make him talk, open up to her. She couldn't see into his eyes anymore, couldn't even attempt to understand. "What is this new case about, Mulder?" "It's something I have to do," he replied, and picked up the file, the one from the old case, the one they would not be investigating, after all. "Why?" she persisted, refusing to acknowledge the fear that crept along her spine. Mulder blanked again. This time she saw it happen, and a hand clutched at her throat. "Mulder?" Her voice was a thin whisper. She tried to take a step forward, to touch him, but she was held still by her fear. Then Mulder blinked and it was over. "I have to go, Scully," he said. His voice slurred over the first words, but gained in normalcy as he continued speaking. "My informant, he thinks he may have located somebody who can tell me where my sister is." He frowned slightly as he said the words, as if he himself was hearing them and the ideas they proposed for the first time. Scully thought incredulously. "Where? What mountains?" she asked quickly, afraid if she didn't keep him speaking she would lose him to that blank state again, maybe this time for keeps. Mulder turned to look at her. "North," he said simply. His head dropped, and he stared at the file folder in his hand in bewilderment. His other hand rose and with trembling fingers he touched his forehead. Scully seized her chance. "Mulder, something is--" "I have to go see this man, Scully." His voice was strong now, and when he looked at her again his eyes were clear. If he *had* ever doubted his own story, he did not any longer. He tossed the file onto a nearby table and headed for the door. "Wait!" she called, hating the pleading note in her voice. Mulder turned around and gazed at her impatiently. "I'll go with you." He nodded once, and Scully had to hurry to follow him out of the office. ********** end of part 1 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 2 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ Apt. 42 Alexandria, Virginia The knocking was firm, insistent. Mulder jerked, startled, and his eyes swept the room to find the source of the noise. The knocking came again, and this time he heard Scully call his name. The door. Scully was here to pick him up. But where were they going? A key turned in the lock of the door, but Mulder ignored it. His eyes were riveted by the sight of his luggage, carefully packed and standing by the front door. "Mulder, are you ready to go?" Scully walked into the apartment, a draft of cold air coming with her. She paused in the doorway. "Mulder?" He had packed his bags, but he could not remember doing so. "Mulder?" He dragged his eyes from the suitcases and looked at Scully. In her thick winter coat she looked warm and comfortable, but a frown line marred her brow. As he stared at her, she smiled suddenly. "You said we were going north, so I packed warm clothes," she said. "I hope that's right." "North," he repeated. Had he said that? He couldn't remember that, either. He wracked his brain, trying to remember... The world dropped out from beneath him, and there was only the void. Nothingness wrapped itself around him, and it was not cold or warm or white or black or *anything*. It was nothing. "North." His own voice brought him back to reality this time. Suddenly he *did* know where they were going. The informant had told him. He remembered the man's soft voice giving him directions. Scully was staring at him, her blue eyes oddly bright. "The man I need to see is in Vermont," Mulder said. "He has a cabin near Rutland in the Green Mountains." As he spoke he recalled the informant's words, remembered the man standing before the window, twitching the curtain to make sure nobody was watching. "Vermont," Scully said faintly. Then she smiled again, but it was a ghost of her earlier smile. "Good thing I brought my mittens." Mulder smiled back. Excitement gripped him now. He was on his way to meet a man who could tell him about Samantha. He'd been lied to before, used and manipulated in his search for his sister, but he felt good about this case. Something about it was just right. He just knew this case would be different. ***** "What have you seen?" "Who knows you work here?" "Who have you told?" The questions were relentless, and he pressed his lips together to keep from whimpering. *They* didn't care if he whimpered, or if he screamed, but he still had enough dignity to care, to try to remain silent. "What is your name, boy?" This voice was different, new, and he managed to turn his head enough to see the owner of the voice. An elderly gentleman, thin, dignified in his own right, with graying hair turning pure white. "J-Jason," he stammered. "Jason Phelps." "Mr. Phelps," the man said, "how long have you worked for SciNet Labs?" "Two years, sir." He had no idea where the "sir" had come from-- except this man looked like he was used to being afforded respect. "Long enough to learn all about the technology here?" the man asked. Jason noticed the man had a British accent. "Y--Yes, sir." He swallowed and tried to push back the pain. "I- -I run the machines here." "Yes, and you do a good job of it, too," the Britishman said, and Jason felt a ray of hope. Perhaps the beatings were over with. He stayed silent, praying. "Tell me something, Mr. Phelps. What do you know of microchip technology?" Jason hesitated. Was this a trick question? "I know enough, sir." "Do you?" The man's eyebrows drew together in a frown, and Jason was powerless against the panic that surged through him. "I know how they work, sir! I can tell you, I can--" The Englishman nodded. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can," he said in a bored tone. Then he looked at Jason shrewdly. "But tell me something else. What do you know about our little project being run from here?" Jason chose his words carefully. Truthfully, he knew very little. All he had known about the project was that it was his job to keep the computers running. After all, virtual reality technology was only as good as the person behind the computer. "I know it was the study of memory," he began, "using virtual reality as a substitute for a human subject." The Englishman nodded once. "Did it interest you?" he asked. He felt the panic return. If he said yes, would they kill him? If he said no, would they take his answer as flippant and kill him anyway? Cautiously, painfully, he shrugged. "I don't know much about it, but yes, it sounded interesting." The elderly gentleman smiled now, a serene smile that scared Jason rather badly. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he said. **** Outside Rutland, Vermont He looked so weary - utterly washed out. He took a step forward, visibly swaying, then slumped onto the couch, head in hands. Scully watched him, hand resting on the still-open door. Her eyes were like grit, but the worst tiredness was emotional, she knew that. She sighed heavily, rubbed her eyes. She wished she was back home. Anything but him, now. "Scully?" He was looking at her, eyes clouded with concern. "Are you okay?" Anger flared in her at that. Just tiredness, that's all it was. A long journey, and the pressure of dealing with *him*. Only tiredness, yet *he* was allowed to be concerned, to ask questions. "You really have no idea, do you, Mulder?" Her voice was a sigh, tinged with irritation. He blinked, shook his head. "About what?" She was silent, remembering. The whole journey he had been so.... so.... what? Spooky? She wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought, not, but *then* her throat had been tight with fear. "Mulder?" She had been unable to ignore it - had to ask. "How do you know the way?" She had been unable to take her eyes off the road enough to look - to really look - at him, but she had sensed it. That terrible dead silence before each turning, then the sudden announcement of direction - confident, without any hesitation. Almost as if relaying the orders of something unseen.... She *had* laughed then, only then realising quite how much he had affected her already, quite how much he scared her. "He told me." He'd ignored her laughter, speaking without looking at her "The informant. He gave me directions." He'd given a short laugh, one without mirth. "I have a good memory, Scully. You *know* that." She'd refused to give up, even though neither of them pushed, not normally. "Then why does it take you so long? You kept me waiting *ages* back there. Why don't you just know?" "I was half asleep when he came." His voice had been defensive. "I took some pills. You know what it's like, Scully. Sometimes memories can be.... hard to access. There's a delay." She frowned now as she'd frowned then. She wished she could accept that. "You know, Scully. Like that computer you want me to replace." He'd laughed - a poor attempt at a joke. His finger traced a figure of eight in the air in front of his forehead. "You know. That hour-glass thing." "You're not a computer, Mulder." Sharp. "You're my partner. It.... it affects me, too." Silence. She pulled out of the memory, rubbed her eyes. Mulder was still on the couch. He looked on the verge of sleep - *settled*. "Mulder." It was a flash of sudden resolve. She knew what had to be done. "We can't stay here." He stiffened, his eyes snapping wide open with.... fear? "Look at it, Mulder, *Look* at it." She gestured sharply at the shiny crockery, at the wooden furniture so new that it smelled. "No-one's ever lived here. Have they fitted it out just for us? Why would they do that?" He looked away, saying nothing. No sign that he was even thinking. She exhaled sharply, speaking slowly as to a child. "We're in a cabin the middle of nowhere. We don't know who owns it. We don't know who else had a key." Her shoes sounded angrily on the wooden floor as she crossed to his side. "For God's sake, Mulder. The key was in the *outside* of the front door, waiting for us. Why take that risk unless they were watching the place?" He raised his head, eyes lost. "They?" The word was clear, though there was so sound, just a silent movement of his dry lips. "How do you know it's not a trap?" Her voice was quiet. His eyes showed her that anger was not the way, not now. So tired. "The informant." It was almost a question, almost scared. "He said.... He said I was to wait here. I've got to. He knows. Sa.... Samantha...." "We'll leave a note, Mulder." She stroked his hand, wondering how long she'd been talking to him like this. It was the voice she used with her nephews, patient and soothing. "We'll get a room in town. He can find us there, if he really...." "No!" It was a hoarse cry, terrible, pained. He half rose to his feet, then fell back again, gasping. Both hands flew to his head, clutching so tightly. "Mulder!" His pain was like a fist in her stomach. "No." Quieter now. He was tightly curled, rocking gently, muttering words barely coherent. "Can't go. Stay. Must stay. Can't go." "Mulder!" She was all concern now, but there was relief there too. A physical cause? Images of doctors with their science, finding clear answers, curing. "Where does it hurt?" There were no words in his groans now, but the rocking was easing, his breathing returning to normal. "Did he hit you, Mulder? Is that it?" She reached for his tight fingers, trying to ease them off his forehead. Her mind was racing, finding answers, reassuring. He was silent. He pushed her hands away, let his head fall back on the couch. There was no life at all in his face. Nothing but exhaustion. "Mulder." She brushed the hair out of his eyes, all her anger forgotten. "I'll have to take you to a hospital." "No!" His voice was steel. So strange. "We stay here." "But...." He opened his eyes. Just a few words and the resolve was gone from his voice. "I.... I took some pills. They make me.... cloudy. I had a headache. No.... no memory loss. Just a bit.... slow. I'll be okay." She glanced anxiously at the door. He was drifting away from her. It was getting late and he would be heavy to carry.... "I'm so tired, Scully. Please let me sleep." His voice was little more than a whisper. There was a pleading in it that he seldom showed her when he was awake. "Tomorrow.... You can....." Silence. Just the deep breathing of his sleep. "Is that all it is, Mulder." She stroked his hair, whispering words she knew he couldn't hear. "Do you believe that, really?" She sat beside him, still and tense. She dreaded what tomorrow would bring. ***** Jason Phelps had never really thought beyond his computers before. He knew a *little* now. He wanted to know more - to decide. What the Englishman had told him had been convincing, but the bruises still hurt him, made him walk stiffly. His footfalls were soft, padding. He walked through the silent corridors to the sound of distant voices. No-one challenged him. Why had he thought the lab was empty at night? Why had he never *looked*? He paused at the half open door, his sense alert. A threat? Information? He needed them both. "You said it was proceeding well." It was the Englishman, his voice hard, angry. There was a click, silencing the voices that had been talking beyond his hearing. The radio? "It is." The other voice was defensive. A chair scraped on the floor. "You heard." "I heard nothing." A scornful laugh. "Just your failure. It is imperfect. It was supposed to be seamless. There are long delays in recall. I am sure I need not remind you that there should be no suspicion." The other man coughed, nervously. "It has proceeded far better than the others." Another click. "See?" "I expect better tomorrow." There was no pause, no sign that he had looked. "See that I get it. You only have two days before we.... receive the goods. Perhaps sooner." He hadn't been told about *this*. What was.....? "Mr Phelps." The Englishman's voice was smooth and unruffled. "Why don't you join us?" He was shaking, suddenly, the bruises flaring, but he stepped forward. What else could he do? And then he gasped. It was a whole room of monitors - black and white images of empty rooms. Though not all were empty. There were *people*, too - thin and shivering, uncovered in their barren rooms. One in particular held him, A young woman, her eyes wide in her pale face - wide and empty. "Who is she?" He hadn't meant to speak aloud. The words echoed in the silence, terrifying. "No-one." There was a click and the monitors blanked out. "Don't push too hard, Mr Phelps. We will trust you so far, but...." There were terrible images in the single word. He muttered an apology, turned, and didn't look back. His feet pounded on the floor, loud and echoing. So soon, and he wanted ignorance again. ***** Somewhere in Vermont 2:36 a.m. No-one saw it approach. No-one resisted it. No-one was suffering from it but one. It was a light. It moved without pause, without hesitation, the darkness in its path all the more absolute for the light that had passed there only moments before. There was purpose in its movement, and it did not stop to contemplate the life surrounding it. It knew its destination, and the light existed only to reach it. The light moved on. No-one resisted it. No-one was suffering from it but one. It was as it should be. It quickened, through clearings and doorways, seeking its final destination. It dismissed the other presence as unimportant and unerringly found its prize. The light shone down on the still figure, and Fox Mulder moaned in his sleep, a soft, chilling sound. The light wavered for a moment, then wrapped the man in its embrace. ***** "You understand, nobody thought we could do it. Nobody expected us to be so successful." The white-coated man spoke with an air of insufferable arrogance. Jason Phelps wondered what the man would do if he knew Jason had heard him groveling last night, begging the Englishman for more time. "But you did it." He made the proper noises, and watched the scientist glow with pride. "Yes, we did!" He got off his stool--his lapel blew back, revealing his name tag: Stern--and walked over to the wall of monitors. He pointed to the one Jason had noticed last night. The young woman. "This one. She, she is our success." Stern turned to look at Jason. "There will be others, of course, but for now she is the only one." "Why her?" It was best to appear interested, to appear as if he knew why he was here, knew what the hell he was doing. Stern's smile evaporated. His eyes darted around the room. "I can't say, exactly. But I believe it has something to do with an event that happened in her past." "What?" He didn't expect an answer. "I don't know," the man replied, but his eyes would not meet Jason's. So many lies here! Everyone Jason had met had refused to answer his questions honestly. They had all lowered their eyes, toyed with whatever they happened to be holding, slumped their shoulders. So many lies, but so much fear! Why? He changed the subject. Stern would not tell him any more, anyway. "She is the only one, though, right?" The scientist nodded. "Yes. Without her we would have no Project. Her success allowed us to continue the work. But to complete the experiment another subject is needed." Jason gestured to the other monitors. "One of them?" Stern shook his head. "No." He glanced around briefly, then pointed to a monitor showing an empty room. "That subject will be here in a few days." The monitor showed a small room, not unlike the rooms in the other screens, but with two differences. One of the walls of this room was a mirror, and Jason understood it was a two-way mirror, used to allow studying of the room's occupant. The other difference was more subtle, but more chilling. There were leather restraints attached to the bed, laying innocently atop pristine white sheets. "What is this?" he whispered. ********** end of part 2 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 3 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ Scully was asleep. Her face was turned towards the wall, and her chest rose and fell evenly with her breathing. Mulder just sat and watched her. It was difficult to do--every nerve, every muscle in his body was thrumming with tension, quivering anxiously. Something was going to happen today, he could feel it. Perhaps today would be the day he would be re-united with his sister. Scully had been scornful, unbelieving. He had expected as much, but it still hurt. Why did she have so much trouble believing? Why couldn't she sometimes just *accept*, and not question? "Mulder, this is lunacy! There's nobody here, yet this place is well-stocked, like somebody knew we were coming!" Her voice had been sharp with anger then. "Why, Mulder? Why is it so easy for you to run off whenever somebody mentions your sister? They lie, Mulder, and dammit, you *let* them. You *encourage* the lies." Blue eyes had shot fire, shriveling his ego, not giving him a chance to defend himself. "And now you've dragged me off into the middle of nowhere, Vermont, in the middle of *January*, for God's sake! With our luck, we'll get stuck in a snowstorm or something." She had pointed a slim finger at him. "And if that happens, Mulder, *you* will be the one to shovel us out of here, even if you have to do it with your bare hands." She had turned her back on him. "Now, I'm going to sleep. Try not to wake me with one of your nightmares, please." Scully stirred in her sleep, and Mulder shook his head to dispel the memory. He didn't *want* to remember his partner's harsh words. She had never spoken to him in such a manner before, and he wondered sadly why she did so now. It wasn't like her. With a small "hmm", Scully rolled over, and her eyelids fluttered. Mulder watched her, the tension within him growing, waiting for her to rouse. If she tried to yell at him this morning, he would not sit back passively; he would defend himself. Whether Scully liked it or not, they were on a case, and he was going to investigate it to the fullest extent of his abilities. Her eyes opened then, and she smiled lazily at him for an instant, then recoiled sharply, gasping. She sat up, her eyes widening and her hands coming up instinctively in front of her chest. With her hair mussed up from sleeping she presented a comical sight. Mulder did not smile. "Mulder." Her voice was quavery. "What--what are you doing?" Her gaze dropped to his lap, then back to meet his own silent stare. One hand came forward, palm up in a placating gesture, and he could see her fingers shaking. "Put the gun down, Mulder, okay?" Gun? He blinked, and lowered his eyes. Oh, yes. The cold metal of his gun lay against his leg, and he tried to remember how it had gotten there. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand... The gray curtain dropped down, obliterating his thoughts, and then was gone, all so fast it barely had time to imprint on his mind. "I need to tell you something, Scully." His voice was firm. How could he have forgotten to tell her? It was so important that she understand. "Tell me what, Mulder?" She was still sitting on the bed, that one hand still outstretched before her. Her eyes never once left his weapon, which he turned now, to face her. "This is very important, Scully. I need for you to listen." She moved her lips. A small sound came out of them. Acceptance? Maybe fear? It was as it should be. He half closed his eyes, almost afraid to look at her. He had to think of her as one of *them*, not as Scully. Firm command, implacable, holding their hired man at gunpoint. He had to get the tone right if she was to obey him. And she *had* to obey him. "You will leave here at once." A gesture with the gun towards the door. "You will drive back to DC. You will tell no-one where I am. They owe me months of vacation time. I have taken that." "Months?" Just that one word, echoed in a tiny voice. He risked a glance. She was blinking, still half in the confusion of sleep. "Maybe." He looked away, feeling a sudden pang he knew he mustn't feel. This had to be done, but it was just *so* difficult. "Months." Louder this time. She was frozen - eyes frozen on the gun, mind frozen on that one word. Couldn't she *see*? "It doesn't matter, Scully." The irritation was real, this time. After everything he'd told her during the drive, why did she refuse to understand? This was more important than anything. "Weeks, months.... However long it takes. You must not look for me." "But where....?" "To my sister. To Samantha." The implacable mask slipped and he felt himself smiling, felt tears pricking his eyes. "He said the man knew, but it might be a long journey." He looked at her again and smiled, unable to maintain his anger at her, despite what she'd done. "I'll be okay, Scully. You mustn't worry." "Why didn't you tell me this yesterday?" Scully's voice was tight with suspicion. His smile faded. Why didn't she *trust* him? "Because...." And then he wavered, feeling terror clutch him by the throat, seeing only blankness. Why? Why didn't....? He didn't *know.* For the briefest of moment, he just didn't know. "Because you wouldn't have let me come." Memory returned in a welcome rush, and with it a surging anger. "I know how much you hate it when I look for my sister. You stop me. You imprison me. You stop me doing anything, and when I try you make *me* feel guilty for ditching you." Her eyes were wide now. Before there had been wariness, but now there was genuine fear. He blinked, frowned. The gun was only inches from her face. "You don't mean that, Mulder." Her voice was calm, soothing, despite her eyes. "You're sick. I could tell that last night. I should have...." "I am *not* sick!" It was a cry of fury. "You're the one who insisted on coming, then spent the whole time complaining about being here. You're the one who...." His voice cracked. He *needed* to cry. Her betrayal hurt so much. "I just want to find my sister, Scully. Why do you stop me all the time?" "Mulder." She leant forward. Her hand closed around his gun, removing it gently from his hand. He made no resistance, tired beyond thought. "I do want to find your sister. I do." Her fingers shook as she reached for his face. "But together. We're partners, Mulder. We do it together." "But...." He sobbed, ashamed at trusting her after everything. Her arms were round him now, warm and comforting. "But he said.... Alone.... He'll only come if I'm alone." "We'll sort something out." Her voice lulled him, soothing. The painful memories rippled away, leaving only peace. "It's okay, Mulder. You'll be okay." You'll be okay.... The world swayed, a momentary cloud across his thoughts, then returned, clear and terrible. Her touch burnt him. "You'll be okay?" He pulled away violently. She looked shocked, pretending not to understand. "You think I'm sick. You *said* so. You're trying to get me off guard - take me to a hospital and use *that* as an excuse to stop me looking for her. I *heard* you, Scully." "What?" One arm was still reaching for him, still trying to give him her false comfort. He refused to be taken in, not this time. "Last night." He said no more. He knew she would remember, expected to see the guilt on her face. She'd clearly thought him asleep when she bent over him in the night, stroking away his nightmare, her voice impatient. "It's okay, Mulder," she'd said, the memory an echo of her words, now. "You're sick. As soon as it's light I'll take you to a hospital." A pause. He'd felt her eyes on him, known she was watching to see if he could hear her. "And then we can get out of here," she'd muttered, her words meant only for herself. "Then I can make him drop this." "I will *not* drop this." Her silence, her feigned innocence, fanned his anger. "I am staying here, and you can't do anything to stop me." "I *did* say I wanted to take you to a hospital...." she began, defensively. He could hear the "but" in her words. It was enough. He couldn't bear to look at her, not any longer. His anger was just so close to tears of loss. "I'm going out." He scrambled desperately for the door. "You will be gone when I come back." "Mulder!" Sharp, even scared. "You will *not* follow me." Tears blinded him. A table corner jabbed at his thigh, the door frame at his elbow. "If you have any respect left." A sob. "Please...." The winter air slashed at his face. ***** When the clock passed ten, Scully knew she could wait no longer. She stood up, wiping roughly at her eyes. Part of her wanted to leave the traces of tears, to make Mulder realise what his anger had done to her, but she knew she mustn't. *She* was strong and didn't show weakness, while *he*..... She sighed wearily, reaching for her coat, unwilling, even now, to face the obvious conclusion. He was sick, that was obvious now, but not how she had feared the previous night. Not physical, after all. A breakdown? What state would he be in when she found him? The harsh wind made her recoil instinctively, hand tightening on the door handle with anxiety. Two hours out in this? She should have gone after him. Despite his words, she should have gone after him - have accepted he was sick, rather than giving into the hurt and the anger and treating him as a sulky child, waiting for him to come back with his tail between his legs. He hadn't come back. She straightened her back, presenting a brave face to the rain and the cold and the lingering fears. His tracks weren't hard to follow, deep imprints in the mud. She stepped forward, her mind flitting between worry and memory. *His* face at the end of a gun as she confronted him, so sure he had betrayed her, so clear with a memory that could not have happened. She had recovered, then. Their partnership renewed, no lasting effects. Just like now. She would *not* let it go any other way. She glanced back. Not far. The cabin still visible through the trees. Where *was* he? "Mulder?" Her voice was weak, carried by the wind. Silence. "Mulder!" Louder, this time. She froze, all her sense alert for an answer. She was sure she had imagined it at first. A groan, barely there at all. "Mulder!" And then she was running, scrabbling down the rocky slope, heading for the figure collapsed at the bottom. "Mulder!" There was only his name on her lips. He was everything. How could he ever think otherwise? "Are you okay? What happened." He opened his eyes, blinked slowly. "I didn't know where." His voice was shaking, shivering. "He didn't tell me. I looked.... It's not there. I didn't know where to go." "Mulder." Her hands were all over him, reaching, feeling for injuries. Pulse okay. Breathing. Cold, very cold, but no bones broken. Some cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. Then why had he been lying here for two hours in the rain? "Have you been unconscious, Mulder?" She spoke slowly. He was having difficulty focusing on her, on reality. "It went.... Just a second. It was.... I fell...." She bit her lip, unsure if he was reacting to her question at all. "Are you okay to walk?" Satisfied there were no major injuries, she reached for him, passing a hand round his shoulders. "I want to take you to a hospital, just for a check." She emphasised the last words, expecting his objection. "We can come straight back." He didn't move. His eyes opened, and they were focused now, like steel. "If you try to stop me, Scully, I will never forgive you. *Never*." ***** The Englishman was pleased again with Stern, and Jason relaxed slightly in his chair. He owed no allegiance to Stern, and would not have made a move to defend the other man. But if the elderly man was angry with Stern, the chances were good he'd be angry at Jason, too. So his apparent pleasure was a relief. "Ahead of schedule now," he said in a musing tone. He templed his hands in front of his chin. "Are we ready for this?" Stern's head bobbed up and down. "Yes, sir! We've been prepared for any contingency, including this one." "And you, Mr. Phelps. Are you prepared to learn some new information?" Jason nodded slowly. He'd be damned if he turned into another sycophant such as Stern. "Yes, sir." The Englishman stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Good." He turned to look at the monitors covering the walls. "You'll have no more need of your previous subject, Dr. Stern." He gave the scientist a long look. "You're going to need to concentrate on your newest breakthrough. I would suggest you eliminate all other distractions, doctor." He managed to hold his tongue until the man had left. "What? What is he saying?" But he thought he knew, oh yes. "Eliminate." That could only mean one thing, and from the sickly cast of Stern's face, Jason knew he was right. His eyes strayed helplessly back to the woman in the monitors, rocking back and forth endlessly in her tiny cubicle. ***** Never. It was a hell of a word, Scully thought inanely. Say it to yourself over and over and eventually it loses all meaning. Nevernevernevernever... Mulder's eyes bored into hers and she could not hope to pretend to misunderstand him. Better to placate him, make him see she was on *his* side. "Okay. If it means that much to you, I won't stop you." She could have cried from the suspicion darkening his eyes. "No games, Scully." She rocked back on her heels as if he'd slapped her. "How can you say that to me?" she cried in a strengthless whisper. For a moment Mulder's eyes softened, then the moment was gone. "Years of practice," he said. The words cut her to the quick, and she backed away from him, turning around so he couldn't see how badly he had hurt her. When she had regained sufficient composure to face him again, he was standing up, swaying slightly, but with firm resolve in his eyes. "Mulder." She reached out a hand. "I won't try to stop you. But please, come back to the cabin. It's freezing out here. Give yourself a chance to get warm and eat something. Then you can leave, or do whatever you feel you have to do." She tried on a smile. "It would be awful foolish to show up for your meeting with pneumonia." She thought he would ignore her and start walking, anyway, but finally some of the tension left his body. He nodded. "All right. But only for a minute." Scully nodded frantically. Yes, yes, anything to get him inside again, where she could....Do what? Mulder began walking towards the cabin and she followed him closely. A gust of wind rose up, rattling the bare trees, and she suppressed a shiver. How could he have spent two hours out here? What had he been doing? When they reached the cabin Mulder paused, and his shoulders slumped. She didn't need to see his face to know what was happening. He twitched slightly, then pulled open the door and walked in, leaving it open behind him. Scully shut it with an audible sigh of relief to be out of the cutting wind. She stood with her back to the door, watching her partner cautiously as he collected his woollen coat from the chair it was carelessly draped over. He shrugged into it and came toward her. "I need to leave, Scully." Incredulous laughter bubbled up in her throat. One minute all he could talk about was staying here, and now he wanted to leave. "Why? Where are you going?" She kept her voice even. His gun was hidden under a layer of clothes in her suitcase, and hers was in her holster, resting comfortingly, reassuringly against her lower back. If she could get him to let down his guard, just for a moment... His eyes had gone a cold gray. "When I come back I don't want to find you here. Now move." She shook her head and pressed her palms flat against the door. "No. You wanted to stay here, and that's what we're going to do." Something that might have been fear crossed his face before vanishing under that blankness. She pushed herself off the door and Mulder cried out sharply, hands rising to clutch his forehead. He twisted around, reeling with pain, gasping for breath. "Mulder!" Part of her felt that absurd relief again. If she could chalk up his strange behavior to something physical, even something as insidious as a brain tumor, she would have something to hold on to. It was better to hope for such a cause, because if it wasn't physical, that left only one thing. Insanity. She reached his side as he fell to his knees, still grabbing his head, the knuckles on his fingers bone-white as they pressed into his flesh. She grabbed for his wrist, and Mulder jerked away with astonishing speed. "Get away from me!" he hissed. His eyes, narrowed against the pain, stared at her balefully. "Where does it hurt, Mulder? Tell me." She reached for him again, ignoring the way he flinched from her. "I want to help you." He glared at her for another moment, then got to his feet. "Let me go, Scully." The threat in his voice was unmistakable. She stood, placing herself between him and the door. "You're sick, Mulder. You *need* to go to a hospital." The seconds ticked by and Scully held her breath, daring to hope. She no longer cared if he believed her, or trusted her. If he would only *listen* to her. "Okay." She barely heard his whispered reply. His head dropped and he staggered forward. "Help me, Scully." Relief made her knees buckle. "I'm here," she said soothingly, taking him in her arms. "It's going to be all right." His arms wrapped around her middle, his hands clasping tightly behind her back. "You're going to be all right." She felt him tense up, and alarm shrieked in her mind as the comforting weight of her gun suddenly ceased to be a part of her. She scarcely felt the jolt go through her body as Mulder shoved her backwards, slamming her back against something hard and unforgiving. "You can't stop me, Scully." The floor rose up to meet her, and the world narrowed to a pinpoint of light. Her gun was a gray moon hanging lazily over this new world, and she wondered dazedly where the stars were, then the gun came down and the world was eclipsed. ********** end of part 3 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 4 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ Someone was watching her. Footsteps, padding, almost silent. Whispering thuds. Pad, pad, pad.... Or was it her heartbeat. That *hurt*. Loud in her head, thumping. Iron blood on her lips. She groped with her hand, trying to push herself up, trying to *think*. Panic surging through the pain. And the footsteps, padding. Pad, pad.... then a pause. The sound of distant sirens through a door that raked her cheek with its cold. She couldn't *see.* Darkness called to her, claimed her. She couldn't resist. ***** She didn't blame him. How could she blame him? "It was an accident." She stared defiantly at the doctor, though he didn't meet her eyes, intent on putting the stitches into her forehead. "I bent over. Hit my head on a table." The doctor had blond hair. A strand curled below his ear, an unnatural colour. His eyes were blue. She *needed* such details - needed to concentrate utterly on banishing the image of his hate- filled eyes as he'd brought her gun down on her head. But she didn't blame him. Stab. Needle in, painless. Pull. Out again. The sharp taste of blood still on her lips. Words flashed into her head, sudden and unexpected. Melissa, her eyes sparking like flint. "If a man as much as raised his hand to me, I would...." She had had no words to express her feeling, only a look more eloquent than any words. "I would never forgive him, Dana. Never." The tears, kept back by force of will for so long, were so close to spilling, now. Melissa was so sceptical, her face unforgiving, even derisive. Stab. Blond hair pulling back. A sigh of a job completed. "Agent...." A pause. A rustle of paper. "Agent Scully?" She turned round, wincing as the thumping surged in her head. It was a tall man, dark, his expression almost hostile. The sheriff. "I didn't know the FBI was investigating in these parts, Agent Scully." She sighed. She was so *tired*. She had no time - no patience - for these petty jurisdiction disputes. "I'm here on vacation, sheriff," she said, wearily. No need to tell him the truth. The sheriff didn't relax. "Do you know an Agent Mulder, Agent Scully?" She stiffened. But she was outwardly calm as she spoke. "What had he done, Sheriff....?" "Moore." A grudging smile of introduction, but his eyes narrowed. "Do you expect him to have done something?" He stepped forward, gesturing at her head. The doctor was fixing a bandage, shrinking into the background, pretending not to hear. "Is that how you got this? Did he attack you, too?" "No!" God! Did she sound as guilty as she felt? Too vehement? Protesting too much? "It was an accident. I...." And then his words registered - the full implications. "Too? You mean...." Deep breath. "What did he do?" "Just pulled a gun on one of my men." The sheriff's voice was stern, unfriendly. The voice of local law enforcement everywhere. Why did Mulder seem to rub them up the wrong way, always? "Just threatened him, saying he mustn't be stopped from.... what he needed to do." She sighed. Her head was hurting so much. Driving to the hospital had been a nightmare of stupidity, but she had had no alternative. Her cell phone hadn't worked. Her mind was so sluggish, so slow to respond. "Did he...." She swallowed, afraid to ask, though she knew she had to. "Did he pull the trigger?" The sheriff's shoulders slumped. He looked away, as if embarrassed. "He couldn't hold the gun. His fingers...." He cleared his throat. "I think it.... it's personal. I shouldn't say this...." "Agent Mulder and I have no secrets." She just about managed to look him straight in the eye. God! If only it were true... "We're partners." There was a long pause. "He was talking about some woman," he said, at last, in a low voice. "Saying he *had* to find her - that it was more important than anything. He just groped for the gun, as if it was the most important thing in his life. Nothing else matters. Nothing else matters.... That's what he was saying. God! My man was just trying to help him...." Scully stood up, reached for the support of the bed as the room swayed, held it. One, two, three.... "Can I see him?" She let go, managed to stay upright. "Where is he? I want to see him." The doctor and the sheriff exchanged glances, quick and meaningful. The sheriff was the first to speak, his voice anxious. "You haven't heard? You mean, you don't know what's happened?" Her hand reached for the bed. Too much to expect her to stand without it, not now. "Tell me." ***** "I need to see him." Scully pulled away from the hand that held her, pulled her back. "Agent Scully." The doctor's voice held a strange note. Nothing she had heard before, and she had been at his side for so many occasions like this. "Please. Please listen." "I've got to be with him." Tears pricked her eyes. She'd seen him through a brief flash of glass. He'd been unconscious still. "I've got to be with him...." She paused, swallowed back her fears. "When he wakes." "Agent Scully!" Her attention was on him in an instant. She recognised the voice at last. It was *fear*. Naked fear. What was happening here? "He'll be okay?" She knew she was babbling, not being Scully. She was so tired, so hurt. She had lived ten years in as many hours. "It was an accident. He's been sick. I've seen him blank out. That's why it happened. He didn't even see the car coming. I'll take him back home - sort it out. It's over. I'll look after him now." "Agent Scully." There was a bead of sweat on the doctor's face. She looked away, remembering the guilt-stricken face of the man who'd hit him. "He just walked in front of me. I tried to stop. He didn't seem to see me. I'm so sorry." He'd expected her to be angry - even needed her to be angry. Her understanding had thrown him. "I know." She'd touched his arm, comfort in her hands. "He's.... he's sick. He didn't know what he was doing. It's my fault, letting him out like that. Never think it's your fault." "What?" The guilt was enough to pull her out of the memory, to focus her on the present. "What is it? How badly is he hurt?" "Agent Scully." Just her name. He seemed afraid to say more. "What?" There was real fear now. What was hidden? What secret death was lurking in his sterile room? "I.... I did an X-ray. When he was brought in?" He licked his lips, clearly lost, almost terrified. "I found....." A cough. "I found..... this." His hand shook. He held up some tweezers. The tiniest piece of metal caught the light, shone purely, deceptively. She couldn't speak. "I can't be sure...." The doctor spoke fast, sweat beading on his brow. "We think it's some sort of bug..... monitoring everything he said.... everything said to him...." Her own horrified words came back in a rush, and her hand crept up to her neck of its own accord. "Where?" "Agent Scully?" She cleared her throat. Had to get the words out, speak in a calm voice. "Where did you find it?" "We did a head X-ray," the doctor said, "to check for concussion or a skull fracture. We found....*it*...in his sinus cavity." Oh, God. The way he had clutched his head, in so much pain. "I need to see him." The doctor nodded. "This way." ***** He had thrown up everything he had ever eaten, Jason was sure of that. It did not prevent his stomach from cramping up miserably, sick saliva flooding his mouth. "He *must* not be allowed to leave that hospital." The Englishman's voice had been brittle with fury. The stolen uniform was tight across his chest, further constricting his breathing. Stern was gone, vanished into the bowels of the lab, and Jason wondered miserably if the scientist would end up appearing on one of his own monitors. "How could this happen? I want *answers*." No-one had dared to speak, but instead of yelling the Englishman had grown quieter in his rage. "Go pick him up. He *must* not be allowed to leave that hospital. Agent Mulder is vital to the success of the Project." Jason closed his eyes against the swaying of the vehicle and swallowed against the bile in his throat. Whoever Agent Mulder was, he was valuable enough to kill over. Kill. He had never seen a dead person before. It had looked *nothing* like in movies or TV. He took slight consolation in the fact that he hadn't been the only one sickened. One of the other soldiers had been just as revolted. And they *were* soldiers. At least, he thought they were soldiers. They certainly weren't scientists, no matter what their ID's said. The vehicle stopped, and Jason opened his eyes. The hospital was a stolid gray brick building that reminded him unpleasantly of a prison. It did not help to remember that the SciNet building looked exactly the same. "Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking." The soldier gave him a hard glare and Jason nodded obediently. He had been caught eavesdropping again, and this was the penalty: to be a party to murder and kidnapping. "How can we expect to control him if we can't even get him here?" Scorn had dripped from the British man's voice. When Stern had tried to respond, he had been cut off. "No more excuses. Agent Mulder is a liability that *must* be tended to. You told me you could control his memories, make him believe he had seen things, and not seen other things." Footsteps, as the man paced the lab. "The man will not give up easily. A narrow escape now would only double his determination. He *must* be brought here. That way there can be no mistakes." The footsteps had abruptly ended and the door flung back. "Mr. Phelps, how nice of you to join us." Join us. That was the key, wasn't it? He hadn't really *joined*. He had been coerced. Yet here he was, walking down a hospital hallway in a stolen police uniform, a heavy weight in his pocket, and nausea twisting his guts into knots. Jason cursed to himself. Nothing to blame but his own stupidity, really. Nobody to blame for his situation but himself. No way out now. ***** White. Everywhere white, painfully bright, not at all soothing. Against such a backdrop her hair stood out brilliantly. "Scully." She was pale, a chalky white color that blended in with the walls. Her smile was fake. "How are you?" He wasn't sure. There was pain, but of a muffled variety. When the drugs wore off he sensed he would be hurting, but for now it was tolerable. "Mulder?" Her voice was strained, slightly hoarse. Had she been crying? "Yeah." He made an effort, focused his eyes. "Where am I?" She smiled again, just a twitch at the corners of her lips. "Vermont." At his puzzled expression, she said, "We were on a case." A case. Why could he not remember? "I don't..." Scully placed her hand on his arm. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but he had to fight the urge to shake her off. "It's okay. You don't have to remember." He closed his eyes and swallowed. Something nagged at him, at the back of his mind. Something about Scully... Footsteps approached from down the hall, and he heard voices in the doorway. Scully said something in return, and Mulder forced his eyes open. "Scully!" The white bandage on her temple. Oh, God! She turned to look at him, her face pinched. "Scully, what...?" "Mulder, these men need to talk to you." There was an unnaturally high pitch to her voice. Men? He looked up, saw them in the doorway. Two police officers, one somber and deadly-looking, the other a fresh-faced rookie. "Agent Mulder? Can we have a word with you?" The taller one spoke. His voice was deep, matching his stocky build. He looked to Scully for help and was appalled to see her eyes bright with tears. "Scully?" He reached out with one hand toward her. She did not take it. "Agent Mulder, can you tell us what happened before you threatened another officer, when you were struck by the car? Can you tell us about the other man you met, before all this?" He was drowning, suddenly unable to breathe. The words summoned up no answering images. Threatened? Car? "Scully?" Panic made his voice shake. His eyes beseeched her. She had been looking down, adamantly staring at the floor, and when she raised her head her gaze was steady. "Mulder, you walked out of the cabin and into the woods. You crossed a road and walked right out in front of a car. The driver was unable to stop in time and he hit you." She paused. "A police officer tried to help you into the ambulance but you threatened him with a gun." She glanced at the men. "I... I didn't know about the other person." None of it made any sense. The last thing he clearly remembered was printing out a report for Skinner. A report that stated he and Scully had finished a case. Were they here on a new case then? How had they gotten to Vermont? Why couldn't he remember? "Mulder. You have to tell them. What else did you do? What happened before the accident?" "I don't....what...I don't know," he whispered. "I can't remember." "Maybe it will help if I jog your memory," said the large police officer. There was no compassion in his face. "Maybe you met this other man before your.... accident. Was he looking at you as you shot him? Or did you wait until his back was turned?" No! He couldn't...he didn't.... He looked at Scully again. She sat very still, her head bowed, looking down, her hands clasped in her lap. "You have to remember, Mulder." The younger officer pulled something out of his jacket then. A clear evidence bag, properly tagged. "Agent Mulder, is this your gun?" He could only nod dumbly, breathless with fear. His heart slammed painfully into his ribcage. Could he have done this? Helplessly, his eyes rolled back toward Scully, and that incredibly white bandage on her forehead. If he was capable of hurting his own partner, the only person he trusted, surely he was capable of killing a stranger, wasn't he? whispered a sly voice in his mind, and he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. He hardly heard the officer speak again, his words directed to Scully. "...have to take him in for questioning....have a lawyer?...died instantly..." The officer reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of handcuffs. The steel gleamed under the bright hospital lights. Terror bolted through him, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out, from begging them not to do this. But if he had killed a man, an *innocent* man, it was only right that he be punished for it. A lifetime of imprisonment couldn't begin to atone for his crime. "I'll call Skinner," Scully said softly, and he choked back a sob. So this was how it ended, then. Scandal, embarrassment, banishment. He meekly allowed the officer to pull him upright by his cuffed hands. A soft hand on his shoulder, and forced himself to look at her. He could not hide from his shame--he had no *right* to. "It'll be all right, Mulder. Just try to remember what happened." They led him from the room, and then he could not see her anymore. ***** "An implant?" Scully rubbed her aching head. It was all so difficult. Skinner was demanding answers, but what could she tell him? "Agent Scully?" Sharp, but not unfriendly. She remembered his warning, before the nightmare had started. Had he known - been unable to tell, held by some threat, some promise? "Yes, sir." Suspicion made her sharp. "There can be no question who put it there, can there, sir." Firm. Not a question. Silence. The line crackled, as if jolted by his movement. She could hear his mood - almost see him removing his glasses, rubbing his forehead. Or was it some other cause entirely? She had to be careful what she said. "What do you know about it?" he asked at last, his voice calm, no trace of the emotion she had read into the silence. "I don't know." Her turn to sigh, wearily. Her eyes were aching, but she knew she could never sleep, not now. "I have it here. I fully intend to study it - to learn everything about it." She clenched the phone tight in her hand, remembering the unseen listeners. "Everything," she repeated, defiantly. "What does Agent Mulder have to say?" She shut her eyes, reached for the support of the wall. The image was still so clear. His halting steps as he was pulled from the room, struggling with his injuries but making no resistance. She'd been stunned, hit too hard by events to react, not at first. But what could she have done? The doctor had approved his release, his face still white and scared from what he had found. She blinked, not hard enough to remove the prick of tears or the memory. "You know Agent Mulder, sir. He has set himself up as judge and jury - found himself guilty." "And you?" Soft and insidious. A woman was led past, her face terrible with grief. The sight repelled her, yet drew her. Was it the wife of the man Mulder had killed? Bullet in the head, gun so badly concealed in the undergrowth. "Agent Scully?" No escape. "And you?" Her fingers massaged the flesh of her temples, almost cruelly. "*If* he did it, I think.... The implant." Her was voice high, trying to convince herself as much as Skinner. "He.... He wasn't in control of his own actions. It's not his fault." "If?" Skinner repeated the word. It was cruel, forcing her to face her own doubts. "You think he did it, don't you?" Her silence was no denial. He'd attacked her, for God's sake, and pulled a gun on someone trying to help him. She could forgive, but it didn't mean she didn't believe. "I think the answers are in the implant," she said at last, her voice firm, refusing to be questioned any further. The rest was between her and Mulder, no one else. "I can help him best if I concentrate on that." Which meant that she didn't have to *look* at him. ***** He was haunted. They were everywhere. Eyes. Scully's eyes, wide with horrified realisation as he raised the gun, and then.... "No!" A sob choked in his throat. His arms were tight against his body, wrapped as protectively as they could - as protectively as the cuffs allowed. They were cold, and bit into his wrists. They should be tighter, he knew that. He deserved no mercy. "Yes." The older officer, his voice stern, his face grim. "Are you remembering now?" There was a ripple of laughter. He didn't look up. "Do you remember the blood? Did he cry out as you killed him? Bullet through the brain, or so we hear. He has a young child - or, rather, had." More laughter. Why? He frowned, concentrating. He needed the truth, he knew that, but it was only a blank. A blank, and Scully's face as he raised the gun, and then.... She had shown no fear. His Scully, always brave, stronger than him - far stronger. "You killed that man." The older man leant close. Fingers closed around his face, squeezing his cheeks hard. "Remember that. Know that." A gasp. Whose? Not his own? A hand moved sharply at the fringes of his vision. The rookie officer, his face pale, sweaty in the cold. "Where?" He coughed, feeling stabs of pain radiate from the bruises that were everywhere, everything. "Where are you taking me?" The man laughed. They were in the back of a vehicle, jolting along roads for.... hours? Maybe not hours, but too long, and not main roads. "You deserve no answers, Agent Mulder." He shut his eyes, winced as a wave of pain washed through him. The doctor had discharged him, but this couldn't be right? Eyes. Scully's eyes, wide with horrified realisation as he raised the gun, and then.... "No!" "It's too late, now, Agent Mulder." A fist impacted on his jaw, sudden and unexpected. He took it, not fighting back. He knew he deserved their hatred, and Scully's. He had been so sure she had betrayed him, but that too had been deserved. He bit his lip against the cry that needed to burst from his lungs. A silent tear trickled down his cheek - only one. He had been so sure he would find Samantha, but she was lost, as Scully was lost. He had nothing left. Whatever they did, he wouldn't fight. ********** end of part 4 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 5 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ She had not been thinking clearly earlier, the head injury and the shock of the doctor's announcement having muddled her thoughts. Now she swept into the cabin, purposeful and determined. The nearest FBI lab was in Albany, New York, miles from here. She would drive down there, taking two hours at the most, and take the implant with her. Somebody there would analyze it for her and she would... No, better not to plan that far ahead. Better to wait until she knew exactly what the nature of the implant was. What if it was still recording, or transmitting, or doing whatever dirty work it did? What if she could be tracked with it? What if, by possessing it, *she* was the one who began to behave strangely? Scully gave herself a small shake. There was no reason to believe the implant was still working, yet she couldn't suppress a shiver as she stared at the small piece of metal, safely confined to a glass vial. Who was responsible for it? Why had Mulder been singled out? What had their plans been? Smug triumph filled her. Her triumph evaporated. She was too late. They already *had*, and Mulder was on his way to Rutland City Jail because of it. she thought sadly as she moved around the cabin, gathering her things. She was at the door when she hesitated. Her gun. Her brow furrowed as she turned back around, her blue eyes searching the cabin. Gun. His almost imperceptible nod. An embarrassed voice, the sheriff. She crossed the cabin in two quick strides and flung open her suitcase. Her hand trembled as she reached under the clothes strewn carelessly inside the suitcase, and touched the cold metal. A mixture of relief and horror swept through her Mulder's gun. She could not bring herself to pick it up, could only stare at it, trembling harder. The officers had held up a bagged weapon, and she had not even noticed that it was her own, had not remembered that it couldn't possibly be Mulder's. He had nodded, and yet he had not been able to remember why they were in Vermont. He could not remember the past two days, and yet he had freely accepted the accusation of murder levelled against him. He had not even looked at the weapon, had made no protest. She felt sick. Her eyes closed and she forced herself to pretend, to imagine. <...She sees Mulder, walking along, head down, hands curled into fists, muttering to himself about doing what he has to do. Sees him walk into a clearing in the woods. A man is there, camping maybe, or out for a walk himself. It doesn't matter why he is there. But he is a native of these parts, a woodsy man, and he has a gun, although he had never fired it himself. She imagines Mulder, walking through the clearing, perhaps colliding with the man, who calls out to him. Maybe the man recognizes Mulder is sick, maybe he tries to stop him. It doesn't matter. The end result is the same. The two men wrestle, shove each other to the ground. Mulder is enraged at being hindered, grabs the man's gun and fires. He lurches to his feet, throws the gun into the bushes, and walks off, intent on reaching his goal...> It was an ugly picture, and a stretch of the imagination; however, only this morning she would never imagined Mulder striking her, either. She found she could not believe it; the scenario was just too implausible. Had it only been two days ago that she had asked Skinner that question? Scully let out a snort of bitter laughter. She had her answer now, it appeared. She could only hope she had not arrived at it too late. Walking rapidly, she left the cabin. ****** "You wanted to see me, Assistant Director Skinner?" God, he hated this man. Hated the stench that cloaked him, that lingered in his office hours after the man had left. Stare him down. Don't let the enemy see you blink. A trick he'd learned in Vietnam. "Surely you must have some work to do, Mr. Skinner, rather than stare at me?" He clenched his jaw tighter, wishing that once, just once, he could give in to his urge to deck this son-of-a-bitch. "I hear Agents Mulder and Scully have had a run-in with the law in Vermont," the smoking man said, tiring of the game first. He spoke casually. "What have you done to him?" Skinner ground out. The smoker's eyes widened in a pathetic show of innocence. "Is that why you called me here? To accuse me?" "What have you done?" He had learned the best way of dealing with these men was repetition. Keep it simple and maybe he'd get an answer. "Nothing that I am aware of." The cigarette was stubbed out. "Perhaps one of my colleagues..." "I would suggest you find out," Skinner said. There was menace in his voice, but no real threat there. Both men knew it. "Have a nice day, Mr. Skinner." He was gone, only the wispy trails of smoke evidence that he had ever been there at all. ******* The blindfold was scratchy against his eyes, but he said nothing. Apparently the officer had meant it when he said that Mulder didn't deserve any answers. Although they had arrived, his destination was still a mystery. He had expected a prison, or a police station, but this building was too big, had too many echoes to be either of those. They had cuffed his hands behind his back just before letting him out, and the officer pulled him along with one hand on his elbow, letting him slam painfully into corners and doorways. They had turned too many hallways for this be any prison Mulder had ever known. He stayed silent as they wound their way through corridors, down stairs, and through rooms. Occasionally he heard soft bleeping noises, and once he had sworn he'd heard the soft whirr of a laser printer, but that was all. The only other sounds were the breathing of the two officers flanking him. A hard yank on his elbow jerked him to a stop, and he heard jangling keys. Someone unlocked a door, probably the rookie cop-- he had not touched Mulder once--and he was shoved through the doorway into the room. Hot pain flared along his side from his bruised ribs, where he'd been struck by the car, and he staggered, trying to stay on his feet. He refused to fight, but that did not mean he would meekly surrender, either. The burly officer grabbed his arm again, and he was pulled forward, then pushed into a chair. Hands tugged at his wrists, removing the handcuffs, then locking them again. Mulder pulled on them experimentally and stifled a sigh. The short chain between the metal bracelets wrapped around one of the slats in the back of the chair; there was no getting off the chair now until they let him up. Footsteps, and the two officers left, slamming the door behind them. Mulder bowed his head in defeat. Obviously they had something more in mind for him than just a jail sentence. Fear and dread made his heart pound faster. Had he done something else while in the woods? Killed a family of five, perhaps? Tears stung his eyes behind the blindfold. He couldn't *remember*. They could tell him he had done anything, and he would have no choice but to believe it. He had struck Scully, that was true; over and over he saw the gun in his hand falling towards her face, her blue eyes wide and astonished. "Scully." A whisper. He didn't deserve her help. He had betrayed and hurt her, he had not trusted her, and now he was paying the price for his sins. No, he would have to face this alone, whatever happened to him would happen for a reason. He only wished he could remember why. ****** Her first hope came to nothing, though it had been no hope at all, not really. What had she been expecting? That there would be no body at all - no body and no crime? Stupid, stupid hope, already disproved, though still somehow clung to. "The murder? What about it?" The sheriff's voice had been unfriendly. She had called him as soon as she could. Although she had wanted to shout about them, she had forced herself to be silent about the gun and the implant, at least for now. The steel jaws of their trap were everywhere. Let them underestimate her. "I was just checking...." A pause. How to say it without arousing suspicion? "I wanted to make sure you knew about it." She still wasn't sure why she had asked that - why she had been possessed with a sudden fear - a sudden hope - that there had been no crime at all and the men who had taken Mulder had been.... who? No need to ask. But he'd laughed, a harsh sound. "Of course I know about it. We normally get few murders in these parts, *Agent* Scully." His voice had been resentful and accusing, his words casting her as the stranger, not belonging. "This man dead, and your partner threatening violence with a gun less than half a mile away...." She had been on a knife-edge of mingled disappointment and relief. No crime would have meant.... what? That he was in the hands of the enemy? Terrible, but at least he could be bargained for, rescued, fought for. A real murder, a real arrest, meant disgrace, humiliation, captivity. She still couldn't say which was worse. "It is circumstantial evidence, sheriff," she'd said, at last, returning to a present of facts rather than wild speculation. "I know." His agreement had been grudging. "That's why I sent men to *talk* to him - find out what he knew." "And have you *talked* to these men yourself, sheriff?" She'd echoed his emphasis. She hadn't liked their way of just "talking." "Have you found out that he had no memory of the time in question - that he was obviously sick?" "I haven't...." The sheriff had coughed, sounded awkward. "They haven't called in yet." Then he'd grown firmer, more decisive. "They're good men. I trust them to handle it." She had said no more, not told him that *she* would be investigating too, and had her own agenda. They had so many enemies. No need to make it worse. But now, facing confirmation that *some* crime had indeed been committed, she had a wild impulse to laugh - hysterical laughter like she had laughed so long ago in a rainy cemetery, when first exposed to the wild theories of man who would become so close to her, so soon. And now it was at an end.... "No!" She spoke aloud, earning a sharp look from the morgue attendant. He took a step forward, mouth opening as if to speak, then subsided. She did not smile at him, knowing that everyone was an enemy, now. The man's face was deeply lined, marked with the paleness of death. Sunken cheeks and wrists *so* thin, fingers weak and white. As if he'd never been outside for months.... She leant forward, no sound in the cold air but her own breath and the attentive watchfulness of the attendant. "This *is* the man who was...." She paused, took a deep breath. Just a simple word, but so many terrible associations. "Murdered?" she said, at last, louder than necessary, knowing she had to fight the urge not to say it at all. "The unidentified man from the woods...?" He nodded, frowning. "Is there a problem?" She shook her head, feigned calm. She was *so* aware of the implant in her pocket, and could almost feel malevolent eyes on her, watching. She turned away, heading for the door, her heels clicking on the bare floor, enumerating the evidence. Click.... The implant. Click.... The gun. Click.... The body. Click.... She paused, silent, then stepped forward firmly, a decisive click. There *would* be more - a case no-one could argue with. But she had enough to hope, now. She was ready to visit him. The thought of visiting him without something concrete - without being able to offer hope to his despair - had been too terrible. But first.... She fingered the implant in her pocket. She knew how they worked. This time she would be covered, prepared. She *would*. ***** The light was harsh, unforgiving. It made the window a mirror, showed up his every weakness, his every crime. He didn't want to look at himself ever again. "Why did we have to kill him?" Jason hadn't meant to speak. He knew the price of rebellion now. The man hadn't even struggled, so broken had he been. His eyes had been dry as the gun was raised to his head, cold twigs digging into his knees. The soldier was silent. "It wasn't even necessary," Jason persisted, voice unnaturally high. "She didn't even check. We could just have *said* there was a...." He swallowed. "A murder." "She didn't check." The soldier's voice was bored, impatient. "She *could* have. We had to be covered. A body *had* been..... reported." A grim laugh. "Two officers *had* been dispatched to talk to our friend here, as you know. We needed that security." "But an innocent man...." He could go no further. He looked through the small window, watching the prisoner with distaste. A man had *died* because of him, as surely as if he had really pulled the trigger. "Not innocent." The soldier laughed. "Have they told you nothing? He was one of the.... failures. He resisted. A trouble-maker. He was to be terminated. This way his death had meaning - served another purpose." "But this man.... This Agent Mulder? What is he?" He clenched his fists, watching the prisoner. He was just *sitting* there, making no move to resist. Two hours and no-one had been in with him. Were they playing with him - hurting him by making him wait, and imagine? "A murderer." His mind was screaming his rejection, though he knew he was on the point of saying too much. "It was necessary - the only way to bring him to justice. A lie is justified if it will make him pay for his past.... unforgivable actions, and prevent future ones." The soldier's eyes were full of hatred, though his voice was measured, even rehearsed. But the eyes.... There was something more here. "What did he do?" The horror faded, and there was only curiosity - a terrible fascination. He was in too deep and he knew it, but there was no escape. May as well find out what he could - explain things. The soldier took a deep breath, then let it out, tense with anger. "A friend of mine died because of him." He slammed his fist into the wall. "And I will make him *pay* for that. Whatever *their* plans are...." "Do they know this?" It was a horrified gasp. He had seen the fate of one person who went against their plans. It had been enough. "Would you get....?" "Oh no." The soldier laughed, a terrible sound. "My plans and theirs are.... not incompatible. They want his mind. They don't care what state his body is in." He paused, gripping Jason by the shoulders, his fingers strong and painful. "Never forget that he deserves this. Don't risk their displeasure by supporting someone like him." Jason shook his head, unable to speak. He walked away. It was the last time. Never again. He didn't want to know. ***** "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Scully." She wanted to scream with frustration. Part of her knew at once what was happening here, though part of her still rejected it. All she needed was a little corroboration - security in case they stepped in and removed the evidence. "The implant." She spoke through gritted teeth, boring into the doctor with her eyes. "You found it. You *told* me about it." "I'm busy, Agent Scully." Then his voice shook, weakened. "Please." "No." It was no time to be forgiving. She reached into her pocket, thrust the vial before his eyes. "This. You *saw* it. I want you to tell the sheriff - tell everyone. You *have* to." "Are you threatening me, Agent Scully?" A high squeak, scared. She stepped back, breathing hard. "No." She sighed, her head pounding painfully. "I know there's nothing I can say to persuade you. I know how they work. I know how.... how wrong always wins." He opened his mouth, shut it again. He looked terrible - pale and guilty. She turned away, hand closing tightly on the implant. Without corroboration, she *had* to keep hold of it now. It was his only hope. It was.... "Oh God!" She whirled round, heart beating fast with sudden horror. His face as Mulder had been led away.... "Was *that* for them, too?" His eyes blinked his lack of comprehension. She stepped right up to him, voice deadly. "Did you lie about him being fit to be discharged?" His stricken look was all the answer she needed. "Who was it?" She held him by the front of his gown, eyes flashing fire. "Was it the men who took him - the *police* officers?" He was unable to look at her, but slowly, oh so slowly, his head moved. A nod. ****** The pictures came in flashes of light and dark, stabs of pain and grief. Scully's gun was slippery in his hand. There was blood on the end - blood and a strand of red hair. It made him want to cry. She had betrayed him, and now he had been forced to hurt her. But it was necessary - it was worth it. Samantha. Samantha was near. He would find her. He had to go.... where? Undergrowth lashed at his legs. Cold air biting, and clouds of mist wreathing his face. His breath pounding in his head. Hours like this. Minutes. An eternity? Running, looking, searching.... Images flashing in his mind, vivid and real. Scully's anger. The informant's promises. Samantha being torn from his side. Samantha.... Blankness. "You will turn left, head into the woods, then keep going." His informant's voice. Why hadn't he remembered before? Scully's shouting had made it so hard to think. And then a screech and a thud and a sudden pain that lashed through his whole body and pushed him towards to darkness. "No!" He muttered at the darkness, refusing to let it take him. Darkness, thick and stifling like oily water. "Sir?" A hand on his arm. "The ambulance is here. You'll be okay. You'll soon be in the hospital." "No!" There was a hard lump beneath his back. The gun. He moved his hand and it.... it *hurt*... and he moved his hand and his fingers closed around the comfort of its handle. Reminders of Scully...strength and comfort. Control. "No. I've got to.... Leave me alone. I've got to find her. Nothing else matters. I've got to.... Not the hospital...." "Sir!" Sharp and angry, not addressed to him. "Let me go on." So hard to think through the fingers of darkness that groped for him. Something slipped and his fingers were enclosing nothing - no hope. "Please.... Nothing else matters." Fingers grazing the ground, searching. "Nothing else matters...." Darkness. "I.... I didn't." He jerked his head up, pulled back to the present, though still so aware of the memory. "I didn't kill *anyone*." He smiled as far as his cracked lips would allow him. It had needed the lulling proximity of unconsciousness. He was in control now, and could even analyse it, distance himself from the pain. Conscious, and his memory had jammed on the terrible image of Scully's eyes, unable to get past it, unable to..... Get past it.... No. Not yet. "So you remember." The voice made him start. It was a harsh whisper close to his ear. "I didn't kill him." He sounded weak again, confidence shaken by the memory of her eyes. "Enjoy that knowledge, Agent Mulder. You won't have it long." A hand grabbed him by the throat, squeezing away the air. He couldn't make a sound. He *tried.* "You are ours, now, Agent Mulder." The hand relaxed just in time, leaving his gasping. "And mine." Footsteps. The sound of a door opening. "I will leave you time to imagine that." The footsteps paused and the voice spoke in the threatening silence. "It can be the best part, don't you think?" The door slammed shut. ********** end of part 5 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 6 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ Small flakes of snow dotted the windshield as she drove. Numbly, Scully reached over and turned on the car's defroster. How could she have been so stupid? So blind? She had not even asked for their ID's. No, she could not blame her own stupidity on the blow to the head. She was a federal agent, dammit. She *knew* better. The snow began to fall harder as she pulled into the police station. The small building had its own jail, an annex that appeared newer than the rest of the building. Scully wondered grimly if the good citizens of Rutland were resting easier, now that the killer in their midst had been captured. She stood in the parking lot, one hand in her pocket. Clutching the vial gave her strength. For once she *had* evidence, proof of their plans. She meant to use every resource at her disposal to see that they were brought to justice. They would *not* get away with it this time. "I need to speak to Sheriff Moore, please." How had she gotten inside? She couldn't remember. "I'm Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI." A practiced snap of the wrist, flash of the badge. "Agent Scully." She turned around, recognized the voice. "Sheriff Moore." "Is there something I can do for you, Agent Scully?" God, how she hated that patronizing tone! She could never fully understand why local law enforcement was so rarely co-operative. They were all on the same side, weren't they? "Yes, there is." She drew herself up to her full height. "I need to see Agent Mulder." The sheriff frowned at her. "Why do you need my help to do that?" She struggled to dam back the hateful words that wanted to burst forth. "Because, Sheriff, your men arrested him for murder and took him to jail." Moore glanced quickly at the dispatcher, who shook his head. "Haven't seen 'em," the man said. Leaden weight settled in her stomach, making it difficult to swallow. "Sheriff, did you give your men the authority to arrest Agent Mulder?" Hands balled into fists. "Dispatch, see if you can't bring up Corbin and Russwin." Moore's eyes bored into hers. "What did they look like?" A whisper. He hesitated for a moment. "Medium height, one had red hair..." She closed her eyes as Moore's description went on. Each word added to the weight in her stomach. "Sir, I can't raise either officer. They're not responding." Scully wrapped her arms around her middle. The pain threatened to double her over, bring her to her knees. "Agent Scully?" The hostility from earlier was gone. "Did you see my men at the hospital?" A question. One she could answer. She straightened, opened her eyes, forced her arms to drop to her sides. "No. The two men I spoke with do not match your description." She blinked, memory returning with painful clarity. Moore's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" Had she spoken aloud? She cleared her throat. "Their uniforms, the name plates said Corbin and Russwin. But those were not your officers, sir." Silence, dragging out. "Dispatch! Send out a two-man patrol," barked Moore. His eyes met Scully's. "And bring Agent Scully her weapon." She could have wept with relief. **** The hallways were empty, and his footsteps echoed loudly in the silence. He walked to avoid having to return to the cubicle that was now his home. He walked as a form of exercise, the only kind recognized here in the bowels of the lab. He walked because he was afraid. Only a week ago he had sat in his tiny apartment in Rutland, wondering if he would ever have a girlfriend, ever have some excitement in his life. Now he had excitement, all right, and all because he hadn't been able to keep his body from betraying him. Some damn scientist, taking advantage of the Englishman's cigarette, lighting up his own, sending up that thick smoke that Jason's traitorous lungs had rebelled at. One cough. Two days. Now he was a witness to murder, kidnapping, and God only knew what other crimes. A mirthless smile crossed his lips. Excitement? You got it, baby. His wandering footsteps turned a corner. He passed the rooms where the subjects lived. Stern was in here now, just a test subject, no longer the promising scientist he had been just two days ago. Two days. How could he have sunk so low? Turn another corner, turn the page. There was no going back, he knew that. They would never let him leave now. At least, not knowingly. Jason's steps slowed as his imagination sprang to life... A violent crash startled him, and he jerked out of his reverie. In danger... His mouth tightened when he saw where his roving feet had taken him. The door to the room was closed, but it wasn't soundproof, and he could hear what was happening all too clearly. Another crash, this time followed by a muffled cry. Jason crept forward, hating himself for doing it, but he had to *see*. Had to peer into that small window set with wire glass. The soldier--Jason didn't even know his name--was standing up, fists clenched, veins of red fury standing out on his forehead. He reached down and pulled the chair upright, bringing the prisoner with it. The man's head lolled forward, and blood ran down his chin. "But you don't care, do you?" the soldier hollered. "As long as you can have your *truth*," the word was a sneer, "you don't care how many people you kill!" The subject--it was easier to think of him that way, strip him of his name--shook his head slowly. "No," he protested feebly, "I didn't." Metal clanged on metal as the chair was knocked over again, sending the subject backwards to land on his bound arms. The cry this time was almost a scream. "You shouldn't lie to me," the soldier said, lazily picking up the chair. Jason backed away, his fist buried in his mouth to stifle his cries. This wasn't right, this wasn't the way. His head shook back and forth, and his lips moved soundlessly, "No," and "No," an endless negation. He didn't know when his strides lengthened, and he ran through the hallways he had just walked. ****** 46th St. New York City Smoky darkness enveloped the man. He preferred it this way. Sometimes approaching others in the daylight was necessary--whenever possible he enjoyed using the element of surprise. But when he had his way about it, he worked out of the dark. "Surely you knew they would find out?" Smoke wreathed the phone. "It was only a matter of time, yes. If the project had stayed on schedule there would have been no problems." "But you're not on schedule, are you?" He took a perverse pleasure in pointing this out. Too often he had been on the receiving end of the Englishman's sharp tongue. It was gratifying to learn he could make mistakes, too. "No, indeed we are not." There was an unmistakable note of triumph in the cultured voice. "We are ahead of schedule now." The smoker grimaced. Damn! "What are they saying?" "Nothing of substance. Assistant Director Skinner continues to bluster his way through our meetings. I think very soon he should be made to realize his exact place in the scheme of things," he mused. "No!" The Englishman's voice suddenly hardened. "After your last fiasco, it was decided he was no longer to be a target. You *know* that." A sigh, an exhalation of smoke. "Yes." "I dare say, their speculations will be for naught. In a few days, Mulder will be returned, quite himself again." A hint of laughter colored the words. "Is that so?" "Yes, it is." A pause. "I would suggest you tell your Mr. Skinner as much. I do not need him breathing down my neck." "I'll see what I can arrange." "Good." The connection was broken. The cigarette was stubbed out. Another one lit. Well, well. It seemed he had underestimated his British colleague some. Perhaps he would have to revise his opinion of him. ***** Strange how the softest of noises can have such a profound effect - can change everything in an instant. Just the soft click of an opening door, but enough to take him from a bruised lethargy to heart-pounding panic. But he said nothing, raised his chin and looked defiantly at the blackness which was loud with the sound of approaching feet. "I don't remember inviting you to the party." His voice was slurred through his swollen broken lips. An irritated sigh, impatient. "We are ready for you now, Agent Mulder." His breath caught in his throat - an astonished gasp. The voice.... *Him*. The urbane British voice in a greenhouse of death, in a park at night. "I was close." Was it aloud, or a silent cry of grief? "Samantha.... I was too close." Images flashed before his eyes, taunting him with their proximity. The nervous face of the informant as he twitched at the curtain, telling him of a path that would take him towards Samantha. "I need hardly remind you that secrecy is imperative," he had said, his voice urgent. "*They* would try to stop you, if they knew of this." "Close? To your sister?" Pacing feet on the hard floor. "Is that what you think?" Something cracked inside him at that. The mask shattered, ceased to be important. "You.... You....!" He strained at his bonds, at a loss for words to express his hatred. "It's a game to you, isn't it? A game!" He was without sight, blinded in the darkness. There was nothing between him and the images of her loss, and of a hope snatched away. He had been close. Why else had they stopped him? And now it was.... "It's *not* too late." Something tickled his fingers. Blood from his wrists as he wrenched, longing to strike at the voice. "I'll never stop looking for her. You'll have to kill me, first." He *laughed*. God! He actually laughed. "Oh no, Mr Mulder. That will not be necessary." Steps sounded on the other side of the room - a heavy tread, too familiar to him. He had *felt* it. "You can do what you like to me. I won't give up. Never." It was melodramatic, foolish, but he *needed* to say it. He braced himself for the blows that would come.... Now. Clench. Wait.... Now.... Any.... Minute.... Now.... The stillness was worse than any blow. "Mr Mulder." At last. The voice was like a caress, smooth, without anger. "I respect you, even like you. I have no wish to hurt you. But your.... persistence has been...." A pause. "Inconvenient. It can not be allowed to continue." "Then kill me." Still defiant, even calm, but shaking inside. This smooth silkiness was so much worse than the raging fury of the man with the heavy fists. "That is out of the question." The voice sounded genuinely regretful. "But we have a way to stop you none the less. It can be painless, if you let it." He blinked behind the blindfold, trying to process. He was just so tired, so hurt. He needed Scully, but she too had been driven away. "A simple process. A few days, at most. After that, your mind will be ours. You will remember what we need you to remember, nothing more." A short laugh. "You will, of course, forget this." His mind screamed his protest. He twisted at his bonds, knowing it was futile but needing to show *some* defiance, some fight. The heavy man's fingers dug into his shoulders, trembling with a hatred that was palpable, but there were no blows. "Now." The Englishman's voice was brisk, business-like. "I have no desire to hurt you. This is simple insurance for the future, not revenge for the past. I wish to make this process painless to you. Sedate you now, and you will know nothing until it is over." A click. The handcuffs.... God! The handcuffs were loose. His hands.... "No!" Red pulsed across his vision. He lurched to his feet, floundering. Hands lashed at the air, desperate for contact. Swing, swing, then the thud of impact, flesh against flesh. He took a step, then another, moving as in a dream, an eternity of effort to gain a few inches of ground, longing for safety. And then the world exploded into light. A blow on his head, and something cold and hard slamming into his face, his whole body. Floor. Drops spilling into a warm pool. A terrible pressure on his back, and his arm pulled upwards, needling pain into his shoulders. "Or I can let my friend here have his way." The voice was low with regret. "You have chosen, Agent Mulder." "I...." Gasp. He couldn't *breathe*. "I.... I didn't.... He says I killed.... I didn't.... " Iron blood on his lips. "I remember...." "Agent Mulder." No patience in the voice now. "You have killed. Why deny it? There are dozens that are dead because of you." Clouds floated before his vision - images. Deep Throat. X. An assassination as Scully's blood spilled from a vial. A bullet in a meat factory. Nameless faces floating silent in vats, then gone, sanitised. "Bring him." Steps towards the door. "It is prepared. He has chosen the way it will be." Hands closed round his hair and pulled. ***** There could be no sleep in the darkness. How could she sleep? "Agent Scully." Sheriff Moore's smile had been almost friendly, hours ago now. "It's nearly midnight. You've been hurt. You're no help to him if you collapse." Instinct had been to deny it, but her head had hurt so much. The world pulsing, her thoughts jumbled - what could she achieve? "I'll get you somewhere to stay." "No!" Her eyes had flashed fire, adamant on *that*. "I'll stay at the cabin." The cabin. Strange. She had distrusted it so much at first, just one night ago. Now it was her only hope. Someone had been going to meet him there - someone who knew the truth. Why had they taken him? Why? Why? Why? The thoughts hammered in her head, leaving her no peace. She could guess at the answer, though. He had been too close, again. The informant she had doubted had been *right*. Samantha was close, and they were running scared, desperate to stop him finding his truth. A question with no answer she wanted to hear. Tears choked her throat. She swallowed, suppressing them. Even in the dark, it wasn't safe. He needed her strength, now. She rolled over in bed, staring at a darkness that refused to let her sleep. Her hand rested on the gun, her mind alert for footsteps. ***** "Mr Phelps?" He tensed, heart speeding up in an instant. He expected death with every noise, now. Silence. "Yes." It was a small croak. He couldn't erase the sound of the subject's cries. He knew the man had killed, but this.... Did anyone deserve this? "We have a job for you, Mr Phelps." Not even the Englishman. He was nothing, now, given instructions by men younger than himself. He tried to smile his acquiescence, but he was beyond even that pretence. He *could* not resist, not if he wanted to live, but he was beyond showing enthusiasm. Go through the motions, only, keeping his head down, avoiding notice. Then maybe, just maybe, they would forget about him. ***** There was nothing but the scream, now. "Who is that? Who's screaming?" It had been so hard to speak, but he had needed to ask. His whole being cried out for the answer still. No answer, but the thud of footsteps and the scream, wavering, fading away to a wrenching sob. "Who *is* it?" Thud. A rattle of keys. Whimpering. The informant's voice was a constant echo in his memory. "Someone will meet you. He knows where she is. He will take you there." "Don't." It was little more than a sob. He could take his own pain without breaking, but this.... Too much. He had no shame left. "Don't hurt her. Please. I'll do anything...." "Anything?" The grating voice sounded close to his ear. "You'll take anything.... No struggling....?" "Don't hurt her...." He was stuck on these words, too hurt to see beyond them. She *was* Samantha to him, though he had enough thought left to him to know it was probably not. But some other girl, some other innocent, needing him. "We're here. We'll see." No other answer. He was dragged forward, knowing by the echo of the footsteps that they had entered another room. The female sobs had faded to silence, now, but whether because they had stopped or because he had been taken out of range, he couldn't tell. "Down!" A guttural order. There was a smell in the air - medicinal, terrible. The walls pulsed cold sterility. There were images in the darkness. The flash of a scalpel against pale flesh. "Down!" He couldn't. He just couldn't. He froze. The screams were still loud in his memory, telling him to obey, but he couldn't move. The rough hands held him against fighting, but made no attempt to push him down. "Agent Mulder." Warning. There were other people, too - other eyes in the darkness, raking into his flesh. Their movements were loud to him. Breathing, rustle of clothing, clink of instruments.... "You may proceed." A sigh. The Englishman again, not speaking to him. "Do it your way." And then the *hands*.... A dozen of them, two dozen, hundreds - rough, pushing him. Everywhere. It hurt. God, it *hurt*. Pressure on his arms until his fingers tingled, until the tug and the click, the tug and the click, pinned his wrists to the cold metal surface, deadly against his whole back, his whole body. A weight on his leg, cruel fingers digging in, and the leather snaking round his ankles. Tug, click. Tug, click. Cold air on the inside of his legs. Pulsing till red pain blinded him. Nothing. "And more. There must be no movement." Fingers at his throat, heavy and cold. Whisper of leather near his ear, and the warm touch as it enclosed him. Tug, click. Leather at his throat, strangling at the slightest movement. No voice to scream his terror, to shout his defiance. Nothing. "Good. It is ready." Metal grated against metal. ********** end of part 6 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 7 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ 5:00 a.m. and still dark. The cold dark of January. Sleep had eluded her, leaving her restless, twisted in sheets gone clammy with sweat. She had finally gotten up an hour ago, pacing the small cabin endlessly, pausing occasionally when a soft sound penetrated her concentration; resuming the monotonous motion when her hopes were dashed, the sounds revealed to be only her imagination. The wind whistled through the chinks in the cabin. A mournful sound, one that fitted her mood perfectly. Samantha. She had never been able to believe Mulder the times he dragged out his sister as an excuse for a case. She had always seen Samantha as a convenience, a smokescreen for Mulder to hide behind when he ran off on his latest lead. Now, though, Samantha was the truth. A truth Mulder was suffering for. She could not believe otherwise. Only now there was no older, wiser informant to arrange a trade, make a deal. There was only her. And the implant. She fingered it, rolling the slim vial between her thumb and forefinger. The metal gleamed dully in the light. Five years ago, her first X- File. Had they come full circle? Would Mulder now be the one to respond to an unearthly summons, a command in his head he could not ignore? One hand crept up to rub the back of her neck. Her own implant-- she had not behaved so strangely as Mulder. Were they so different then, this one she held in her hand, and the one Pendrell had destroyed? Did their creators differ, or just the purpose? Hers had been a microchip, one sufficiently sophisticated enough to stun Pendrell. The one she now held looked the same as the one she'd held five years ago. What secrets were locked inside that cylinder of metal? Indecision held her, paralyzed her. The FBI lab in Albany, New York. She could not afford to drive there now, not with Mulder out there somewhere, needing her. Whatever secrets the implant held, they would remain just that: secrets. But *they* didn't know that, did they? Did they know she had it? Were they looking for her--lurking outside the cabin right now, guns aimed at the front door? Could they afford to do any differently? Her eyes narrowed as she stared through the vial. She had no real hopes, but maybe....maybe she *did* have something to deal with after all. Perhaps she held a valuable coin in the currency they traded in. Perhaps not-- the implant could be worthless now, a dead hunk of metal. She could only hope *they* wouldn't know that. ***** No-one saw it approach. No-one resisted it. No-one suffered from it but one. It was a light. The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing the room's sole occupant. She cringed back, ducking her head, eyes blinking in the sudden light. Jason held the flashlight on her, taking in the girl's thin body, her bare feet, her long, tangled hair. Distaste for both her and this thing he was forced to do made his voice harsh. "Come on. Let's go." She did not move, paralyzed under the beam of light, and he made an impatient gesture with the flashlight. "I said, come on." Her head raised slowly, her eyes landed on him. They were narrowed with suffering, squinted against the light intruding on her dark prison. Her tongue flicked out to lick dry lips. "Where?" "Let's go," he repeated huskily. She swayed on thin legs, one hand fluttered near her throat. She regained control, shuffled after him. Silent, burning with shame and self-loathing, Jason led her down the hall. ***** How long? Minutes? Hours? In the darkness, in the silence, he had no way of knowing. He longed for his watch, for the soft ticking it made. A way of capturing time again, of knowing how long *they* had left him laying here. They had left--when?-- and panic had taken over, forcing his body to strain at the bonds holding him down...fight or flight...and when he had finally strangled from the leather across his throat he had gratefully welcomed the blackness of unconsciousness. But he had woken, and he *did* remember, so his mind was still intact. Whatever "process" they were going to do to him, had not been done yet. The anticipation was torture. His self-control was eroding, laying still was *such* an effort. He didn't want to fight anymore. But how could he give in? The scrape of a key, tumblers in a lock clicking, and the door opened. He tensed, swallowing convulsively. What now? Were they here to do the "process"? Footsteps moved forward, sure and determined, among them one set of halting steps, a lighter tread. A small intake of breath, a feminine gasp. <...Scully?...> He could not speak. "Agent Mulder." The whisper was like an explosion in his ear. Reflexively he jerked his head to the side and gagged as his air was cut off. Laughter, amused, but deadly. "We've brought you a visitor." Scully? Samantha? Tremors shook him and tears stung his eyes behind the blindfold. He licked his lips, tried to speak, choked again. "Come here, honey." The same rough voice, the one that had accused him of murder. "Take a good look." Another gasp, hasty footsteps as she was yanked forward, struggled to stay upright. "Please." He strained to recognize the voice. Decades-old memories swam to the surface. *Her* voice. Was she standing here, forced now to watch *him*? He didn't know. "I'd like to let this little...*re-union*...last all day," the voice said, "but unfortunately, I've got a schedule to keep. Say your good-byes." Good-bye? Samantha? His hands curled into fists, tugged futilely at the straps. If he could only free his eyes, if he could *see* her... Click. A metallic noise. Twin gasps, one female....one male? The explosion was deafening. A soft thud...spray dotted his skin, and it was wet, and it was *real*, and she was dead, Samantha was dead, and he had not been able to save her, after all. "....you said....no!....I won't..." A meaningless voice, an uncaring slam of the door. He heard it dimly over the scream that was rising in his throat, a wail of endless pain. His lungs convulsed, but there was no air, no scream, nothing to prevent him from falling into the black again. **** "You...you didn't...I mean...she..." He was shaking, leaning against the wall for support. Tears ran down his cheeks. He was unaware of them. "What did you think we were going to do?" the soldier shouted. "Have a picnic? She was slated for execution anyway. This way we got to have some fun with it." Hatred burned in his voice. The soldier looked Jason up and down. "Better go take a shower, kid. You got some brains on you." Jason looked at himself, and his stomach revolted. He sagged to his knees, violently ill, the tears coming faster. The soldier laughed, and shook his head. He walked off down the hall, chuckling to himself. **** Morning, at last. Was it time? The minutes had crawled by, bringing her to this time, this place. Would he be there? A minute later? More? Scully was shivering, and it was from more than the cold. A car passed lazily and she froze, hand tightening on her gun, then relaxed in a rush of exhaled breath. A woman and a child on the way to school. No threat - safety, even. The town was waking up, surrounding her with people. What could they do to her, now? There were too many eyes.... Guilt hit her like a blow in the stomach. "No!" She stepped forward decisively. There was no *time* for that. Think of the future, not torment herself with the past. "Yes?" Skinner's voice was an impatient bark. She knew few people had his direct line number, fewer still used it. She had no doubt that *he* was one. "Sir?" she managed, her voice tremulous. "They've got him. They.... I don't know where he is. They.... They took him. I let them. I didn't think...." "Agent Scully." Firm and secure, making no comment on her weakness. If he had offered sympathy she would have been lost for real. "Who has him? The police?" "They took him." She held the phone with whitened knuckles. "Them. You *know* who. They took him. I.... I need to find him. He was so close...." "Agent Scully." Skinner's voice dropped to a whisper, tight with untold warning. She shut her eyes, swayed as the emotion washed over her. Relief, but also a terrible fear. There was a long way to go yet. "They took him," she repeated, unnaturally high. She rocked on her heels to and fro, as if lost in her grief. "I'll do anything to get him back. *Anything.*" "Agent Scully." It was low with impatience now. "Handle it as best you can. I am in a meeting." "I have proof of what they did to him. An implant. I have it safe." She fingered it in her pocket. Safe? She could trust *no- one*. They would have to kill her to take it from her. "I'll expose them. I *will*. If they've done *anything* to him.... If they don't give him back...." A pause. "That will be all, Agent Scully." Click. She sighed, slumped back, feeling the strength wash out of her. She had made the first move. And the second....? "What did Agent Scully have to say?" The man would be smiling, confident in the smoke and shadows. "She intends to go public with.... something. Something of yours?" Skinner, frowning. He would have processed her words and understood. Please let him have understood. "She wants to make a deal?" The voice would rise incredulously. "His life for that. Would she be so foolish?" "She sounded distraught." Looking down, embarrassed at revealing her weakness. "She was beyond thinking of things like that. If he isn't returned, there will be no controlling her - what she will do." The man's confidence was stubbed out. There was nothing for her to do but wait. ***** It had been the worst of all. Jason scrubbed his hands, rubbing until they were raw. He could still feel the blood on them. It had been the worst. Death was final - terrible, but final. A hot slash as the bullet entered, and then peaceful oblivion. But this.... To take a man's life and condemn him to a future of... of living, but *not* living. He would never sleep again. It was so much worse when he shut his eyes - no distractions from the sound of the strangled scream as the gunshot resounded, and the blood fell on him like rain. He hoped *that* was a memory they would take from the man, but knew it wasn't. They would leave him with it, and smile. While he.... He groaned, his head sinking into his hands. They hadn't even used him, never once needed his expertise. He had just watched, ensnared by their net of guilt just by being there. No longer. His next job had been given. ***** Whiteness. Light in his eyes, intense, floating. "No...." Mulder's lips moved, but no sound came out. His body was a mass of pain, his head worst of all, and the *light*.... Memory came like camera flashes, each one more terrible than the last. Flash. Screaming. Scully screaming as he was ripped from her side, pulled away into the light that embraced him. His mind screaming the realisation. Flash. Faces in the light. Grey skin, large eyes. Voices gouging like a scalpel in his mind, while spears of agony erupted in his body. Flash.... "You are awake." A quiet voice, human, with a face to go with it. It was smiling. He blinked, fighting to control the receding terror. "You *would* insist on struggling." The man's suit was pristine. He waved a casual finger at Mulder's throat. "Twice you made yourself pass out. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself too badly. We.... took steps." The face was familiar. Mulder frowned, trying to remember. His mind was still fuzzy from pain and the touch of the darkness. "We sedated you." He smiled. There was a strange look beneath the regret in his eyes. "Let you have a good rest after what has happened - before what is to come. I apologise if it gave you.... dreams." "Strange." He forced himself to speak, even to turn his cracked lips into a smile. He had been so long without fighting. "I dreamt you were inhuman. I wonder why." The man smiled. "Rest now, Mr Mulder." He shifted his position a little, showing the table full of instruments, cruel and sharp. "The process can be.... difficult." Panic fluttered inside him like so many wings. Images of an intrusion into his head, a rape of his mind. And the memory of a voice. "You will, of course, forget this." He mouthed the words, a silent whisper, over and over, clinging to it as a talisman. His mind was his own. He was free. He could remember. As long as he could remember *that,* he was free. He would repeat it as a mantra, needing it as proof of his sanity, his life. He would.... Blood. Blood on the floor. Nothing else mattered. *He* didn't matter. Nothing but.... "Samantha!" A scream squeezed past his tortured throat. She had looked straight at him as she had died, and there had been nothing in her eyes but reproach. ***** Sheriff Moore was distracted, impatient with her. Two of his men were missing, men with families, with wives and young children. He didn't have time to deal with Scully. "Agent Scully, I understand your dilemma, I really do." His eyes darted around the room, looking at the walls, the dispatcher, anywhere but at her. "But you can see my problem. If the FBI wants to start an investigation of their own, I guarantee you will get our full co-operation." His eyes met hers ever so briefly. "But I cannot take any of my men off of their duties." His lips raised in a tight smile. he seemed to say. She could pull rank, but what good would it do? Two men, a dozen, or just her--it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't find Mulder any easier. "I appreciate your honesty." Look him in the eye. "Let me know if you find anything." A farewell nod, and she was leaving the police station. A waste of time. That's what it was. She had come here, vainly hoping that Moore would have some news, *any* news at all. Instead she had found a carefully controlled chaos, as officers raced to do their duties as quickly as possible, phones rang off the hook, with the sheriff in the middle of it all. Idly she brushed a layer of snow off a bench in the parking lot. Sat down. The implant was in her coat pocket, and she reached in and grasped it now. Watched cars drive by, townsfolk on their way to work, to the grocery store, all of them leading such normal lives. "Agent Scully?" A deep voice, masculine. She turned, saw a short man in a woollen coat. His hands were buried in his pockets, and he rocked back and forth on his heels nervously. "Yes?" She kept her voice even. "I hear you're in town investigating a murder?" The man's voice rose at the end of the sentence slightly. It rang false. She glanced over his shoulder, at the van parked behind him. "Who told you that?" Her hand tightened into a fist. One hand moved forward, the man's coat flaring. "There is a gun pointed at you right now, Agent Scully. Would you please, stand up and put your hands where I can see them?" So it had come to this. Slowly she stood, her hands in front of her. Without the implant burning her palm she felt naked. The man ordered her forward, and she followed him obediently. Mulder would fight, protest his defiance. She lowered her head and let them think she was afraid. There was a man in the passenger side of the van, and she caught her breath as she recognized him. The young cop from the hospital. "Give him the implant, Agent Scully." The barrel of a gun jabbed her back. "I don't know what you're talking about." Pain flared in her kidneys, knocking her forward. Pressed up against the van, her eyes met those of the van's other passenger. He was young, young and scared, and she found herself wondering what had happened to turn him into a cold-blooded monster working for Them. "We can do this with a minimum of fuss, Agent Scully," the man warned. His breath was hot in her ear. "Or we can do it the hard way. Whichever you prefer." She stood still, trembling for a moment, indecisive. Then she bowed her head. "All right. Back off." The man continued to stand behind her and she threw her head back angrily. "Back off, I said. Let me reach into my pocket." "Nice and easy." The pressure was gone, and she took a step backward. One hand reached for the lapel of her coat. "That's good," the man breathed. She pulled open the coat slowly, one hand reaching inside. Her hand closed on her weapon, snugly holstered to her side, pulled it out and spun around in the same fluid motion. The man's eyes widened just before she shot him, the impact knocking him backwards. "Hey!" The shout came from inside the van, and she turned, bringing the gun up. Two figures were in the van now, locked in a struggle, and she took careful aim. The glint of metal dropped her to her knees, just before the blast from inside the van shattered the passenger window. "The lab!" a voice cried, and she stood cautiously, the gun leading the way. Thrust the barrel through the window and fired off three indiscriminate shots. Glass exploded out the window as the man inside fired again, and a scream rose from in the van. "The lab...your--" Another gunshot and the scream abruptly stopped. Scully pushed her gun through the window and emptied the clip, moving the weapon back and forth, praying she found her target. When only the dry click of the gun reached her ears she slowly stood, peered in the window. Two forms were sprawled in the van. The young cop lay across the seat, most of his face missing. His remaining eye stared up at her with mute appeal. The other man was face down on the floor, but she thought she recognized him from the hospital, too. The big man. "What's going on?" She turned around, startled. Cops poured out of the station, their guns drawn. "Freeze!" "Federal agent," she said tiredly. Her face hurt, and she reached up with one hand. It came away bloody. She let her hand drop to flop down by her side, each finger suddenly weighing a ton. Broken glass crunched under her feet as she turned around. "What happened?" Sheriff Moore ran toward her, his face dark with fury. She ignored him, walked toward her car, feeling a hundred years old. Reaction was setting in, and she could feel herself beginning to shake. An engine roared to life behind her, and she started, spun around, her hand reflexively bringing up the empty gun, one finger pulling the trigger. The van was out of the parking lot before any of the stunned officers could fire, and she watched dully as it sped down the street. Several of the men ran for their patrol cars, and she stifled a bitter laugh. Why did they bother? They would never catch it. "Agent Scully, what the hell happened back there?" Moore's anger was gone, replaced by a bafflement that somehow hurt to see. "Who were those men?" "You'll have to excuse me, Sheriff Moore. I have to find my partner now." Moore nodded dumbly, not asking anything. "Is there a...lab...anywhere near here?" Her voice shook with emotions held sternly in check. "Well, sure, there's the lab at the high school," the sheriff said, misunderstanding. "Or do you mean the SciNet Lab? Up in the mountains?" Excitement gripped her. Her calm manner betrayed none of it. "SciNet." "That's the only other lab around here, Agent Scully. They do computer work up there. A completely sterilized environment, from what I understand. They don't let members of the public in--germs and all. It's bad for the equipment." He had been about to say "your partner", she was sure of it. "Thank you Sheriff." She got in the car, left him standing in the parking lot. SciNet Labs. Up in the mountains. She still didn't know what she was doing, but now she had a place to go. She could only hope it was the right place. ********** end of part 7 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 8 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ Mulder was floating, consciousness pulsing in and out like waves on shingle. They had blinded him again, but he could still hear. He didn't want to hear. Footsteps. He silenced his breathing, straining to hear, to identify. Not the measured tread of the elegant Englishman whose voice chilled him cold. Not the soft tread of the men with needles. Not the whisper tread of alien feet which sometimes whispered in his memory and then were gone. Not the heavy tread that brought the pain and the harsh words and.... and something else he couldn't remember, not now. The door opened, but it was the breathing he heard first, not the footsteps. Just breathing in the silence, and the leaden feel of fear and approaching pain. "Who.... Who's there?" His voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming, though he had no memory of doing so. He knew it sounded pitiful and pleading, but he *had* to ask. Not to ask was to be passive, and to be passive was to be broken. They had not broken him yet. The steps started again. A solid thump and a scraping drag, and through it all the ragged breathing, close enough for him to feel it. "She shot me." A hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head round to face a man he couldn't see. The leather pulled on his throat, but he knew it was nothing as to what was coming. This man knew how to hurt without killing, to keep his victim conscious. He had experienced it so often in the days that he'd been here. "Who?" He asked the question, but his mind was worrying at the thought. The days that he'd been here? Six days, he'd told the Englishman earlier, when he'd lent close and asked. Six days, and he could remember the passage of every one. Had he lost so much to unconsciousness since then that this very thought seemed wrong, suddenly, and shadowy? "Your bitch of a partner." Hands fumbled with the leather, releasing his head and one arm. It flopped to his side, bloodless and useless. "She shot me. She killed Reynolds. Another one you've killed." His free hand was wrenched over, attached to the other hand with the cool harsh steel of handcuffs. "You'll pay for that." He let the words hammer in his head, needing their comfort. He had nothing else but the knowledge that his mind was still his own. Fingers pulled at the leather at his ankles. His mind screamed at him. He flailed his legs, kicking wildly, needing to feel the impact of something solid, and the grunt of pain as he reached his target. Nothing. Just the silence of the empty air, and a harsh laugh. And then a slamming blow into the side of his body that threw him sideways, a cry that he never wanted to utter wrenched from his lips. He teetered, tugged desperately at his cuffed hands to get his balance, then crashed down onto the floor, landing face-down, no hands to break his fall. A heavy foot into his back, again and again. Through the red sheet of his pain, the man's grunts were seconds counting to his death. Ten, nine, eight, seven.... Five, four, three.... "I'll - kill - you...." Staccato gasps of exertion in the man's words. "They should have.... I said so.... Years ago...." A heavy kick on his ribs, and a choking stab of pain. His blindness enclosed him. Sound was no substitute. He didn't know where to flinch, where to expect the next blow. Strange fragments of broken childhood songs, though not right, somehow. He didn't even notice when the kicks stopped. Instead he frowned, puzzled by the sudden silence. But there *were* noises in the silence, and they came to him now, slowly, through the waves of pain. A ragged shivery sound that was his own breath, and a shrill shriek that was the same pitch as the silent scream in his own mind. An alarm bell? "They're coming." The man's voice wavered a little, sounded undecided for the first time, but then he drew in a sharp breath, and his next words were firm, defiant. "I *won't* go." Mulder drew up all his strength, bent his legs and prepared to kick - to really kick this time. The pain that stopped him was nothing, not really - just the smallest of needle stabs between his eyes, and the briefest flicker of doubt - but it was enough. He was lost. The fists came down in a rain that had no end. As darkness rushed up to enfold him, the words were his only light. The man's name tag had read "Stern" and he had smiled as he had spoken the words that would rob him of his mind. But he still remembered. He had *one* victory.... ***** Someone was watching her, gun trained on her head. Scully *knew* that, but she kept on walking, her own gun steady in her hands, her whimpering fears banished to that small part of her deep inside what no-one would see. Step forward, straight, not wavering. Step.... Eyes watching. The gunmen. Here? Here? From every doorway or none? Just her imagination? She reached out, grasped the handle, and flung open the door, her gun raking the interior, ready to fire at the slightest whisper. Nothing. Another empty room. She stepped in, hearing her own feet loud in the silence, echoing as if they had a shadow of other, quieter, feet. She sighed. Here, too, there was evidence. Square dust-free patches signalling objects recently removed, recently hidden. They had been warned, and they had left so little. Barely an hour since she had found out, and it had all gone. No evidence. No.... No Mulder? Nothing. She turned round, resuming her passage through the deserted building. Moore's men were.... somewhere? Only two of them. There was not enough suspicion for a SWAT team, he had told her firmly. She was to accept his two men, or wait for a team to come in from Albany. There was no contest. But it left her walking alone into.... into what? The echoing empty hallways of a fading hope? A trap - a quick bullet into her skull, and her body interred next to his, unmourned and unmarked? The next room, as sharp and alert as for the first of them, though she didn't expect to find anything, not now. It was the blood on the floor that alerted her. It was still wet, shining lazily in the harsh fluorescent light overhead. So much blood, and from only one man. "Mulder!" Her voice surprised her, the first sound in the tomb-like building. She was at his side in an instant, turning him over, pulling him out of the darkness under the table. The front of his clothes was black with blood and cold to the touch. When she saw his face.... She had to blink several times to stop the tears from flowing. Her heart hammered with mingled dread and relief. Not Mulder - but more evidence that these men could kill in cold-blood. There were no calluses on the dead man's hands. He was no soldier, to die a violent death. Blood had soaked into his name tag but she could still read the name: "Stern." A scientist who had been dismayed at the way science would be abused and corrupted - at the evil that could be done in its name? She stood up, wiping at her eyes. When she had seen him.... God! Had she ever *considered* it? Mulder could be *dead.* It wasn't "when" she got him back, it was "if". The blood-soaked chest could so easily have been him. She walked forward, steps brisk, less careful. She knew she was making a mistake, but the body had thrown her, made her urgent, even scared. She was walking through blood, small smears left behind from her shoes, trailing behind her in the corridor. And before her.... She gasped, feeling a tightening in her chest that could have been hope, or dread. There were drops of blood ahead of her, smeared in places as if someone had been dragging an injured leg. The blood led to a closed door. The gun was sticky in her hand, her finger so tight on the trigger that the slightest start would set it off. She crept up to the door, pressed her ear against the crack.... Silence. She grasped the handle, began to turn.... Silence. "I'll kill him." The voice was a low growl. The words froze her, trigger half depressed. There was blood here, too, and the antiseptic smell of a hospital, and the smell of fear and pain. And Mulder.... He was beyond seeing her, she could see that - beyond any awareness at all. He was held up only by a strong arm around his neck, and only the gun to his temple was keeping his head from lolling forward. The horror was like a blow in her stomach. Was he.....? "Put the gun down, Agent Scully." The man's voice was weary, but he was making no mistakes. *He* was far from collapse. "I will kill him in three. One...." Her finger tensed. He pulled on his arm, dragging Mulder higher, using him as a shield. His own finger tightened on his trigger, and he jammed the gun harder into Mulder's head, eliciting a half- conscious moan. "Two...." It was absurd the relief she felt, but that little moan.... God! He'd looked dead. Only now she knew he wasn't could she even think the word. "Three...." A click. Behind her? "Put the gun down, Grieves." She swallowed hard, wanting so much to turn around, to look at the newcomer. But she knew who he was. Since he had spoken to her at Bill Mulder's funeral she had never forgotten that voice. The gun shook. Mulder flinched, but didn't open his eyes. "No," the man - Grieves - said, his voice closer to a moan. "I'll *kill* him." "No you won't." The English voice was calm. "I do apologise for this, Agent Scully." "What have you *done* to him?" She needed to whirl round, to confront him, but she couldn't take her eyes of the finger on the trigger. A fraction of an inch, and Mulder would be dead. "I apologise, Agent Scully." Still calm. She wanted to shake him - shake some real feeling into him. "This was.... unauthorised. A man called Stern was experimenting with memory. He needed a subject - someone who could be.... encouraged to remember only what he was programmed to remember. Reality could be changed with the flick of a switch." She swallowed her tears, keeping her voice steady, her eyes steady. "Can it be reversed?" "I got here in time. There was some preliminary work only. You saw the instrument of that." She felt a shiver of fear at the memory of that implant. "This was the crude form only, to assess his suitability for the full.... treatment. To make him think coming here was his own idea." "The implant." Mulder's eyes fluttered. "That was removed." "Yes. That was unexpected. It made them careless. You saved him, Agent Scully." Mulder moaned, then choked as the arm tightened round his throat. "You raised the alarm - passed news of what was happening to a.... colleague of mine in Washington. So I was able to come here. I arrived just in time. They were still doing the preliminary tests." His words were smooth, but hard too, inviting no argument. "Stern and his project have been.... terminated. Agent Mulder will have no mental scars from this." "Sam...." Mulder's voice, hoarse and so horribly weak. His eyes were shut, still lost in some dark nightmare. "Blood. Samantha. No...." "Shut up!" Grieves eyes glittered with rage. He squeezed his arm, and Mulder's words were cut off. "Shut up all of you! I'll *kill* him." Stand-off. Scully felt a curious doubling of time. On one hand she felt everything speed up--images blurred and sounds became higher pitched, as the moment was hurtled toward its conclusion. But then too, everything slowed down, became crystal clear and defined, with extra dimensions she could not normally experience. How long was it in real-time? Seconds, surely, but in those instants Scully lived and died a hundred times over. "I'll kill him!" The Englishman said, "I think not," and fired. Grieves staggered back, and there was the sound of two guns firing simultaneously, her own bullet throwimg him back further. Mulder dropped like a stone, silently, and then the Englishman's gun roared again. A look of almost comical surprise spread across Grieves' face, and he toppled, then fell, landing at Mulder's feet. Scully whirled, gun still high, and finally looked at their would- be rescuer. "Agent Scully, I do believe you are owed an apology," he said, in that same formally dignified tone she remembered from three years ago. "Don't move, you son-of-a-bitch," she spat. She waved the gun threateningly. The man looked at it, then her with amused disdain. It was a look she was all too familiar with. He'd been deadly serious, but his eyes had been laughing. He was giving her the same look now. "Give me one reason why I don't just shoot you now." A smile tugged at his lips. "Why Agent Scully, I've just saved your life. And your partner's. Twice now, as a matter of fact. I would think a little gratitude..." "Bullshit!" She fought to stay calm against the rising tide of rage. "You only 'saved his life' because it was convenient for you." Gray eyes narrowed. "Really? Don't you think, Ms. Scully, that if I wanted to kill you, I would have done so already?" He gestured around the room. "And with no witnesses, too." She could not spare a glance at Mulder, could not gaze upon his pain. "What happens now?" The smile widened. "Why, you leave. Isn't that what you want? I told you, this was all just an unfortunate mistake. There's no harm done." He inclined his head toward the floor. "Your partner has recovered from worse, I am told." Incredibly, he gave her a slight bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." She let him leave. What else could she do? ***** "Mulder." A soft voice, a whisper, yet it echoed painfully through his skull, as loud as a scream. Hands touched his face, his arm, removed the steel bracelets from his wrists. He could not stifle a moan of relief. "Mulder, can you hear me?" Scully. He tried to speak, to force words out, but his throat was as paralyzed as the rest of him. Reproachful eyes bored into his before being blown away in a red spray. "No..." It was the smallest of sounds, but he could almost *hear* Scully's smile. "It's okay, Mulder. You'll be all right. It's over now." Her hand stroked his forehead, cool against his fevered skin. He shrank from her touch, but lay acquiescent, too weak to pull away. Other voices now, masculine, their tones gruff, hiding their pity and disgust. He was glad he could not see them, knew that if he opened his eyes now they would turn away from him. they would say. It didn't matter. He was saved. His mind was still his, and he was saved. ***** The EMT's were slowed by the snow, and the necessity of navigating the mountain roads leading to the lab. Scully chewed the inside of her lip and refused to cry. Over and over she whispered meaningless words of comfort, squeezed his hand and promised him that she would never let anybody hurt him again. An empty promise, one she couldn't possibly hope to keep. "Agent Scully?" One of Moore's officers. She glanced at him briefly. "We haven't found any women." He cleared his throat nervously. "But it's a big lab, larger than we thought at first. We'll keep searching." She nodded cursorily, and he left again. Mulder gave no sign he had heard the man, and she let out a pent-up breath. She had not been sure if Samantha was here or not, or if she had *ever* been here, but she owed it to Mulder to look. Now it appeared she had been right, and Mulder's sister was just a red herring. Again. Yet, yet...She frowned, while continuing to croon her litany of reassurance. Mulder had called his sister's name--his utter despair had been very real. Obviously he still believed Samantha was the reason he had been summoned here. A clatter of metal and footsteps, and the paramedics rushed in the room. Scully stood back, clenching her fists to keep from giving orders. "I think he's bleeding internally," she offered diffidently once, raging silently against the irritated look of the medic. They lifted Mulder carefully, and he gasped, cried out hoarsely. His eyes flew open, seeing for the first time. "No!" He struggled weakly against the men holding him. "Mulder!" Her voice was whip-sharp. His head turned and his eyes beseeched her mutely, then abruptly widened in fear. "Scully...no.." He tossed his head, as if trying to shake off thought. "You..." There was terrible accusation in his voice. She had to side-step the medics as they secured him to the stretcher. "What is it? Mulder, what?" "No... no.." His eyes were closed again, seeing some unknown horror. "Scully, no..." A pleading whimper. "Stop!" she cried, pushing her way to his side. "Mulder, what is it? You can tell me." She brushed his bruised cheek. "No!" He flinched, jerked his head away. "How could you, Scully? How could you let them take me?" His eyes opened again, and beneath the pain there blazed pure hatred. "Why did you do it, Scully? Why?" The words were a blow to her abdomen, robbing her of breath. "Wh--what? Mulder, you don't think..." "I *saw* you!" he screamed. "You were there!" She was amazed that he had the strength to scream. He twisted, fighting the restraining hands of the paramedics, then fell back, exhausted. Tears swam in his eyes. "Why, Scully, why?" She shook her head, unable to speak. One of the medics expertly slid a needle in a vein, delivered the amber fluid within. Mulder stopped struggling, lay quiet, his lips moving soundlessly. What had they done? A cold knot of horror settled beneath her breast, encircling her lungs. the man had said. Hot tears stung her eyes, and the scene before her doubled, trebled. No, no harm done except that her partner had finally come across something he had been unable to cope with, had finally reached his breaking point. She blinked hard against the treacherous tears. Pure professionalism took over, allowed her to hold her head high as they carried him from the room. Pride saw her through the halls, chin raised defiantly, out into the cold afternoon. Self- control crumbled when the car door closed behind her, and she lowered her head to the steering wheel, sobbing. ********** end of part 8 ********** "Nothing So Loud" (part 9 of 9) by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: R (some violence) SUMMARY: When the Consortium takes steps towards the closing of the X-Files, Mulder and Scully could be left with nothing but a memory of betrayal ___ It was over, but it was only just beginning. It was only now, enduring long hours of forced inactivity, that Scully felt the true horror of what might have been. The images would replay in her mind, tormenting endlessly. It would be a long time before she could forget, she knew that. He was happy, even carefree. There were no horrors in his mind, now - no memories. His childhood was summer and the smell of baking. Samantha was a distant memory, grieved for and then forgotten. They took and took and took from him, and still he smiled with the contentment of the truly ignorant. "X-Files?" He would look at her, frowning slightly. "Why? I have seen no evidence, Scully. Nothing at all. I'm asking for a transfer." "But *I* believe, Mulder." Too late. She gave an involuntary gasp, shifting on the hard hospital seat, then shifting again. She was half asleep - too tired to wake up, too anxious to sleep. The images and fears crowded her mind, clamouring for attention. Once she would have longed for it, but now.... It just wasn't *him*. Without his obsession, his drive, he just wasn't.... Mulder. But it was subtle - nothing she could put her finger on. "Nothing." He'd ditched her again, running off to some supposed crash site. The disappointment in his eyes made it hard for her to be angry with him. "I know people say it's a UFO, but I saw it up close. It was just an ordinary plane, just like the others." "The others?" Sharp, now. "You didn't tell me... How many other times....?" "No more." His shoulders were slumped, his face dull with disappointment. "You've suffered so much for this.... this... charade. Just one dead end after another." He tapped his forehead. "I think the truth was just in here all along. Just my imagination. I know *you* thought that all along." She had to hesitate before answering. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and she half opened her eyes, letting the sterile white walls overlay the image of his face. News on his condition? She straightened, ready to receive it, but the footsteps turned a corner and faded away. She sighed, shut her eyes again. This would be the worst yet. "Scully!" He was screaming, thrashing on the bed. Footsteps hammered towards him, and voices snapped orders. "Keep away from me! I saw you with them. I *remember* You're the one who killed Samantha. You're one of them. You're trying to kill me. No!" A white-coated arm reached out, injecting something into him. His flesh was bruised from *so* many needles. "We can do nothing more for him, Agent Scully." The doctor's eyes were regretful, but there was something else there too - relief? "The best course is for him to be committed. He needs more help than we can give him." There were tears in her eyes as she nodded, oh so slowly. "God!" She was fully awake in an instant, jolted fully into the present. This one had actually *happened*, or something close to it. Was this it? Had the man been lying to her? And she had *believed* him. So concerned to get to Mulder's side, she had accepted anything he said. But why would he say anything else? He would encourage them to believe it was all over - that Mulder was safe - and then... and then.... She stood up abruptly, her fists clenched, determined not to think about *that* again. She felt anger at the man, but she also felt hope. The inactivity was over. An implant could be removed, its effect negated in an instant. The alternative was more than she wanted to consider. ***** They were killing him. They had drugged him, he knew that. His thoughts were white and fuzzy, and the pain was red. White and red and black, but through it all were voices. They surged and receded, lapping like waves on a beach. "A simple process. A few days, at most. After that, your mind will be ours." Memory. That was a memory. It was something he had to hold on to - something that was a comfort - though he hurt too much to remember why, now. "He's moving. Hold him." Cruel hands grabbed at him, imprisoning his arms, then his legs. There was a clatter of metal. "It's nearly done. Just - a - second - more....." Nearly done? "No!" He screamed with all the strength he had, terrified to find it was only a tiny croak. "No! Leave me... No!" His mind was a screaming mass of fear, crying with the voice he no longer possessed. But there was no-one but him. With the last of his strength, he fought, but they were many and he was only one, and hurt. As darkness came, he knew it was the end. ***** "Of course he fought!" Scully's voice was sharp and brittle, though barely touching the surface of her anger. "Didn't you *see* the bruises on his wrists and ankles. They strapped him down and did.... things to him." She braced herself against the image. "He just thought he was back there." Her doubts whispered at the fringes of her thoughts. "It doesn't change anything, Agent Scully." The doctor wouldn't meet her gaze, and she counted that a small victory, despite his words. "He attacked us. We were helping him, and he attacked us. Have you seen Nurse Kilpatrick's face? I wouldn't be surprised if she presses charges." She sighed deeply, knowing anger would get her nowhere. "He was barely conscious," she said, at last, her voice weary. "When he began to wake up.... He's been strapped down against his will, badly beaten, and had doctors...." She faded away, unable to continue. She had to fight not to flash to her *own* shadowy memory of the things they could do in the name of science. *She* had survived.... She clenched her fist, defiant. "The EMTs said what he was like when he was brought in." The doctor's confidence was fully returned now that she was wavering. "He was out of control then, and again now. This goes beyond his physical injuries, Agent Scully. I think we should be.... taking the appropriate steps." "No!" Her furious denial was as much for her own benefit as it was for his. "Let me talk to him first. There's an explanation for all this." But it was harder to believe, now. The doctor had had other news, too. There had been no sign of an implant on the X-ray. ***** "It's over, Agent Scully." Sheriff Moore had seemed strangely subdued, standing outside Mulder's hospital room. She had barely even looked at him. "We've been all over the lab. We found my missing men, alive, but there's no sign of any woman. They've cleared out. Helicopter, it seems. There's nothing left. It's all over." "But Mulder...." She hadn't intended to speak aloud. "Doctor says he'll be okay, doesn't he?" Moore's gruff voice had been surprised. "You got him back. Under the circumstances, we'll forget about that little matter with the gun, earlier. You'll be home in a few days." He'd given a forced laugh. "You guys have left me with months of paperwork. Is he always this much trouble?" She'd attempted a smile, unable to answer. "But it's over now, Agent Scully." He'd shifted awkwardly, edging away as if anxious to leave but not sure how to do it. "Unless you want me to look for that woman again?" "No." She'd sighed, lowering her voice in case Mulder could hear, though she knew he was in a drugged sleep. "I think they used her name as bait - told him things about her. I'm sure she didn't really exist. Like you say, it's over." Over.... But he would wake up soon. There was no implant to explain his behaviour, she had made sure of that. Which left.... what? It hurt her to remember it, but memory brought comfort, now. She *had* let them take him. They had dragged him off before her eyes and she had done nothing to stop them - had not even found out for hours that he was missing. Semiconscious, hurt, afraid, was it not natural that he would remember that - that he would reproach her with it? It was nothing. Like his violent panic in the hospital, just a natural reaction to trauma. No implant. No breakdown. No psych ward. Nothing. He would open his eyes and he would.... what? Smile at her, weak but lucid? Start asking when he could go home and resume his work as if the last few days were nothing but a vanished nightmare? "It's over, Mulder." She spoke aloud, touching the back of his hand as she would when he was awake, saying the words she would say then. "It *is* over." Mulder groaned, and his eyelids flickered open. She touched his arm, gently. So many bruises from needles, restraints, there was nowhere she could touch him without hurting him. Yet she told herself he would want to feel her touch, to be reassured, comforted. She didn't think about how much *she* needed it. A small sound, an attempt at speech. She knew his throat had to be raw and painful, his voice was so hoarse from all the screaming. His eyes struggled to focus, and she carefully arranged her face into a welcoming smile and refused to let the hope overtake her. Better to expect the worst, prepare for it... "Scully?" There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. She cringed slightly, waiting for the "Is that you?" which was sure to follow, but Mulder said nothing more, just the one word having exhausted him. "I'm here," she said softly. Cursing inwardly, how many times had she been forced to sit by his side in hospitals, how many *more* times would she re-live this scenario? A small, mean-spirited voice spoke up in her mind and said that maybe it would be best if Mulder *didn't* recover. "You're going to be fine." Speaking to him *and* herself, quieting that selfish wish. "In a few days--" "Scully." His eyes were closed again, and desperation tinged his voice. "My head..." She leaned forward. "What about your head, Mulder?" Oh, God, what was he going to say? What horrible secrets were locked in his mind? "Do I...did they... Scully, what..." He could not finish the sentences and they dangled in the space between them, an invisible barrier keeping her from understanding. She took a chance. "You're fine, Mulder. Nothing is wrong with your head. The doctors have examined you, and nothing has been done to you. No implants, even." She said the last jokingly, trying to inject some humor into the conversation. Mulder's eyes opened and he looked at her. She could see it in his eyes, in the tension of his body, his desperate need to believe her. She met his gaze without blinking, willing him to believe. Finally he slumped back against the pillow. "A dream," he muttered, almost too low for her to hear. "Has to be...dream...forget this..." She seized his words. "That's right, Mulder. You must have had a dream. Maybe they told you they were going to do something to you, and you had a nightmare about it." He was watching her again, and she forced herself to rein in her enthusiasm, to speak calmly. "But nothing was done to you, Mulder. *Nothing.* You're going to be just fine." He nodded slightly, seemed to accept her words. His eyes slid closed again, as exhaustion and the drugs took hold of him again. She stroked the back of his hand gently. "Just rest, Mulder. It'll be okay." "...so real..." he murmured. His hand moved beneath hers, then he was still. **** "You need to pick your projects with more care, my friend. The ones you choose always seem to fall apart on you." The smugness in that cultured voice was unmistakable. "Perhaps. But then, I can't afford to pick and choose. Some of us don't have the luxury of convenience." The smoker's tone was scathing. "Convenience?" The Englishman laughed shortly. "Do you think it was convenient for me to give up a week of my time for this?" The smoker shrugged, a gesture that didn't translate over the phone. "We all make sacrifices." "Yes, so we do," came the reply. "So, tell me. You really think you can control Mulder now?" He kept his voice light, betraying none of the curiosity, the jealousy that dug at him. "All in good time. I wouldn't want to tip my hand too soon," the Englishman replied. "But I have no doubts that this procedure has worked. I've seen some of the results myself. You need not concern yourself with Agent Mulder in the future, my friend." "We'll have to see about that, of course." A chuckle. "I'm sure you'll have no difficulty in setting up a trial run." He stubbed out his cigarette with finality. "You can depend on me." **** Several days later-- There were footsteps coming down the hall, and Mulder instantly closed his eyes, tried to visualize the person. It was a game he played with himself, one born in the depths of his despair at the lab, when sight had been robbed from him, and he had been forced to depend on his hearing for sensory input. He sighed as the footsteps grew closer. This set he knew all too well--after five years together he could pick Scully out of a crowd with ease. He opened his eyes as she came into the room. Her arms were laden with packages and she smiled broadly. "Hey!" She held out her arms as if they contained sacrificial offerings. "Your books, as promised." He forced himself to smile. Good Scully, nice Scully, honest, truthful Scully. She sat on the plastic chair beside the bed, the various bags and boxes dropping to the floor. "I went to every bookstore in Rutland, Mulder, and I still couldn't find that Heinlein book you wanted." She smelled of outdoors, of snow. White flakes dusted her hair, her shoulders. Something pulled at him, the scent haunting his memory, and for a tantalizing moment he almost had it. <...kneeling in the cold..."just for a check"..."never forgive you"...> Then it was gone. "Mulder?" She was watching him carefully, a thin frown line marring her brow. The white bandage was gone from her forehead, and only a faint bruise remained from where he had struck her. "What did you bring me?" He eyed the bags, as if trying to see into them, eagerly awaiting his presents. She reached into one of the bags, brought forth several books. Launched into the story of her afternoon, traveling from one bookstore to another. Mulder watched her without seeming to, intently aware of her every move, her every word. He had to be careful around her. She could lie to him again at any moment, and he had to be ready for it. When she had gone through all her bags, she sat back, a satisfied smile on her face. "Which one are you going to read first?" He waved a hand vaguely at the stack. "Oh, I don't know. You choose." She shrugged. Selected a book from the top of the pile. Immediately his brain went into action. But he said none of this, instead mouthing words about her good taste, and he was starting to hurt again, would she mind getting the nurse for him, he would really like a pill now. She stood quickly, told him she would be right back, hastily left the room. When she was gone, Mulder lay back against the pillows propping him up. Without her demanding presence, he could be himself, give up the pretense. He remembered now, the pain, the animal fear. The Englishman had lied to him. He understood that, expected it, could even forgive it. Betrayal he could not forgive. A female voice. Why had she done it? Had she hoped he would not remember, that he would never know? But he knew. He remembered now. Staring at the doorway, his eyes narrowed. She reappeared in the doorway, that smile still on her face, that face that had loomed over his while he had screamed, begged them not to do this. Her smile made his skin crawl. "Mulder? Is everything okay?" He smiled brilliantly at her. "Everything's fine." ***** END ***** NOTES: The title of this story comes from a song by Toad the Wet Sprocket: "Nothing so loud, as hearing when we lie. Truth is not kind, but you've said neither am I. --All I Want It just seemed to fit, for various reasons, mostly to do with Mulder's belief that Scully was lying to him - a belief that drowned out all evidence to the contrary. An end note from Pellinor (who always feels safer hiding at the end of a story rather than the start, and who always writes notes that are too long.) As Rebecca says at the start, this story was written as an experiment. Being an inveterate planner, who never writes a word of a story until the whole thing is planned, I have always longed to experiment with writing something totally unplanned, although I knew I would need a partner in order to stop myself cheating. Even so, it took me months to get the nerve to suggest it. The first few scenes were actually written (in my head) in about March or so. I have to admit that I approached the thing with some trepidation, imagining myself awake all night worrying about how to get out of plot holes. However, as Rebecca says, it was great fun. We both discovered the evil pleasure of handing over horrible cliffhangers, and killing minor characters invented by the other. For my part, I particularly enjoyed the chance to write something very different in conception from my normal stuff. I always approach a story with a character issue I want to explore, and construct the plot around that. I also tend to plan the end first, and work backwards from that. The main thing I've learnt from this is that there are many other ways of writing stories, and that I shouldn't let myself get too restricted. As for who wrote what - well, we'll leave that up to you to work out, if you are that way inclined. FEEDBACK is of course devoutly craved. You can send to either of us. In addition, we are very interested in discussing this method of writing, should anyone want to reply on fictalk. Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk rrusnak@Lconn.com ********** Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk X-Files Fanfic Research: http://www.astolat.demon.co.uk/ "The truth IS out there. It's just a pity that I'm in here."