**********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE
By: Deborah L. Wells
<DLWells55@aol.com>
**********************************************************

SPOILERS:     Possible references to 'Memento Mori'
RATING:    R
CONTENT:    Mulder angst.  Scully angst.  MSR (later)
CLASSIFICATION:    TRA
SUMMARY:    A strange sequence of events are put into 
    play after a heated argument between Mulder and Scully.


**********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 1
**********************************************************

Anger is a dangerous feeling.  One that beckons change.
And change is not always for the better.  Not when it
threatens to carry those concerned onto a path that they
are not prepared to travel.  Confrontations derived from
pent-up emotions, most especially anger, are situations
that allow little room for rules.  Usually guaranteed 
to be one of a most sacred and personal kind.  Especially
those scenarios that are conjured up in the still of the
night.  The heat of the moment.  The not so apropos after 
hours setting of a darkened and deserted government office
building.


The harried and over-worked occupants past tired.  Beyond
caring.  Two people who had just crossed that most pre-
carious line.  The one that lies between good natured
bantering and outright blatant accusations.  The invisible
and fault-balanced precursor between propriety and rage.
This night....this most fateful night; there would be no
turning back on a journey four years in the making.  A
lifetime in the cards.  And they would never be the same.


It wasn't the first time they had reached the juncture of 
this apex.  But it could be the last.  Because the crucial 
difference here was that they had spoken the words.  Out
loud.  With purpose.  And aim.  In an undignified moment
of crisis.  A startled affront and an unguarded reaction.
That most volatile combination.  One that they had
strategically managed to avoid at all costs.  Until 
tonight.


She had said in all righteousness that she had endured
more than enough.


He had made it clear with every conviction that he had
surpassed his limits and beyond.


And so the die was cast.


They were poised now precariously upon the most crucial
crossroads.  Having volleyed past the raised voices,
poison-daggered and sharp-edged words.  A lifeline
precipice of their own choosing.  He had questioned
her loyalties and reasoning.  She had questioned his
sanity and beliefs.  Though neither was intuitive 
enough to venture past the half-truths, and full lies,
that lay just below the surface of their hurtful
actions.  They stood together most thoroughly divided.
Chasm wide.  Fingertip reach.  Physically, only by
the length of a room.  Mentally, by the expanse of 
two lifetimes, clearly destiny-crossed, but forever
borne of different aspirations.  And goals.  And needs.


The air of their sacrosanct universe was charged with
a lethal tension.  Her eyes sparked with exasperation
and hopelessness.  His eyes dimmed with exhaustion
and futility.  Too much revealed, but never enough
said.  Lest of course, it was the wrong things.  The
kind that somehow manage to have a life of their own,
always finding the light of expression without much
prompting.  Why did they always find it easier somehow
to vocalize the pain?  The hurt?  Either way, it was
all out there between them now.  And *it* was most
definitely there between them.  Palpable and breathing,
it currently fed off of the very substance which had
given it life.  Never to be pushed aside and ignored
again, it nurtured greedily on the substance of their
souls.  A burden lifted yes, but only to allow it
better traction and aim.


The storm crested with savage intensity, and she was
the first to break under its influence.  He had the
advantage of home territory.  His office.  Despite a
requisitioned nameplate and the promise of office
furniture.  It would always be his.  She moved towards
retreat.  Her easy out.  He made none to stop her.  
Nor did she expect him to.  Files gathered, jacket
grabbed.  Yet still she hesitated.  Her clinical mind,
although now hazy with turmoil and pain, still sought
some measure of closure.  Was it too much to ask?  
Even now?  A neatly bundled bow-tied string upon the
frenzied maelstrom that each had once laughably deigned
to call a life.  


She didn't like leaving open ends.


He thrived on them.


"Mulder."  It was a sigh.  She could do that.  Say his
name as a sigh and have it mean something.  But he only
shook his head slightly and turned his back to her.  The
final assault on her last remaining vestige of pride.  
They were indeed leaving nothing to chance here.  No way
out.  No loophole clause.  No possible impromptu midnight
phoned regrets, or shy half-apologies come the light of
reason.


It *was* truly over.


Together and apart, each silently mourned the passing of
what they had once possessed.


And what could have been.


She might have slammed the door.  But didn't  There was 
no point.  As they could not have hurt each other anymore
with mere actions than they had just managed with savage
words.  Only in the safely of her absence did he finally
turn towards the door, calling her name softly.


"Scully."


Spoken as a sigh, like hers before.  He was no less perfected
in the application of the ways.  Saying her name now.  
Knowing she could not hear.  His easy out.


It was a bitter end.


It had always been destined to be played out as such.


And somewhere the dice were thrown.  Flawless ivory cubes,
spotted with ebony ink.  As the desperate eyes forever
cursed, followed the teasing course of their journey.
Tumbling and rolling, lofty power camouflaged behind a
shield of innocence.  They waited for the fates to 
decide.  Win or lose?  Love or hate?  Live or die?


All bets off.  The game had begun.

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

Mulder awoke to the stinging assault of the early afternoon
sun shining through the blinds.  The searing rays crept across
the floor, and up and over the couch he was sprawled upon.
He was working on prying his sleep-encrusted eyes open by
carefully applied increments when the soft shirring of the 
phone caused them to open completely and painfully.  He 
blinked rapidly against the blinding glare as he stumbled
his way over to the phone.


"Yeah", he croaked, simultaneously clearing his throat
against the groggy sound that issued forth.


"Agent Mulder.  Good afternoon.  Hope I'm disturbing your
beauty sleep."


Mulder frowned.  It was Skinner.  He glanced at the digital
clock on the answering machine in front of him.  12:35 P.M.
it proclaimed in a light-faded green luminescent display.
He groaned under his breath.


Skinner mistook his silence as a moment of contrition and
softened his tone accordingly.  "Would you care to explain
why both you and Agent Scully missed our scheduled 10:00
meeting this morning?"  Although phrased as such, it wasn't
a question.


Mulder glanced now at the empty whiskey bottle that was
tipped over next to the phone.  Another one, half-full stood
on the coffee table next to the couch.  He could vaguely
remember their hasty consumption.  But he could most vividly
feel the resultant hang-over that was even now clouding
his thoughts and memories.


"Sick", he mumbled.  "I'm sick.  Overslept, and didn't call
in."  "Sorry", he added as an afterthought.  He could hear
the sharp in-take of breath from Skinner's end of the
conversation.  A slight whistle like sound.


"And Agent Scully?", he asked between what Mulder knew were
surely tightly clenched teeth.


"What about her?"


"Would she also be a hapless victim of this non-communicative
bug?"


Mulder rubbed a clammy hand over his stubbled face, as he
reached out to the blind rod, twirling it closed against
the offending sun.  "You'd have to ask her on that...sir",
another afterthought.


"Well Agent Mulder, I would like nothing better than to do 
just that."   Mulder could hear a scraping noise as Skinner
moved his chair closer to his desk as an unseen emphasis on
the importance of his next words.  Out of an inbred habit,
Mulder unconsciously straightened his posture in response.
Dressing-down over the phone is one of those lost arts.  
Skinner was working on his black belt.  "It seems Agent
Scully, like yourself has neglected to inform anyone of her
whereabouts.  And she doesn't answer her phone."


Mulder was silent.  A painful squeak issued forth from the
phone, as he could now imagine Skinner turning his chair
around to face the window.  Building for the climatic
dismissal he surmised.


"Agent Mulder, you and Agent Scully have been given a lot
of room to maneuver over the past four years.  But don't
assume you have carte blanche to do as you please.  I'm
still calling the shots.  I want both you and your partner
here in my office by four o'clock this afternoon.  I hope
we completely understand each other."


The line clicked against Mulder's ear as the connection was
terminated.  Mulder punched the off button, dropping the
phone on the couch as he made his way to the bathroom.
Filling the sink with cold water he splashed his face a few
times, grabbing a hand towel he looked at his reflection in
the mirror.  His eyes were blood-shot and he was still wearing
the same work shirt and jacket he had on from the day before.
Wrinkled and rumpled.  And the suit was in pretty bad shape
too.  Looking at his twin image he absently noticed his right
front pocket was torn at the edge.  He reached for the material
smoothing it flat against his chest, and watched the flap
slowly fall away again when he removed his hand.  When had
that happened?, he wondered.


He tried focusing on the events of the day before, purposely
skimming over the final showdown with Scully.  He wasn't
up to those brittle ruminations quite yet.  After she had
left he had stayed around the office for a couple of hours,
silently hoping she might come back.  Silently hoping she
wouldn't too.  Either way, he got his wish.  But when it
had become clear she definitely wasn't returning, he had
finally packed up and left.  It must have happened then, and
he just hadn't noticed.  Maybe on his way home, after that
spur of the moment stop at the liquor store where he had
bought the whiskey.  The shoppe that was so inconveniently
out of his way.  But just happened to be miles from the
turn-off that might have beckoned him to Scully's apartment.
Not that he had been planning on going there of course.  It
just made it more official.  His not going.


He shrugged now out of his soiled clothes, and stepped into
the shower.  Moving into the soothing hot stream he hoped
would work wonders on straightening out the tired and sore
kinks in his muscles.

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

".....Where was I?", he paused for a moment, gathering his
thoughts.  "Ah yes, relative distance.  That's a term I 
really enjoy using.  And it fits so nicely into our situation
right here.  Especially when you consider all the possible
connotations.  Think about it this way.  Every person has a
center.  In each person's center is the make-up that composes
what could be called an existence for that person.  In the
core of this center branching out, you have in order family,
friends, co-workers, etc.  Each attachment ringed in order of
the corresponding importance tie to that person's life.  As
you travel further and further away from the core it signifies
the lessening ties.  At the very edge of the circle are what
I like to call the peripherals.  Those acquaintances or
unknowns that are on the fringes.  There, but only in relative
distance to the need for a particular service or requirement.
Take me for instance, I used to be a peripheral, but now I'm
in the core of your center.  You see what I mean?"


He reached over to adjust the I.V. drip fastened to Dana
Scully's arm.  After a moment's tinkering he settled back
satisfied.


"This here, what happened with us,  is an example of what develops
when the center to peripheral balance is skewed.  When a peripheral 
person comes in close contact with the center of a person's existence, 
with anything other than the aforementioned peripheral ties, it can 
only lead to chaos.  That's what happened here.  Chaos.  Pure and
simple.  Wouldn't you agree?"


Dana Scully remained silent.


He wasn't deterred by this.  He was comfortable with silence.
"Have you figured out where you are yet?", he asked after a
few minutes.


She nodded slowly.  It had taken awhile.  The drug had clouded her
thinking at first, and the cramped space was misleading.  But
eventually it came to her.  


If she could have superimposed the schematic lay-out of Mulder's
basement office over where she was now, it would have been a perfect 
match.


Because Dana Scully was currently being kept prisoner in the crawlspace 
that existed directly over the office of Special Agent Fox Mulder.  In 
the bowels of the government building which housed the headquarters of 
the FBI.


"We never left", she answered him softly.


He smiled.



**********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 2
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Reality carries little weight within the restrictive 
perception of those who choose not to see.  And not
seeing can come to serve as a convenient and cushioning
barrier against the more cruel aspects of life.  The
illusions of happiness, joy and love are translucent in
their obvious appeal.  A seduction of want and desire
resides there.  Most especially to those who are without
their comforts.  Separated by layers of safety and 
security, these temptations of need sing a mystical
siren song of promise that few can resist.  Yet there
will always be those who will forever look in only
from the outside.  Their faces pressed tight against
the unyielding glass.  Coveting all that they can
see, but know will never possess.


A hard truth to learn.  This intimate knowledge that
there are some things that are just not meant to be.
A depressing fact of life that nonetheless demands
attention.  A lesson searingly branded with a stilted
sorrow upon the souls of those less fortunate.  For
most, dejected but not destroyed, they will simply
turn away, and seek that which is available from
within the sphere of their own influence.


Harshly and coldly denied the sun, yet still they
flourish.  Because even without the warmth of the
sun there's always the moon.  The stars.  The sky.  
And for those left earth-bound there is the sea and 
the sand.  The wind.  The storm.  Satisfaction is 
relative, but to all who are willing to breathe the 
subjective breath that is life; the choices afforded 
are serendipitous and infinite.  Limited only by the 
ability to reach beyond the grasp.  To settle when 
necessary.  To care always.  And to dream when the 
opportunity allows.  


A deceptively simple recipe for internal peace.  But
this is the way.


And so life proceeds onward without comment.


.....in a perfect world.


But elsewhere civilized rules are reserved only for the 
relative comfort of the light.  The sanctified sanity that 
is the day.  And most especially they are only for those 
who consciously choose to adhere to them. For what exists 
just beyond the comforting light and sanity is the birth-
place of darkness and pain.  And there, aberration is the 
one and only constant of nature.  And it is no less true of 
the balances that exists between misery and joy, sorrow and 
peace, life and death.  In this place for all those who are 
content within the limits of the moon and stars, there lives 
another. 


The one who brazenly takes what can't be earned.  Who
forces what will not come willingly.  The one who lives
only for the decadence of grotesquely reshaping the 
world to fit within the ravings of a maniacal and mis-
guided vision of his own making.  He is to be pitied.
He is to be avoided.  But most of all he is to be feared.
For he is the predator.  The one that steals the spirit
from the still breathing corpse and feeds upon the soul.
The patient and industrious spider that spins the silken
web of despair and death.  Its placebo composed of a
deceptively tantalizing, but falsely iridescent beauty
that is the web.  A dangerous decoy that taunts and catches 
the hapless and unsuspecting prey.


And once caught the game is never over, but only beginning.
Because there follows the inevitable interlude.  The one that 
is the teasing prelude to a soulful agony.  The eternal struggle.  
A bittersweet last glimmer hope to return to what was once
known and treasured.  The ever beckoning safety of sanity.


But even now...as she pulls back desperately upon the iron-
banded gossamer wisps of the web, seeking escape...the spider 
comes.


It comes.

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

It was the night of the third day.

"Dana", he called to her softly.


His voice still not enough of a constant presence in her
world to be accepted without the first instinctual impulse
of fear.  He didn't want to startle her out of sleep.  So
keeping his voice purposely low, his tone even, he called
her again.  When she still didn't respond he reached out,
lifting one of her eyelids carefully.


He wasn't surprised to find it was unresponsive.  It would
take awhile before he would be able to accurately gauge
the dosage of the drugs he was giving her.  At present it
was just an educated guess.  There were so many variants
to be taken into consideration.  The first being that she
was expending most of her strength and energy on her 
attempts to free herself.  And whatever was left over was
being depleted slowly by the fact that she was refusing
to eat.  The truth was, she was thrusting herself towards
a complete exhaustion breakdown.  He frowned.  He would
probably have to either give her nutrients directly by
I.V., or force fed her.  Perhaps both, if this continued 
much longer  


He sensed a part of her was thinking he could be fooled 
into feeling sorry for her enough to relax his guard.  But 
he was taking nothing for granted.  This whole thing had 
been too long in the making.  He knew he must never once 
forget how intelligent she was.  If there was a way out, 
despite all his careful planning, he was confident she 
would find it.  He had made detailed preparations, trying 
to foresee every possible scenario in his mind.  Going over 
and over everything again until he felt confident he would 
be able to anticipate her reactions before she had even  
time to process the information.


He sat back now against the far wall and just watched
her for a moment.  She was restless, turning slightly in
her sleep.  Moaning.  He was a patient man, he would wait
for her to wake.  There was no real hurry anyway.  It was
after midnight and the night belonged to him.  And soon,
very soon he hoped, it would belong to both of them.  



This was the first item on his agenda.  She would have to
become accustomed to sleeping through the day and remaining
awake at night.  He was using the drugs initially to force
this change in her internal clock.  Setting up the drip
before leaving each morning so that a carefully timed release
of medication would leave her completely sedated for the
entire day.  A calculated sleep.  But eventually she would
get into the rhythm without the medication.  Soon he hoped.
He didn't want to risk causing her to become addicted.  
Especially given the fact that she had cancer.


He would, of course, have to oversee her treatment on that 
front as well.  He didn't normally like to chance mixing 
medications.  So the sooner this sleep obstacle was surpassed 
the better.  For both of them.  But aware of her stubborn 
nature, he knew she would continue to fight him every step of 
the way.  It was a price he was more than willing to pay.  
Especially if it garnered him the reward he was so fervently 
hoping for.  


Watching over her sleep now, he was once again captivated
by her beauty.  It affected him here today with every ounce 
of passion, just as it had the first time he'd seen her.  It 
never ceased to amaze him.  She was everything he had ever 
hoped to find.  And it wasn't just the physical beauty that 
had attracted him either.  He didn't consider himself a 
shallow man.  He wasn't one of those people who only judges 
by the cover without giving credence to the value of the pages 
that rest in between the binding. He was intuitive. Insightful.
A people reader.  A people watcher actually being a more apt 
definition.


And from the first, she had proven to be more than worthy of 
the adoration he bestowed upon her.  First off, her obvious 
intellect and skills.  A doctor and an FBI agent.  Beauty and 
brains.  She also had a kind heart.  A genuine interest in other
people.  Their welfare and well-being.  And even though he
was anything but approving of her cavalier behavior as of late, 
he still loved her more than life itself.  He could forgive her
for the mistakes she had made recently.  He was magnanimous 
enough to at least empathize with her motivations.  The ones 
that had led to these less than stellar actions.  


She had changed perceptively over the four years he had
known her.  And he had witnessed each and every transfor-
mation.  As she went from a wide-eyed and life-loving woman,
to a sullen, angry, and jaded shell of her former self.  He,
of course, could still see the glimmer of her former
personality. That spark that was buried deep inside.  The one
that shone through only for him.  Because he knew precisely
where to look.  Still he had started to become increasingly
more worried that she was beginning to lose track of who
she once used to be.  And it was this development which had
caused him to step up his initial plans.


He couldn't bear to witness her suffering anymore.  She was
forever pushing herself beyond the boundaries of reason.
She had to start taking care of herself.  And if she
wouldn't, then he must.  One of them had to be focused 
enough to carry the strength for them both.  It was his 
self-proclaimed duty to protect her.  Even if that protection 
involved an extended coverage, one that would encompass 
saving her from herself.  


A slight movement from over on the cot where Dana lay 
caught his attention and brought him immediately back to
the present.  He moved quickly over to her side.  As her
eyes fluttered open he took note of the progression of 
emotions that filtered across her face.  First, the 
sluggish apathy that was the result of her body trying
to fight its way back into consciousness from the 
numbing effects of the narcotic he had given her.  
Followed by an expression of confusion as she blinked
rapidly, trying to bring some semblance of understanding
to the still unfamiliar surroundings she found herself
in.  Then finally fear, as she jerked back on the cot
upon seeing him there next to her.  This last reaction
still brought a momentary twinge of ache to his heart.  
That she should fear him, when he loved her so.  But
time.  Yes time.  The universal healer.  She would come
to know and appreciate the sacrifices he had made for
her well being.


"Dana", he said softly, talking to her in a soothing,
placating tone.  He reached up and for emphasis jiggled
the handcuffs that were attached to each of her wrists
keeping her confined to the bed.  Her hands raised up
and over high on each side of her head.  Each arm
attached on either side to the steel frame of the cot.
Her wrists wrapped protectively with gauze to prevent
chafing.  He had indeed thought of everything.


"I'm going to unlock the handcuffs now, after which I
want you to stand and pick up the backpack that is 
sitting on the floor next to you.  Then I will once
again put the handcuffs on, but your hands will be in
front of you.  Don't try anything Dana.  I don't want to, 
but I will sedate you again if necessary.  With this last
sentence he produced a tightly capped syringe from the
jacket pocket of his coat.  Showing her his words would
always carry the weight of absolute truth.  He would
never lie to her.  He wasn't that sort.  She would come
to see this in time.  The speech he had just issued was
the same one he used each time.  He still thought it
prudent to explain the rules.  Miscommunication can only
lead to sorrow.


She glared back at him with undisguised hatred.  Her
eyes darting back and forth between his face and the hand
that held the threatening needle.  After a moment she 
nodded slightly.  He produced the keys and carefully
unlocked both sets of handcuffs.  She brought herself to
a sitting position in small painful increments.  Being
locked into the same position for the length of a day
was taking its toll on her muscles.  They were sore from
non-use.  He sighed softly.  It was necessary right now.
An unavoidable step.  But as time passed, as soon as she
began to show him that she could be trusted, he would allow
her certain freedoms and liberties.  


She stood, stretching her back fully.  Her eyes closing
momentarily as she worked out the kinks of her aching 
limbs.  He gave her a few moments to do this.  And as
always he waited for the look.  It *would* come.  It always 
followed at this point.  He wasn't even sure she was aware 
of doing it.  Probably as much an involuntary response as 
breathing is to life.  He waited, and within seconds his pre-
cognitive thought was realized.  It started at the corner of 
her eyes.  A sad, wistful longing.  A glimmer of hope that 
she kept safe and secure deep within her own heart.  An 
almost loving downward sweep of her eyes.  And for just the 
merest fraction of a second they would linger there.  On the 
floor beneath her feet.  Trying to reach beneath the barrier
of the concrete and metal supports that separated her from the
place she most wished to be.  But it was more than a place
she was so desperately wishing for.  It was also a desire for 
him.  For Mulder.  Even after all that had transpired between 
them, she still stood here now displaying a look that was the 
very essence of need.


This was something that he would never be able to come to
terms with.  Not after the things he had heard that last
night.  The words that had flown between them like rapid fire
artillery.  Wounding and hurting with an intensity that was
nothing short of a practiced intent.  And yet she was even 
now yearning for him like he was the last drop of moisture 
in a acrid dry desert land.  It hurt him down to the marrow
of his bones to see her this way.  Knowing she was pining 
for the company of another man.  Someday.  No matter the
cost to him.  To her.  Someday, she would display that look
for him alone.


He called her name again, bringing her out of her reverie.
She reached down and picked up the backpack, just as he had
requested.  And he moved forward with the handcuffs.  They
were starting to fall into a routine now.  The first time 
she had tried to attack him.  They had both fallen to the
floor, struggling for domain.  She had used every ounce 
of her strength and internal fury to try and escape from him.
She was a skillful fighter.  Her stature and size masquerading
a powerful force.  She almost succeeded too.  But he had
managed to extract the needle that he never was without, from
his pocket.  Flipping the cap he had rammed it into her hip,
depressing the plunger all in one fluid motion.  Her eyes had 
gotten impossibly huge as she registered the pain for what it 
was.  Her sudden rage and power forgotten as her mind was 
instantly clouded over from the effects of the drug he had 
injected into her.  A plaintive, suffering wail had escaped 
her lips as she fell into a heap next to him.  It was the 
sound that an animal would make when caught in a trap from
which there was no escape possible.


With one last longful glance at the place that marked the
position of his desk below them, she moved forward into the
shaft.  She took the lead.  Knowing the way by heart by now.
He kept a careful and measured pace behind her, out of the
reach of her legs, should she try to kick him.  Yes, she had
tried that ploy as well.  He again reminded himself never to
underestimate her abilities.


They emerged from out of a loosened ventilation grate.  From 
there they entered a woman's public restroom.  He knew the night 
security schedule by heart.  He knew exactly how many guards 
patrolled the building.  Who was on what floor.  At what time.  
He knew the positioning of every security camera.  This nightly
ritual was as planned and detailed as the Brink's robbery.  She
went to the first stall and used it.  And he checked it after
her, looking over the walls and disposal chutes to see if she
had tried to leave another message.  Initially she had removed
a spring from the toilet paper holder and had been in the process
of scratching a call for help upon the walls.  She hadn't gotten
far, only a word or two.  Probably hoping to finish the message
on each progressive night.  He made her scratch it out in front
of him.  


Next she proceeded to the sink.  Opening the back pack she removed
a tooth brush and paste.  Hair brush.  Soap.  A hand towel.  He
saw her hesitate as she came across an item that had never before
been there.  She furrowed her brow with a questioning expression.


"Do it", he commanded, with an almost harsh tone.  She looked over
at him standing at the door.  One of his hands thrust inside his
jacket pocket, along with the outline of a gun.  He only carried it
when they ventured out at night.  


"No", she spoke quietly.  Determined.  Refusing.  She knew what was
his intent with this development. He was trying to steal her identity.  
It was all she had left to hold onto right now.  She wouldn't give in 
without a fight.  It was too important.  At least to her.      


He walked over and stood near her at the sink.  But still purposely
out of reach.  He regarded the fire that shone from her eyes with
pause.  Her determination was palpable.  But where the immovable
met the irresistible, they were more than evenly matched in spirit.
And he held the cards of power right now.


"Do it Dana, or I'll cuff you to the sink, and tie your legs and
do it myself."  His tone left nothing to chance.  There was no
mistaking the believability behind the words.


After another moment's hesitation she began to comply.


An hour later she looked into the mirror with the sting of tears
not far from escaping the well of pain that was herself.  He moved
behind her, joining her reflection in perusal.


Her hair was still wet, as there was no blow dryer for her to use.
But she could see the difference even through the wetness.  Her once
red hair had now been colored a dark brown, almost black.  The face
that looked back at her now was familiar, but it was framed by a halo
of hair that was foreign to her.  She could barely recognize herself.


He moved into her personal space, and she flinched at the contact.
Keeping the gun pressed against her back he reached around and cupped
her chin lightly.  She looked in the mirror as their images stared back
at her.  Mocking her.  


"Dana is dead now", he whispered with a hot exhale of breath next 
to her ear.


"As of today, your name is Teresa", this last said with all the 
reverence of a fervent prayer for absolution.


"Teresa", she mouthed silently back at the ghost image of her former
self.


And this time she allowed the tears that threatened to fall.


************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 3
************************************************************


Two people.  A man.  A woman.  Brought together by chance 
and fate.  Kept together by the strengthening bonds of 
commonality; a history of precious moments and shared pain.  
And a simple need throughout; a need for each other.  The 
compliment of their union.  The trust that is their connec-
tion.  Warring and loving, the emotions of each sometimes 
too strongly expressed and convoluted over time, until it 
becomes difficult to separate them into terms which can be 
understood.  Even by the two themselves.


Some would call them fools for staying.  Some would call
them blessed for being.  All would call them lucky for
possessing.  The others, with passing eyes full of envy,
and yearning hearts of unfulfilled passion, as they watch
their progress.  They are studied in depth.  Their actions.
Their words.  The touches.  The looks.  Each considered
and categorized for signs of the depths that lay just beyond 
the facade of a public masquerade.


But love is a deceptive illusion.  Its allure resides in 
the belief that we have a measure of control over the
events which shape our present.  And our future.  But we
are just the pawns.  Moved from space to space upon the
game board, by an unseen hand.  Checked, and mated.  Some-
times winning.  Often losing.  Forever locked within the
confinement of the rules.  Rules that most are never even
made privy to.  And for every game piece that is sacrificed,
another comes to take its place.


In this way, love is the greatest humbling experience.


Giving yourself to another, opening your heart, and letting
someone in, is an intimacy that has no equal.  It is the
most vulnerable state life can offer.  But if the circum-
stances proclaim, and the heavens align, it has the
potential to be the most rewarding of all.  Still, there are
no guarantees to promise that this precious gift given, will
not be returned unopened.  Never tasted.  Never tried.  Or
worse yet, used without attachment, and then thrown away
without regard.  It isn't easy, this first opening of the 
heart.


Yet there is even another level.  One that brings an enduring
pain that is beyond even that of never knowing.  You can 
desire profoundly, but you can not claim to miss, what you
have never sampled.  And once known, it will capture a place
in your soul, rooting and taking hold in your heart.  It will
feed on your needs.  It will live in your dreams.  And when
this love given is returned, it will reward you with content-
ment and joy.  But it is the hurt that comes from loving and
then losing that has the power to destroy.


Love is the birth.  The coming of age in between is the life.
Loss is the death.  Having tasted the sweetness that is the
promise of what is possible, and then being denied from ever
knowing it again; this is the blueprint for sorrow.  This is
the dwelling place of bitterness.  


One space above she turns with a wretched fever pitch by the
restrictive throes of a nightmare.  A nightmare brought about
not by her musings of fears unrealized.  But of fears known.
Of a kind being lived and experienced.  Concurrently and
never-ending.  She calls for him.  Through the drugged haze
that is now her home.  But he can not hear.  Her hands pulled
taunt against the bedpost by the shackles of uncaring steel.
They reach out in a desperate want for release.  But they
only capture air, never the intoxicating freedom she so 
fervently desires, and in frustration they go slack with 
futility and despair.  She looks for him, but is unable to
find him.


One space below he walks the cage of his own misery.  Pacing
the expanse of his captive box.  Even without having the 
bonds of steel that she even now endures, symbolically he is
kept a prisoner just the same.  The unknown is a keyless cage.
For them both.  He pulls upon the bars of his internal jail,
fighting their weight and substance in hopelessness, as their
rod-like shadows chill the emptiness that has become his heart.
He calls for her.  But she can not answer.  Through the
questioning doubts that have become his fears, he searches;
but is unable to find her.


In her sleep, she instinctively twists her body towards the
very edge of the bed, as far to the limit as is allowed her.
Straining the contours of her form, downwards towards the
floor, seeking the comfort and hope that she no longer
possesses.  


In his consciousness, he raises his eyes.  Upwards towards the
heavens, looking for a glimmer of hope, that will be given only
along with a costly price.  He freely offers his world and all 
within for an answer, but there is none to be had.    


And both; she and he, separated only by the width of a layer
of cold and forbidding materials.  Impersonal barriers.  They
are purposely kept apart. Yet, still so close together.  Because 
they strongly feel each other's presence.  Only blinded by their 
inability to see through the subterfuge that is the game.


Hidden in plain sight....she listens for the spider to return
to the web.  The nagging question, the one that fills her with 
horror each time, is whether it returns to tease or to consume.


And insanity lays in the waiting.

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

It was the night of the tenth day.


'Teresa'  Scully kept repeating the name over and over in her 
mind.  'As of today, your name is Teresa', he had said.  Just
like that.  Effectively dismissing her life before.  As if
he had happened upon her as an infant.  Abandoned and unloved.
Reborn, the day he had elected to steal her life from her.  He
even acted as if she should be grateful for the unwanted 
attention he bestowed upon her by force.  


That he was deranged, was without question.  But he was even 
more than that, because he was also extremely intelligent.  
Cunning.  A most dangerous combination without the added
hindrance of having a conniving agenda.


"Teresa", she rolled the name with silent venom through 
tightly pursed lips.  In normal circumstances it would be
only what it was, just a name.  A common name at that.  She
had even known a few 'Teresa's' in her life.  Each one now
filtered across her mind with barely remembered, softly
lingering connections from her youth and lifetime.  
'Teresa's' in normal circumstances would not give her much
pause.  But here?  No, here the syllables leapt off her
tongue with a vile contempt.  


She hated this 'Teresa' he was trying to mold her into here.
Which was exactly his intent.  To first break her down, and
then build her back up from scratch.  Peeling away her layers
and identity, until there was nothing left for her to recognize.
She would be remade, but in his creative image.  It was 'Teresa' 
who was the captive here.  'Teresa', was the one, who even with 
all the vast knowledge and experience afforded her via Scully's 
medical and FBI background, still could not find a way out of 
this predicament.


And God, sweet God, it was so achingly hard to be this close
to all that she wanted to return to.  Her life before.  It was
the cruelest of jokes.  She wondered if he laughed openly at
his own genius when she could not hear.  She was consumed with
an almost ghost-echo of her former life.  Twice the irony, 
because it was only now that it was gone that she gave it the
respect it had so rightfully deserved before.  She had indeed
taken for granted all that she had once possessed.  She made
the same bargains now that most do when they find themselves in
that rock and hard place hell.  'If only's...'I promise's...I'll
never's... and all the other preemptive pledges of redemption 
that the desperate of heart subscribe to; she was no different.
She was no less human.  She was no less terrified.


But everything that she craved, was so tantalizingly out of
reach.  It was like a hunger that could never be thoroughly
satisfied.  A thirst that was never completely quenched. 


He would come and release her each night.  And she would stand,
stretching the muscles that felt like atrophied driftwood after
the immobile length of an entire day locked into a drug-induced,
but forever unrestful sleep.  It was at this point that she
only wished to drop to the floor, on bended knees, and caress
lovingly the barrier that kept her apart from her real world.
Wanting to fall through the cracks of the wood.  Shatter the
cold concrete.  Twist the reinforced metal.  She could almost
touch it.  That elusive freedom.  Taste it.  That feeling of
normalcy.  Of control.  These feelings that before she would
use and toss away without thinking.  Never knowing that around
the bend of the next curve loomed the taker of all she had held
dear.


And he continued to take. Each day. More and more of who she
was.  Taking, and then trying to fill in the spaces left behind
with his own vision of herself.  It felt to her, like she was
slowly being erased.  The chalkboard still carrying the faint
markings of her former existence.  But it wasn't as easy to
read as it had once been.  Even for her.  The letters and 
strokes disappearing and fading before her very eyes.  A
frightening thought in and of itself, but there was more.  
Because she could feel her resistance waning.  It was becoming
increasingly more difficult for her *not* to allow him to 
fill in the void of all that was lost to her in this place.
It had started when he had made her change the color of her
hair.  Then her name.  She was beginning to have difficulty
keeping the lines between Scully and 'Teresa' separate.
There were times when she thought 'Teresa' was stronger 
than she was.  And that was sobering.  And so very sad.



Her will was weakening.  Followed closely by her mind.  And
standing behind these, but not too far, was her body.  The
drugs he forced into her each day were having an effect.
She would awaken earlier than he wished now.  And he would
compensate by increasing the dosage.  Despite her breathless
and fruitless entreaties for him to reconsider this madness.
To stop. Just leave her be.  But he wouldn't.  He wouldn't.
Plunging the needle, with an almost abstract detachment, into
the rubber tube that led to the I.V. which dangled above her
head.  And she could only watch.  And wait.  


For hours she would stare at that bag, through the fog of her
delirium.  Hating it.  Focusing all her emotions on the
symbolism of it.  Unable to reach it.  Unable to pull the 
offending, trickling tube out of her arm.  It was the last
thing she saw each morning.  The first thing she saw each
night.  The parallels to her own situation not escaping her
either.  As the fluids flowed into her veins, while the
spirit flowed out of her being, in almost equal portions.


He refused to be engaged either.  Neither answering questions, 
nor giving reasons. He even refused to give her the satisfaction
of anger.  Oh, and how she wanted his anger.  She wanted him
to express it.  Rage.  Fury.  She wanted it all.  She needed
to see it.  It was beginning to border on obsession.  She 
wanted a match to her own internal confusion.  Her own hate.
A foil to pounce upon and tear apart, in an effort to release
the inferno that was boiling within her.  The consuming fire
that was engulfing her alive and whole.  


She baited him.  Provoked him.  At every opportunity.  But he
was so maddeningly passive in his voice.  His movements slow
and measured.  His remarks calculated and spoken in that 
infuriatingly gentle tone he reserved for her alone.  Like a 
protective, but condescending care-giver, who never said it, 
but still inferred that all he did was for her own good. Patting
the child's head with patience, even while she gave way to the
torrent of the tantrum that was her plight.  It was a slow and
agonizing path to insanity.  And she was becoming too familiar 
with the path that led up to it.

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

It had been eleven days.  Eleven days since she had disappeared.
And yesterday had been the first time he had been able to come
back into the office.  He still hesitated, even now, his key
wavering slightly in his hands.  It was too much like returning
to the scene of the crime.  Because this was the place where
he had last seen her.  That night.  When she had left in anger,
and he had let her go with equal fury.  Steeling his back and
courage now, he turned the key and entered.


It opened around him like an encrypted tomb.  Overwhelming him
with lingering echoes and scents of her essence.  He half
expected her to brush past him now, coffee cup in hand, a file
opened.  Asking what would be the focus of their next case.
Ready to offer a quick, but always clinical, argument to most
any theory he might propose.  


Closing the door behind him, he turned on the light and moved
over to his desk.  He was the quintessential poster-child of a
broken man.  The fluorescent lights playing off and highlight-
ing the deep hollows underneath his eyes.  The dark contours
of his cheekbones, hollowed-out and caved-in.  Too much weight
lost in too quick a time, made the shoulders of his jacket
sag loosely against his lanky frame.  He shrugged it off and 
draped it half-hazardly over the back of his chair.  The shirt 
beneath was wrinkled.  A top button missing.  The tie askew
and stained.  He had only played at getting dressed this
morning it seemed.  His heart not in the actual effort.


In truth, he didn't care.  About anything anymore.  Except
trying to find out what had happened to Scully.  She filled
his thoughts, morning, noon and night.  And then continued
to haunt his dreams.  There wasn't a passing moment when he
didn't feel her there.  And within his heart.  


He had started the search, as soon as it had surfaced that 
something was very wrong.  The continued unanswered phone 
calls.  The vacant apartment.  The car parked out in front of 
her residence.  His first thought that she was punishing him 
for the heated content and rapid escalation of their fight,
and the break that followed.  But too soon he realized that
was not the case.  She would never carry it to this extent.
Worrying family, and friends.  And him.  Wherever it was 
that he now fell within the categories of her relationships.
After that last night, he would not have been surprised if
he had been crossed off all together on her list of important
people.


But no, this was not something that Scully would do.  He was
the one that disappeared without word, leaving those behind
to pick up the emotional pieces of hurt and pain.  But not
her.  And he knew positively, she would never put her family
through this without first informing them of her intentions.
Mrs. Scully continued to call him daily, hoping for some news.


God, it was so much like before.


The time she had disappeared for months.  He sighed loudly.
He could not begin to think of facing that horror again.  
And the more depressing thought, the one he kept pushing back
down, that maybe she would never make it back at all this
time.  From whatever or whoever she had fallen in with.  He
had followed all the clues.  What few there were.  But nobody
had seen her.  Nobody had heard her.  She had walked from his
life that night it seems, straight into an invisible oblivion.


After a few days of dead-end searching, he could almost 
tangibly feel when the focus of the search had shifted towards
himself.  Afterall, he *had* been the last one to see her.
And when he had been interviewed by the police later, he had
truthfully told them that he had spent the remainder of that
night at home in a drunken stupor.  A missing woman, after a
heated argument, followed by a night of swilling whiskey until
he had passed out.  Not the most iron-clad of alibi's.  It
certainly did nothing to polish the dust off his already
tarnished reputation within the Bureau.


Skinner believed him, of course, or professed to anyway.  But
Mulder could hear the hushed whispered tones as he passed by 
this morning on his way to the basement office.  'There he
goes, 'Spooky' Mulder.  Did you know something terrible
happened to his partner?  She disappeared.  I'll bet he had
something to do with it.  They were always fighting.  Such
a shame.'  He tuned them out, just like he did all the other 
irritations of his life.


Like he had done that night, with Scully.


'Regrets', as the song goes, he'd had a few.  And this was 
one.  He would give anything to be able to go back and stop
the events of that night from proceeding into the nightmare
that turned out to be the next day.  And all the days that
had followed since.  


There was just no connection for him to make on this one.  
He'd tapped all his sources.  Called in all the favors.  
Threatened his enemies.  Alienated his friends.  All in the
hopes of finding some answers.  But there was nothing.  There
was no buzzing rumors of conspiracies seeping in with half-
hidden riddles for him to unfurl.  She was just gone.  


Vanished.


Without a trace.

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

He walked across the floor carefully.  As a cat would silently
sneak up on a bird.  He didn't normally come here during the
day.  It was too dangerous with the building open and people
coming and going.  But he had a special gift for her and he
wanted to leave it so that she would see when she awoke this
evening.


He sat down next to her on the bed.  Touching her hair lightly.
The color was just about perfect.  He had gone to extra pains
comparing the boxes.  Matching them to the photo.  And to his
own memory.  Yes, just about perfect.  He frowned.  Of course,
the length was still a little long.  He made a mental note to
bring his scissors tonight.  The style was simple enough, just
a few snips here and there and it would be done.


She moaned softly and he reached his fingers out, pressing
them lightly against her cheek.  It was soft to his touch,
and filled him with a warm promise.  She was so much like
he remembered.  At first, he hadn't seen it.  But when he
finally saw the truth behind the disguise.  Who she really 
was.  It all suddenly made perfect sense.  She had never really 
left him after all.  She had only been lost.  And now that he 
had found her again, he would never let her go.


Coming out of his reverie, he stood quickly, placing the
small bag he carried next to her on the bed.  He smiled to
himself as he left.


Strawberries.  He had passed a roadside vendor and had
stopped and gotten them on the spur of the moment.


'Strawberries, they had always been Teresa's favorite.'


***********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 4
***********************************************************

Memory is a subjective thing.  As are dreams.  Unique only 
to the individual who is in possession of them.  From these 
treasured seeds, if properly cared for, grow wonder and 
belief.  Thought and emotion.  Love and hate.  The essence
of the soul and the strength of heart.  It is easy to 
remain strong and centered while left to fend and grow in a 
world that allows you the courtesy of considering your place 
in the matter of things.


All are born an empty vessel.  Only waiting to be filled with 
the individual imprint that will begin the journey of one.  The 
first step taken, which leads to the next, and finally no longer 
requiring nurturing, the fledgling one departs unto its own 
singular path.  And all paths started lead to another.  No two 
journeys ever identical.  None traveled twice in the exact same 
way.  Some lead to revelations and discoveries.  Some are 
traveled without incident or notice.  While others are destined 
to cross with misfortune and sorrow.  The very control of the 
journey no longer even their own.    


Even now she loses her balance upon the invisible tightrope 
that is suspended between reality and doubt.  As all that she 
once held close and protective is now open and exposed.
Withering and dying.


The prey wearies of its plaintive struggle, as it remains
firmly encased in the soul-encapturing cocoon.  It watches
with resigned detachment as the spider draws near.  Its
pincers raised and glistening, dripping wetly with the 
paralyzing poison.


It readies itself with hopelessness for the sting.

***************************************
It was the night of the twentieth day.
***************************************

Scully had known in the back of her mind that she had seen
him somewhere.  She just couldn't place it.  He possessed
one of those faces that blended in with the crowd.  Seen
once, twice, maybe even fifty times, but the kind that
never stayed in the memory for long.  His hairline was
thinning.  He was of an average build.  Brown eyes.  Early
40's.  Decidedly normal.  An outward misleading package for 
the lurking mystery that lay inside.  There was absolutely 
nothing unusual about his appearance.  He had no immediate 
connection with her life though, she was sure of this.  But 
she *had* seen him before.  And it had served to nearly drive 
her crazy trying to figure it out.  He would never answer her 
questions, or give any clues to his identity.  Until today.  
He sat down on the bed next to her, ignoring her first initial
flinch as he came into contact with her skin, slowly removing 
her handcuffs as he began his tale.  It was time for her to 
know the truth, he stated softly.  And he began.  


His name was Thomas.  Thomas Henchell.  


The first time he had laid eyes on her was four years ago.  
The very day she had arrived at the FBI building to start 
her new assignment with the X-Files division.  Her first stop, 
a hush-hush meeting with one of the head honchos.  Her initial 
briefing.  She had walked through his work area leading to 
the executive offices with a stride that just alluded confi-
dence.  So young.  So sure of herself.  Her life just 
beginning, and full of promise.  All of this conveyed to him
in the graceful swing of her arms.  The up-tilted chin.  The 
unblinking eye contact.  The professional leather of the 
satchel slung over her shoulder.  The cut of her gray pant-
suit.  Everything about her had reeked of intelligence and
confidence.  She demanded attention, and he was all too
willing to provide it.


He had seen her from across the room, making her way through
the maze of government-issue third-hand metal desks.  All
arranged in half-hazard fashion across the open workspace.
She was small in stature, almost over-shadowed in the sea
of bobbing, chest-high I.D. badges that all the employees
were required to wear.  There was a lot of background noise.
Talking.  Phones ringing.  Papers shuffling.  She took it all
in stride and continued on her journey.  He had almost done
a double-take as she had neared his own desk, which was buried
under a mound of paperwork.  She was so much like his Teresa.  
It was uncanny.  He had just been thinking of his wife.  As he 
glanced at the vase of bright yellow buttercups that sat upon 
the corner of his desk.  They had always been Teresa's 
favorites, and he had developed a liking for them as well.  
Their fragrant smell served to remind him of her.  Because of 
this he always put out a fresh bouquet every week.  Without 
fail.  His silent memorial to her absence.  And his testament 
of his pledge to find her and bring her back.


He had sat back in his chair for a moment as she passed in
front of him.  In fact he had stared.  Outright.  She had 
favored him with a quick brilliant smile.  The kind that 
reaches up and grazes the eyes.  Sent from the center and 
then spreading out with warmth.  It was then he had known for 
sure.  She was special.  There was just something about her 
that spoke directly, and only, to him.  All this information 
he gathered and stored within his mind in the micro-minute 
space of time it had taken her to pass by and leave his field 
of vision.  


That had been the first time, and he had been obsessed with her 
ever since.  Following the course of her career.  The up's and 
almost overwhelming down's she had amassed with the turbulent
connections she held with the X-Files and Special Agent Fox 
Mulder.


At first it had been just an attraction.  An admirer from afar.
He was discreet.  He kept his distance.  Afterall they worked
in different departments.  He was just a glorified paper pusher.
One of many.  And there were a lot of employees.  A lot of turn-
over.  Employees came.  Employees left.  Even the ones that had
been there for years could never know the face of everyone 
that worked there.  The FBI was just too big an agency.  It
wasn't hard to be ignored if that was the desired result.
Which it was most certainly with him.  


But somewhere, even he wasn't sure, his simple infatuation had
taken a dangerous turn.  To a coveted outright possession.  
He made his plans.  Marked his time.  Watched.  Listened. 
Hid.  And waited.  Then finally, that fateful night, he had
put everything into motion.  


'Yes', he had repeated to her now.  'He was Thomas Henchell, 
and she, Scully, was in actuality his missing wife - Teresa'.
It had taken awhile for him to realize this.  To see through
her disguise.  He had been searching for her for so many years, 
and all this time she had been right under his nose.  And now 
that he had found her, he made it clear that he forgave her for
leaving him in the first place.  All that pain was in the past
now.  All was well.  He bore no grudges.  


And Scully had laughed.  Outright. First in an incredulous 
disbelief, but slowing finally and tapering out to an extremely 
nervous twitter.  He was serious, she realized.  He truly 
believed that she was his wife.  At this revelation her laughter
died completely, replaced with a more familiar emotion.  Fear.
She would find little to laugh at again in the coming weeks.


*****************************************
It was the night of the thirty-fifth day.
*****************************************

The lines were less clear now.  The ones she had drawn between
her reality and his warped sense of one.  They were merging
and changing even as she fought to keep a careful distance.
Trying to retain some sense of herself.  Of who she once was.
Not who he was making her out to be.  But it was becoming
harder and harder each day.  For every step she retreated,
he would advance two.  Dictating the confines of her world,
from the food she ate, to the clothes she wore.  There were
no decisions for her to make anymore that would serve to 
give her a definition of individuality.  She had no choices.
No freedoms.  Or hopes.  She was slowly metamorphosing 
into the very thing she had fought so hard to avoid.


She could actually feel the transition, as 'Scully' retreat-
ed, and 'Teresa' came forward.  Her thoughts would shift 
gears, and almost unnoticed it seemed, from one to the other.
Back and forth.  With ever more increasing moments where
'Teresa' would be, and 'Scully' would not.  He called her
'Teresa' at every opportunity.  Correcting her gently when
she wouldn't answer the name, or vehemently stated *that*
wasn't her name.  But he was relentless in his plans.  
Reinforcing the lies.  Building the wall.  The one that 
stood between his lies and her truth.  And it was becoming
almost impossible for her to decipher the difference.


He would tell her in excruciating detail, who 'Teresa' was,
and how she was supposed to act and feel.  She had reached 
the point where the name no longer bothered her.  She
accepted it, really lost the strength to refuse it after
awhile.  It seemed to her to be a small concession.  But
it marked the beginning of her transformation.  At first
she was able to see his words for what they were, only a
ploy to try and make her believe she was this person.  The
one he wanted her to be.  Initially, she was immobile in
her stance, with proud defiance.  But after all this time
he was beginning to wear her down.


And as the days passed, the time marching on endlessly
without her, she began to forget the reasons for fighting.
Her world no longer revolved around the things, the
people, she had once fully believed she could never live 
without.  He could see her beginning apathy, the crack in 
the veneer that he had been waiting for.  And circling, he 
moved in for the kill, hovering above her like a hunting 
bird of prey.  Whispering the lies into her ears.  Giving 
her all the minute details of a life she was finding it 
easier to believe had once been her own.  Until she began
confusing her own past, intersecting and mixing the two
lives.  Teresa and Scully.  Scully and Teresa.  Becoming
one and the same.    


He was a most convincing liar.  Skilled in the art.  And
she was the sole captive recipient of these lies.  For 
all she knew the world outside this place no longer even
existed.  It seemed that way, more and more everyday.
And for all it really mattered, she could have been a
thousand miles away from that world, instead of only a
matter of feet and walls.  And he used this too.  Telling
her that the people whom she had mistakenly believed were
her friends no longer even cared about her.  She had been
forgotten.  She was invisible.  She did not matter, of
no importance to them anymore.  They were not even looking
for her, which he professed was the tangible proof of what
he was telling her.  They had stopped looking for 'Scully', 
but he had never given up in his quest to find 'Teresa'.  
*He* was the only one that really cared about her, that's 
what he said.  His devotion to her a sign of the truth of
what he was telling her. 


And after a time, being given no other perspective, no
other balancing reason, save the one he carefully provided
for her....she began to doubt.


Only little twinges at first, but becoming stronger each
day.  Some of the things he was saying made sense, if
taken out of context, which was the way he presented them
to her.  Logic, but in a turned-about sort of way.  She
started to understand, or so she thought she did anyway.
Eventually, even the once so vivid reasons for her hatred
of him were starting to become harder and harder to bring
to mind.  And with the reason gone, the hate diminished.
And with them, also the memories, the emotions, and the
will to persevere as well.  All either gone completely,
or fading fast.  She was drowning in his lies.  And he
offered the only way to survive.    


He was the one who cared for her.  So he would point out
to her again and again.  Wasn't he the one who gave her
food to eat.  Water to drink.  Made sure she was never
too warm or too cold.  Considered her health.  And he
was so gentle with her.  So patient.  And she listened.  


When he judged her finally ready.  Receptive.  Accepting.  
Then, he spoke of Mulder.  Only then.


Relating to her in astonishing detail the events of all
that had transpired that last night.  The angry voices
and hurtful words they had thrown at each other.  The
way they had stood across the room, divided in all
possible ways, parrying and thrusting the verbal jabs.
Wounding and weakening, and then finally severing what 
had once been their shared and sacred bonds.  They did
all this with such practiced aim.  Thomas was a most
expressive narrator, able to bring life to the words he
presented her.  He copied the tones, and voice inflections
with perfection.  It felt, to her, like she was back there.
Feeling the same unbearable pain she had that night.
Leaving the office, leaving Mulder, with the absolute 
certainty that they would never again be able to repair 
the damage they had layed upon each other.  He knew
it all.  Their past.  Their words.  Their emotions.


And when he had finished his recitation.  He began again.  


And again.


********************************************
It was the morning of the forty-second day.
********************************************

"Teresa, wake up", Thomas leaned over the cot, whispering
softly into her ear.


She had only been asleep for a couple of hours.  Her lids
were heavy and tired.  It took her a moment to raise them
fully.  Another to make them stay that way.  And even
then her vision blurred in and out of focus.  He had changed
her medication.  Again.  And as always, it played havoc
with her system as it tried to accustom itself to this new
invasion of foreign substances being spilled into her veins.


"What?", she mumbled, slurring the word badly, still half-
asleep, and fully drugged.


He placed a hand on her shoulder, patting it lightly.  
Soothingly.  "I've been thinking.  I want to make sure you 
are left without any lingering doubts about the truth of your 
identity.  As much as I love you, I don't want to force you to 
stay against your will."  He reached over and with a firm 
grasping tug, removed the I.V. needle from her arm.  She 
closed her eyes momentarily with a grunt of pain, and then 
quickly opened them again, trying to fight the drowsiness.


"Teresa, I don't want you to hate me for trying to save you.
So, I'm letting you go."


"Go?", she repeated, trying hard to understand.  "You're 
letting me go?"


He nodded solemnly, as he inserted the tiny key into the
locks of the handcuffs that kept her bound.  "If that is
what you truly want, then so be it.  My only concern is
your well-being", he said as he helped her obtain a
sitting position by guiding her legs over the side of
the cot.  


Her head was swimming. Her stomach churning. She shivered,
fighting the nausea.  This new drug wasn't setting well
with her body.  A body who's system was already over-
saturated with chemicals.  He had told her the name of it
when she had asked, but she couldn't think right now.  She
couldn't remember the name.  She was back to sleeping way
too much, and what waking hours she had left were spent
feeling listless and tired.  


"I called his apartment Teresa, and I only got the
answering machine.  I know his schedule.  He's on his
way over here right now."


She ran her hand over her face slowly.  Lowering her head
and cradling it in her hands, she passed her tongue over 
cracked lips.  Her mouth felt cottony dry and scratchy.  
"He?", she questioned, unable to follow his words.  Seeming 
to jump into the conversation only after a lapsed delay of 
several seconds.


He knelt down in front of her, taking her hands into his,
running his thumbs over the backs of them.  "Yes, Teresa,
him.  Mulder.  You want Mulder to come take you home now,
don't you?"


Scully furrowed her brows, trying to clear her thoughts.  
She was so confused by the surrealness and the effects 
of the drugs.  "Mulder is coming?", she repeated.  "He's
going to....I'm going home?"


"Yes, but we have to hurry now or we might miss him 
altogether."

**********

She leaned against the wall, waiting, trying to remain awake.  
It had taken most of her remaining energy just to make the 
trip through the shafts and then through the maze of corridors 
that lead to the lobby of the FBI building.  Funny, she couldn't 
help but think now, she had never realized how huge the building 
was.  How busy and noisy it was.  Filled with people coming and 
going.  She actually saw very little of it other than the base-
ment view.  She watched the people arriving and departing as she 
struggled to keep her eyes open.  'She was going home', she kept 
repeating to herself.  'Home'.  And Mulder was going to take her 
there.  She heard these thoughts pass through her mind.  And 
knew she should have been rejoicing.  Jubilant.  But in fact, 
the only thing she was capable of feeling right now was numb.  


She saw Thomas straighten his stance and knew that Mulder must
have just arrived.  She turned her head towards the door and her 
heart immediately jumped within her chest.  He was the same as 
when she had seen him last.  Perhaps a little thinner, a few 
strands of gray in his hair that hadn't been there before.  A 
grimace looking as if it was permanently marked in place on his 
face.  She torn her eyes away from him just long enough to look 
at Thomas.  He smiled at her reassuringly and flicked his hand 
lightly indicating that she should go.  She smiled back at him 
feebly.  Strange feelings mixing and blending as she was both 
angry and grateful to him at the same time.  


She pushed herself off the wall carefully and started a slow 
gaping walk towards him.  And he moved towards her as well.  Her 
drugged state made her steps awkward and off-balance.  When
she had narrowed the distance between them to only a matter of
feet she lifted her hands outward, as if wanting to envelop him
in a hug.  He moved closer.  Ten feet.  Five.  And then he there.
Right next to her.  So close if she outstretched her arms she
would have touched him.  She felt the tears spring to her eyes.
The relief.  The feelings of finally being safe and secure again
in the embrace of familiar things.  Of him.  His shoulder brushed 
lightly against hers for just a split second.  She smiled broadly 
at him.  A smile filling her face with joy.


And then he was gone.


Walking right past her and continuing on to the elevators.  
She turned around after a moment.  Completely stunned.  She 
watched him make his way. His back turned, retreating quickly.  
Turned away from her.  Turned against her.  Walking away.  
Leaving her behind.  Again.    


She could barely remain standing on her feet.  She felt like
collapsing right there.  She felt like she was suffocating,
after being tempted with a life-giving breath.  But once taken
into her airless soul it would serve no help, but instead
increase her inability to breathe by volumes.  The true sad-
ness though was she had not only lost the ability to breath 
but the desire as well.  Freedom had been so elusive for her 
for so long.  And now that she had held it in her hand, it 
was just an illusion.  For there can be no quest for freedom
without something to return to that marks the difference
between captivity and choice.


And her something to return to had just walked away.

**********

Thomas smiled.  He had taken a big chance.  And come away
a winner for his efforts.  She didn't realize how different
she looked.  Her own mother wouldn't have recognized her
now.  Dark hair, cut short.  Tinted glasses, he had insisted
she wear due to the strong light coming in from the panoramic
windows.  Light she wasn't used to after being inside for
so long.  The glasses covered a good portion of her face.
And also hid her dazed-over eyes, heavy with medication.
She had lost weight, and her complexion was sallow.  She
was dressed in baggy sweat pants and a heavy sweatshirt.
Far removed from the tailored suits and dresses she usually
wore.  Tennis shoes instead of heels.  He had even changed
her scent - everything from shampoo, to soap, to toothpaste.
It was no wonder he hadn't recognized her.  And that, of
course, was his plan all along.  She would come back to him
willingly now.  He was sure of it.  She had no place else
to go.


Satisfied, he walked over to pick up the pieces.


************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 5
************************************************************


When choices are purposely limited, so too are the 
possibilities of growth.  Choice is the focal point of 
creativity and thought.  Without it, the parameters of 
existence and freedom are narrowed accordingly.  The 
absence of it signals the dire construction of a self-
made box.  Coffin-size.  Fit for one.  A box that will 
lock away forever imagination and individuality, and all 
the other myriad options that exist hand in hand with 
them.  Choice.  Never knowing it, is a moral shame.  
Taking it from another is a mortal sin.  Justifying the 
theft through slanted reasoning, is akin to total 
armageddon.


She makes hers now.  On a less than truthful weighing of
faulty circumstances and tipped scales.  Not in her favor.
She is distracted by the mesmerizing sifting of sand through 
the hourglass.  So caught up in the falling of individual 
grains, she fails to take advantage of what is waiting for
her just outside the transparent glass.  And in that 
second's hesitation, her world, seen only through blinders 
not of her making, is about to change.  Again.


The spider is well seasoned in the art of torture.  As it 
retracts the once threatening poisonous pincers from the
prey's reach.  Today, there is only the teasing dance 
of death.  A strutting display of power and domination.  
The ever slow breaking of the will.  


It is only illusion.  This reprieve.


The prey is too easily fooled.  It takes its comfort with
greedy gulps, when and where it can find it.  But there is 
no sanctuary to be found in the web.  A soul-shattering, life
changing lesson that unfortunately can only be learned once.


The second time learned.....is death. 


**************************************************
It was still the morning of the forty-second day.
**************************************************


Scully watched as Mulder walked away.  Leaving her behind.
Now, when she had needed him probably more than any other
time in her life.  The elevator doors, with him inside,
closed with finality.  He was gone.  He had simply passed
her by.  Never once looking her way.  Never once seeing 
her.


It wasn't the first time, not by far.  But it hurt like
that.  So deep.  That initial, sickening, lurching pitch
she felt, starting from the hollow of her stomach, radiat-
ing up hotly towards her heart.  And once there, settling 
in for a duration, with full squatter's rights.  A new 
home found.  Her numbed and exhausted mind tried to sort 
out the facts and objective details, unfortunately they 
also carried with them the abrasive feelings of abandon-
ment.  Because that's what it was in her mind.  And most
certainly in her heart.  These feelings and thoughts now
wrapped together symbiotically with a knot-tightened 
string that refused to let go, nor even loosen its 
strangled hold.  Nevertheless, she still worked hard to 
separate emotion from intellect.  But, it was a losing 
battle.  


Just like it had been the first time.  And as with all 
the others that had followed.  It was no different now.  
As the addicted promises never again to be tempted by the 
object of his desire, so too would he promise not to 
repeat his hurt.  But he is no less weak in will than 
the addict.  With the first time now cast in stone, the 
coming second was only inevitable. 


When the second time had come, much too soon, she had
developed some scar tissue; a gift from the first,
to cover the initial flare-up of the now familiar 
upheaval within her.  It was easier the second time 
to pretend it didn't bother her as much.  She realized 
only later that perhaps that might have been an error 
in judgment on her part.  In some ways viewed by him 
as giving her unwitting consent for him to continue
his hurtful tactics.  These had been her thoughts the
second time.


The third time had been explosive.  Anger, pure and 
simple.  Outright.  Justified.  A long time in coming.  
She had lashed out at him, but in her own way.  A 
controlled ranting.  Dignified.  Subdued.  This was her 
style.  And in this case, her downfall as well, because 
he had expected it.  Afterall even Saints have limits, 
and he had long passed the saintly margin of error.  In 
*his* preparedness though she had lost *her* edge, her 
one and only advantage.  As even righteous fury loses 
its impact over changing time and turning circumstance.  
Added in with it, a mixture of relief and thankfulness 
that came from the moment of realizing they had both once 
more, and against all odds, emerged for the most part 
unscathed.  Indignation in the long run pales in compari-
son to this.  Anger and relief, she had felt those the 
third time.


By the fourth time she really couldn't feel the full
force shock value anymore.  The news given and received,
she had simply nodded her head in acknowledgement and
acquiesce.  Immune to the worried and puzzled countenance
of the messenger of woe.  She had simply returned to her
life, already in progress.  Uninterrupted.  It would seen
to be just another day.  From the first she had been given
no consideration in the matter.  What more was there left
to do?  You can only beat your head against a stone wall
in protest for so long before coming to the realization
that you are the only one suffering for your efforts.
Not compromise, but a close relative - resignation.  
This, she had felt the fourth time.


The fifth time marked her total separation from feeling
anything at all.  A complete placental abruption from
the pain.  And after that she had stopped counting
altogether. 


Until now.


She would *have* to count this time.  It was too 
important not to.  This time had been the one that 
hurt the most.  Cut the deepest.  This time would 
be the one that would have the most impact on her 
soul, and there would be a visible hole left as 
evidence.  This time she had stood before him, face 
to face, and in a sense without words, begged him not 
to go.  And if he must, than at least take her with 
him.  


And she had been shunned.  Pushed aside.  He had 
indeed left her behind again, but not in shadow.  Not 
in secret.  Not even by the cryptic phone message, or 
hasty hang-up, cutting off her words of entreaty.  
He had in a essence slapped her smartly in the face 
with this one.  Which brought new perspectives to 
all the times that had come before.  They were just 
the precursor to this time it seemed now.  Only slight 
shaking tremors before the devastating and collapsing 
quake. Yes, she would have to count this time.  This 
one.  Because it would be the last time.  There would 
be no more.  As he could not leave her behind in any 
more permanent a fashion than he had just done today.


She only realized suddenly, that she had tuned out 
everything happening around her with the harsh 
returning cacophony of noise.  All that was a federal
government building lobby, on a normal busy working 
day.  It was assaulting to her ears, this avalanche 
of sound.  Her hearing had become so finely attuned 
to complete silence.  Her entire body felt like it was
a giant exposed nerve.  Waiting, like an open wound 
for the stinging salt to further rub it raw.  She even 
was silently yearning now for the safety of sleep and 
the unknowing oblivion that had been her existence for 
these many weeks.  As she ironically sought the very 
shackles that had been her binding prison.  


What had started this morning as a hopeful first step 
towards freedom and home, had now ended with only loss 
of hope and defeat.  She was lost.  Now literally as 
well as figuratively.  As here she was cast adrift in 
what felt to her to be the middle of a seeming chaos.

  
Alone.  


A forlorn figure marching slow tight-fisted circles 
around herself, looking for some guiding lighthouse 
beacon to shine bright upon the crashing waves of her 
bewilderment, and sorrow.


She had become the invisible.  There in body, but yet
strangely not seen by most.  Disguised and unrecognized,
in her own home away from home.  She was out of place in
everything from dress to demeanor.  Slowed quite 
measurably by drugs and muddled thoughts, she was
afforded no less than total disregard.  Sad, but true;
what is not immediately categorized and understood
is usually either disdained or ignored.  She was 
jostled and bumped.  Her shoulders tugged from side to
side by self-thought important people with schedules keep
and meetings to adhere to.  They separated neatly around 
her lagging, unmoving stance.  A miracle parting of the sea 
of suits.


Thomas Henchell, keeping ever a watchful eye, waited, 
letting her flounder there.  In the mire of her own 
despair.  Just long enough for her to recognize firmly, 
when it came, this rescue he would make.  The one he had 
always planned it to be.  The return to the fold of his 
wayward lamb.  He had cast her out upon the cruelties of 
life's callousness, and now he would offer her the only 
way out.  In truth, the way back in.  A return to the only 
semblance of familiarity and sanity that she could expect 
anymore.  


To the one who is freezing to death, even hell's scorching
fire can seem a desirable place.  Everything in context to 
its surrounding.  Everything presented in his order of 
importance.  The world according to Thomas.  She was the 
sputtering drowning victim, and he was making ready to 
offer her the oar.  The gifted life-saving oar that would 
in actuality, be the anvil around her neck.


But, the true tragedy lay in her acceptance of it.


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


Mulder closed his eyes tightly.  Trying to stave off the
faint pounding that promised to develop into another 
devastating headache.  He had endured a lot of these 
lately.  He leaned back against the shinny metal surface
of the elevator.  Letting the coolness sink in through
the material of his jacket.  He was on his way to a 
morning meeting with Skinner.  A summons.  To discuss 
his work performance as of late.  Or the total lack 
thereof.  He was used to these types of brow-beating
meetings.  The ones that harped on his single-minded
obsession.  His blinding passion in the search.  The
words would be the same, it was only the goal now that 
had shifted.  As had the center of his universe.  The 
X-Files, Samantha, the conspiracy, even the truth.  
He barely gave them thought.  These all fell far 
behind the pack now.


Dammit, where the hell was she?  


Scully.  She was the only reason he had to wake up in 
the morning anymore.  How easy it had been to slip back 
into the constant 'on' mode that he had lived when she 
had disappeared before.  It was almost as if there had 
been no breather in between.  His life now seemed liked it
had always been missing something.  Without her, he was
even hard pressed to call what he had a life.  Sans the
meaning that she brought to it, what was there?  He kept 
up the pretenses though.  Went to work.  Tried to perform 
what was asked of him.  Made appearances.  Jumped the
hoops.  


But every waking thought.  Every daydream.  Every night-
mare.  They all were centered around her.  He had even 
taken over the lease on her apartment.  Paid the rent 
and utilities.  Most nights he slept there.  She would be 
pleasantly surprised to know that he was actually very 
learned in the day-to-day domestic skills.  Every surface 
was cleaned and scrubbed.  Dusted and vacuumed.  The sheets 
changed every week without fail.  When the milk curdled, 
or the bread would mold, he would buy fresh groceries so
that she would have something to eat.  The plants were 
watered.  He even talked to them.  He didn't really know
whether she did that or not, but he liked the idea of her
doing that, so he did.  The dishes were washed and put
away.  He was very thorough.  But he was careful as well, 
not to disturb the contents too much.  He left everything 
for the most part, just as she had on that last day.  So 
that when she returned she would be returning to a home,
and not just an empty apartment.


The elevator rang out a plaintive siren, startling him
out of his reverie, as it signaled the arrival of the
next floor.  Not his.  He shifted mindlessly with the 
other occupants.  So that some could leave.  Making room 
for the ones that entered.  The doors closed, and silence 
reigned again.  The occasional nervous cough the only 
sound.  As is the normal protocol all eyes were faced front, 
save the occasional lift of the head to mark the slow 
passing of floors, monitored on the lighted readout above.
As is the customary elevator etiquette he lowered his
eyes to neutral territory.  Neither staring at anything
in particular nor blatantly ignoring either.


But then his attention took a turn of its own.  He 
fought against it.  Knew the futility of its destination,
but he could no more look away, then stop his next breath.


It always started with a jolt.  His heart's way of garnering
his attention post haste.  It didn't take much.  The same
height.  Same frame.  Even quicker if it was the same color
of hair.  The object of today's unknown perusal was standing
quite innocently next to the doors.  There was actually a
lot of similarities with this one.  She was short in statute,
slim, and had auburn hair.  Just like Scully.  She carried
the standard attache case of a professional.  The business
suit she wore was a little more feminine than was Scully's
usual taste, but if he stretched his imagination than it could
fit.  The truth was he wanted it to fit.  This insane desire
to just come upon her by accident.  That this woman, who he
knew down in his heart wasn't actually Scully, would turn to
him and start a normal conversation.  Picking up their lives
and continuing on as if nothing out of the ordinary had
ever occurred.


And just like that, this nightmare would be over.


The elevator came to a smooth stop, and the woman exited,
turning in profile; just as he was about to make a most 
ungraceful rush for the door in an attempt to follow her.  


Just in case.  


But seeing her face kept him in place.  It wasn't her.  
Again. He relaxed once more against the wall, trying to slow 
his suddenly accelerating heart.  He had to stop this.  He 
had to stop seeing her in every similar face that passed his 
way.  He had to stop following these poor women, who had the
misfortune to resemble Scully.  He would see her everywhere.
In the cars that he glimpsed in fast food drive-throughs, and 
car washes.  In lines at the grocery stores, and banks.  The 
DMV, and sometimes even here in this building.  


Like just now, when he had entered the building and was 
walking through the lobby.  He had to fight that one tooth 
and nail.  And after the fact, now that he had given it careful 
thought, she hadn't even really look like her at all.  They
couldn't have been more different.  That woman possessed a
different hair color and clothes.  She was thinner, emaciated
even, and she had been wearing glasses.  Everything about her 
had screamed different, yet still his mind had superimposed 
its own wishful thinking over reality.  Just like it had been
doing with so many others.  He had to stop this.  Stop scaring 
these women with his dangerous obsession to find Scully.  The 
only woman that mattered to him anymore.  She was the only truth 
he sought these days.  And this truth was as elusive as all the
others in his life.


************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 6
**************************************************************

It is the gradual acceptance of a single possibility, 
however slim, that produces the spark of hope.  In ways, 
like the single match, seeming hardly formidable; but when 
sacrificed to its full potential, has the power to fell a 
forest.  It grows, this faith.  This dream that there can 
be, even in sorrow, a promise of sweet things to come.  As 
does the strength that is sometimes overshadowed by the 
illusions of false pretenses.


She finds her spark and keeps the light burning.  The
belief alive and well even in her own darkness.


The spider's power is pivotal upon the wrenching fear it 
inspires in its victim.  So too, does the prey's strength lay 
in its outward perception of helplessness.  But if under-
estimated, even the master can be bested by the novice.


The spider now makes its first grievous error in judgment.  
As it holds a vain assumption that threats alone have the 
ability to discourage the prey from further struggle.  


But until a winner is conceded on both sides, the game is 
never called.
 

This is the prey's true saving grace.

*****************************************************************
It was the morning of the sixty-first day....
*****************************************************************


Today was their anniversary.  But instead of celebration, 
the marking of this event only evoked mourning.  She had 
been missing for two months.


Mulder paused the tape mid-movement. His thumb pad depressing
heavily on the remote control button. Only one step away from
leaving a permanent indenture mark upon the hard plastic, as 
the fuzzy black and white figure on the screen before him, 
stopped.  Frozen.  The image indistinct and wavering shakily.  
The jerky, grainy quality of the tape giving it a half-life 
breath of its own.  After a moment's careful perusal, he 
resumed the tape's play once more.  


The frozen image came back to life.  His eyes followed her
progress with an almost naked hunger.  A voyeur after the 
fact.  He counted out the seconds quietly.  Carefully.
Automatically.  One...Two...Three...There...and as if she 
had been waiting for his silent cue, she halted in her 
mirror tracks, bending at the knees.  As she reached for 
the object she had dropped.  He paused the play again, 
leaning closer to the screen.  He could never discern 
exactly what it was that she had lost. Her keys?  A pencil?  
Some spare change?  In truth he admitted that it probably 
didn't really mean anything anyway, his knowledge of this 
elusive article.  But he was afraid of overlooking even 
the obvious, of missing the slightest detail.  The merest 
hint of a clue.  He could take no chances.  Afford no
mistakes.  


He settled back into his chair, as he absently clicked the
rewind button.  In the back of his mind he registered and
dismissed the soft whining noise this function made.  Taking
off his glasses, he pinched the area between his eyes.  He
leaned forward, resting his forehead for a moment against 
his palms.  A weary man supporting a too heavy burden.
Such is the weight of a guilty conscience.


Something had happened to her.  Somewhere between the time
she had left the building, and the drive back to her apart-
ment, she had disappeared.  A span of distance that in 
relative terms didn't amount to much, but still had the 
black hole capability to swallow whole, one armed, self-
defense trained woman.  In the middle of the night.  Without 
leaving signs of a struggle.  This bothered him most of all.  
This absence of a skirmish.  He knew.  Without a doubt.
She would have struggled.  She would have drawn her gun.  
She would have dispatched, without qualms, whatever self-
preservation force she deemed necessary to save her life.  
She would have gone down fighting. Unless. Unless she had 
been taken by complete surprise.  Unless she knew the 
person, and didn't see the coming danger.  Unless she had 
been killed immediately.


He shook his head, refusing to accept this last possible
outcome.  He sat up straight, beginning the FBI lobby 
security surveillance tape once more.  The scenario 
repeated its performance for him, just as it had 
hundred's of times before this latest.  Repeating the 
last events of that last night.  The date and time 
superimposed with finality up in the upper right hand 
corner, clicking off her last known seconds and minutes.  
A mockery of normalcy before the storm.  


He would always draw a deep involuntary breath when he 
first saw her appear.  Scully would come into the camera's 
view, exiting alone from the elevators.  Her jacket slung 
haphazardly over her shoulder.  Her arms laden with bulky 
files.  She walked briskly.  With purpose.  Her head slightly 
lowered.  It was obvious, her intention.  To him most 
certainly.  She wanted to leave.  Get out.  Go home.  Forgot 
him and shed all their shared pain behind.  The picture was 
too unclear for him to absolutely make out her expression, 
even with the enlargements he had ordered.  But knowing the 
somber mood of their parting, he was pretty sure what had 
been going on in her mind.  Her thoughts.  Her anguish.


Despite the turmoil of her inner feelings, her face would
have been carefully controlled and composed.  Control, the
prayer altar of the eternal skeptic.  Anyone seeing her would
have been fooled by this mask she wore.  The one she created
for such occasions.  But it would never fool him.  Because
he was practiced in the reading of her other signs.  The kind
that are only shared and categorized by two people within 
the intensity of a close relationship.  One forged over time.
And effort.  Within sorrow.  And joy.  These signs are subtle
to the objective eye, but are so glaring to the subjective
heart.  He saw them now in the bittersweet ghost image of 
her on the screen.  The one that haunted him so.


There was the slight hunch of her shoulders.  An indication
that her back muscles were knotted, beginning to tire and
spasm.  Stress-induced.  They had been going at it for hours
that night before she had finally had her fill and left.  
They had already been exhausted.  Overworked.  Certainly
much too volatile a combination to start the arguement that
had ensued.  But this realization came far too late to stop
the events from unfolding.  He could now see other signs as
well.  The deep dip of her chin, close, but not quite
touching her chest.  He'd seen that one before as well, 
not often, but enough to discern its importance and 
significance.  


If he could see her eyes, as they had been that night, he
would have taken bets that they had been brimming with 
rivers of unshed pain.  She would have been trying to hold 
back the dam.  She would have been battling the onslaught 
of tears.  Fighting to stay the flood of emotions until 
she could reach the safe territory of her apartment. Behind 
closed doors.  Where she could cry alone.  Away from prying 
eyes, and personal questions she didn't have the answers to.  
Away from him.  He, the cause of her sorrow.  


With a hesitant, trembling hand he reached out, with a 
gentle soft touch, tracing the paths of her image.  Out-
lining her form in careful strokes upon the screen. Touching 
her in the only way available to him now.  Willing her effigy
to release to him the secrets of that night.  They were here.  
They had be.  There was no place left to search.  He made his 
wish.  Said his prayers.  So that he might be given the 
chance to correct the mistake of one tragic wrong.  


He slammed his fist suddenly down with a savage fury upon
the desk.  His coffee cup, upset by the ensuing vibration,
spilled out and over the piles of papers strewn across 
his blotter.  He didn't notice.  Not even moving his hand
when the burning hot liquid flowed around his clenched
fingers.  He didn't care.  Just absorbed and added this 
physical pain to his deepening pit of anger and frustra-
tion.  He could feel nothing.  See nothing, except her
face.  Only her face.  As it had been that last moment.
Just before he had turned his back on her and she had
walked out.  


Only now knowing with such a torrid ironic regret that
he would not see her again.  It killed him.  Inside.  
His heart.  His soul.  Not only the fact that she was
gone.  But the way they had parted.  It had been too
final a goodbye.  Each broken in pieces, that had 
lifted to the winds on totally separate journeys.  He
would give his life to change that night.  To be given
the gift of precognitive advance notice that it was to
be their last.  He would take back the words.  Erase 
the hurt.  Express the depths of his true feelings for
her.  The ones he masked behind the bravado and 
indifference.  Bring her needed comfort.  So that 
together they might begin to forget the shackles of the 
past.  Maybe even start a future.  With each other.  
All of this and more.  If only.


If only.


He grabbed the remote from the mess before him, shaking
the now tepid, brown coffee liquid off its surface.  
Pressing the rewind button, he started again.  At the 
beginning.  


He looked at the beginning....as he searched for an end.

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

Scully herself had almost succumbed that day.  To the 
darkness which kept pushing relentlessly inwards on the 
boundaries of her world.  When Mulder had turned away 
from her that day in the lobby, it had felt like all 
the times before combined into one heavy, covering 
blanket.  A blanket that suffocated, and prevented her 
from breathing.  She had never felt that empty before.  
That alone.  That lost and invisible.  She had been 
surrounded by people.  Yet no one saw her.  No one came 
to her aid.  No one heard her cries.  It had felt like 
a walking, waking death.  She had been left so tired, 
completely defeated, ready to drop right where she stood.  
There in the middle of the lobby of the FBI building, 
amid the early morning rush of pedestrian traffic that 
surrounded her.  Her body so laden with the mind-confusing 
drugs.  Her mind whirling from the impact of Mulder's 
rebuff.  It ate upon her very soul.  She was ready to 
let go.  Give up.  And she most certainly would have.  
Except....


>From out of nowhere, his timing so carefully calculated,
Thomas had appeared magically at her side.  He had
opened his arms to her.  Cooing his apologetic and
supportive words into her receptive ears.  At a time
when she had been the most needy of them.  The most
vulnerable.  


And almost without hesitation, certainly without any
thought of consequence, she had walked straight into
his outstretched arms.  And he had enveloped her.  He
had lifted her up when she had almost collapsed.  He
had carried her.  Symbolically.  In all ways.  Physically,
by supporting her shuffling gait as he turned her slowly
back towards the direction they had emerged from.  And
mentally, as he offered her his seemingly heart-lined, 
but always false-lipped empathy for the cruelty of 
Mulder's dismissal of her.  Assuring her that he, 
Thomas, would never betray her the way Mulder had just
done.  The way he had always done where she was con-
cerned.  In Thomas' eyes she would never again be
taken for granted.  Never left behind.  Never once
to be traded in importance, just for the possibility
of a brass ring that would forever be so tantalizingly
out of reach of an obsessive grasping hand.


The life he was offering her now would consist of 
meeting her needs only.  Her comfort.  And so, he
had given her a choice.  Between the two.  Or so it
had seemed to her at the time.  In truth, it had only 
been a one-sided choice.  The outcome already decided 
in his mind.  But to her it was something to buffet and
explain what had just happened.  


So she had accepted.


But then he had held no doubt that she would.  Every-
thing had been planned and arranged for just that
outcome.  No other.  And even though she didn't
realize it at the time, even if she had declined, she
would still be where she was now.  Back in the room.
The space.  The one that existed over the office of
Fox Mulder.  She was back at the beginning.


He had guided them, hiding and sneaking through the 
corridors of his maze.  Their appearance cloaked in 
shadow, always carefully kept on schedule and planned.  
Followed then by the confining crawl.  Where he had 
almost been required to pull her through every inch of 
the way.  She had been that exhausted after their 
enlightening excursion.  That ready to be led.  That
ready to give in.


And then without even being truly aware of them
reaching their destination, she found herself back
on the cot.  With Thomas standing over her, with a 
caring countenance, as he covered her with the
blanket.  Tempting her with the promise of sleep.
That sleep, then it had seemed almost like the most
important thing to her.  Her only wish.  How she had
wanted it.  To erase the dimming thoughts, which were
not fading fast enough.  To cure the stinging feelings.
She had not even taken notice of his reinserting the
I.V.  Preparing the injection.  


She had welcomed the soft numbness when it came.
And she had slept.  A long time.


But she never did obtain the respite she had so sorely
craved.  Her sleep was restless, alternating between
disturbing nightmares and conflicting half-expressed
thoughts.  She would see herself, Scully, along with
Teresa.  Apart.  Sometimes both together, merged into 
one being as they fought for control of one life.
Through the long endless sleep, she fought the duality
of herself.  In the battlefield of her mind.  A fight
to the death.  For one of them.  There were two souls
inside her now.  But only one would emerge to see the
coming dawn.


When Thomas returned the next evening, he called for
her.  By name.  For Teresa.  Teresa had answered him 
too, but in Scully's voice.  In Scully's body.  But not
in her thoughts anymore.  Because although he could not 
know, Teresa was forever dead.  Scully had killed her.
She had made her final choice during the night.  The
one that was in truth only hers to decide.  And she had
chosen Scully.  She had been able to maintain the hold
on her own identity throughout the embittered struggle.


Now she played his game, but with her rules.  On the
outside, in his presence, she wore the mask he desired.
Answered to the name, bided her time, watched for a
weakness.  Worked intently to gain his trust.  But on the 
inside, from that night forward, she remained Scully.  
Always.  He would never again regain the tight-reined 
grip he had managed before to obtain on her sanity.


After a period, seeing her compliance, he had started 
decreasing the medication.  One day the I.V. had 
disappeared all together.  Replaced by pills, but these 
would be much easier to manipulate than the I.V.  At first 
he would inspect her mouth, her hands, the cot, thoroughly 
to ensure that she had swallowed what was given her.  And 
in the beginning she had.  Then even these rituals began 
to lessen.  His searches less thorough and complete.  One 
night she risked palming one of the tablets, while swallow-
ing the rest obediently.  He searched, but never found.  Nor 
seemed at all wise to her deception.  The next evening when 
he released her for the trip to the bathroom she carried and 
then flushed the tablet away.  This became her nightly 
ritual.  One night there were two tablets to flush.  


She could feel herself becoming stronger physically again.
Even though she continued to feign weakness and a lethargic
listlessness in his company.  Indicative of the drugs, which
she was actually taking less of each day.  She would awaken
sooner now, but needing to gather all her strength before
attempting an escape, she would remain still.  Eyes closed.
Just in case he would arrive unexpectedly early.  Only when 
she felt him reach with the keys to open the handcuffs would
she move, as if she was just now coming around.  She would
listen quietly as he voiced plans for their future together.
Nodding her assent when a break in his soliloquy seemed to 
require her participation.  All the while in the safety of
her own mind she made plans, waited for the right moment.  
Willing her body to mend itself, her thoughts to remain 
focused and alert.


A short time later she instituted the next phase of her 
plan.  While left alone for the short minutes in the stall
of the bathroom, she would quietly pull out the squares of
the toilet paper.  He had from the beginning kept her wrists 
wrapped in gauze so that the handcuffs would not chaff her
tender skin.  She used the tissue to add additional padding
to this gauze.  Wrapping it around her wrists under the
tape.  Each night she would add just a bit more.  When the
time was right she would remove the tissue, which would 
leave additional space between her hands and the cuffs.  
She hoped that it would be enough so that she could work 
her hands through the steel bracelets.


She was getting stronger each day.  Her mind beginning
to clear from the drugs.  Her thoughts more focused and
alert.  Physically, she was gaining strength and stamina.  
Now all she needed to do was wait for the most opportune 
time.

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

Mulder had spent many days such as this, watching the tape.
For hours at a time, without a break.  But this time, and
only this time, did it catch his eye.  Once he had seen
it, he couldn't believe he had ever missed it in the first
place.  Maybe it was because he had been focusing too
intently on Scully.  Her movements.  Her demeanor.  How
many steps she took.  And all this time, he literally 
couldn't see the forest for the trees.  


He rewound the tape once more, his fingers drumming with
impatience.  Finally finished, he started it again.  This
time looking at it from a fresh perspective.  Scully came
into view.  Exiting the elevators, she started walking
towards the exit.  Halfway there, she dropped something,
bent to pick it up.  He froze the tape at this point, 
inwardly cursing himself for spending so much time con-
centrating on what she was doing.  Instead of what was
happening around her.  He advanced it now, in extreme
slow motion.  Frame by frame.  In an almost strobe-light
flashing she began to straighten up in excruciating
slowness.  Finally, she reached an erect posture, and
....there.  There.  He took it back a few frames, and
then forwarded it again.  Over and over.  Until he was
absolutely sure.  Totally positive.  


It had been a thoroughly professional job, there could
be no doubt about that.  Even the time and date constantly
displayed in the upper corner matched.  Second for second.
But there it was.  


The tape had been spliced.  A section removed, and another
put into its place.  He brought the tape once again to
the crucial moment.  She dropped something, bent to pick
it up.  But that wasn't of importance.  What he hadn't
registered before was the barest, faintest trace of a
shadow on the floor behind her.  A man's shadow.  When 
she was completely straight again, having picked up the
object, the shadow was still there.  But as she took her
first step it had miraculously vanished.  And as she 
continued her journey to the exit, he now noticed other
things as well.  Her arms were full of files, but the
stack wasn't quite the same, perhaps one file too many.
Her hair.  It was just a tiny fraction shorter.  It 
was close.  So very close.  But not exact.  


Definitely a professional job.  Either a duplicate piece
of tape had been filmed with a fake Scully.  Or a prior
FBI video of her leaving the office some night in that
same suit had been used.  Either way, he wasn't really
concerned how it had been done.  What disturbed him was
the 'why?'.  


In that space of time after she had exited the elevator
and dropped...whatever...that had to have been when she
was approached and taken.  The skirmish that he had been
looking for must have been filmed, and then later cut.
But he knew something now that he didn't know before.


It had happened inside.  Inside the FBI building.  


She had never made it out.

****************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 7
****************************************************************


How simple it is to point the finger of blame.  To utter 
the words of hurt without benefit of forethought.  And then 
to walk away, leaving behind the threads of the past.  While 
ignoring any possibility of a future.  Words spoken in anger 
and haste have a habit of building in stature over time.  
Especially when seen only in retrospect and reflection, along 
with the deceptive influence of memory and time.  If left 
alone to fester, it can build to such extreme proportions, 
that it dwarfs even the original wound.  Condemning the original 
combatants to a sentence of loneliness and bitterness for their 
crimes inflicted against each other.  Until there is left no 
hope of rebuilding what was lost in the ensuing storm.  These 
destructive arrows having the power such as any other weapon 
aimed with an intent to damage.  Sometimes it seems, dispatched 
much more with those we claim to love the most.


This intimacy that is shared between people brought together
by a single destiny is an open pathway.  Allowing for the
most tender sharing of emotions and feelings.  But also with
it can come the bitter exchange of heated moments and things
said, that would have been left better never expressed.  Such
is the remorseful prayer of those left in the aftermath of
such an exchange.


In truth we should consider the words that are spoken today 
with those we love.  And always consider them to be the last.  
As we may not be so lucky, to be given that second chance.      


For them, they will always consider the words that were spoken 
that day, as they now realize them to be their last.  And now 
they can only pray fervently to be given that second chance.


There comes a time when the decision is made.  To continue the
hurt.  Or start fresh, with new slates.  Wiped clean of past
transgressions.  Waiting only for the first touch of hope.


No longer content to leave its fate to the whims of the spider,
the prey resumes its struggle.  With a renewed vigor and purpose
it pulls once more upon the bonds of its captivity.


The spider is only out of sight, but never far from home.  As it
feels and interprets the vibrations of the web.  Reading through
the silky strands the message that it carries.
  

It is the signal of the eternal game....begun again.   

***********************************************
It was the afternoon of the seventy-fifth day
***********************************************

Scully was already much too far into the process to stop; 
before she had even realized the magnitude of her mistake.  
She was running out of time.  One hand was loose now, 
frantically tugging on the other.  The stinging sweat beading 
in rivulets off of her forehead, dripping down the sides of 
her face.  She kept feeling an almost irrational need to stop 
and listen, so sure she had heard something.  So positive 
each time that it was him.  His approach.  She fought this
impulse, her heart beating wildly, because that would just
take more time.  Something of which she definitely didn't
have too much to spare right now.  


The sheets and pillowcase were spotted red.  With her blood.
And more followed.  The first hand had been the hardest.  
Because of the restricted angle she had to work from, laying
prone on the cot, looking up, her arms far apart, cuffed
at each wrist to a bed post.  


First, she had pushed her left hand upwards through the
circled band of the handcuff, until her gauze-taped wrist
was above it.  Then she had used the edge of the cuff itself
to work at sliding the gauze and the tissue underneath up
and away.  The tissue she had so diligently been adding to
pad her wrists with over a period of time.  Without the
extra layers of padding and gauze, there was now extra 
room between her hand and the cuff itself.  When she had
accomplished this, then she had started pulling.  Curling
her hand tightly in on itself, trying to make it as small
as possible, as she pulled.


And pulled.  And pulled.


It had been much harder than she could have ever imagined.
After only about one half of an hour her hand was slick,
covered with her own sweat and blood.  The tight steel
digging deeply into her flesh.  She refused to be beaten
by this, instead using it to her advantage, as a lubricant.
The skin around her wrist, bright-red, a combination of 
the heated friction between skin and metal and blood.  Her
entire hand was throbbing hotly from the pain.  Her arms
aching tiredly from the pressure.  But there was no going
back now, as she could never erase the evidence of this
obvious attempt to escape.  It was indeed now or never.


But it was taking too much time.  This coupled with her
own miscalculations, was causing her to wonder whether
she would make it after all.  All her careful planning,
and she had been in the end outwitted by time itself.
She had been forced to move up her schedule.  She didn't
really feel strong enough yet, but now knew she had no
other options left.  Over the last weeks, she had managed
to continue her deception, and was only ingesting half
of the medication he was giving her each day.  The other
half palmed and then later flushed away.  She couldn't 
risk trying to get rid of it all.  If he found the pills
on her, she was sure he would revert back to using the
I.V.


But that still meant she was half-drugged.  Sluggish.
Even now.  She had wanted to be much stronger physically
than she felt at present.  She had wanted her mind
completely clear as well, before making her bid for
freedom.  But the final decision had ultimately been
taken out of her hands.  It had been the things he 
said last night that caused her haste now.  The look in
his eyes.


He truly believed her to be 'Teresa', his wife.  And
finally, only as a last resort in order to gain his
confidence, Scully had been playing the role.  But 
last night things had changed, moving events along much 
too quickly.  His delusions about her identity were 
increasing, along with his demands.  He had always 
been in the habit of talking to her each night, after
she had been given her medication.  She would pretend
to be falling deeply under the influence of the drugs.
And she was indeed drugged, but just not to the 
extent that he believed.  She would let her eyes
flutter slightly, and then close.  Settling her 
breathing into a slow and relaxed rhythm, mimicking
the normal lethargic reactions of a tranquilizer.
Carefully portraying the effects to satisfy his
expectations.  


Last night, as he had done so many times before, he
sat down on the floor next to her cot.  And talked.
Just talked.  Mostly to himself, as was his normal
ritual.  He would tend mostly to ramble incessantly.
Mixing events of the past and present together.
Shuffling the deck, and then dealing out the cards
of his dream world from the bottom of his own stacked
deck.  Related to her in detail, his interpretations
of this unreal life.  A life that was supposedly hers 
as well, as Teresa.


Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if there had
actually ever been a Teresa.  She had no doubt that
the woman in the photo he was constantly staring 
at was in fact real.  But she had a feeling that 
this poor soul in the picture had just had the 
misfortune of becoming the initial object of Thomas'
twisted obsession.  Just as she was now.  She shuddered
to think of the possibility of any others that might
have come in between.  


As he would talk, her mind would begin to stray.
Sometimes she would concentrate on math problems,
focusing on seeing the numbers in her head.  Working
on building her mental awareness, as she solved the
equation.  It helped, these little mind games, giving
her an intellectual work-out as well as taking away
the realities of her situation.  Blocking out his
voice.  If only for a short period.  There was in
truth, little else for her to do.  As much as the
details of her escape plan were always at the 
forefront of her thoughts, it required no more
planning on her part.  The thinking was over.  But
the waiting it seemed, had just begun.  Waiting
for her strength to return.  For her mind to 
reinforce its growing resistance against the drugs.
And of course for the right time.  All these things,
she waited for.  Until the events of last night
signaled the end of her waiting vigil.  Not
actually by her design, but by necessity.


When in the middle of his usual foray into his own
imagination she had suddenly realized after a
moment that he had fallen strangely silent.  She
resisted the urge to open her eyes.  But she remained
alert.  Expectant.  The silence was finally broken
by a soft rustling sound near her face.  And that's
when she had felt it.  The hot, clammy heat of his
palm resting tentatively against her cheek, and then
sliding slowly down her neck and back again.  Her
first natural instinct was to flinch.  Brush his
hand away.  Voice her repulsion.  The very thought
of his hand on her made her violently ill.  But she
summoned her courage and managed to remain still.
Willing her heart to slow.  Concentrated instead on
regulating her breathing.  In and out.  Slow.  Easy.


After what seemed like forever he finally removed
his hand, sitting back down beside her cot.  Picking
up his speech mid-stream, as if nothing out of the
ordinary had occurred.  She paid close attention to
his words now.  He was talking about children.  How
much he had always wanted them.  Children.  Her
children.  Their children.  Three, he had said.  That
was his ideal number.  Three children.  And they 
would all live happily ever after in the country,
away from the city and all its temptations.  Just him
and her, and their three children to be.  


An involuntary half-sob had escaped her lips, before
she could stop it.  A result of an over-whelming
tidal wave of intense fear that had invaded her mind
suddenly over this new development.  She waited, her
eyes still closed, as he grew silent again.  Knowing
he was watching her closely.  Studying her for further
reactions.  After awhile he lost interest in her and
started talking again.  But she had heard enough, she
didn't need to hear anymore.  She knew what was 
important now.  


Whether she felt truly ready, physically or mentally,
she would have to make her escape attempt the next
day.  She just could not risk what this new threat
implied, that of becoming the object of his obviously
emerging sexual fantasies.  Her remaining time had
just completely run out.


She had awoke the next day with anticipation, intent
on carrying through with her resolve.  But something
wasn't right.  She could feel it.  Smell it.  Finally
she was able to put her finger on the reason for her
discomfort.  


She had no real sense of time.  No watch to consult.
No window to the world to mark the rise of the
sun, or the set of the moon.  Yet she had found
other ways to compensate for this loss.  She had one
day realized that the shadows that passed along the
floor and walls had stories to tell.  It took awhile
to learn, this language of shadows, but she was a
patient study.  A student with lots of time to devote
to the practice.  She surmised that the shadows
originated from a combination of the illumination
coming from the vents, and various cracks in the
structure of the building itself.  Through these
vents and cracks, filtered light passed through.  Not
really a natural light, but more an artificial one.  
The kind that is riddled throughout a large office 
building where lights are set on timers for optimum 
efficiency and cost saving measures.


The first flickering shadow band would appear at what
she estimated to be 7:00 A.M., and it would deepen
and move faintly across the floor and walls as the day
progressed.  The artificial fluorescent mixing in with
some of the actual sunlight reflecting from the many
windows that are the norm in a building of this size.
This was her theory anyway, but however it came to be, 
it served her purpose.  After a time she was able to
chart its course with an amazing accuracy.  Ironically,
she realized later, there was a bitter sweetness about
gaining this time-tracking ability.  Yes, it allowed her 
more control over anticipating Thomas' return, but it
also forced her to count the days of her captivity.
And each day marked off was as painful as the first.     


The initial morning shadow would signify the building
opening for the day.  The light timer set to activate
roughly half an hour before the actual appearance of
any employees or public.  The mark half-way between
the wall and her cot indicated noon approximately.
Lunch time.  She was sure of this one, as sometimes,
but not often, Thomas would surprise her with an
unscheduled visit.  During which she would once again
feign a deep sleep until he departed.  The final marking
band was the one that actually drifted across her cot,
until it disappeared completely.  This meant it had to
be after 6:00 P.M. at least.  By then all those workers
who religiously adhered to normal workday schedules
would be gone.  There were a select few, her and 
Mulder among them, who were allowed pretty much 
unlimited access.  It wasn't actually on the books
as such, but Skinner had long ago turned a blind eye
to their strange working habits; including the frequent
all-nighters they would pull at the office.  Such as
the one they had been on that last night.  The day 
that had started like any other, but had ended on
such a tragic note.  


So long ago.  Thinking of that night, which she did 
often, always gave her an aching pause of melancholy.
Even now.  If she could change one thing.....She some-
times thought of that question now and again, but 
especially here in this new realm, given her circum-
stances....If she could change one thing....that would 
be it.  That night.  The anger.  The words.  She would 
stop them from ever transpiring.  She would turn back.
Go back.  To Mulder.  Swallow her foolish pride, and 
return to him.  Say the words that had been in her heart 
instead of the ones that had come across her lips.  And 
maybe there was still a chance left for them, but first 
she had to get away.


She shook her head slightly, realizing her thoughts
had strayed from the problem at hand.  She concentrated
intently on the shadow bands across the floor, as this
was the focus of her sudden unease.  They were more 
than halfway over, nearer to her cot than to the wall.
That must mean that it was sometime in the late after-
noon.  She had been waking earlier lately, always before
noon.  Except when....He must have given her a new
medication last night.  Changed it again.  Each time
she would build a tolerance for one, he would switch
to another.  That would explain her extended sleep.
She wanted to scream in frustration.  Because this 
meant that she wouldn't have as much time as she had
originally thought to work her way out of the cuffs.
Increasing the threat of Thomas coming back and finding
her before she had gotten free.  Now she had to make
a choice, either to stay another day, or risk continuing
with her plan.  


After only a moment's hesitation she had made her 
decision.  No, this was it.  Today.  No turning back.


And now at least two hours later, one hand free, she was
working fervently on the second cuff.  The physical
exertion was extreme, her breathing labored.  But she
refused to stop, even as the sticky blood welled in places
over her wrist, running in a thin line down her arm.  


Out of the corner of her eye she kept sight of the ominous
shadow band as it advanced ever onward.  Ever closer to her.
Reaching up.  To catch her.  Trap her.  Bringing the promise
of the coming night along with it.  


And Thomas' impending arrival.

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

Mulder had fallen into an exhausted sleep in the middle of
the day.  As always cursing the time his body required of
him to renew itself.  Time that took him away from the
search at a point when he was so close to the final answer.
He knew she had been taken from the inside of the building.
But by whom, and where had she been taken?  As always each
answer just led to more questions.  And he had reached the
point where his mind refused to obey his direct orders.  He
gave into the sleep unwillingly, fighting it.  Not knowing
that it would provide the final piece to the very puzzle 
he wished to solve.


Mulder first saw her in a dream.  The real her.  The threads
of connection always there, but buried just below the surface
of his conscious mind.  Like the tape, he had been so intent
on the subject that he had missed the surroundings.  The same
could be said of this.  But it was there.  Only waiting for the
components of thought and careful observation, combined with
the subjective influence of the dream state to lift the final
barriers from his memory.  


Of course this wasn't the first time he had dreamed of Scully.
Certainly not.  Even before she had disappeared, Scully had
been the focus of many of his dreams.  And even in his sleep,
this realization brought a sharp pang of sadness, causing his
brow to wrinkle with regret.  A regret that he had never taken
the time to tell her about his dreams of her.  While he still
had the chance.


He turned restlessly, the sheets twisting and tangling over
and around his sweat-drenched body.  He slept now in her
apartment.  In her bed.  But without her.  The ironic twist
of this never failing to escape him.  Sleeping there, some-
times blindly reaching out for her, but coming away only with
empty arms, had a habit of making him feel lonelier than he had
ever thought it possible to feel.  But at the same time, it was 
the only way he could feel close to her anymore.  


No, it wasn't the first time she had been the center of his
dreams.  But there was a difference, because the woman he
saw in his dream looked nothing like her.  Everything was
different.  The hair color, not her fiery auburn, but a dark
brown.  The clothes, not her tailored sophisticated style,
but casual and loose.  Her eyes hidden behind heavy framed
glasses, not the brilliant shine of Scully's eyes.  She was
thinner.  Everything was different.  Yet still one part of 
him warred now with another.  One claiming this stranger he
saw in his dream, coming towards him in the lobby of the
FBI building, was her.  The other adamantly arguing that
it was an impossibility.  He himself, stood somewhere in
between.  Trying to look objectively from afar, weighing
the validity of both sides.  Until finally the decision was
reached.  


Sitting up suddenly in bed, still in the throes of the half-
dream, half-nightmare, he was sure.  Positive.  And he stood
grabbing the first thing that came into focus.  The lamp on
the bedside table.  Once in his hands he wrenched the cord
from the socket, and threw the lamp across the room with 
a gale-wind force.  It shattered into tiny pieces that littered 
the floor, in a sweeping arc.  He fell to his knees beside the 
bed, clutching his stomach which was suddenly spasmed in 
anguish.


It had been her.  Scully.  It *had* been her.  In the lobby 
of the same building from which she had disappeared.  Coming 
to him.  His cursed memory now bringing up the picture in full
clarity to taunt him.  He could see the smile that had lit
her face.  A face he hadn't even recognized.  She had a 
look of wonderment in her face.  Mixed in with a slowness
of perception.  Her walk was weak and unsteady.  Her arms,
that had lifted, he realized now, towards him.  She had been 
reaching for him.  Trying to come back to him.  And he had 
just walked away.  Left her behind.  Again.  


He jumped suddenly to his feet.  If she was there then, on a
day so long after her disappearance, than she must be there
now.  He had looked everywhere but right underneath his own
nose.  He was half-way out the door, before completing the
thought.


She was still there.  She had to be.  In the building.  


Somewhere.


***********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 8 *NC-17*
***********************************************************

Forgiveness is the only gift that can be given and never
returned.  It takes one of strong heart and an inner peace
to allow the past to remain there.  There is no honor in
hate and revenge.  For those that can find their way pass
the human errors of life and see through to the core of
the soul, they will always find something worth saving. 
Most certainly worth forgiving. 
 

Two hearts stricken down and torn apart by a mistake of
their own making.  But they have learned the error of their
ways, as tonight they search for their other half.  For one 
without the other, is no life.  No reason.  No hope.  


The prey makes a desperate bid for freedom, as it loosens
itself from the constriction of the cocoon.  The spider 
gives chase, with an intent to kill.  And in the ensuing
confusion, both miss the vibrations of another as it enters 
the web. 
 

This game will allow only one winner.


**********************************************
It was the night of the seventy-fifth day
**********************************************

Scully crawled on her hands and knees, following the too
familiar path of the ventilation shaft.  Her hands were
burning with an agonizing pain, especially at the bend of
her wrists, as she placed them one in front of the other.
The thin line of blood coming from her wounds leaving a
bread crumb trail in her wake, as she progressed through
the narrow box-like confines.  The knees of her sweat
pants picking up this blood and smearing it over the
material wetly.  She could feel it soaking through to her
skin underneath.  She paused for a moment to catch her
breath.  She had expended so much energy getting out of
the hand-cuffs that she was close to exhaustion now.


Her harsh breaths echoing off the silver walls, traveling
ahead and then rebounding back to mock her with her own
fear.  Running only on a pure rush of adrenaline.  The
twists and turns of the shaft were serving to increase
her paranoia about running into Thomas, coming to see
her on his usual nightly visitation.  It was dark.  Too
dark to see more than a few inches in front of her.  
She took another moment to wipe her brow of the sweat
that was dripping down her face.  It was hot.  And she
was tired.  She had to make faster time.  As much as
she needed it, this was no time to rest.


Steeling herself against the first spasm of pain, as 
she placed her palms flat once more on the surface in
front of her, she started moving again.  Her ears
straining for tell-tale noise.  Her heart hammering
painfully in her chest.  She wasn't conscious of doing
it, but her lips were moving.  Silently voicing her own
inner prayers.  "Just a little more", the words formed
and then expelled with a soft quiet breath. 


"I can make it."

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

Mulder was doing 80 mph.  But despite the speed, his
mind wasn't on the road.  He was frowning deeply, cursing
under his breath.  Kicking himself mentally for his
stupidity.  How, he kept admonishing himself, could he
have missed the connection?  She had been right there
in front of him.  The curse of a near-perfect memory now
a double-edged sword, as it allowed him to realize that
they had been so close in proximity that day, as to brush
shoulders in actual physical contact.  He closed his eyes
for a second, hoping the image would fade.  But  it 
didn't.  It was branded forever on his memory.


Snapping his eyes open, he swerved the car suddenly with
a sharp squealing of tires to avoid a collision with
another car, as he sailed through a red light without
even slowing down.  The sound of the other driver's
angry blaring horn following him for a few seconds, 
and then fading away.  One of his hands dropped from
the steering wheel to reach for the cell phone in his
jacket pocket.  He brought it up to rest on the edge
of the steering wheel, as he began to punch in Skinner's
home number.  His finger hovered over the send button
for a second, and then he snapped the off switch 
instead, tossing the phone over on the passenger's
seat before the call could be completed.  He just
couldn't take the chance.  Not even of contacting
Skinner for help, or any assistance for that matter.
The fact that he was now absolutely positive that she
was being held in the FBI building itself was a strong
indication that the whole thing was an inside job.


One of their own.  If it got back somehow to the 
kidnapper that the subterfuge had been figured out,
then Scully could conceivably be killed in order
to cover the tracks.  The FBI was a huge building,
and she could be anywhere on its eleven floors.
In any of the hundred's of rooms.  He would need
a comforting cushion of time in order to search it
all.


At first, he had given thought to it being someone
who might have gotten past the security from the
outside.  The most logical access entry port would
be through the daily FBI general public tours.  The
day after watching the tape, and realizing that it
had been doctored, he had taken one of those tours
in a heavy disguise.  He watched.  And listened.
Not so much to the progression of the tour itself,
but the people around him.  The security measures
that were used when the public first entered the
lobby.  Whether the guide kept track of the group,
or if they were ever given the opportunity to 
separate and go exploring on their own.  What 
divisions they were given access to.  Whether the
'visitor' badges were checked and accounted for at
the tour's completion.  


He considered each question that was broached along
the way to their guide.  Whether it was indeed just
idle curiosity or an attempt to garner information
about the FBI's security procedures.  He hung back,
bringing up the rear, as they made their way.  
Through exhibits explaining the history of the FBI,
the behind the scenes details of some of their more
well-known cases from the past.  The infamous 'Ten
Most Wanted List' and how it originated.  They were
then taken through the FBI Laboratory, but kept at
a discreet distance.  At the end there was a fire-
arms demonstration, detailing the intensity of the
training of agents in weaponry and FBI philosophy 
and practice.  His eyes continued to scan the crowd
around him.  As he also looked and listened for
other things.


Other people.  He searched the gathered crowd for a
now dark-haired, casually dressed, too slim woman
with heavy glasses.  He looked for Scully.  It was
irrational he knew, she had probably managed to escape
that day and then was recaptured due to his blindness.
But he couldn't help but look.  It was like a linger-
ing illness.  This regret over a mistake, as well as
the one that had initiated the whole thing that night.
It was a burden of over-whelming proportions.  His
peace of mind buckled under the weighing pressure.


When the tour had ended, Mulder had come away only
more frustrated.  There wasn't even a slight possibility
of a layperson being able to work their way around the
tight security of the FBI building.  Not without getting
caught.  Certainly not long enough to be able to pull
off this kind of mastermind disappearance of an FBI
employee for this exceedingly long period of time.
Once again he was back to his first initial assumption.
It was an inside job.  It had to be.  And he just
couldn't take the chance of contacting anyone for
help.  He would not risk her life further.


He was just too close to the truth on this one.

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

Scully had reached the grill of the ventilation shaft.
The one that was on the same floor as Mulder's office.
The basement.  The one that Thomas had been taking 
her through on their journey to the bathroom each
night.  She knew what to do, as she had always
proceeded him through the shaft.  So that he could
watch her progress and defray any escape attempts
she might be considering.  She knew where to apply
the pressure so that the grate would pop open.  It
was hinged on the side.  She pushed against it now
with her shoulder, as the grate opened and swung
out to the right.  She leaned back, pulling her legs
in front of her to dangle over the edge of the
opening.  Ducking, she brought her head out from
inside the shaft, balancing herself with a hand
holding onto the top of the grill.  She pushed off,
and jumped.  Landing with a groan on the floor,
her hands out in front of her to brace her fall. 
She winced at the flare-up in pain again, coming
from the reddened and tender skin of her hands and
wrists. 
 

She stood quickly, reaching up on tip-toes to close
the grate behind her.  She had barely gotten it
closed when she heard the unmistakable sound of
hurried footsteps descending the stairs.  She froze
for a second, her eyes widening in horror.  It was
Thomas.  He was coming.  Looking down the hall she
could see the formation of a shadow on the wall of
the staircase.  The gray shadow bobbing up and 
down, and increasing in size as it continued its
progress down, just ahead of its owner.


Scully looked around wildly for a place to hide.
Only now noticing that her own blood was smeared
across the outside edges of the grate, where she
had just placed her hand to close it.  He would
notice.  Know without even making the trip through
the shaft, that she had escaped.  She was trapped.
Again.  She moved quickly, turning around a corner
just before he appeared on the landing above.  She
could hear him.  Moving fast.  His steps coming 
down heavy, as if he was taking two at a time.
She held her breath, pressing herself flat against
the wall.  Trying to slow the strained exhale of 
her breath, lest he hear her.  She was trembling
slightly.  She waited for his approach.  Waited.


But he didn't stop at the grate as she had expected.
Her mind raced.  Had he seen her?  Did he know she
was here even now?  The steps came closer, without
hesitation.  Her way.  


And then passed, as he hurried down the hall.  She
looked at his retreating back.  Stunned.  It wasn't
Thomas.


It was Mulder.


Mulder.  She swallowed heavily.  Her mouth suddenly
dry.  Her mind working desperately to signal her
mouth.  Say something it screamed at her now.  She
was paralyzed.  In shock.  But finally she found her
voice.


"Mulder", she cried out.


He stopped in his tracks without turning.  She pushed
herself off the wall, moving slowly in his direction.
"Mulder", she called again, feeling the tears spring
to her eyes in relief.  He turned in place.  His mouth
slightly open.  His eyes drinking in her image in an
almost carnivorous hunger.  It was as if he couldn't
quite believe the proof that was standing only a few
feet away from him.  It was too surreal.  A mirage.
A vision.  The temptation of a cruel joke, that would
disappear if he dared to reach for her.


They both stood there for a moment, silent, just 
staring at each other from a distance.  The emotion 
raging within the mix of their combined surprise.  
"Mulder", she said for a third time.  Softly.  Gently.  
Like a verbal caress sent to soothe the ache of a
broken heart.  A slight smile worked its way up along
the corners of her mouth.  He seemed to suddenly snap
out of his shock, as he came to her, almost at a run.
She moved towards him as well, managing only a few
steps before he had already reached her.  He grabbed
her up into his arms, crushing her to his chest,
lifting her feet from the floor in his enthusiasm.


She buried her head into the crook of his neck.  Her
arms around his neck tight.  "Scully", he whispered
next to her ear.  His voice cracking and breaking on
a strangled sob.  She nodded vigorously against the
side of his face.  Not trusting the strength of her
voice right now.  He lowered her gently to the floor,
as he pushed her out to arms length to see her face.
His eyes were filled with the same tears that now 
over-flowed from her own.  Falling onto her cheeks.


Then suddenly she could see his face cloud over and
darken.  His expression registering a desperate fear.
Before she could even question this look, she felt
herself being hoisted up into his arms.  He carried
her to the nearby bathroom, shouldering them through
the door.  The same one she and Thomas always used
each night.  He deposited her gingerly on her feet,
and then began to roam his hands along her body.
First her arms, up the length from her elbow to a
shoulder.  And then again on the other side.


"Mulder", she asked him, unsure of his obvious distress,
"what is it?  What are you looking for?"


He had gone down on bended knee, as he inspected her
legs, lifting the cuff of her sweatpants.  He stood
up, the concern etched deeply into his face.


"The blood Scully.  You're covered in blood.  Where?...",
he pulled her against his chest, looking over her
shoulders at her back, "Where are you hurt?"


"Mulder", she smiled now, "it's just my hands."  She
held them up in front of him.  "I had to pull them 
through the handcuffs so that I could escape."
  

He took her hands into his, with a gentle touch.  
Looking at them closely.  "God", he whispered, as he
turned her in his arms to face the sink.  He stood
behind her, reaching to turn on the cold water.  He
lowered her hands into the water's cascade, as he 
reached for some of the liquid soap.  She winced at
the first sting of abrasive soap on tender skin.
Then quieted, as he covered her hands with his own,
working the lather into her skin with a soft pressure
designed to clean the wound while causing her the
least amount of pain.  She watched the blood drain
down into the flowing water, first bright red, and
then fading to pink as he continued to remove the
stains from her hands.  They stood this way in
absolute silence for many minutes.  The only sound,
the water.


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


She could feel the change when it happened.


The invisible barriers between them falling away
forever.  The ones that had always prevented them
from acting on impulse.  On needs.  Or feelings.
She lifted her eyes slowly to the mirror and looked
at him.  At her.  At them.  Together.  She wasn't
surprised to see he was watching her closely as well.
His eyes glazed over, and heavy with a sudden desire.
As were hers.  He moved closer to her from behind,
pressing himself tight against her back.  She leaned
back into him, trying to mold herself to his form.
The sound of the water was now competing with the
heaving breaths leaving their bodies.


One of his hands was moving now, away from her hands
and the water, traveling with a slow ease up the
length of her arm.  To her shoulder.  She shivered 
slightly at the sensation of the coldness of the
water competing with the heat of her aroused skin.
The world around them receded in thought and percep-
tion as he turned her around in his arms.  The water
turned off on its own as she came to face him.


Looking up into his eyes with a mixture of anticipation
and nervousness.  He reached up and placed his palm
against her cheek, rubbing his thumb up and down,
brushing the stray tears that still remained away.
He moved his face closer, at a downward angle towards
her waiting lips.  Just before they touched, she parted
her own, and closed her eyes.  His kiss was sweet, a
brushing pressure that just barely caught her own,
reminding her of dripping honey, with a painful wait
of longing for the next drop.  Her arms encircled his
neck as she pressed her mouth tighter against his.
Demanding a thorough kiss.


His mouth sealed around hers now, reveling in her
unspoken approval and encouragement to continue.
Parting her lips with his own he took her breath into
his body, and gave her back his own in return.  They
shared the essence of life for a moment, around the
intimacy of their first kiss.  They finally parted,
gasping.  Amazement etched in their faces.  And smiles
of wonder.  Relief.  And need.  Such need.


He reached down, lifting her up to sit on the edge of
the sink counter.  He placed his hands on her thighs,
separating her knees, and then moved forward to take
up residence there.  She was breathing so hard she
thought her heart might stop from the excitement, as
she pulled him towards her by the collar of his T-shirt.
Then took the bottom of it to pull it up and over his
head.  When he came into contact with her next, she
moved her hands greedily over his firm chest, teasing
his nipples with her fingernails.  He bent his head
back in satisfaction at her touch.  Then he snaked his
hands underneath her T-shirt.  Feeling the exquisite
softness of her sweet skin, breasts devoid of bra.


He cupped one of her breasts within his palm, as the
nipple hardened and tightened with an intense reaction
of pleasure.  She moaned, arching into his hand to
further the pressure against his fingers.  She leaned
over and brought her head down to nuzzle his earlobe
in her mouth, while her hands dropped to the cheeks of
his butt, kneading the flesh between her fingers.


He shivered in response to her actions, pressing his
groin against her so that she could feel the hardness
of his erection.  His hands tickled the sensitive
area of her stomach, as he trailed his fingers around
her waist, coming to rest on the top of her sweat pants.
He began to pull them down, and she shifted to allow
him to move them over her hips, until they lay in a
heap down on the floor under her feet.  Then he
reached up and almost tore her top at the seams in his
haste to pull it over her head.


She smiled with amusement at his urgency, as she raised
her arms high to help him.  And then once free she 
returned her mouth to his earlobe, dropping lower as
she placed kisses along his neck, meeting at his mouth
as they came together in a passionate kiss.  When they
parted once more he lowered his mouth to her breast,
his tongue rolling over in lazy circles on the tip
of her nipple.  She shuddered violently, her hands
grabbing his arms for support.  He continued his attention
to her breasts, switching to the other side, as she
lowered her hand inside his sweatpants, feeling the hard
length of his penis.


She could feel him stiffen against her chest, trying to
control himself as she moved her hand along his member.
Back and forth across the silkiness, in a constant
rhythm.  He pulsed hotly against her hand, growing even
harder from her ministrations.  Her own sex throbbing
in a staccato beat, matching his.  She was desperate
to have him inside her now.  Too ready and excited to
continue much longer with foreplay.  They had waited
much too long for this to be any other way for their
first time.


Both of them seemed to reach this thought at the same
time.  As he reached for the elastic band of her
panties, and she reached for the top of his sweat pants.
She got there first, as she yanked, carefully lifting
out and over his erection as she brought them down as
far as she could reach, and he kicked them off the
rest of the way.  She followed the same movements with
his boxers.  Until he stood before her completely
naked.  His erection strong and hard, telegraphing
to her his desperate desire to make love to her.  He
leaned against her, pressing himself along her body
until she could feel him straining against her hip.
While he hooked his fingers around the elastic of her
panties and pulled them away roughly, her hips rocking
to each side to ease their journey off of her body.


Once this last piece of clothing was gone, his hands
moved up along her thighs slowly, spreading her legs
further apart, as his fingers opened her folds and
entered her.  Sliding in with ease against the slickness
of her want and readiness.  She gasped deeply at the
feeling and pressure of his fingers as they moved in
and out of her.  She was alternating between moans
and gasps as she felt her orgasm build.  Starting with
an intense warmth in the center of her abdomen and
moving in a thousand directions at once.  She pushed
against his hand, encouraging his hand to move faster,
as her own covered his, helping him to take her to
completion.


The intense pleasure overtook her all at once as she
closed her eyes tightly, and threw her head back.
She contracted hard against his fingers, her internal
muscles tightening with insurmountable pleasure.
It seemed to take forever for her to come down from
the experience, as she lowered her head finally,
meeting his eyes as they devoured her whole.  He
smiled at her, an almost awed expression covering his
face.  She brought her hand up to caress his face in
a silent answer.  They stood this way for a moment,
sharing themselves without speaking.


And then, their eyes never leaving each other's face,
he moved forward slightly and entered her body with 
his own, slowly.  She brought her arms around his
waist.  He reached around and grabbed her hips
tightly.  Once he was completely inside her, they
both were still for a moment.  Feeling the body of
the other, as they merged into one.  She felt every
inch of him.  Filling her.  Completing.  Giving her
back today, her life.  And all that had been lost
to her for these long months.  She had come home.


He felt her body pulse around him, hot and tight.
Covering him.  Completing.  Giving him back today,
his life.  And all that had been lost to him for
these long months.  She was back home.


Together they gave each other a reason to live.


He began to move slowly at first.  Pulling out and
then returning to her warmth.  Repeating.  Sliding
in and out of her with ease against her heat and
moistness.  He thrust deep and hard.  The pleasure
building unbearably fast, aided by their own urgency
and emotions.  She began to gasp softly at each thrust
as he increased the speed and force.  The control
being taken from him, battling his own needs, as he
became powerless to slow the frenzy.  They were both
so caught up in the moment, and the amazement of finally
allowing this act of love-making to become a reality.
It was the combination of their past.  Of every wish
unwished.  Every dream undreamed.  Every fantasy
unfulfilled.  Until now.


There was hardly a noticeable pause anymore between
his frantic thrusts.  Her body pounded against his,
meeting his strokes.  She was collapsing physically
underneath the crushing wave of her building orgasm.
She leaned her upper body back, one hand braced against
the wall, the other holding unto the faucet.  Her legs
reaching around his back, and anchoring her body to
his with crossed ankles.  She came with an astonishing
violence.  Her body shuddering so hard she could barely
breathe, as she closed her eyes tightly, and lifted 
her body high.  She groaned loudly as the pleasure
reverberated through her being.


He felt her contract around him, tightening.  He gave
two more deep thrusts and then joined her, as he
released himself hotly deep inside her.  The muscles
of his body straining.  His face contorting in effort.
His head thrown back as he lived the unbelievable
sensations of pleasure that only the joining of two
bodies in the act of love can bring.  All the more
sacred because the two people, the two bodies, were
theirs.


His hands slipped underneath her back, supporting her,
as she raised her head to look at him.  They had just
shared an intimacy that was breath-taking, but as they
gazed into each other's face now.  Somehow reading each
other's thoughts.  They both knew it went beyond that.
They had just made a journey tonight, not just physical.
More than just a crossing over in their relationship
from platonic to romantic.  It transcended even that.
Because their journey had started four years ago.  And
had almost ended on a dark and deadly night nearly 
three months ago. 


They had come so close to losing it all.  Their friend-
ship.  Their trust of each other.  Their lives.  Every-
thing.  And now, by some miracle they had been given a
second chance.  They would never again take for granted
what they had nearly lost that night.  This, they now
said to each other, all this, without words.  And it 
was right.  This absence of words.  Because what had 
been said that night.  Those hateful words.  The anger
behind them.  The barrier they had built.  It had all
started with the words.  Words that would never again
be spoken of from this time forward.  That night, and
all the pain that they had inflicted on each other, was
gone.  They would never speak of it again.  They began
here.  Tonight.  Together.  There would be no cause for
regrets anymore.


They fell into each other's arms, their breathing
just now beginning to ease, as they slowly descended
from the high of their love-making.  They rocked
together slowly, just holding each other.


But then they were suddenly plunged into a complete
darkness.  Pitch black.  Scully's eyes snapped open
as she pulled Mulder closer, whispering urgently into
his ear.


"Oh God, Mulder", she hissed, "it's Thomas."


**************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 9
**************************************************************


Their reality hinged on fate.  Perhaps belief.  In measure,
their combined dedication.  It could also have been partly a 
random coincidence.  Or all of these.  Maybe.  But whatever 
guiding hand followed the course of their often perilous 
journey, it showed itself to be not totally without mercy.  
It had allowed them a magical moment of respite before the 
approaching tempest storm would fall, heavy with the dark and 
ominous thunder clouds.  


Reunited once more, they would now face their most formidable
test of strength and courage.  But together again, fighting
as one, they have the power of faith on their side.  They
always had.  Most especially during the times when they 
themselves doubted its existence with certainty.  


The spider roars in fury over the subterfuge of the prey.  
The balance of power upset with the addition of another.
The prey's chances of freedom now rest in a unity against
the one.  The spider's power is its hate, and a concrete
belief in its own superiority.  It advances now, without
fear, and has nothing left to lose.


A most dangerous combination in any species.


And it knows the territory.  The web, a design of its own
creation.  The prey can only make assumptions.  This final 
battle soon to be fought between them, will be played out 
in the darkness, upon a game board of death.


The winner shall reap.  The loser must weep.


But as in all misery....the tears cried belonged exclusively to 
the damned.

**************************************************************
It was still the seventy-fifth day
**************************************************************

Thomas Henchell was not in a good mood.  His day had 
started bad.  And from there it had only gotten worse.  
His actions would trigger a domino effect this day, 
which would end on a dark collision course between 
design and desperation.  


He was by nature, a loner.  He held only a grudging 
tolerance for his job, because it allowed him to stay 
in the background.  Where he thrived for the most part.  
He could hide under the paperwork.  Disappear almost 
completely within the nine to five shuffle.  He was 
extremely good at what he did.  Knew the job inside
and out.  Could accomplish in only three hours what 
would take most others three days.  


He had been there so long, that over the years people had
learned to leave him alone.  He worked better that way
anyway.  Why mess with something that didn't appear to be
broken?  Only grotesquely bent out of its proper shape.  
He pretty much wrote his own schedule.  As long as he
produced, his boss was happy enough to look the other way.
Turning a blind eye if he took a too long lunch on 
occasion.  Or showed up late, while going home early.


Stats.  That's all the upper management was concerned
with anyway.  It was how it operated with the outside 
business work force, and for the most part, it was the 
same with the government.  He worked in Communications.  
Information Systems.  Computers.  Phones.  Anything 
electrical.  All things relating to those always 
awe-inspiring, but sometimes frustrating, new-fangled 
technological wonders.  The kind that litter the 
business world today. He knew them all. You name it.  


He was the one you summoned when that annoying error
message kept displaying on your computer terminal screen.
Mocking you unmercifully with your own mechanical
ineptitude.  The one you waited for with bated breath,
while your production grinds to a screeching halt in the
interim.  The miracle keyboard resurrector.  They called 
Thomas for that stuff.  He would come too, pompously 
scoffing under his breath at your glaring lack of technical 
know-how of things he considered to be mundane.  Talking
at you in a language of 'bytes' and 'domains' which might
as well have been Latin for all your understanding of it.  
Then he would have it fixed in no time flat.  He had 
learned long ago that most people didn't want to be bothered 
with the 'hows' and 'whys' of technology.  They just wanted 
it to work when the power came on.  He had lucked out and 
gotten into the field when it was still relatively new, and 
he was always expanding his knowledge.  Keeping up with each 
new and improved model that would replace the last in record 
time.  This gave him an almost guaranteed job security.  For 
the most part.  But there was no denying that he was in great 
demand for his services.  


His services, yes.  But his personal relationships were
another thing altogether. He really had no friends.  And
didn't try to make any at the office.  He wasn't a people
person.  Not by far.  He shunned the usual lunch cliques,
or coffee break gossip tables.  In truth, he was a tabloid
target of a lot of it.  He knew it too.  But it didn't
bother him.  He considered other people to be beneath
him anyway.  And he made no secret of it.  He believed
most to be below his level of intelligence and perception.
None of them were in his league.  Or so he thought.  


He wasn't concerned with the image he projected.  But he
observed others.  Had an opinion on everything.  And he
watched.  Learned.  Took note.  His reserves of knowledge
were astonishing.  His career with the FBI and his 
subsequent delving into communications was only an after-
thought.  He was a jack-of-all-trades.  He had taken 
just about every class in every subject that was available.
He had started out in law, with intentions of becoming a
lawyer.  Went to law school.  Shined for awhile there.
And then lost interest, when it became clear he wasn't
Ivy League material.  So he quit.  Actually left voluntarily,
before he would have been expelled.  Next, he tried medical
school.  He loved medicine.  Took to it right away.  He
could list and spout off every known course of treatment
and drug prescribed at the drop of a hat.  He still kept
up with the medical journals even now.  And he had sources
and contacts at the biggest and best hospitals.  These
days, black-market drugs were easier to obtain than
driver's licenses.


But the medical world also found fault with Thomas, and
soon enough he no longer was welcome there either.  This
was his modus operandi.  Join, learn all he could, wear
out his welcome, and then leave.  Usually by request.
Always just before expulsion.  But nothing ever made it
to the official records.  Most institutions don't want
a blemish on their good name and reputation.  Not for
one bad seed.  He left, and once gone they were satisfied
enough to drop the matter forever.  So when he later
applied with the FBI there was nothing to trigger
suspicion during the background investigation which 
all potential employees much submit to before considera-
tion of employment.  He was wily.  Crafty.  And he was
indeed super-intelligent.  Gifted.  And cursed.


Because although he did possess a great intellect; it
was skewed half-hazarded on a faulty foundation.  He lacked
all things necessary in relation to any personal matters
or interactions.  There was no ground base in reality to
play off that mind of his.  And it had hurt him.  Not
being able to participate comfortably in the people 
game.  The eternal jitterbug dance of politics.  It had
cost him.  He was constantly being passed-over for the
promotions.  The behind closed doors reasons given him
for this were always focused on his lack of people skills,
and his general public display of disdain for authority
in general.  


He would nod his understanding of this reasoning on the
outside, while seething intensely on the inside.  The
anger building and growing.  Burning hotly.  Rising to
dangerous degrees more each passing day.  He blamed his
manager.  The government.  The hierarchy in general.  The
world on principle.  Anything and everything, but the 
true reason.  Himself.  *He* was the source of his own
detrimental destruction.  But he refused to see this.
Preferring to lay responsibility and blame at the feet
of the ever elusive 'They'.  'They' kept him down, he
would bemoan inwardly.  He just knew this.  Was positive.
'They', were responsible for him missing yet another
foothold on that sacred ladder of success.  Until this
phantom 'They' had built to such grand proportions 
that even he could not remember the exact composition
of 'They'.  Not that it would have mattered.  But it 
just became easier to blame everyone.  A package deal.


In his twisted mind he was just the solitary beleaguered
voice of reason, striving to bring enlightenment to the
rest of the misguided masses.  It was his mission in
life.  Self-proclaimed.  And he took his duty very 
seriously.  Very seriously indeed.  


When he arrived at work this morning, his customary 
thirty minutes late, there was a message on his desk.
The 'You Were Visited By' box checked off on the 
canary-yellow page of the pad with an exaggerated
check mark.  As well as the ever popular 'Need To 
Talk', and 'Urgent!' squares.  The time the message
had been left was circled at the bottom for emphasis.
8:50 A.M. it read in bold black ink, so hard pressed
there was a slight rip where the pen had scratched
through the pad to the next page.  With this, he 
realized, there was a small detail he had missed.


It was time for his mid-year counseling session.
Another one of those pro-active approaches to 
creative management.  Meant to keep employees 
abreast of where it was their supervisor viewed
their progress at the half-way point before the
final annual appraisal.  In truth, just a way of
saying one of two things; either the coveted 'you're
doing fine', or the dreaded 'this is a warning, shape
up or ship out'.  Thomas had been scheduled for his
this morning at 8:30.


He had forgotten.  Too many other pressing matters 
of importance had been the cause of his omitting 
this little tidbit from his usually extremely
organized mind.  He dropped his briefcase on his 
desk with a sharp bang.  Opening a side drawer,
looking for a pen, he kicked it shut with a savage
fury.  This drew several curious stares from his
fellow workers.  But they quickly turned back to
their own work, realizing it was just another of
Thomas' tirades.  He was known for having an 
explosive temper, even on good days.  On bad days
it rivaled an eruption from Mt. St. Helen's.  His
co-workers had learned to read the bad weather
warning signs, and stayed out of his way on days
such as this one was shaping up to be.


He stormed, with an air of impudence, into the
supervisor's office.  The secretary was in there
with him, going over some monthly reports.  But 
upon looking up and seeing who it was that had
just entered, beat a rather hasty retreat.  He
stood next to the door, arms crossed in front of
him, fingers drumming impatiently against the
message slip he still held in his hand.  Toes
tapping.  He was a busy man, his time equal in
his weight to gold.  All this telegraphed in a
carefully orchestrated symphony of the unspoken
word.  So too was his boss a busy man, and he was
in charge here.  A one upmanship.  This conveyed
with just as much attention paid to the music
sheets.  Clearly shown by the indifferent flick of
his hand, summoning Thomas to close the door
for privacy.  Thomas could see the eyes of the 
curious as he turned and closed the door.  Nothing
brings more attention than the erection of walls.
He waited, while his supervisor's eyes never once 
left their scrutiny of the reports in front of him,
nor acknowledging Thomas' presence officially.


There were rules here.  Checks and balances.
Points of office etiquette foreplay to be
adhered to.  These not always subtle exchanges
between supervisors and underlings, all geared
towards the goal of a work place harmony nirvana. 
Usually flexible, except in extreme cases.  Such
as Henchell's.  For the most part Thomas was a
known instigator of conflict.  With anyone.
Over anything.  At anytime.  A politically 
incorrect, but astutely labeled - trouble-maker.
The first to throttle the tried and true with his
own vision of how things should be done.


He flaunted his contempt and disregard of rules
and regulations.  Always opting to cut the red
tape, bypass the line-by-line procedures that
was the beating heart of every branch of the
government's existence.  The thing was, he was
too good at what he did to risk using his
unorthodox behavior as a reason for discipline
against him.  So good that up until now his
eccentricities were tolerated.  Genius can be
temperamental.  It can also be used.  He was 
considered an asset, so his faults were over-looked.
Which was always a constant source of irritation 
for other employees who were expected to tow the
line and follow the rules.  All without crossing
the coloring book lines, which Thomas thumbed
his nose at diffidently.


Because of his unique skills, he was given special
treatment.  Sad but true, such is the inner workings
of most work places.  A dog eat dog world in more
ways than just figuratively.  And Thomas knew all
this.  Too well.  But things had changed over the
last couple of months.  His days of special
favoritism were coming to an end.  He was slipping.
Becoming too confident and cocky in his omnipotence.  
Enough to bring the unwanted scrutiny of the higher-ups.
What he didn't know was that his work had been
under close observation as of late.  Every 'T'
checked to see whether it had been crossed or not.
Every form in triplicate and filed properly with a
strict compliance to the procedures.  


They were looking for reasons now to dump him.  He
had finally gone over the invisible line.  More than
that.  He had erased it behind him.  His out-put had
dropped dramatically.  His insubordination doubled.
Late every day.  Leaving long before his tour of 
duty had ended.  He would disappear for extended 
periods during the working day without excuse or
permission.  He failed to turn in reports.  Missed
meetings.  Such as the one that had been scheduled
for this morning.  He had been systematically digging
his own grave.  The clods of dirt falling in heavy
clumps around him.  And now he was about to be
given the eulogy to go along with it.


After a painful silence elapsed, pivotal in the power
play, his boss finally deigned to look up at him.


"Sit down Thomas", he said, gesturing towards the
hot seat that faced his desk.  Thomas walked over and
plopped down, folding his arms across his chest.  His
boss leaned back into his chair, elbows resting on 
the sides, fingers steepled underneath his chin.  It
was the deadly universal opening remark posture of
bad news about to be delivered.


"Thomas, it's unfortunate that things have escalated
to this point.  I'm truly sorry.  Now I must advise
you before continuing that you have the right to 
have your union representative present at this pro-
ceeding."


Thomas sneered.  "I don't belong to the union."  The
union, in his opinion, was only another bureaucratic
disguise to undermine the minions.  


"You're still entitled to representation", his boss
offered generously.


"Let's just get on with this shall we?", Thomas said
with an obvious tone of sarcasm.


His boss cleared his throat, and then brought his
chair up to meet the desk, as he picked up a folder
sitting on the edge of the blotter.  "Very well", he
said, and began.


Twenty minutes later, Thomas left his supervisor's
office with his first official 'reprimand letter' ever.
This didn't bode well with him either, as he returned
to his work station, tearing the paper into two and
tossing it in the waste can.  He was seething.  The
first 'doc' he'd ever received.  Documentation.  Some-
thing solid and officially in writing that management
could use as ammunition in future evaluations.  If an
employee was given a less than stellar rating on an
appraisal, there had better be plenty of 'docs' to
back up the claim.  Especially if the union became
involved during the appeal process.  Thomas could
read the writing on the walls, though he still assigned
the words his own interpretation.  'They' were still
out to get him.  Just like always.


This was how his day had started, and from there it
had just degenerated further.  His supervisor rode
him all day long.  Asking for written status updates
on all his current projects.  It became quite obvious
very quickly how far behind Thomas had gotten in his
work.  He spent the day chained to his desk, playing
the paper chase catch-up.  Trying to make heads or
tails of masses of accumulated information that should
have been analyzed and processed long before things
had reached this point.  He hated spending so much
time at his desk.  He was a communications expert
extraordinaire.  His talents were wasted locked within
the confines of his cubicle.  He was never meant to
be tied down by the day to day operations.  He was
used to moving from department to department, his
services so precise and sought after that there was
actually a waiting list for his time.  He was the
'golden boy' of the federal communication highway.


But that was the past, and his glory days were coming
to an end.  Now the balance he had tight-rope walked
between genius and 'pain-in-the-ass' had shifted.  
In the 'ass' favor.  He had over-stayed his welcome,
and 'They' were making it clear his services would
soon no longer be required.  This time his paranoia
was justified, as 'They' were indeed after him.  For
good reason.  But his lack of emotional maturity, as
well as a total disregard for humanity, besides himself,
blinded him to his own short-comings.  And even if his
eyes were opened, he would still refuse to see.


His boss stayed late that night, purposely.  Demanding
Thomas stay as well if he expected to salvage what
was left of his rapidly declining position in this
organization.  If this had been one of so many other
prior jobs or schools he had been a part of, by this
time Thomas would have just walked out.  Quit the
situation before the situation quit him.  But this
time it was different.  If he left, he would no longer
have free access to the building again.  And how would
Teresa survive without him to take care of her?  He 
was a man of principle, and he had responsibilities.
A wife to consider.  Calling for monumental sacrifices
on his part.  For her.  So he swallowed his pride, and
did the work that was being forced on him.  For Teresa.
Only for her sake.  Picturing her in his mind, he used
these thoughts of her to get him through the humiliation
of all that had transpired this day.  She was his reason
for living.  Her devotion to him.  Her love.  There were
few constants in life.  Fewer for him.  Teresa was his
one and only absolute.  Thinking of being with her later 
tonight even managed to bring a smile to his face once 
or twice.  Or at least a facsimile thereof. 


She would never betray him.  Never.

************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 10 
************************************************************

Nightmares have the power to enfold the elements of our 
deepest fears, and give them life.  Not always confined so
neatly to the playground recesses of sleep either.  They
have a nasty habit of sometimes escaping into the realms of
our waking world.  When we least expect them.  When we 
are at our most vulnerable.  There is a reason for the
need of the unconscious mind to shout this warning to the 
soul.  Through the portals of our dream state. Danger is 
near, it whispers.  Listen closely.  There is a story to 
be told.  A dire message.  A last safety catch before the
final rude awakening to the true horror that awaits.  In 
this way, fright can serve a useful purpose.  At times.
It reminds us of the fragility of our mortal coils.  The
spark of life that courses through the veins is only
shadow chasing shadow.  A temporary foundation.  One that
can be taken out from under us, without a moment's notice.


The spider lowers itself down over the unsuspecting prey.
Slowly.  And with intent.  It draws nearer and nearer.
The slide of the silken strand allows no noise to signal
its deadly descent.  There are still surprises left to
be found in the web.  It knows them all.


Th prey huddles together.  Waiting.  Thinking they can
outwit the spider with only the weapons of their skill and
a desperate desire for release.  


But the spider is a masterful player of the game.  And
it never follows the rules.

**********************************************************
It was the night of the seventy-fifth day
The beginning of the final hours
**********************************************************

Thomas took the stairs at a dangerous pace.  He was late.
Reaching the bottom, he walked quickly towards the 
ventilation vent.  In a hurry.  Knowing that Teresa was
more than likely awake now.  Probably worried about him.
Wondering where he was, if he was all right.  He didn't
like to cause her unnecessary concern.  The last thing
she needed was anymore burdens to deal with, as if the
cancer wasn't already enough.  He had been encouraged
though of late, as she seemed to be responding more.  He
had noticed that she had regained most of the strength
she had lost over these last months.  And she had stopped
fighting his efforts so much.  There was a return of the
fire in her eyes that had dimmed noticeably for the 
longest time.  For awhile there he wondered if she would
ever return to him completely.


But then she was a strong woman.  She had a reserve of
inner power that would see through most anything.  He 
had always known that.  That was part of why he loved
her.  Had always loved her.  Even during the times when
she hadn't deserved this love.  She was stubborn.  She
didn't always know what path to follow in her own best
interest.  She sometimes needed to be shown the way.
Of course, a lot of it wasn't her own choosing.  Such
as being assigned to the X-Files division.  Everyone
knew that hadn't been her choice.  He couldn't blame
her for that.  Even if it was the cause of most of
her current problems.  She was head-strong.  Didn't 
know when to back out of a no-win situation. 


Thomas had known from the beginning that she would 
never come willingly.  Not at first.  She didn't seem
to remember the past as vividly as he did.  Their
past.  At least she had given no outward perception
of it.  That's when he had realized that before there
could ever be a chance of them being together once 
more, he would have to break her from this spell of
lies she was living.  She didn't deserve that kind
of life.  She wasn't the kind of woman to play second
fiddle to anyone or anything.  Especially when the
primary competition was only an abstract and phantom
ideal.  And someone else's at that.  She should be
showered with attention.  That's what she deserved
most of all.  To be the sole recipient of someone's
all-consuming love.  He held that kind of love for
her.  They shared a bond of the past.  He would make
her remember it.


They had it all once, and now that he had found her
once more, they would have it all again.  Teresa,
was his life.  And now Teresa was getting stronger
everyday, and beginning to understand that every-
thing he was doing, was for her own good.  It
wouldn't be much longer before they could leave
this temporary home forever, and start to build one
of their own together.  Away from the people and
jobs that were slowly corrupting them both.  Soon.
Just the two of them.  As it had once been.  As it
had always been meant to be.


These were the thoughts that had sustained him
through the trying ordeal of a horrible day.  Now 
he was coming home to Teresa, and she would make him
forget everything.  He smiled, thinking this, as he
stopped in front of the vent.


Then frowned slightly.  It was the color that first
caught his eye.  Rust.  That's what it looked like
anyway.  Smudges of rust over the grill of the 
ventilation shaft.  Flaking in places.  He looked
up, studying it.  Reaching and running his hand over
it firmly.  The pads of his fingers came away smeared,
parts of it slightly damp.  He brought it up to his
face.  Smelled it.  Blood.  And now that he looked
at the shape of the stain more closely, he could see
that the impression was of a hand.  A small hand.
A woman's hand.  Which had been covered in blood.
And had, at some point, come in contact with the
outside of the grill.  The outside.


He turned around quickly, looking up and down the
deserted corridors.  Not really knowing what he
had expected to see.  His hand still held out in
front of him, as if it was abhorrent to him.  His
mind tried to process, and then reprocess this
information so that he could somehow come up with
an answer different from the first one that had 
popped into  his brain.  But all avenues of thought
reached the same conclusion.  Teresa.  She....but how?
Why?  She couldn't.  She wouldn't....betray him.  Not
her.  Not now.  Not after all this time.  When they
were finally so close to having it all.  


He walked over and grabbed a chair that was nearby,
propped against the wall.  Pushing it under the vent,
and then standing on it and opening the grill.  He
hoisted himself into the vent, closing the grate
behind him.  Crawling at breakneck speed to reach
the area where Teresa would be waiting for him.  She
*would* be waiting for him, he kept telling himself.
She would.  Coming out of the shaft, he propelled
himself through the opening.  Standing, he was met
only with an empty cot.  He crossed over and lit the
kerosene lamp that was sitting on top of a small
overturned crate.  The matches next to it.  Once it
was bright enough, he went over to the cot.


He could see the blood.  Spotting the sheets and
pillowcase.  The steel circle rings of both sets of
handcuffs hanging limply against the bedposts.  The
cuffs still closed on both ends of each one.  Somehow
she had managed to get her hands through the bands
of the handcuffs, which would explain the blood.  It
reminded him of what he had heard of animals caught
in a trap going to extreme lengths, even self-mutila-
tion to escape.  But it didn't make any sense.  Not
to him.  Teresa hadn't been caught in a trap.  If
anything, it was the complete opposite.  He had been
the one to set her free.  From the lies she had been
living.  The mistaken choices she was making that
were putting her health and life in constant danger.
He had been the one to save her from herself.  He
had gone to all this trouble to give her back her
true identity, and this was the way she repaid him
for his efforts.  For his love.  By betrayal?


He dropped angrily on the cot, taking the ends of
both cuffs into his hands.  Rattling them.  Shaking
them savagely against the metal of the posts.  
Imagining her there.  Still there.  He would have
crushed her tender skin within his hands if she had
been there, underneath him.  Just as he now did
with his fingers as they convulsed tightly in a
death-grip around the metal.  Furious and spent he
finally stood, ripping the tangled, bloody sheets
and throwing them to the floor.  He would find her
again.  Teresa.  And she would be punished.  She
would pay for her transgressions.  


He moved towards the direction of the vent, bending
his body and entering it.  Raging.  His mind
whirling, trying to sort through the confusion
and haze of emotions swirling through amid his
disjointed thoughts.  He moved through the passage,
by route, without realization of his journey.  His
body geared upon the familiar path, seeming to know
the way on its own.  Just before he reached the
opening, he stopped suddenly.  Distracted.


He listened carefully.  And then heard it again.  It
sounded muffled, like a soft noise.  Like a whisper.
A hushed voice.  It echoed quietly through the vent,
from one of the T-branches that transverse the
ventilation shaft.  Repeating, almost at timed 
intervals.  Joined sometimes by another, that over-
lapped it.  Melding together, and becoming one.
He turned towards the sound, leaning up against the
cramped wall, as he maneuvered his body around in
the direction it was originating from.  He started
crawling, following the sound map as it beckoned
him.  Turning a corner.  Then another.  Until he had
figured out where it was originating from.  The
bathroom.  


As he neared, he lowered himself to his stomach,
sliding his body silently along the cold metal floor
of the shaft.  He came to a stop just before the
tiny grid grate that looked down into the bathroom
itself.  Pulling himself up unto his elbows, hands
splayed out on either side.  He looked down through
the small mesh screen.  And saw them.  Together.


Teresa and Mulder.


The sound of running water was the only one that 
was issuing forth anymore.  They stood in front of
the sink.  Both of them facing the mirror, their
hands joined together under the water, with Mulder
standing close behind Teresa.  They were so still.
So quiet.  Almost reverent.  As if caught within the
magic of some spell.  Thomas' heart started to race
watching them.  But he was powerless to break his
observation of them, caught under the same spell it
seemed.


After a moment they broke from their frozen stances,
as Mulder moved his hand up along Teresa's arm.  Then
she was turning around to face him.  Thomas' eyes
widened in outrage as they came together in a kiss.
Then another.  Deeper this time.  Mulder lifted her
unto the counter, and then she grabbed the bottom of
his shirt, pulling it off of him.  Thomas closed his
eyes tightly for a moment.  Shaking with the intense
fury that wracked his body.  When he opened them again,
Mulder was working on lowering Teresa's sweat pants from
her body.  And she was helping him.  The vent was now
filled with the muted sounds of their shared excite-
ment.  Labored breaths, and half-gasps.  Moans of
pleasure.  


Thomas couldn't watch anymore.  He turned away finally,
moving quietly from the grate.  Unable to witness his
wife, his Teresa, complete this final act of ultimate
betrayal against him.  He started crawling away, trying
to block out the sounds that followed him.  He wanted
to kill them.  Both of them.  They would die together.
This would be the first and last they would ever know
together.  Nothing else mattered.  He was tired of 
everything.  He was tired of the world constantly
beating him down.  Taking away everything from him 
that had ever mattered in his life.  His career was
finished, based on the events of this afternoon.  His
boss had made it quite clear that his days were now
numbered.  And now Teresa.  She had just killed all the
rest that counted for anything.  Her and Mulder.


He shook his head, still unbelieving.  He had heard
the gossip about them.  The bets wagered about just
how close their partnership really went.  But Thomas
had been there from the beginning.  From the first day
Teresa had walked into the FBI building, under the
clever disguise of Agent Dana Scully.  A disguise
she hadn't even been aware she was wearing.  But he
had known it.  He had followed her life and work ever
since.  Both of them.  Being a communications expert,
and working in the same building, it had been almost
too easy.  They were gone from the office more than
they were present.  And he was used to having pretty
much free access, going from department to department
spreading his communication knowledge and skill.  


The hidden microphones.  The tapes.  The videos.  He
had used them all.  He had been watching them both
for a long time.  Studying them.  Learning.  Biding
his time.  Yet before this night, he would have said
with absolute certainty that they were just close
friends.  He had never been jealous of Mulder.  She
obviously wasn't interested in him romantically or
any other man.  Had no boyfriend.  Another reason
for his continuing belief that she was his Teresa,
just waiting for him to take her back home, and
remind her of who she really was.  Everything had
just fallen into place.  


Until tonight.  When everything had fallen apart.
He moved quickly now, with purpose.  Following the
labyrinth of the ventilation shaft until he arrived
at the other end of the floor.  Where there was
another room, much like the one that Teresa had been
living in.  Except this one was his.  He had stumbled
onto these little spaces by accident.  Happened to 
get a look at the schematics of the entire building
when renovations where being made to several of 
the floors a few years back.  Any thoughts of upgrading 
office space involved close contact with someone of 
Thomas' skills.  Before the construction began, each 
department had to be planned and outlined with the 
proper wiring necessary for all those age of technology 
wonders, computers and faxes and such. He had seen
the redundant space on the plans.  Not much, but 
enough to suit his purposes.  He had added this
bit of information to his ever expanding store of
knowledge.  


One night, he had made his first trip into the
ventilation shaft to check it out.  Thinking he 
might use it to set-up an elaborate wire-tapping
system over Mulder's office.  While doing that he
had realized exactly the gold mine he had stumbled
onto.  So, he began to set up shop.  Piece by piece,
he brought more and more things into them.  Building
himself a home.  Then he worked on the final plans
to bring Teresa here someday.  They would never think
to look for her right under their own noses.  And it
would give him the time he needed to convince her
of her real identity.  Plus the benefit of having her
so close by during the day.  It comforted him.  Like
a secret joy.


He had heard their argument that night.  The angry
way they had parted.  Something just told him this
was the right time.  And without thinking twice he
started the ball rolling.  The tape, removing the
evidence of their struggle that night in the lobby,
had been a risk.  But he had managed to get it covered
in time.  


Once Teresa was safely tucked away, he pretty much
stopped going home anymore.  At first out of a necessity
needing to check her medication and condition.  He 
would just take cat naps in his own little space.
Just down the hall.  It was pretty comfortable actually.
And it had everything he could ever need.  He preferred
it to his own home.  Having Teresa so near, most 
especially.  24 hours a day.  He had been a very happy
man during this period.  Until now.  Until tonight.
Now, he had nothing left to lose.  No wife.  No career.
Only an overwhelming desire for revenge.  And death.


Theirs.  And then his own.


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


They had been holding each other quietly.  Recovering.  
Scully still perched on the counter.  Mulder leaning 
heavily against her body.  Wrapped tightly within each 
other's embrace.  Their skin touching at every point 
possible.  As if they could not get enough of each other.  
Not ready to let go.  Maybe never.  Her chin laying on 
his shoulder, next to his cheek.  Both of them, still 
unable to say anything.  They were both trembling slightly.  
>From the startling realization of what it was they had just 
done, and where.  As well as the intense feelings that were 
still overwhelming them both.  The fact that they were 
finally able to touch each other now, after being kept 
apart for so very long.


The intensity with which they had come together.  The
way that they had desperately needed to touch each other.
Make love.  Assure each other that this was a truth,
and not just another layered lie.  It had been a need.
A need such as she had never possessed before.  She
couldn't recall ever feeling that out of control in her
entire life.  Not her.  Not Scully.  Sensible Scully.
Not even with everything that had happened with Ed Jerse.
All that madness that she had thought at the time had
meant so much.  That had been child's play compared to
this.  


Now she couldn't help but wonder if she had really felt
anything to its fullest potential at all before meeting
Fox Mulder.  She could almost believe now that she had
never even breathed until four years ago.  And if she
had, well, she had never truly appreciated it until
today.  She could feel the quick beating of his heart
now as it echoed the thundering pace of her own.  He
was moving his hands up and down over her back.  Rubbing
her skin lightly.  Caressing.  Sighing softly against
her ear.  She knew he was still trying to reconcile
himself to the fact that she was once again here with
him.  That she had just been with him.


She could feel a slight involuntary blush creeping into
her face, and down the length of her body.  She wondered
if he was looking at the tattoo right now.  She almost
wanted to laugh, that she should blush now, over a
tattoo, after what they had just done.  She couldn't
believe that they had both lost control like that.
Not that she was sorry that they had made love, because
she wasn't, and would never be.  But the way it had
happened.  Like a dream.  A beautiful dream.  And it
had felt so right.  Nothing else had mattered.  Nothing.
She could have no more stopped it from happening...here
...now...than she could hope to still the rapid beat of
his heart, that was pounding so strongly against her
chest.  


It hadn't been smart or appropriate, of course.  Most
certainly.  And dangerous too, knowing what was still
out there waiting for them.  All this she knew.  But
it had been necessary.  For them.  Yet they were not
going to be able to stop and enjoy this moment they
had just had, or begin the building of what would come
next.  There was no time.  As always there were outside
forces that they must deal with first before they could
rest.  Or think.  Or forgive.  Or love each other fully.
Would that ever change?  


She pulled back from him slightly, wanting to see his
face.  Remind him about the threat that they still faced.



It was then the lights had gone out.  Plunging them
into a complete darkness.  She had pulled him closer
to her.  Tight.  As if she was afraid for a moment they
would be pried apart once more in the blackness that
surrounded them.  She leaned next to his ear, her 
breath escaping in warm puffs.


"Oh God, Mulder", she hissed, "it's Thomas."


Their time had just run out.  Completely.  They separated
quickly, and for just a moment it seemed as if they had
lost something.  It felt like that.  To both of them.
He bent down to the floor, reaching out in a half circle
trying to search for their clothes.  He kept one hand on
her knee, as if afraid they would somehow lose contact
in the dark, if they didn't keep each other in close
proximity.  She felt her sweatpants being bunched into
her hands.  Then her panties and shirt.  She slid off 
the counter and began to pull them on.  Mulder's voice
drifted over to her from close-by.


"Tell me what you know Scully", he whispered, his voice
slightly muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head.


"He's an FBI employee.  He works in communications.  He
believes I'm his missing wife Teresa.  He's deranged,
but he's intelligent Mulder, and he knows this building
inside and out.  I've been here the whole time.  Just
hidden."


"Is he armed?", he asked her.  


His voice had come from the floor where Mulder was pulling
on his tennis shoes.  Scully had no shoes.  Unconsciously,
she lowered her head towards the floor where he was seated,
even though she couldn't see him.  "He has my gun.  And
even though I've never seen any others, I think he may
have other weapons.  He always carries a syringe too Mulder.
I got away once and he injected me with one.  He's kept me
pretty much completely drugged this whole time.  He's 
never without it.  Do you have your gun?", she asked him.


"It's in the office.  I was on my way there when....", he
trailed off, as they both remembered the emotion of their
earlier reunion.  She gave a short gasp as she suddenly
felt his arm encircle her waist in the dark, pulling her
up against his chest.  He held her for a moment, as her
arms came up around his neck.  "Scully, we'll get out of
here.  He's just one person.  All we need to do is make
it to a phone, call the security guard, or the police.
It's a big building."


She shook her head, he could feel the vibration of her face
as it grazed his own.  "A big dark building Mulder, one he 
knows like the back of his hand.  Even in the dark.  Also,
we one, have no weapons, and two, don't know for sure 
where he is.  This place is like a labyrinth to him.  He
creeps in and out of the crawlspaces and vents.  Where do
you think I've been all this time?  If he can hide me 
this long, without anyone even suspecting, what's to keep
him from getting the drop on us now?  In the dark like this
we're just sitting ducks.  We're.....", she suddenly stopped
talking.


Mulder tightened his hold on her waist instinctively.
"What is it Scully?", he asked her in a hushed whisper.


"Mulder, the only way he could have cut the power to the
entire basement floor, without the emergency back-ups
automatically coming on, is via the main floor communications
room.  It houses the master power relays for this entire
building.  Every floor.  Every room."


"So?", he wondered.


"So, he's probably still there now.  Taking out the phone
systems.  Computers.  The security systems.  Everything
that we could possibly use to get a call out for assistance.
It will take a little time at the very least for him to
complete those cuts.  We need to take advantage of his
own intelligence.  This whole thing has been a game for
him.  Hiding me in plain sight.  In the last place any-
one would think of looking for me."


"What are you saying Scully?"


"I think we should turn the tables on him.  We should go
into the vents.  Back to where he's been keeping me all
this time.  At the very least it might give us some time
until we can think of a better plan."


"Scully, you're talking about going straight back into the
lair of the very beast we're trying to escape from."


"Hide in plain sight Mulder.  I think it's the best chance
we have to beat him at his own game."


**********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 11
**********************************************************

It's considered to be the oldest of the time-dishonored
conflicts.  And sadly, the one most repeated over the 
course of history.  Good against evil.  Reason against
insanity.  Tonight, it teases the wind with the sure 
promise of blood about to be spilled.  Draped against the
darkness of night and fear.  One runs, while the other
gives chase.  At times the order reversed, and the 
players interchangeable.  To survive in his world, they
must resort to desperate levels in order to persevere.  
As they are maneuvered through their paces, step by step, 
led by their boneless limbs, of the sawdust marionettes
they have been reduced to.  The invisible controlling
strings attached in strategic places to their helpless
pliable doll bodies.  Held by ones on high, who only
laugh at their anguish and misery, as they move franti-
cally through the maze.  


Pulling.  And pushing.  Away from all that they know.  
Towards all that is madness.  The whispered shrieks of 
suffering.  The unredemptive pain of the cursed.  To a 
place where there is no comfort to be found in the belief 
that what waits for them outside, just beyond its reach, 
will stay there.  It doesn't.  Because it no longer cares 
for the niceties of order.  It never did, only illusion.  
It ignores the carefully drawn lines between heaven and hell.  
This nightmare.  It is loose among the lambs, and it hungers
for the flesh.


The web is still.  Deserted.  The hair-thin ropes only
tremble and shake, almost imperceptibly, with an
anticipation of the mysteries of night.  No perceptible
movement.  No heard sound.  No spider.  No prey.  Just
the darkness.  The quiet though is only deception.  As
all the players are in place.


They hide.  They seek.  Each from the other.  Inside
the boundaries of the web, as all crave resolution to
the final game.  One way or another.  It has come.


Despite the complexities of thought and reason, the
belief we have in the foundations of our civilization,
it still comes down to the very simplest equation.


The need to kill, struggling for a last domain over
the will to survive.


*************************************************************
It was the night of the seventy-fifth day
Approaching the midnight hour
*************************************************************


Thomas looked down objectively at the man he had just killed.
Without the shackles of feelings or remorse.  Without giving
thought to the life connections he had just severed, along
with the jugular.  This man whose lifeblood was spilling out
at an alarming rate, had once had a family.  Thoughts of the
past.  Dreams for a future.  A loving wife, his high school
sweetheart; they had been married on her 18th birthday.  
Children, who would never again excitedly hear the approach
of their father's car coming home from a hard night's work.
He would never again pick up his son and daughter as they
ran to meet him, squealing out in delight as he tickled
them relentlessly in his arms.  A father who would never
be allowed the honor of walking his daughter down the aisle
on her wedding day.  Or to see either of them embark on the
decisions of their career choices, their lives just beginn-
ing.  To be able to enjoy the final earned fruits of a 
lifetime of responsibilities and labors, as he and his wife
would finally begin to live a life of leisure upon their
retirement.  These things would never be his, or his 
family's.  No more.  


He had only been thirty-two, but now there would never be
another birthday to mark with its passing.  Just another
unfortunate victim of Thomas Henchell's delusions.  One
circle colliding with another.  Fate.  In the wrong place
at the wrong time.  His life, from the first day, spinning
out on a perilous track with one man's dementia.  Thomas
knelt down next to the security guard's body.  He had tried
to interfere with his plans.  Reason enough for murder in
his mind.  Although in truth, no reason was needed at this
point.  He had questioned his need to have to gain access
to the Communications Room at this hour.  Without a written
work order, or prior verbal approval having made its way
down the chain of command to his station.  He was just an
honorable man, trying to do his job.  A low-paying, often
unrecognized one at that.  But this was the proper 
procedure he had been trying to explain to Thomas.  And
procedures had to be followed, despite the fact that 
Thomas was a frequently known night worker, burning the
midnight oil on many occasions.  His face recognized on
sight by the entire ever-changing security staff.  Seen,
but not really known.  


He wasn't the kind of person that took the time to chit-
chat with the night guard on duty, as some did.  Not even
a polite 'hello' or 'good-bye', as he passed during his
frequent comings and goings.  Usually just a glaring look,
and a mumbled sneer as he walked by.  Despite all this,
the guard had approached him in a civilized manner.  
Never once raising his voice above a reasoning tone.  Even
while Thomas ranted and raved in ever-growing volumes.
His face changing hues, becoming red and angry.  Flushed
and sweaty.  His words declining into obscenities, the
order of them making no sense whatsoever.  He kept talking
about betrayal, and a final justice for all the humiliations
that had been inflicted upon him.  He had a right to take
this recourse.  Thomas had continued shouting, his eyes
growing out of focus and glazed.  This needed decision
reached, he proclaimed, because of *their* transgressions.
All of this spouted with an obvious hate and insanity that
was now as visible to the guard as was his growing unease.
The situation was quickly working to sound-off the alarms 
bells of his survival instinct and training.  But just a
moment too late.


He had reached for his holstered gun just one second after
Thomas had pulled his knife.  Just one second too late to
save his own life.  


Now Thomas lifted the edge of the guard's jacket.  Wiping
the blood off the knife in slow, steady up and down strokes.
It came off in crimson ribbons, staining across the material.
He considered his handiwork.  Absently.  Recognizing his
actions, but standing apart from them.  Steel through flesh.
It hadn't been as unyielding a barrier as he would have
ever thought.  And there had been more blood than he would
have imagined was possible, but that was okay.  He didn't
mind blood. Just like hate, blood served its purpose.  He
took the guard's master keys, and gun.  Smashing the walkie-
talkie's usefulness underneath the heels of his shoes.  He
considered moving the guard's body to a less conspicuous
place, but in the end decided that it really didn't matter.
No one would arrive until morning.  By then, those left 
inside the FBI building would be dead.  Including himself.
Why expend his energy on a meaningless endeavor?  Not when
there was still so much left to be done.


With a final acquiesce to his own brilliance, bowing to
the wisdom of his justifications, he moved towards the
Communications Room to execute his plans.  Once inside,
he was greeted warmly with the omnipresent hum and flick-
ering lights of red and green that spoke to him in a
language he understood.  Finally, reason amid chaos.  This
was a world that made sense to him, that never failed to
deliver on its promises.  One which was without the threat
of betrayals.  He was never disappointed in technology.
It worked when it was supposed to, or failed when necessary.
No in betweens here.  It didn't turn on the whims of emotion 
or chance, the way humans did.  He ran a caressing hand 
lovingly over cool metal, and sterilized machinery.  The 
heart of the building lay here.  Beating.  For now, at least.  
For as long as he deigned to give it life.  It went unnoticed
mostly by the occupants, until there was a problem.  And then 
he would come, the God of Order, to lay upon his hands and
heal.  He possessed that power.  That knowledge.  And
tonight he would use every trick in his kingdom to bring
Teresa and Mulder down to their very knees.  


He moved towards the power conduits that controlled the
lights and emergency back-ups.  One meant to fill in 
for the other in the event of an emergency.  But all 
this was on the principle that the threat would come 
from outside.  Not from within.  Not from one of their
own.  The fools.  He began the applications that would
deactivate them both.  He smiled smugly as he went about
his work, thinking only of the exquisite moment of 
capture.  Once he had them in the sight-range of his
virtually computerized rifle, he would make them pay
before they died.  They owed him the screams of suffer-
ing he would tear from their throats before the night
was over. Just before he watched them die.

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

One floor below, Mulder and Scully had exited the
bathroom cautiously.  Moving slowly.  Quietly.  Without
the added benefit of their sense of sight.  Even after
their eyes had become adjusted to the dark, they could
barely make out their hands in front of their faces.
They inched along the wall, flattened against its
surface, heading in the direction of Mulder's office.
Touching fingertips lightly, in order to keep the other
within range. 


The building had never seemed more ominous, or quiet and
still.  The loss felt of normal sounds that would usually 
only be taken for granted.  Such as the soft whir of the
centralized air, circulating throughout the building.
Or the covering white noise used in a lot of modern
buildings in order to divert attention from the usual
distractions of office machinery and voices in motion.
All gone.  And so conspicuous in their absence.  The
lack of circulated air also serving to bring a beginning
uncomfortable heat for them to bear as well.  This time
of year, even the nights failed to bring much respite
from the staggering humidity of D.C.  Once they had made
the move into the vents, this heat would triple in force.


The air felt heavy around them.  From the heat, as well
as from the feeling of tension knowing that in the dark 
somewhere, there loomed a madman.  Unseen.  They had
decided to risk going for Mulder's gun before entering
the vents.  They were trying to move quickly in the dark,
knowing time was of the essence, but it was difficult to
move any faster than the slow walk they had settled on.
Finally, reaching the door, Mulder removed his keys from
the pockets of his sweat pants.  Scully ears followed his
movements, the tinkling of key on key as they moved over
the ring.  While at the same time, straining to pick up
any sound that would alert them to Thomas' approach.
She could hear Mulder's actions, searching for the feel
of the right key that would fit the lock.  After a 
moment, when his repeated attempts would each end only on
a frustrated muted curse, he finally spoke.  Breaking the
unnatural silence.


"Scully, he's broken something off in the keyhole.  I
can feel it with my finger.  Some kind of metal.  The
key won't go into the door", he said, his voice edged
with anger.  Scully nodded her head in the darkness.  She
wasn't surprised.


"I told you he was intelligent Mulder.  He knew we'd
probably come here first once the lights had been turned
off."


Mulder's hand came down in a brushing contact with her
shoulder, sliding down to grasp her hand.  She squeezed
back in a gesture of comforting solidarity.  


"We need to move into the vents Mulder.  Now."


"What about the elevators?  Maybe we could hide from him
on one of the upper floors.  Stall for time."


"No, I don't think that's a good idea.  If he hasn't
already sabotaged the elevator system, I don't want to
risk being caught in one of them when he does.  He
can monitor the movement of the elevators from the
Communications Room.  And besides that, the doors would
all be locked.  We'd only be able to move about in the
corridors of whatever floor we would end up on."  She
hesitated a moment before going on.  "What worries me
the most is that he's already gotten into the Communica-
tions Room, and managed to turn off the lights.  He 
couldn't have gotten past the security guard without
detection.  I think Thomas has reached his final break
with reality.  He has nothing left to lose.  Especially
since he's realized I've escaped.  He's capable of murder
Mulder, I have no doubt of this."  She moved out from
the wall, pulling on his hand to follow her.  "The vents
Mulder, it's now or never.  He'll be here soon."  


Mulder moved in her direction, but then veered off,
letting go of her hand in the dark.  It filled her with
a sudden unexpected feeling of being totally alone.
Abandoned.  Again.  Followed closely by anger.


"Mulder", she called out softly, "dammit, where are you?"
She could hear a soft scraping noise, along the opposite
wall in the darkness that surrounded her.  Her eyes
straining to follow the sounds in the pitch blackness.
It sounded like metal on metal, and the soft shatter
of breaking glass, and then more metal noises.  She moved
forward, her arms straight in front of her, waving in
ungainly arcs, trying to find the solid barrier of the
opposite wall.  This, or the feel of a human body.  She
bumped up against him suddenly, returning to her.  They
both gasped in surprise, as he held unto her shoulders
for balance.  She reached out, grabbing the collar of 
his shirt, wrapping a piece around the fingers of her
hand.


"Mulder, dammit, this isn't the time to start ditching
me again.  I'm exhausted, still partly drugged, and
running on empty.  I've been locked up for months in a
one-room hell, run by a demented prick who thinks I'm
his significant other.  The only highlight of this
nightmare has been some incredible sex in a bathroom
with a partner I could right now strangle for his asinine
fault of always leaving me behind when it counts the
most.  I don't have the time or the inclination to 
baby-sit your wild goose chases in the dark tonight.
This one is going down together, or not at all.  Is
that clearly understood?", her voice was lowered 
throughout her speech, laced with her ever present
control, but it was edged with an unmistakable threat.


There was silence for a moment before she felt his
cheek brushing up next to hers, the stubble scratching
some, but filling her overwhelmingly with the warmth of
his scent.  Pulling her close, almost crushing her hand
between them which still held unto a fistful of material
from his T-shirt.


"Did I tell you how wonderful it is to have you back
Scully?", he whispered into her ear.


She wanted to kick him, but instead found herself 
returning his embrace.  "That's the sex talking 
Mulder.  You're still an asshole", she murmured.
She could feel his mouth turning up into a smile
against the side of her face.


"It was incredible, wasn't it Scully?", he said, 
without giving her time to reply before continuing.
"I was pulling the fire alarm switch.  I thought
maybe....", he faltered, "....but it seems as if
Thomas has thought of everything.  Lead on Scully,
you're in charge.  I won't walk away again.  I've
learned my lesson".


Although it wasn't spelled out as such, they both
knew he was talking about more than just the events
of this night.

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

They felt almost as if they were being burned alive.  It 
was the equivalent of crawling in an open oven.  The heat
had been building its intensity ever since Thomas had cut-
off the power from the air circulation and conditioning.
The silver metal walls that encapsulated them on all sides,
as well as the confined space, were serving to conduct
the heat to ever more stifling proportions.  They had 
barely gone more than a few yards into the vent's gaping
mouth before they were both breathing heavily, and sweat
was pouring off of their bodies in rivulets.


The darkness was almost alive.  The slightest sound, 
coupled with two imaginations set on the very edge of
sensitivity, caused them to jump at every creak and groan
in the structure itself.  Scully had taken the lead, 
followed close on her heels by Mulder.  They had seen
the light glowing faintly from the far end of the first
juncture they had come upon.  That was the area she had
been held in all this time she had explained to Mulder,
pointing over towards the light.  The area above his
office.  The faint beam of light gave her a flickering
view of his face, at it registered for the first time
just how very close she had actually been all this
time.  A combination of guilt and a self-given sense
of stupidity for not having figured out the answer
long before now crossed his features.  She could still
read him like a book.  She smiled slightly, placing
her hand next to his cheek, forcing his gaze away from
the room and towards her.  "Mulder", she said.  It
was all she needed to say.  He nodded.  They had 
always been able to communicate without the necessity
of words.  Sometimes words had even been responsible
for their greatest misunderstandings.


They moved on, deciding to leave the kerosene lamp
in the room.  The benefit of using it to guide their
way, would be double-edged.  Thomas, if he should
return to the vents, would be alerted immediately
by the absence of light where it should be, and 
would use it to follow their trail too easily.  
Scully's heart was doing a double beat.  They had
passed the area of her knowledge as far as what
lay ahead.  Thomas had kept her limited to the path
which led from the room to the grate that opened
unto the hall leading to the bathroom.  But she 
knew he had other carefully mapped routes in here.
She had gotten used to using her other senses to
their utmost benefits.  Her ears, always straining,
while her body remained locked in place.  Following
the sounds of his sliding knees as they came down,
one after the other.  After a time she could tell
exactly when he reached the T-juncture.  The slight
hesitation that always followed.  And then the
minuscule differentiation of the muffled rebounding
echoes, telling her whether he had gone to the
right or left.  


The right meant he was going to the grate she was
familiar with.  The left meant something else
altogether.  But she was sure of one thing with 
these observations.  He had to be going somewhere
when he turned to the left.  There had to be
another way out of here.  Other rooms possibly
too, where he might be storing his weapons.  She
was convinced that their safety lay in finding 
one or the other.  Plus the fact that Thomas
wouldn't be expecting them to return to the vent
itself.  But despite her own bravado, voiced so
emphatically to Mulder earlier, it was hell for 
her to be back inside these walls.  The claustro-
phobia threatening full force, the fear of being
restrained once more.  But they were so close.
So very close.  She hadn't felt this much hope
in a long time.  She refused to give up now and
just wait for Thomas to find them.  They were
together again, always their greatest weapon.
They had faced worse than this human monster, 
and they would beat him at his own game.


They continued moving forward, leaving the glow
of the kerosene lamp behind them, fading finally
into a tiny dot on a distant horizon.  Then gone.
Only a complete blackness once again.  It was
almost palpable, surrounding them and filling in
the spaces.  They had agreed to keep words down
to a minimum.  In the event they should miss the
approach of Thomas.  She felt Mulder tug slightly
at her foot, the signal to stop for a moment.  She
leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, trying
to catch her breath.  Brushing her hand across her
face, dripping with sweat.  It was like crawling
in an inferno.  A hell.  So hot.  It was even
getting difficult to breathe at all.


She felt Mulder's shoulder's leaning against her
own on the wall.  The ragged lifting of his chest
up and down, as he too tried to catch his breath.
Scully leaned in close to him, whispering low.


"We need to keep going in this direction.  The other
way is your office.  It's at the end of the floor.
It dead ends there.  We have to move towards the 
other side of the building."


"I agree, when we get to the next T-junction, we 
should stay to the right for now", he answered her.


With an unspoken agreement, they both pushed off 
the wall at the same time, and began to move once
more.

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

Thomas slowly made his way down the staircase.
Confident that he would not run into either Teresa
or Mulder on the steps as he descended.  The doors
opening out from the other floors were only accessible
from the outside.  Once inside the staircase, the 
doors closed behind you, they were automatically locked.
And he alone now possessed the keys.  He also had a
flashlight, taken from the security guard, but he
didn't use it now.  Not yet.  This pathway was too
familiar, he could transverse it in the dark quite
easily.  And he didn't want to alert them.  Not just
yet.  


They would have gone to Mulder's office first.  He
smiled at his own cleverness, and finding it 
inaccessible, would have had to make another choice.
The elevators?  He had taken care of them.  Keyed
them so that they were inoperable, sitting now like
extinct dinosaurs on the lobby floor.  Their mouths
standing wide open and useless.  He had waited awhile
before doing this, hoping they would make a break
for them, as it would have been so easy to take them
then.  Both of them locked into a primitive box, like
rabbits caught with the old-fashioned crate, stick,
and tempting carrot.  The pull-string triggered
behind them as they entered.  Never seeing the lid
close so quickly on their own coffins.  That would
have been sweet.  But they hadn't.  What next?  They
could still be in the bathroom.  Not likely, but he
couldn't chance not investigating.  


He moved cautiously.  Feeling like a big game hunter
on safari.  He smiled at the comparison.  Shouldering
his way quietly into the bathroom, letting the door
close behind him softly under its own power.  His
gun raised in front of him, the other hand clicking
on the flashlight for the first time.  He checked
each stall carefully.  First underneath, and then
pushing the doors open, one by one.  This done, and
confident that they weren't inside, he exited.  Moving
onto the neighboring bathroom, and repeating his 
actions.  They weren't here.  


He stopped, considering their options.  Trying to get
into their minds.  He turned for a moment, catching
his reflection in the mirror.  And then seeing super-
imposed over this, the ghost images of Teresa and
Mulder in the throes of passion and betrayal.  The
jezebel act he had witnessed with his own eyes.  He
could feel the outrage resurfacing once more.  The
need for revenge.  Re-energized with these thoughts,
he was about to turn and leave, when he heard a noise.


Soft.  Almost lost, but he was quite positive he had
heard it.  Then another.  Repeating.  He lifted his
head slowly.  Upwards.  Towards the ceiling.  And 
heard it again.  He practically laughed.  Oh, they
were brazen, these two, he thought.  In his vents.
Not as easy as it would have been had they gone to 
the elevators, but this new development was certainly
ripe with possibilities.

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

Scully was the first to feel it.  The knees of her
sweat pants almost thread-bare from the many trips
she had taken through the vents with Thomas each
night.  It was more than just a warmth she felt
coming through the material now.  From the confines
of the unventilated shaft.  This was a heat.  A
concentrated heat.  She stopped for a moment.  
Mulder bumping into her unceremoniously from
behind as she came to a sudden halt.  She laid her
hands down carefully on the metal surface underneath
her.  Willing her heart to slow, trying to objectively
work through her first initial panic.  It was hot.
Too hot.  And it was getting hotter by the second.
She turned quickly, her hands splaying out frantically
on the side walls, and then the ceiling.  Confirming
her dire suspicions in full.  They were all hot.


"God Mulder, he's turned on the heat.  We have to get
out of here.  Now!"


He had reached the same conclusions.  As one they both
turned back in the direction they had just come from.
Mulder in the lead now.  It was their only recourse.
If they went any further into the shaft, not knowing
where the tunnels led, they could become hopelessly
lost.  Their only hope was to try and get back to the
grate from which they had entered, before the heat
became unbearable.  Moving with desperate speed now,
thoughts of being quiet and keeping a careful pace
forgotten as they sped through the tunnel.  Trying
to outrun insanity.

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

Thomas watched the monitor in front of him carefully,
the numbers marked off in Celsius.  Growing higher 
and higher.  Mounting.  Going past levels ever meant
to be used in connection with the comfort of the
employees it housed in this building.  Within its
computerized embrace.  He keyed in the strokes, one
by one, overriding each safety warning as it was
displayed.  Blinking, red, and in large capital
letters.  He erased them, barely giving time for
them to be read at all.  He knew what they were saying,
warning him of the long-term implications of continu-
ing on with these strange commands.  His fingers flew
across the keyboard, as he laughed out loud.

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

They had reached the grate.  Mulder pulled his feet
up, and then punched them out savagely against it.
It didn't budge.  He tried again.  Harder.  Nothing.
Scully came up beside him, leaning against the 
pressure point that should have popped the hinge.
It wouldn't open.  


"He's blocked it."


They were past being just uncomfortable.  Their skin
was reddened at the points where it came into direct
contact with the metal of the vent.  It was hurting.
They both were shifting constantly now, trying to
remove one appendage from contact before becoming
too painful to bear, and then replacing it with another.
Soon, even this would be folly.  They were being roasted
alive.


Mulder brushed past her, grabbing her arm.  Moving 
back, away from the grate, back the way they had
just come.  She followed him blindly.  Completely
in the dark, both literally and figuratively.  He
didn't turn at the opening that would have taken
them to the room over his office.  This was a logic
she agreed with.  Yes, it would temporarily take 
them out of the danger of the burning heat.  But
once again, they would be sitting ducks.  No way
out.  Thomas could pick them off at his leisure.
She wanted to ask Mulder where he was heading towards.
But there wasn't time.  And she had no better ideas
at the moment anyway.  


He stopped finally, wincing at the intense heat
searing his hands where he had used them to crawl
forward.  There were over a small vent.  Above the
bathroom.  They had passed it earlier.  He ripped his
T-shirt over his head, wrapping it around his hands,
he began to beat against the vent.  Smashing his fists
down with such a force she was afraid he might break
the bones in his hands.  Seeing his intent, she 
wriggled around, bringing her legs out in front of her,
and began kicking at the vent from her side.  Helping
him to break it open.  Her back, wedged against the
side wall for leverage.  Burning agonizingly through
to her skin underneath her shirt.  She gritted her
teeth, whimpering softly from the pain.  But ignoring
it, and only pushing against it harder.  They were
making a lot of noise.  And it seemed little progress.


When suddenly, Mulder's hand broke through at one
corner.  He stumbled forward, and then quickly pulled
back.  With this little encouragement, they both
worked together, on the same spot, concentrating on
widening the small opening further.  


"Oh shit!", Mulder yelled, unable to stand the burning
underneath his legs any longer.  He hadn't moved from
that same spot since they had begun.  His legs were on
fire, the skin almost to the point of blistering.  
Scully's eyes were filling with hazy tears, and clogging
sweat was stinging her face.  Her lungs, as well as
Mulder's, were working double-time, trying to give them
air through the intense physical activity, and the 
restrictive closure of their throats.  Gagging now
with the oppressive heat.  


There was a loud cracking noise that reverberated
throughout the entire shaft.  Oblivious, they just
kept pounding.  Kicking.  Desperate to escape the hell
fire and intense pain.  In one moment, their combined
weight, coupled with their efforts to break through,
came together.  Too much.  The expanse of the metal 
vent they were in gave way.  Falling away from the
ceiling with them still inside.  The noise was deafening.
Metal scraping.  Concrete crumbling.  Supports bending.


They fell to the floor below, in a massive cloud of
expanding dust.

**********************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 12
**********************************************************

One life offered, unselfishly, for another.  One 
heart left perhaps to live a day longer, while 
another may lose its beat forever.  This one soul 
now lost and left behind, to exist once more in the 
not always gilded trappings of its earth-bound 
existence.  Until its final time is wagered, as it 
waits the last moments to be reunited with its mate.  
There is no finer duty to be tested than this, in 
what is surely the deepest devotion of a pure love.  
These sacrifices, made in the true and ultimate 
'Gift of the Magi' traditions.  But the losses are 
different.  Played for keeps, in a grown-up world.  
But not always with grown-up rules.  Or sporting 
chances.  


Not hair, but breath. Not a watch, but life.  Though 
still monumental in the same abstract way, but only 
when these sacrifices are made willingly, without 
strings or motives, straight from the caring heart.  
Only out of the intimate absolution that there is no 
purpose of life, certainly no substance, when judged 
by the one who must go on without the touch of the other.  
In that context, of the lonely and bereft, there is no 
meaning now left, not to anything, unless it can be 
shared between the two. 

 
All adversities suffered, all roads taken, all mis-
fortunes given, all these forays into past and future,
only made bearable because of the other.  The telling
day they are made to part forever, will be the day each 
will discover that there is nothing of value left to fight 
for anymore, in this noble crusade they carried so 
valiantly.  The truth be damned.  It is but falseness.  
It only beats with the blood of a substitute life, in the 
coldness of the dark, and in the company of lies.  


There is no power or force that outweighs the heart in 
such matters.  Its sovereign right has never been usurped.
Nor will it ever.  As it carries the crowning glory of
faith as its banner.


Now come full circle.  The battle returns to its roots.
Its beginnings.  They stand now, alone, on the game board.
The spider and the prey.  Once more shrouded within the 
darkness of the night, the purgatory of the web.  They
wrestle each other on this final race for survival.  


There will be blood shed tonight.  And only the one left
standing will see the coming dawn of this new day.


**********************************************************
It was the first hours of the seventy-sixth day
An end to the long night
**********************************************************

There was a heaviness to the air.  Enough so that is 
could even be felt and touched.  It was weighted down 
with concrete shavings and dust particles, which now 
scratched their windpipes and got into their eyes.  If 
there had been any visible light, they would see that 
the world around them had suddenly been colored a muddied 
gray.  Complete with a slowly dwindling misting rain
shower of dust and grit, which covered every surface like
a blanket.  Without their sight to guide them, they could
only hope to rely on their other senses to gauge the
seriousness of structural and physical damage that had
been inflicted.


There was a gaping hole in the ceiling.  Mammoth.  
With thick coil support wires bent out of shape 
hanging everywhere, like sign-less posts peppered 
along a deserted road.  They followed a double row 
path along the area where the section of the 
ventilation shaft used to be.  Mimicking the space 
it had once occupied before it had collapsed, falling 
to the floor below.  The long rectangular piece of 
silver metal shaft which had previously surrounded 
them, now rested at a lopsided angle in the middle of 
the bathroom it had been overlooking.  One end propped 
precariously, up high, laying against the counter.  It 
had shattered the mirror upon impact, littering the 
floor with sharp slivers of unseen glass.  The other 
end dipped low, resting on the floor.  The entire thing 
resembling a stationary and unbalanced teeter-totter.  
The middle portions of it were dented and buckled in 
places, from the impact of some of the heavier pieces 
of the leftover shaft, which had landed on top of it, 
after the initial break from the ceiling.


Somewhere in the bathroom a water main had been ruptured.
Not completely severed, but there was still a constant
sound of running water, gushing out near one of the walls
in a steady flow.  Scully moaned softly, as she crawled
out of the shaft, emerging from the lowered end.  Her
head pounding from where it had slammed into the top of
the metal when it had hit the floor.  Her body shoved
unceremoniously up against the boundaries of the vent by
the force of the fall itself, and then thrown back to the
bottom upon landing.  She moved gingerly forward on hands
and knees.  Going from one darkness into another.  The
metal of the vent was still warm in the places where it
stayed in contact with her skin, but nowhere near the
agony of the intense burning heat they had been exposed
to earlier.  So much so that they had been left with no
other choice than to try and punch their way out of the
shaft, as the only escape grate had been blocked from the
outside.    


The flesh on her back felt strangely tight and throbbed
slightly, as she stretched the muscles in her shoulders
while moving.  It was similar to the sensitive discomfort
of a very bad sunburn.  She didn't want to venture a 
guess on exactly how high the temperature had risen before
they had broken through.  But to have caused the measured
sensitivity in the burns she was feeling now, in so short
a time of exposure, it had to have been extreme.  Thomas
had been literally trying to burn them alive.  Her eyes
were stinging, but she resisted the urge to rub them,
knowing there were probably small particles imbedded 
there.  It would only make it worse.  Instead she tried
to use the lubricating tears that were forming to blink
always most of the irritation.  Her hands came into contact
with one of the stalls, and she used her palms to walk
up its side until she was standing shakily, leaning
against it for support.


"Mulder?", she called out, immediately ending the one
word around a ragged fit of coughing, as she tried to
expel the dust trapped in her lungs.  She couldn't see
anything.  It was completely dark.  She strained her ears,
trying to pick up any movements in the room.  Either 
Mulder, or Thomas, who would be coming soon to check up
on the aftermath of his handiwork.  He had to have heard
the crashing noise when the shaft had fallen.  But the
only sounds she could pick up were that of running water,
and the occasional shifting drops of smaller metal and
concrete debris, still falling from the ceiling above.


"Mulder?", she called again.  Louder.  With a tinge of
fear and worry creeping into her voice.  Finally, there 
was an answering gagging cough, emitting from an elevated 
level off to her left.


"I'm here Scully", he said, followed by another choking
cough.  Scully sighed deeply, relieved, noticing some of
the knotted tension leaving her body in a rush.  Feeling
like a nervous new mother who constantly checked on her
newborn to see if it was still breathing, yet would only
be satisfied that it was upon hearing the child's cries.


"Where?", she asked him.  She could hear muffled sounds
as he began running his hands over his current environment,
trying to get a sense of his location.  The relative quiet
was interrupted by a loud sound of breaking glass, along
with his muted curses.


"I'm still in the shaft, near the counter", he told her.


She moved in that direction, letting her hands follow the
form of the shaft upwards towards the sounds.  Reading 
the bent metal and jagged edges underneath her fingertips
like Braille.  She made slow progress, due to the fact
that the pieces of concrete and broken glass dug painfully
into the soles of her bare feet.  Wincing quietly whenever
a tiny coarse sliver happened to penetrate the tender skin.
Her hip bumped solidly against the sink counter, as her
hands remained on the metal of the shaft, lifted approxi-
mately two feet above her head.


"Mulder", she called again, letting him know she had made
it over to him.  She felt his hand brush downwards
searchingly, moving over hers in the dark.  Then tracing
back, as he closed his fingers around hers.  


"This reminds me of that dinosaur movie, where the car 
falls into the tree, and after all they go through, they 
only end up back at the bottom of the tree inside the car
again.  Here we are, back in the bathroom again", he said in 
typical Mulder fashion, trying to make light of a tension-
fraught situation.


"Yeah, well, don't think you're going to get lucky twice", 
she ribbed him back, wishing she could see the comfort of 
his smile in the dark.  She knew he was too.  Even now.
Smiling.


The light moment disappeared all too quickly though.


"Are you hurt?", he asked her, as he squeezed her hand.


"No, I'm fine.  Just a headache.  What about you?"  There 
was a brief silence as he made a quick assessment of his
condition. 


"I seem to be all right.  A few cuts and bruises, and a
headache I'd match against yours any day, but....", he 
trailed off, as if distracted, shifting his position to the
left and then to the right.  She could feel the vibrations
of his movements echoed back underneath her hands still
resting on the metal.


"What's wrong", she asked him after a moment.


"My foot....I can't....it's stuck", he answered her, with
a note of exasperation.  "I can't get it loose".


"Let me try", she said, feeling a well of panic beginning
to form in the pit of her stomach.  She made a move to 
hoist herself up unto the counter next to the place where
the shaft was resting.  Hoping she would be able to gain
access to the top of the shaft itself, from where Mulder
was currently trapped, half-in and half-out of the opening.


"No Scully, the counter might break if there's anymore
weight added to it".  They both paused for a second,
saying nothing, knowing this wasn't the only reason for
his objections.  He followed shortly with his true
apprehensions for not wanting to risk her assistance.
"Scully, you have to go.  Now.  Run.  Hide.  He'll be
here any minute".  


She could hear the desperation and fear he felt for her
safety in his voice.  He was begging her to leave.  She
shook her head in the dark.  He should know better, she
thought sadly.  She could never just go.  Not without 
him.  But he had to keep trying to convince her.


"You wouldn't be able to reach down far enough anyway",
he added quietly.


"Mulder, I'm not leaving you", she said, stating the facts,
leaving no room for further arguments.  "Maybe I can crawl
up to you from the other end, and free your foot that way".


"Scully", he called after her, but was ignored.  She began
moving back again in the direction she had just come from,
towards the other end of the shaft.  Following the path
of her hands on the metal once more, until she had made it
back.  She moved around to the opening, crawling into its
open mouth.  She had barely gotten very far inside when
there came a loud noise penetrating through from outside
the shaft.  Her heart jumped, as she froze in place.  She
could hear Mulder suddenly halt his movements of trying to
free his foot from the other end as well.  


For just a split second time seem to stand completely
still.  No breaths taken.  No hearts beating.  Fear, the
only constant in this universe.  And the steady approach 
of imminent death.


The bathroom door was opening.  Slowly.  And with some
difficulty, as it was blocked from any easy access from
a small hill of miscellaneous fallen building materials
that was scattered in front of it.  After a lot of forced
shouldering and pushing, the door finally gave way,
sweeping open in a half-arc that left a fan-like clear
spot amid all the piles of dust around it.  Thomas appeared
in the doorway, illuminated only as a dark shadow form 
issuing from behind the beam of the flashlight he held in 
front of him.  His other hand sporting a gun, his fingers
twitching with an anticipatory hunger on the trigger.  He
had already gotten his first taste of blood today, and
despite all the dire warnings about its hazards, he had
found it to be a rare delicacy.  And now he wanted more.
Revenge as well, it would all be his.


Mulder had bent his knees as far back as was possible so
that he would be able to duck his head once more into the
top vent of the shaft itself.  This, the only option he
had for protection and cover.  He craned his head, looking
up, through the opening.  Seeing a flickering moving
illumination being reflected back from the small pieces
of the mirror that were still attached to the frame in 
odd places.  Thomas was advancing towards their shaft,
as it lay on the floor like some stranded and dying beached
whale.  Mulder was startled slightly when there followed a 
sudden loud banging clamor.


"I know you're in there", Thomas called out, repeating his
motions of using the flashlight to knock hard upon the
shaft's metal, somewhere in the middle.  "Teresa", he said
next.


Mulder nearly catapulted himself out of the shaft, stuck
foot or not, thinking Thomas had already stumbled upon
Scully at the other end.  But he could hear him walking
again now, the fragments crunching underneath his shoes,
making noise even over the continuous water sounds.


"Where are you Teresa?"  He was calling for her.  Looking
for her.  And he was headed in the right direction.  "You
can't hide from me forever, you should know that by now".


Mulder reached up, curling his fingers around the edges,
pulling himself back out of the shaft as far as he could,
quietly and slowly.  He could see Thomas from the back,
the flashlight beam pointed down, towards the bottom of
the shaft.  In another second he would see her.  There
could be no doubt.  Mulder twisted his body frantically,
his fingers straining towards the many piles of debris
laying on the counter itself.  He managed to get his hand 
closed around what felt like a sizable chunk of concrete.  
He turned back and with one fluid motion hurled it towards 
the far wall. It fell inside one of the stalls.  Thomas 
pivoted towards the sound.  Turning away.  Moving now 
towards this new development.  One of the oldest tricks, 
but one which still had its merits.  'Now, Scully', 
Mulder thought desperately.  'Go.  Run.'  


As if receiving his silent message on cue, Mulder could
feel the tight vibrations through the shaft as she made
her break.  It was impossible not to make any noise, so
she concentrated instead on speed and surprise.  Which
was hampered by the fact that her feet were bare and 
she had to cross a field of glass, crumbled stone, and
twisted metal.  She simply ignored the pain, her 
survival instincts kicking in to override the sensations.
Thomas had been part of the way inside the stall he
had been investigating, his back turned, when he heard
the commotion.  Spinning quickly, he emerged just as
Scully moved forward, and then past him.  


Mulder immediately made his presence known, shouting
and banging on the sides of the shaft with his hands,
hoping Thomas would come after him instead.  For just
a moment he hesitated, looking up at Mulder, sticking
incongruously out of the metal shaft.  Seeming to realize
his total helplessness in this situation.  And relishing
it.  Deciding it seemed, that the bird in the bush was
more tempting than the one he held now in his hand, 
Thomas turned away, intent only on his pursuit of Scully.
She disappeared through the still open door, with Thomas
close behind her.


Mulder's world went completely black once more, as 
Thomas' flashlight left the room with him.  


"Scully!", Mulder called out, trapped in a dark unknown,
left with only an agonizing futility over his own inability
to come to her aid.


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

For a terrifying moment Scully thought maybe she had been
wrong.  When Mulder started shouting, trying to draw
Thomas' attention away from her flight, she had almost
turned around and gone back in to ensure that he would
follow her.  This had been her plan.  To run.  Then to
have Thomas follow her.  


Damn him.  Damn Mulder.


Always trying to protect her.  But not this time.
She needed to protect him.  She wouldn't have tried
running if she hadn't felt so positive that Thomas would
come after her.  It was a gamble, but she didn't know 
what else to do.  They had reached an impasse in this
insanity.  Nowhere left to run.  Nowhere left to hide.
She had spent months cooped up with this guy.  She knew
him.  Knew his obsessions.  And what he was most obsessed
with was her.  He was more interested now in killing her
than Mulder.  She knew this.  Always had.  In his mind,
she was his wife, his delusions of her betrayal would
cut the deepest.  But he would kill Mulder as well, no
question, especially if she wasn't around to tempt him
away from it first.


Mulder was stuck, he couldn't escape.  Couldn't help,
except to get himself killed.  And he was just too
vulnerable in this capacity now.  A hindrance.  She
had to make sure he was taken out of the picture
entirely.  Make the game once more just between her 
and Thomas.  Alone.  She knew Mulder would eventually
try and draw fire away from her, as soon as she realized
his predicament.  Sacrificing himself for her.  She
wouldn't let him.  Refused to allow it.  He would not
die a martyr on her behalf.  She had made a show of 
running, been blatant about it.  So completely positive 
Thomas would come after her.  There hadn't been any other 
options left, for either one of them.  Even if she knew 
Mulder would have never agreed with her.


As she exited the door, she quickly moved along the
wall, until she was underneath the nearby ventilation
shaft grate.  Reaching down with her hands, searching,
until she found what she was looking for.  The chair.
The one he had always used to hoist them up into the
vent, each time they had returned to it.  The one she
knew would have to be there.  Especially given the
fact that he had recently blocked the grate from the
outside, so they wouldn't be able to escape the heat.
She lifted it high over her head, and inched back
along the wall until she could feel herself near the
bathroom door once more.  


Mulder was calling out her name desperately.  Trying
to warn her.  A sweet relief to her, knowing that 
her plan had worked, and Thomas was going for the
bait.  Herself.  Thomas was leaving Mulder behind to
deal with later.  Trapped, he offered no immediate
threat.  Now he was concentrating on the real object
of his twisted desires.  She could feel Mulder's
terror for her in his voice.  She was feeling it
herself as well.  Used it to keep alert.  There was
no shame in having fear where it was warranted.  It
served its purpose.  Her arms were shaking violently,
partly from the muscle strain of continuing to hold
the chair above her head.  Partly from stress.  Mostly
from a simple exhausted fatigue.  She tried to slow
her breathing down.  Her heart.  Concentrating.
But everything was moving too fast.  In her body.
Her mind.  Most especially in this strange darkened 
world she found herself apart of now.  


Everything except this moment, which seemed to be
years in duration.  Waiting for him to appear.  
Wanting this all to end finally.  The dark closing in 
around her, seeming to expand and retract with the 
palpitations of her own fright, and the building
tension.  Which had a life of its own.  Breathing.
Alive and sentient.  Waiting.  Just like her.


Waiting.


Her body went suddenly rigid.  On guard.  As there
finally appeared a beam of light protruding from
the open bathroom door.  He was coming.  She watched
it.  The light.  Moving up and down in the dark, as 
if by invisible wires.  Closer.  Then suddenly it 
flashed past her in a confusing blur.  Hurtling 
across to the other side of the corridor.  And too 
late she realized her own mistake, as her eyes 
automatically followed the beam of their own accord.  
Missing the critical movements that came behind it.  
He had thrown the flashlight.  A diversion.  Not even 
original, just like Mulder's before.  A trick.  
Because he was still there.  Right beside her.  And 
she had just fallen for his ploy.


The flashlight hit the wall soundly, breaking the
cheap plastic apart, and scattering the sections
to the four winds.  It was useless now.  There 
was only the dark once more.  Moving in.  It flowed 
quickly, filling in the last spaces, hungrily
snatching the final death-throe rattle pinpoint of
light.  Claiming it.  But this time at least it
would be dark for both of them.  A shared hell.  So
apropos.  He had first entered her life in the
dark of night, taking her away, and now it only 
seemed fitting that it would end there as well.  
Between her and him.  And the darkness.

The struggle had come full circle.

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

Mulder began redoubling his efforts to extract his
foot from the twisted metal of the vent, as soon
as Thomas began heading for the door.  Going after
Scully.  Pulling, with every muscle in his body.
Using his hands on the sides of the vent itself for
leverage.  Straining.  Grunting.  Sweat, pouring
off his face and body from the tense effort.  
Coursing down his cheeks, mixing in with the grime,
leaving dripping, gritty streaks behind.  Filling
his eyes.  Stinging.  He pulled to the point where 
the bones in his foot felt as though they were 
separating from the skin. Nothing was hurt or broken, 
just stuck.  But it wouldn't budge.  Not an inch.
And at this angle, he couldn't reach down far
enough to work at it with any real chance of
success.


There was too much blockage from the debris 
around his ankle.  He could feel it.  He reassessed
his situation quickly, and then began to rock his
body from side to side within the confines of the
shaft.  Back and forth.  Working to shift the
entire elongated piece of metal.  Wanting it to
fall the rest of the way to the floor.  Feeling
the creaking fault lines of the counter, which 
had been heavily damaged when the massive weight
of the shaft had fallen directly unto it.  It was
only hanging on by a literal thread.  He had been
truthful when he had told Scully that any added
weight might cause it to collapse.  He had judged 
the unstableness of the counter when he had first 
realized this was where it had landed.  It was 
already severely weakened by the weight alone.  
It wouldn't take much to get it to fall now.  


He used these slowly expanding imperfections 
and cracks now, as he tried to force the shaft 
towards the ground.  Hopefully, the further impact 
would help to dislodge whatever metal support was 
currently keeping his foot in place.  At first, he 
made little progress.  But with the addition of his
own determination and will, the bathroom was
quickly filled with the loud creaks and groans
of screeching metal, and falling concrete.  The
rocking motions he was making began building
momentum.  It was moving.  Slowly.  But it was
definitely moving.  

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

Scully brought the chair down with amazing force
and speed.  She felt it contact with Thomas' body,
but knew she had only managed a glancing blow.
He had been ready, had seen her just before the
flashlight had broken.  He bellowed in pain and
anger.  The sound coming from low on the floor.
He must have dropped down.  She started to back up.
Trying to avoid the treacherous waters, knowing
there was a shark loose somewhere out there.  In
the dark.  But it was too late.


Suddenly, her feet were pulled out from underneath
her.  As he grabbed her by both of her ankles.  
She hit the floor hard.  On her back.  The chair
she still held, fell off to the side.  Useless.
Thomas was now crawling up her prone body,
straddling her hips.  His weight was crushing her.
Forcing the breath from her lungs in painful gulps.
Then she heard it.  Her ears having become so finely
attuned to it over the months.  The slight pop of a
plastic top being flicked away.  From a needle.  He
reached down.  Grabbing her arm.


"No!", she yelled out.


Jerking.  Frantic.  Knowing that if he managed to
inject her, it would all be over.  Completely.
Right here.  Not only for herself, but for Mulder
as well.  She bucked her body upwards.  High.  With
every ounce of strength she still possessed.  Mixed
in with her desperation, it was enough to throw him
off-balance.  But the needle still managed to graze
her arm, and break the skin, as she felt him roll
off to the side.  She knew.  Some of the medication
had gotten into her bloodstream.  She could only
hope it was a small enough amount to not completely
incapacitate her.


Thomas recovered quickly.  She had only made it to
her knees when she felt his arms wrap around her
from behind.  Tight.  Effectively pinning her own
arms to her sides.  The needle was back again, in
his hands, in front of her.  She could feel him
trying to maneuver it around in order to inject her,
while she continued to struggle.  She covered his
hands with her own.  Followed the syringe up its
length from the plastic base, and then broke the
needle off completely.  He wouldn't be able to use
it now.


He cursed her loudly, holding his arms even more
securely around her body.  He was trying to drag
her to her feet.  She leaned against him solidly,
hoping to upset his hold with her dead weight.
While at the same time, jabbing both of her elbows
back hard into his mid-section.  He let go suddenly.
Falling back.  Breathing hard.  Hitting the ground,
and then moaning loudly.  Next to her, somewhere
in the dark.  Judging by the slight noise and his
obvious pain, she realized he had fallen onto the
over-turned chair.  


She had heard something else fall to the floor
as well.  It sounded like keys.  A lot of keys.
She turned around on her hands and knees.
Sweeping the floor around her with her hands.
Searching for them.  Knowing they must be the
guard's keys.  Who, she was guessing, was probably
dead.  And then Thomas must have taken his keys.
It was the only way he could have gained access
to the Communications Room.  The controls to
the heating.  As well as to the doors leading to 
the other floors along the staircase.  With them, 
it offered her the only way out. The only way to 
summon help.  Her fingers brushed up against the 
keys, and she grabbed them.


She rose to her feet quickly.  But was overcome
with a wave of dizziness.  The drug.  Taking
effect.  'Shit!', she wanted to scream, as she
tried to steady her equilibrium.  She hadn't 
gotten a lot of it in her system, but in her
already exhausted state, it could be more than
enough.  She couldn't afford to be slowed down
now.  The lids of her eyes felt heavy.  It was
difficult to keep them open.  Her limbs seemed
like they were half-asleep.  It was definitely
getting harder to concentrate.


There were strange noises filling the air around
her.  Confusing her further.  Loud.  Scraping.
Knocking.  Coming from the bathroom.  'Mulder',
the thought coming to her as if from a great
distance.  She stumbled slightly.  Bumping up
against the wall.  She held the keys in her fist
in a death-grip.  Afraid she might drop them
otherwise.  She shook her head, trying to clear
the fuzziness that was working to invade her mind.


And then her world was pulled out from under her
once again.  She couldn't see him, but Thomas had
been crawling in her direction, following her
sounds.  Recovering from having the air knocked
out of him.  He had grabbed her legs once again,
pulling them down towards him.  She felt herself
slipping down along the wall.  She tried to hold
on, but couldn't find any edge to grab.  She fell
completely, on her stomach.  But she was finally
able to connect with the open door of the bathroom.
Putting the ring of the keys into her mouth, she
curled her fingers around the doorjamb edge.
Hanging unto it with every fiber in her body. 
Thomas was panting hard, his breath not completely
regained.  She pulled one of her legs free from
his attempts to hold her.  Twisting her body 
around, she brought her knee up into her chest.
Then she shot her leg out strongly, with a deadly
force.  Connecting solidly with his face.


She felt a facial bone crack somewhere near his
cheek.  He screamed.  Letting go.  Rolling away 
from her.  She got to her feet quickly, and began 
stumbling blindly towards what she hoped was the 
direction of the staircase.

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

Mulder had his hands braced flat against the inside
of the vent.  Alternating the shifting weight of
his body on each side as it rocked back and forth.
The room had once again become filled with falling
debris and dust.  Coming from the original site of
the destruction overhead, which he was disturbing 
with his attempts to move the shaft.  


He had heard the sounds of a struggle going on just
outside the door.  Thomas and Scully.  Fighting.  At
one point he had heard Scully yell out 'No!'.  Mulder
had nearly lost his concentration upon hearing her
cries.  So near, and yet he was powerless to help her.
He felt so damn frustrated and angry.  The muscles
in his arms were on fire.  Burning with the intense
efforts of trying to move hundred's of pounds of steel
and concrete.  The dust and grit around him continued
to fly.  Stirred up.  It was making it twice as hard 
to breathe as it should have been.

And in the back of his mind, over the noise he was
generating, he registered that someone was screaming.  

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

Scully clung onto the railing as she made her way up
the staircase.  She was feeling decidedly light-headed.
There was one benefit to not being able to see anything 
she realized.  Had she been able to gauge each step,
it probably would have only increased her dizziness and
vertigo.  She reached the first landing, and curled her
way around to the next set of stairs.  And began 
climbing again.  Slowly.  She clutched the keys to her
chest in one hand.  If she lost them now, she risked
them tumbling down a flight of stairs.  She would never
be able to find them again.  She was fighting to stay
alert.  Knowing she had to stave off the drug if she
hoped to survive.


Thomas had stopped screaming about a minute ago.  She
preferred the noise.  At least she knew exactly where
he was.  Now, he could be anywhere.  Right next to her.
And she wouldn't know until he decided to make his
presence known.  She had reached the top of the landing.
She moved to the right, until she could feel the door-
knob, and then kneeled in front it.  Swaying slightly.
Feeling for the keyhole with her finger, she began
inserting keys.  One by one.  Moving each key to the
other side of the key ring when it didn't fit.  Then
going onto the next.  There were at least thirty keys
on the ring.


She was only on key number six when the shot was fired.

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

Thomas stood at the bottom of the staircase.  Looking up
in the darkness as if he had the gift of second sight.
His face was swollen and hurt more than he had thought
possible.  Teresa had broken his cheek bone.  Fractured
it, he was positive.  He had been willing to forgive her
sins and forego his plans to kill her.  Take her back
even.  But she had fought him.  Even broken the needle
off of the syringe when he had tried to sedate her.  And
now this.  This last straw.  This could not be forgiven.
Somehow he had been mistaken.  He thought he had seen
something in her that could be corrected.  But she was
corrupted.  A jezebel.  His Teresa.  He truly thought he
could save her.  But now, he would have to kill her 
after all.  If only to save her from herself.  And then
he would follow.  Maybe in death they could both find
peace at last.  This was his solemn duty.


He reached around his back, to the waist band of his
trousers and removed the gun.  Her gun.  That seemed
right somehow.  Fate dealing out justice wrapped in
irony.  He felt the solid weight in his hands.  He had
considered using the knife.  But there really wasn't
time.  This would be quicker.  The time for hesitation
was over.  He began climbing the steps.  As he did, he
considered the gun in his hands.  Turning it.  Feeling
it.  Becoming a part of it.  The power.  The very 
essence of death.  A death he would administer.  With
his very own hands.  He had that right.  


He had reached the top of the first landing, without
even realizing it.  He stood there for a moment.  
Hearing the sharp tinkling clank of the keys.  Moving
one on top of other, as she tried to get them to work
their magic.  It made him feel omnipotent.  Standing
there in the dark.  Knowing she didn't yet realize
he was there.  He forgot the pain in his cheek, as he
pointed the gun in the dark.  Upwards.  Towards the
sounds emanating in the dark.


And then he pulled the trigger.

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

The noise was almost deafening to Mulder.  Reverberated 
through the tube of the severed shaft like a huge, but 
simplistic bull horn.  The echo chamber that the room had 
become, taking the sounds and repeating them.  Building on 
them.  Until he could no longer tell where one was ending 
and another beginning.  The momentum he had created had now
taken on a life of its own.  The events put into play by
his actions were no longer remotely controllable by him.
He could only watch as the deadly domino effect now ran
its course.  


The shaft itself was slipping, turning, burning and 
screeching where metal met metal.  Sparks flaring in 
some places, where heated steel rubbed in irritation
against itself.  There was a layer of water, perhaps an
inch deep, covering the floor.  From where one of the
mains had ruptured initially.  Still spewing forth its
leakage.  The amassed pool now splashed inconsistently 
as it caught the flow of falling debris.  Concrete that 
was all around the vent's makeshift body, crumbled and then 
caved under its crushing weight.  The lowered end of the
shaft, which had been resting on the floor, now slipped
forward.  Just a few feet, and then it met the barrier
of the stalls and stopped.  The upper end, still sliding
along the precarious base of the counter, that had held 
it in place, now began following its other half.
Like its dubious counterpart, the misnomer 'unsinkable'
Titanic, it was upending and going under for the final
count.


This important shift in weight displacement worked to
finally give Mulder what he had been laboring so hard
for ever since Thomas had left in pursuit of Scully.
The counter dropped an entire foot in one jump.  Bending
downward at a most unnatural angle.  Then it snapped
suddenly.  Breaking away finally.  A thunderous resound-
ing cracking noise like that of a tree being broken in
half.  The mottled marble-like counter dropped completely
off from the wall.  Falling from its once sturdy anchor
in one entire piece.  And then smashing into hundreds
of large and small pieces upon impact with the concrete
floor.  This earth-shattering disturbance being only
the teasing precursor to the collapse of the shaft 
itself, which was following it.


Mulder could only hope to ride the metal beast to its
final resting place.  Helpless to do anything otherwise.
At the last moment before contact, moving his body as
far back into the inside of the shaft opening as he
was able for protection.  Feeling his stomach drop most
uncomfortably about a foot from the rapid descent of the
fall.  Holding his arms protectively over his head.  His
elbows kept close to his ears against the roaring noise.
A final excruciating, bellowing screech of torn metals
and breaking foundations.  


And then silence.  A complete silence.


Disturbed only by the familiar and steady sound of water
once more.

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

Scully had immediately fallen away from the door when
she had heard the shot recoil.  A move that was purely
instinctual.  Primal.  Dropping flat.  She had felt
the brushing red-hot passage of the bullet.  Just
missing her.  Barely an inch from her head.  Even only
having sound as a target, he was good with a gun, this
was obvious.  She kept down, low to the ground.  On her 
hands and knees now.  Crawling towards the landing of 
the stairs leading to the next level.  Hoping to make it 
before Thomas fired again.  She quieted the keys, still 
held in her hands.  Covering them with her fingers so 
they wouldn't make any noise.  Noise which would alert 
him to her exact position.  Which was kind of funny she 
realized in an almost detached way.  There was a lot of 
noise now.  A lot.  But she couldn't really make the 
connection as to where it was coming from.  Somewhere 
below.  But it didn't really matter.  The only thing that 
held importance for her now, was getting up the stairs.  
The only thing that held importance for Thomas, was 
killing her.  The dark, once her deadly enemy, had now 
become her one hope.  She reached the first step and 
rose up unto it slowly.      


"Teresa."


He was there.  Somewhere.  Close.  Stalking her.
She flinched involuntarily.  Feeling the flesh crawl
over her body.  A combination of hearing the name
again.  So near.  As well as the seductive malevolent 
tone he used with the word.  As if he had a right to
it.  A right to her.  The word itself, his voice, it had 
seemed to come out of thin air.  Behind her.  In front.  
All around.  All places.  Everywhere.  She was disoriented.  
Hard to think.  The drug was confusing her more and more.  
Mechanically, coming from her will to live, she kept 
climbing.  One hand raising up, and then a knee, 
alternating.  Repeating.  She kept going.  She couldn't 
stop.  She mustn't stop.  


"Teresa."


The name was abhorrent to her now.  Disgusting.  And
so vile.  That name.  That man.  Always after her.  Never
leaving her alone.  Taking.  Always taking.  First her
freedom.  Her identity.  Mulder.  And now he wouldn't be 
satisfied until he had her life as well.  She hated him.
She felt the anger.  The hate.  Churning.  Building.  
Growing.  She fed it further.  Stoked it.  Internalized
it.  Used it now to keep going.  She reached the top and 
continued on.  To the next flight.  Not sure of where it 
was exactly she was going.  She just needed to keep moving.  
Stay alert.  One hand up on the step.  Then the next, and a 
knee.  The other.  Climbing.  Have to.

  
Have to.


"Teresa".

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

Mulder had blacked-out for a minute.  He opened his eyes 
once again to complete darkness.  Feeling a moisture around
his head.  Water, coming in from outside the shaft.  He
moved tentatively, his head splitting.  Aching from where
it had bumped up against the top of the shaft when it had
finally fallen to the floor.  He immediately remembered the
reasoning behind trying to get the shaft to fall, and began
pulling on his trapped foot.  There was still resistance, 
but it wasn't as complete.  And the water seeping in was
actually helping.  Moving the concrete dust, reducing it to 
silt, which became pliable and moveable.  Completely flat 
now, he was able to add the element of his other foot to 
help clear what was left of the blockage.  He concentrated.  
Worked intently on getting it free.

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


"Teresa".


She had reached the fifth floor.  He seemed in no real 
hurry now to move in for the kill.  She kept going.  He 
kept following.  He just continued to call out the name.  
Taunting her.  Letting her know he was there, and wasn't 
going to go away.  He kept playing with the way he said the
word.  Sometimes mockingly.  Sometimes like a parent scolding
a child.  Sometimes angrily.  Never with remorse or regret.
Always with determination and a misguided belief in what 
he was planning to do.  


When she reached the sixth floor landing, something changed.
Inside her.  Her heart.  Her mind.  'No more', she silently
breathed to herself.  She stopped.  As a strange sense of 
peace filled her.  She would not go down by his rules.  No 
more playing his game.  Whatever the outcome, she would not 
die crawling on her hands and knees away from something she 
feared.  She would face him now.  One way or another, this 
was going to end.  With this in mind, she felt her way over 
to the door.  She brought up the keys and began to try them 
one by one.  Just like she had been doing floors below when 
he had appeared.  Calmly.  Moving one to the side when it 
didn't fit.  Taking the next.  Inserting it.  Moving it over.    


"Teresa".


He was only steps away now.  She was counting silently, without
even realizing it.  Counting the keys that missed the mark, and
then turning each over to the other side.  Like a pool room cue
ball scorekeeper.  Ticking off the numbers, one by one.  Eleven.    


"Teresa".


He was behind her now.  Directly.  The warmth of his body, 
wafting over her, not even overshadowed by the coldness of his 
heart.  It should have been.  That would have made sense.  None
of this did.  Something should.  She continued with her work.  
Taking the next key.  Putting it into the lock.  Turning.  
Pulling it out.  Moving it over.  Twelve.


"Teresa, it's time to go now".  It wasn't a request.


Thirteen.  'Yes', she thought, 'it's time to go.  I want to go
home'.  She moved the key over to the other side.  Inserted the 
next one.  Fourteen.  Thomas reached down, placed his hands on 
her shoulder.  

 
He screamed when the out-swinging door caught him squarely in 
the face.


Lucky number fourteen.


Thomas' hands flew to his face.  It was on fire.  Burning.  
The broken cheekbone pain flaring up with an agonizing intensity.  
He stumbled back.  Scully jumped up quickly, pressing her 
advantage.  She ran at him, following his screams, pushing him 
up against the railing.  Knocking the gun out of his hands.  She
could hear it falling.  Bouncing off metal and concrete along the
sides, until it reached the ground.  Thudding dully.  Thomas
suddenly stopped his cries of pain.  Taking no notice now of the 
blows she was raining on him.  It seemed almost, as if he was 
impervious to pain.  Or simply didn't care at this point.


"I always win Teresa", he said calmly.  Too calmly.  Too coldly.


Her body stiffened at his tone.  Her blood chilling in her veins.
She realized what it was he was doing.  He had her gripped
by her shoulders.  Hung onto her.  Then he stepped over the rail-
ing.  One leg at a time.  She tried desperately to pull away 
from him.  Move back from his intentions.  His fingers were like
talons, clinging to meat.  He slid his hands down from her 
shoulders until he held one of her hands in both of his.  The 
fingernails digging into her flesh.  So tight, it was cutting off
her circulation.  Then he simply leaned back, at a ninety degree 
angle.  Only his feet still touched the landing.  His body 
hanging out over the railing, tethered only by her arm.  He was
going to jump, and take her with him.


"Let go!", she cried out.  Her body slamming against the railing
under the pull of his weight.  Her ribs digging painfully against
the metal.  Her free hand, bunched into a fist, pounded against
his arm.  Tried to pry his fingers loose.  But he wouldn't let go.  
He removed one of his anchoring feet from the landing.  She gasped, 
feeling the additional pull of even more added weight.  She curled 
her knee around the railing, trying to gain some leverage.  It 
wasn't enough.  She was being pulled over.  She could feel herself 
losing ground.  When he removed his other foot, the pull on her 
arm increased a hundred-fold.  Her arm felt as if it were being 
wrenched from the socket.  She screamed.  From the pain, and from
knowing that she wouldn't be able to keep herself from going over 
now.  Her feet lifted from the floor.  Her upper body leaned way
out over the railing.  Into the darkness, and the death waiting
below.


Then she felt another pair of arms joining her own.  Mulder.  His 
body wrapped around hers.  Adding his weight to hers to keep her 
grounded.  Holding her tightly around the waist with one hand.  
His legs entwining with her own.  He leaned over her, following 
her arm down to where it was attached to both of Thomas' hands.
He worked at prying each of his fingers from hers.  Slapping back
Thomas' efforts to regain each of the finger holds that Mulder
was removing.  Scully was sandwiched between them.  Pressed up
so tight against the railing she was having trouble breathing.
Her arm only one continuous sensation of pain.  


Finally, he managed to break the last connection hold between 
Scully's and Thomas' bodies.  The sudden lack of resisting force
caused each to fall back in their own directions.  Mulder and
Scully were thrown away from the railing, towards the door.
Falling in a heap on the floor.  Thomas, no longer in contact
with the landing, fell.  Falling six floor to the bottom.  Never
making a noise on the way down.  The only sound, the echoing
sickening contact of body meeting concrete, when he reached the
bottom.  He was dead.  


On the landing, Mulder and Scully held each other tightly, lean-
ing up against the door.  Rocking slowly.  Quietly.  Peacefully.
In the dark.  This time, a soothing dark.  A healing dark.  


**************************************************************
WALKING THE CAGE - Chapter 13 *NC-17*
**************************************************************

Contrary to what is a widely held belief, there can indeed 
be a beginning to a circle.  A point of entry.  Or exit.

Healing is a process that starts in such a way.  To heal 
there has to come a time when the person stops the journey 
of pain.  And turns.  Away from the hurt towards home.  
Erasing behind them the lines that marked the way.  It must 
be a conscious choice.  Borne of a strength of spirit and a 
trust in self.  Although it is never an easy one to make.  
If it were then happiness would not be the fleeting elusive 
prize that too many will never achieve.  The moment that 
initiates this miracle of the building repair of a heart 
that has been battered, starts innocently with this choice.  
Finding the key that fits the lock of solitude, and walking 
away from the cage of torment.  The bars of regret.  

Easy in words, much too simple.  But never so in practice.
She has struggled to find hers, as she opens the cage with 
the key she has forged from inside herself.  The only place 
where these type of keys are manufactured.  She starts her
circle journey now with careful steps.  Walking towards what
is waiting there for her.  It does wait there.  She knows.
As she follows the curve around its inner arc.  Hesitantly.
A hesitancy and knowledge that has been developed from an
experience that borders on intimate revelation.  Her steps
grow with determination and resolve as she moves.  It is
not divine intervention.  Nothing quite so profound.  Only
taking inventory of the wealth she has always possessed.
Even while it was hidden away, as was she herself.  The
comfort comes from knowing that hers is a circle shared.
Joined.  She is not alone.

On the horizon, around the next bend she sees him.  
Following her path.  Which is his own.  Sometimes in 
front of her.  Sometimes in back.  But always together.  
One always there for the other.  Now their journeys merge.
The lines meet, converge, and seal.  The circle at last 
complete.  

The web is left tattered and in ruin.  Upon the ground.  The 
winner has been acknowledged in this game.  The spider is left 
behind, only a carcass.  A shell that once carried the power-
ful essence of evil and torment. It lays now alone. Abandoned.
Mummified and dust-ridden.  Never to inflict its malevolence
again.  A monument to nothing.  

The prey leaves the game board silently.  Not jubilant.  Or 
gloating.  Only relieved to have been granted this small 
moment of victory.  It would not be wise to become too self
confident.  Because it will not last.  True, the spider is dead.  
But there will always be the others.

The hawk.  The wolf.  The serpent.  The beast.  Waiting in 
line for their day in the sun.  They will always be out-
numbered.  Always pursued.  There will come another day.
Another web.  The next battle.  

And too soon.  Much too soon.  

**************************************************************
It was the night of the twenty-first day after Thomas' death.
**************************************************************

Even three weeks later it was still hard.  To readjust them-
selves to life.  To the fact that they had survived.  That she 
was back.  And they were together once more.  There was still 
so much anger to deal with.  Thomas had taken away her life 
that night.  Not only a theft from her, but from him as well.
They had most of it back now, but some pieces were forever 
irretrievable.  Most especially time.  A luxury they both
knew she didn't have any to spare.  Three months the first
time.  Now this.  More months she would never regain.  

The physical outward signs of trauma had disappeared almost 
completely.  With rest and comfort.  But other scars were
there.  Hidden.  Invisible to the naked eye.  Yet there, and
aching tauntingly with a ghost pain similar to an amputee
with a missing limb.  An itch just out of reach.  There was
nothing to do in order to try and bring about some resolution 
to this phantom hurt.  No revenge that could purge her pain.  
Or satisfy her hunger for completion.  Thomas was already 
dead.  There was no justice to be extracted there.  Except 
the satisfaction she garnered from knowing he would never 
again be able to inflict his twisted visions on another 
hapless victim.  There would be no more 'Teresa's' for him 
to take and use to fulfill his delusions.  It was a small 
victory.  But sometimes it was enough to get her through the 
night.  Not always.  Like tonight.

The dark night followed her.  As the corridors of her mind
and imagination turned against her.  Bringing back the
memories she was not allowed to run from.  The fear.  So 
vivid.  So fresh.  Too real.  All that time spent locked 
within the realm of a nightmare that she could not wake 
from.  So close and yet so far away.  This the most killing
edge of all.  To her, as well as to him.  Reminding them
of the endless minutes.  Turning into hours.  Turning into
days.  Turning into months.  All of them spent in solitude.
And pain.  Physical.  Mental.  Emotional.  Her wrists
still tingled, and twinged.  Sometimes.  But her heart,
always.  There were even times when she could feel the
trappings of the cold steel loops.  Tightening against her
skin.  Expanding its territory to cover her entire body.
Squeezing her from the inside out.  Until it was impossible
to breathe.  Even more so to think.  Or hope to move on.

She couldn't react without first panicking that she would
wake only to find that the escape had been the dream.  
The unreality.  She fought final consciousness whenever 
it escalated to this extreme point.  Afraid to leave sleep 
only to find she was indeed still trapped.  Another illusion.
Her senses were hyper-sensitive, as they had been back there.  
She could hear him, moving through the vents.  Coming.  The
material that covered his legs and knees rasping along the
metal, skidding softly, with a singular sound she had come
to associate only with him.  Echoing.  Like a whisper.  The
loudest whisper.  Making her eardrums throb with its impact.
Knowing always what was to follow.  

"Teresa".

He would call out to her.  His voice a torture in and of
itself.  She would shake her head vehemently.  Back and
forth forcefully.  Mirrored back through the connections of
sleep to her body, as she thrashed within the sheets in her
other world.  Wanting so desperately to tell him that wasn't
her name.  Once again.  He had no right to call her that.
Then, and most especially now.  He was dead.  

But he would only smile.  A mocking leer that was the sole
invention and paten of the damned.  Used in weapon fashion.
And just as deadly.  Like a secret handshake known only 
among the legions of evil.  

"I always win, Teresa", he would tell her again and again.
Just like that last moment.  She hated to concede him any-
thing, but he was right.  He had indeed still found a way
to win.  She had given it to him herself.  As long as he
was able to invade her thoughts.  Her dreams.  Her peace
of mind.  As long as she allowed him to stay alive in her
memory.  Even if it was a repugnant memory.  It was still
a form of victory for him.  Maybe in truth, all he really
wanted all along.  Remembrance.  A place in her life.  He 
had won in that respect.  She cursed her own inability to 
exorcise him completely from her soul.  She gave him his 
residence.  She knew this.  But knowing it and stopping it 
were two things altogether.  As in her own organized mind, 
her dream state followed an order.  A detailed agenda that 
took her nightly through the paces, one by one.  From 
beginning to end.  Each night she would relive the game.  
From start to finish.  Rushing cruelly towards the final 
moment.  Him and her.  Alone.  In the dark.  Wrestling for 
control.  Her goal - life.  His goal - death.  Linked by 
more than hands as they teetered unbalanced over the gaping 
precipice. The agonized straining pull on her arm remembered 
too clearly.  As the pain rode up her limb like a brush fire.  
Searing.  Burning.  Taking.

And always just at the point where she could no longer 
anchor herself, she would find she was not alone in the
battle.  He would come.  Not a rescue.  Not a damsel in
distress.  Their abilities complimented one another when
joined.  His and hers.  His strength and hers working 
together to fight the forces that tried so hard to bring
them down.  She could feel his arm slipping around her
waist, just as she was about to plunge over that fine line
between their world and the hell that waited below.  And
like an immense weight lifting from her as she felt the
final moment of release.  The exquisite freedom of being
severed from Thomas forever.  It was a moment she savored.

Her restless throes of distress would quiet and she would
clam.  Her breathing would slow and become steady.  Her
heart returning to its normal pace.  Her mind filled only
with the certain knowledge that Thomas was truly dead.
And she was safe once more.  Her eyes would flutter open.
She was home.  In her own bed.  Her own world.  But not
alone.  She would feel his arm slipping around her waist,
this time for real.  Laying beside her.  Another flesh and
blood testament to the truth that they had both indeed
survived the ordeal.  He would always awaken at her cries 
and watch over her, but he never woke her.  Knowing that 

she needed to work her way through the nightmare herself.
He could not help her on this particular journey.  But he
was confident that she would find her way back, as she had
done in reality.  And he would be waiting for her.  Just
as he had been every night since it had finally ended.

Looking at him, her breathing suddenly became labored
again.  But not from fear.  From desire.  So intense.  She
reached for him, needing him close.  Sitting up and cross-
ing her arms in front in order to remove her nightshirt
quickly.  She wanted him.  The nightmare always made her
anxious.  To feel the comfort of his body against hers.
He sat up with her, trying to slow her urgent haste, as
he followed her movements.  Stilling her hands, as he took
over the job she was trying to accomplish.  Sliding his
palms up and underneath, along the path of her nightshirt.
Against her skin.  Skin that was still warm and moist from
the sweat of a lingering fear that clung to her.  He wanted
to remove all the traces of that fear for her.   For this
night and any others that would follow.  

Bunching the shirt up around her waist.  Feeling the curves
and contours of her body along the way.  She was shaking.
Trembling from his touch.  As if electrified by each of
his fingers as they passed.  His hands cupped and shaped
themselves over her planes and valleys.  The curvature of
her hips.  The flatness of her stomach.  The sharp raised
slats of her rib cage.  The rounded mounds of her breasts.
The slight indenture of the hollow between her neck and 
shoulder.  Finally reaching the top and carrying the shirt
up slowly, until it fell from her body completely.

She rose up on her knees immediately, leaning over him.
Allowing him full access to her breasts, as he suckled
and teased them to intense points of pleasure.  She moved
against him insistently as he caressed her.  Moaning.
Pressing her body into his.  Her hips rotating.  Unable to
stay still.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, separating
and spreading her legs around him.  She pulled his T-shirt 
up from behind.  Her head against his, looking down over his 
shoulder.  Her fingernails raking deeply up the length of his 
back as she gathered the material greedily hand over hand, 
until she wrenched it over his head and off.

Their skin and touch separated momentarily from this 
action.  But once completed, they moved back together as 
soon as possible.  Like magnets drawn together by an 
irresistible attraction.  Fitting their bodies into known
grooves, tightly to one another.  She could feel his 
arousal, pulsing and hot against her.  Knew he could feel 
her wetness, as his hands moved up her back slowly.  
Grasping her shoulders and pulling them back gently until 
he could see the outline of her face in the dark.  He slid 
his hands from her shoulders upward, never breaking contact
with her skin, tracing along her neck and jaw.  The side
of her cheeks.  Finally, cupping her face.  Lowering his
to hers firmly.  They kissed.

No longer the gentle honey sweetness of the first.  Now
they were hungry and demanding.  Pressing fully against
each other.  Mouths open, tongues meeting.  Breathing,
all but forgotten.  Her hand came between their bodies,
resting against his chest.  Sliding open palmed across
the solid muscle, and then lower.  Until she reached her
destination.  Holding him through the thin material of
his boxers.  Clenching and releasing her fingers.  
Alternating the pressure, mimicking the functions of her
own body, until he wheezed suddenly and pulled out of
their kiss.  Too distracted by her actions to continue.  

He pushed her back suddenly, supporting her as she lowered.
Until she felt the softness of the mattress underneath her.
She pulled her legs out from under her, bent and lifted her 
knees to help him as he guided her panties off her hips.
She reached out in the dark, stretching, thinking he would
be right there.  But he wasn't.  Instead she felt his hands
pressed against her inner thighs, spreading them wide apart.
She gasped, her back arching, and her hands pulling against
the sheets as she felt the moistness of his breath expelling
next to her sex.  This time his fingers and tongue mimicking
the functions of his body for her.  She writhed fitfully.
Bucking up strongly towards his mouth as he continued to
lick and taste her relentlessly.  She whimpered, moaning his
name over and over.  Until her body convulsed and shuddered
violently.  He stayed connected to her through the gyrations
of her body, as she rode out the pleasure, sharing the orgasm
with her.  Only taking his mouth away when she finally stilled.

He moved up and over her then.  Removing his boxers quickly
before coming into contact with her once more.  As he began 
to settle over her, positioning himself, she marveled at 
the feeling of warmth that issued from his body.  Taking 
away the chill of her own.  A chill she hadn't even been
conscious of until it was abated.  Like them, their love-
making, a need she hadn't even been aware she held, until it
had been experienced and satisfied.  Now it was as necessary
to her as air.  Her arms reached out, tugging at his hips.
Needing him now to warm her last place of want, as she felt 
him pressed up against her opening.  She was so ready for 
him that he filled her suddenly.  A smooth forward sliding 
surge inside her body that took them both by surprise.  Each 
groaning out loud at the sudden intense feeling and pressure, 
as he buried himself fully within her in one forceful stroke.

Unconsciously she sighed heavily.  Blissfully.  A sigh of
contentment and happiness.  Knowing that the last remnant
of the nightmare was now banished for this moment.  Mulder
could do that for her.  Only him.  Take away the pain.  
Make her forget.  And leave behind what she most desired.
Just like that last night in the building, the two of them
were the only ones left in the dark now.  No more ghosts
to haunt her.  She smiled, as she wrapped her arms around
him, leaning up to kiss his neck, as he began to rock 
against her.  It wouldn't be long now before the nightmares
would disappear completely.  And Thomas would be forever
resigned to the depths of hell, where he rightfully 
belonged.  The only remorse she would carry was that she
had been unable to find the real Teresa.  And probably
never would.  If she indeed had ever even existed.  But in
Scully's mind at least, Teresa, whether she had been real
or just a result of one man's twisted delusion, would 
finally be granted the peace she so richly deserved.  And
Scully as well, having found her own.

Her hands moved deliciously across his back, feeling the
light sheen of perspiration that had broken out from his
exertions.  Her own body found a rhythm to match his pace,
meeting him.  Lifting herself to accept each of his thrusts.
Which were strong and steady.  Deep and filling.  He never
gave her less than one hundred percent of himself.  And she
gave herself as completely to him.  She felt the knots of
intense pleasure building and growing.  Closing her eyes.
Lightly, knowing the intensity of the eruption that was
moving through her.  It was always this way with him.  She
could hold back nothing from him.  She didn't want to.  She 
clutched desperately, clinging to him tightly as she came.  
Calling out loudly.  As if nothing else mattered.  And 
while she was still in the middle of her release, his
followed.  As he tensed above her, still moving within 
her.  Filling her with yet another warmth.  Finally, both
of them exhausted they collapsed, rolling sideways without
ever letting go or even breaking their union.  She closed
her eyes, as he pulled her close.  There was nothing to 
fear in the dark anymore.  She would never be alone there
again.  Never.

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

Anger can be a dangerous emotion.  One that beckons change.
They knew this now.  But sometimes change can be for the
better.  When it is tempered with the realization that there
are things more important than the destructive effects of
anger's wake, and the hurting words it can evoke.  The paths 
and events it can unknowingly set into motion.  But they
had work to finish.  And they knew they must go on, now wiser
for their experiences.  Certainly grateful for what it 
had brought them in return.  

There would be other long nights.  Sometimes spent once again 
in the not so apropos setting of a darkened and deserted 
government office building.  The harried and over worked 
occupants past tired.  Yet no longer beyond caring.  Two people 
set adrift in a sea of lies, who must continue to search for 
the truth.  Searching for miracles.  Searching for answers.  
One who believes there is a magical cure waiting out there 
somewhere to be found.  One who does not, but feels that the 
truth can bring justice.  Different applications towards the 
same goal.  Some things never change.  But their community and
ties lay in the culmination of their combined dedication.
To the work.  Most certainly to each other.  They are much 
stronger for this union.  Souls and spirits.  Hearts and 
minds.

They have just returned from a journey four years in the
making.  A lifetime in the cards.  And they will never be
the same.  But they had survived.  Against the odds, they
have decided to go on.  But there will always be someone 
watching.  Hidden.  Waiting.  

And so the die has been cast.

As somewhere the dice are thrown again.  Flawless ivory cubes, 
spotted with ebony ink.  As all the desperate eyes forever
cursed follow the teasing course of their journey.  Tumbling
and rolling.  Lofty power camouflaged behind a shield of
innocence.  They wait for the fates to decide.  Win or lose?
Love or hate?  Live or die?

All bets off.  Another game has begun.


THE  END