The File 
by Humbuggie
1999
san@net4all.be

Edited by Laurie D. Haynes
shannara@pnx.com

Situation : This story takes place after "The Beginning" with Mulder
and Scully working for Kersh.

Inside information : In two previous stories "The Game" and "Sins of
our Children" I have introduced two new
characters, Terence Davis -- Mulder's former boss at the VCS, and Tom
Fielding, a young FBI agent working for
Davis. You don't need to have read the previous stories, but of course
it does come in handy :-)

Spoilers : References to several episodes, including  "Little Green
Men," "The Host," "The End," "The Beginning,"
with a visit from the woman we all love to hate, Diana Fowley. 

Story : After the suicide of a respected senator, Mulder is contacted
by Senator Matheson to investigate the case. The trail leads to a
hidden file in the basement office and a list of names of people who
are potential victims to a strange governmental experiment involving
"The Project." When his enemies suspect Mulder's investigation, they
take the necessary measures to stop him.

Type : X-File, Mulder-Angst, M/S /Sk friendship, and Krycek in the
second part. 


The File 

Part I : The List 

 1.    

December 12, 1998
Potomac River, Washington, D.C.. 

If there was one thing in life that was sacred for the senator, it was
the love he felt for his wife and children. Until now
it was all he needed to survive. He resented the hell he had forced
himself into, but they kept him sane and together.
Until today. 

Today he found himself sitting on a bench looking out on the Potomac,
his hand clutched around the gun he had bought only two hours before
in a small store. His thoughts were with his wife. He didn't need to
ask himself if she was thinking about him right now. Somehow he knew.
She understood why he was doing this, but it didn't make things easier
for either of them.

She was the one telling the children what had happened to him. She
would be the one shedding tears with them, and
staring at his coffin in the church. She would be the one accepting
the condolences and listen to the sad stories and
joyful stories about him.

But he was beyond caring now. He had made his decision the moment he
had set foot inside the gun shop, buying the .32 that would make an
end to his life. It was the only way for him to go. And now, sitting
here at night, he knew he was doing the right thing.

He could no longer live with his betrayal of  his country. It might
have sounded corny or stupid for others, but to him
honor and dignity was something that still lived. He needed it to
survive.
He hadn't left a goodbye note. His wife knew why and that was enough.
He would take his secret to the grave, forcing others to reinvest
their stake in the Project he had chosen to participate in. The
meetings in New York would go on without him now, and they would
ponder for a moment, asking themselves whether or not to proceed. They
would go on, and he would be forgotten. But that was their problem,
not his. 

He said his farewell on the Hill that day before leaving the office
after dark. They didn't know it was a goodbye, even
though some of them might have felt something was about to happen. In
the morning they might ask themselves
whether they had seen this coming. And then they would get over it.
Everybody always did.

The hug he had given Lily, his secretary, was more thorough and
personal. She knew. He could see it in her eyes. She
grasped him by his sleeve, almost begging him, "Do you really have to
go, Harold?"

He had smiled and said, "Yes. I have to go."

And he took off, deciding not to drive home. Instead, he went to
Alexandria and bought a gun in a pawnshop,
knowing damn well the owner would not request any papers. He was
careful in his choice of weapon. He thought of
the gun sitting in his bedroom, given to him by his Morley-smoking
friend. If he used that gun, he would point the cops straight at his
partners in crime, and he refused to do so, knowing it would endanger
his family. 

He stopped at a bar and drank two whiskeys, enjoying the flavor and
taste as it burnt in his throat. He paid and left
within twenty minutes, gathering all the strength and eagerness he
still had in him. He heard the thoughts of humanity in the insides of
his skull. 

*That's Senator Westfield, isn't it? Jesus, he's drunk.*
*The man looks like shit. What happened to him?*
He left the bar before he could force himself to respond. It didn't
matter anymore. Soon the voices would die, along with the rest of him.


He drove his BMW to the river, stopping deliberately at the bench the
FBI agent had sat on during his most terrible
ordeal. He had watched the agent from a distance, knowing the man was
suffering even more than him. But even that
he couldn't care less about anyone else anymore. Agent Fox Mulder was
not of his concern. 

He felt the gun in his pocket, resting against his lap. It almost felt
comforting, like a choice he had made and was
sticking by. It seemed hours before he finally got up and walked
towards the river, pondering his life. 
His suicide would make things easier for those behind him, trying to
keep their secrets. He had no doubt in his mind
that they would come soon enough to retrieve him. He was a threat to
them after all, someone who knew too much and was eager to talk. He
felt pride almost for his decision. At the end he was the only one
deciding to live or to die. 

He knelt down and touched the wet grass. It had been raining too much
these past few days. Raining and freezing,
causing sleet all over the pavement. These were dangerous times, not
just for drivers in Washington, D.C. 

Finally, he got out of his cramped position and turned around. He was
all alone at this bench, the one that the FBI agent had chosen a long
time ago. It only seemed fitting to do this here, where he had been
questioning his life as well, not even knowing that several senators
were involved in the decisions regarding his life and death. The FBI
agent would know soon enough though. The outcome might turn out a
surprise, or not. He really didn't care. The FBI agent would
investigate his death, of that the senator was very sure.  That was
fitting too.

At the end, the senator simply took the gun out of his pocket, and
shoved the barrel of the gun in his mouth, until he
nearly choked on it. Tears floated down his cheeks as he closed his
eyes, praying his last prayer. Then he pulled the
trigger, and his head seemed to explode into a thousand pieces. The
pain took him into oblivion, making an end to his
life. A single bullet hit his brain, killing him instantly, and his
body fell forward, into the Potomac. 

The current made him sink and then float up again and then sink and
float and sink, and then his body was face down
in the water, and his blood and brains were mixed with the filthy
water covering him completely. 
The gun had slid out of his mouth, and sunk, its weight pulling it
down instantly. After about three hours, rigor mortis began to set in,
but of course the senator wasn't aware of anything anymore. He was
free now, from the hundreds of thoughts in his mind, and the fact that
he, too, was the result of an experiment set up by those he trusted.
It was a fact he hadn't been able to live with.  

Senator Harold Westfield was found four hours after his death,
floating face down in the Potomac by a young couple
passing by. Before the river could claim his body, he was pulled out.
The back of his head was gone, his face mutilated beyond recognition.
It didn't matter. The ID in his jacket was enough to identify the man.


Within ten minute, the  FBI, CIA, NSA and the D.C. Police Department
were at the spot, working together in unison
to explain the senator's death. But the men in the dark suits that
eventually wrapped his body in the coroner's bag, were making sure
nothing on his body could link others to the truth. 

The body of the senator was shipped to the Bethesda Naval Hospital for
autopsy and further investigation. But
everybody knew the cause of death.  The river was dragged that same
night for the murder weapon. It was found shortly after. A .32 without
the serial number filed off. If fingerprints could still be retrieved,
it would be the senator's. There was no doubt he had pulled the
trigger himself. 

One hour after law enforcement found his body, the entire country knew
Senator Harold Westfield had committed
suicide. Two hours later it was all over the news, CNN broadcasting it
worldwide. Three hours later the entire Senate
was gathered to pay recognition. 

Four hours later, Special Agent Fox Mulder received an urgent phone
call from an old friend to get to the Hill
immediately on urgent business. 

2. December 13, 1998
2 p.m., Alexandria

December 12 everything seemed to go wrong for Special Agent Fox
Mulder, starting from the moment he got out of
bed. The night had been too short and restless, leaving him with a
pounding headache all day. Fridays were horrible,
usually because they had a report to hand over to Kersh. He hated each
moment spent in Kersh's office, so why should he be  thrilled by the
fact the man hated his guts. So it was a lousy day, followed by a
lousy night. 

The phone call around 1 a.m. had disturbed his sleep, and the voice on
the other side, telling him what went down
knew exactly how to ruin a perfectly good night.  He could recall
every single minute of the conversation, repeating
every single word as they spoke. Senator Matheson's voice soft and
intruding as ever. His words distraught and angry. 

"Did you hear about Westfield?"

"Yes, it's a shame. He was a good man."

"He knew about the Project. He killed himself for it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"They're going to destroy the evidence. You need to work fast. Go to
the bureau. There's a file you might want to take a look at. Do it
now, tonight. Follow my instructions."  

Mulder noted down the senator's words automatically, taking down
everything the man said. Then he put down the
phone and said on the couch, staring at the TV for minutes. He didn't
want to go to the office now. He probably
wouldn't even be able to get in, let alone take out a file that didn't
belong to him. How could Matheson ask this of him, knowing it might
ruin his life? 

But he could forget about going back to sleep. The words kept on
pounding in his head like a hammer, over and over
again. Eventually, he got dressed, staring at the small piece of paper
he had put on the table in front of him. He knew
he wouldn't be able to rest until he got that file.

So he left in the middle of the night for the bureau, knowing that he
would get in serious trouble if someone caught
him. 

He actually drove to the bureau, and stopped across the street,
staring at the dark building for hours. The last time he
had been here at night, was when Skinner informed him about the
Spartans, and he wasn't very sure he would survive
his infiltration into a group of terrorists. He didn't like these
memories. 

Mulder didn't go inside. He didn't dare to. He would return tomorrow
morning, or perhaps in the early afternoon. He
worked often on Saturdays, at least then he would blend in. Right now
he might as well carry a sign on his back
labeling him a thief..

Yeah, he would return, copy the file and put it back where it
belonged, without anyone noticing. He wouldn't copy it
at the bureau, knowing that he would have to report the number of
copies he made. He'd take it up to the Lone
Gunmen's office, and keep the copy there to read. 

Making that decision, Mulder drove home again. He didn't sleep
anymore. 

In the morning he took a shower and went out to buy a newspaper. He
drove to Ivan's where he ate a croissant and
drank a cup of coffee. The newspapers had screaming headlines of
course, talking about the senator's suicide. He read them carefully
and thoroughly, taking in every detail on the man's death. Mulder was
eager to grab his cell phone and call Scully to tell her about it, but
Matheson had told him not to. The file was too dangerous and sensitive
to be fully exposed, or so he said. "Take a look at the file first,
Mulder, and then ask yourself if you want her to know about it." 

Mulder left the diner around 10, going home to change for work. The
phone rang when he entered his apartment, the
senator's voice speaking to him angrily.

"Why haven't you retrieved the file yet?"

"Too risky. I'm going early this afternoon. If you're right, they'll
be watching me. I need to be careful."

"Just get the damned file." 

Mulder put down the receiver and changed for work. His heart was
pounding when he left his apartment again,
knowing that what he was about to do was both illegal and dangerous,
and also very stupid seeing his current track
record. If they caught him now, he'd be out of the bureau within ten
minutes. Perhaps this was the moment they had
been waiting for to discredit him. Perhaps it was all a trap.

But he trusted Matheson. Matheson would not let him down. He never had
before, and he wouldn't start screwing with him now.  The main thing
was to take it easy, and to act as if he belonged in the basement
office. If someone saw him, he would tell them he was merely borrowing
a file and would return it quickly. If someone asked him, "What file?"
he would cook up some story.  No big deal. It's not like he's going to
steal anything.  Then how come it felt like
stealing? 

Mulder skipped lunch and headed straight for the FBI's headquarters.
He listened to the radio while driving. An second autopsy report had
confirmed the first one. The senator had indeed killed himself. The
only question remaining was, 'Why?' 
 
The agent quickly turned off the radio and drove, his thoughts
occupied with other things. What if he found some
shocking news in that file? What if it did contain the list Matheson
was talking about? Would he confront Spender
with it and demand to know where the agent got it? Or would he go
public with it, confirming the fact the government
was up to no good? Then again, who would believe him? Who ever
believed him, except for Scully?  The only way to
find out, was by finding that file, and then expose the bastards for
what they were. It was the one thing that kept him
going through all these years, even when he thought Scully was against
him. Some day he would find out the truth,
and they would not be able to stop him from exposing it.

He sat at his desk for an hour after arriving at the bureau, staring
at his computer screen. There was no need for him
to be here now, there wasn't any particular case they were working on,
and he knew he would cause suspicion if he
stuck around longer than two hours. He nodded at Wilcox sitting at the
far end of the room and left, grabbing his
overcoat and mobile phone. 

Mulder was hardly ever nervous, but shivers ran down his spine when he
took the elevator to the basement office.
He was counting on the fact Spender was never there on Saturdays, that
the man was careless and ignorant, and that
he always left the office unlocked. If not, Mulder would force his way
in.  

He was afraid he would bump into someone on the way, but he didn't. No
one ever came here. Except for Spender and
Diana of course. But even she wasn't as ambitious as he once thought
she was. She never came to work on Saturdays, either. But what if she
came to work today?

His fears were groundless however.  The door didn't even creak when he
opened it and entered the basement office,
basically ignoring the "Special Agent Spender" sign at the door. He
simply made his way in, noticing immediately the
door wasn't even locked. Neither were the file cabinets. He didn't
dare to look around, knowing how much it hurt him
still. He longed to sit in that chair and to be back here for good,
but he knew he couldn't even think that way right now.
A job did not depend on an office, it depended on the man performing
the job. Spender, if he even knew about the list, would not move his
ass to help the people that needed his help. He would shred the file
or ignore it completely.  And Diana? He couldn't care less right now. 

Quickly Mulder opened the first cabinet, going through the files. It
was exactly where Matheson had said it would be.
He didn't even have to rummage through the cabinet. It was simply
there, sitting in its spot for him to get to it. 

He took it out, resisting the urge to read it now. It was too risky.
If he did, someone might actually catch him in the
act. No, he had to get it out immediately and drive over to the
Gunmen's to make a copy. His heart was pounding in
his throat when he closed the cabinet and turned off the lights in the
office.  Just about everything could go wrong here, but it didn't. He
took the elevator up then walked down the corridor. Freedom was just
around the corner.

"Agent Mulder." 

He turned around, almost dropping the file to the ground in his haste
. Agent Spender looked at him in surprise and
anger, his eyes focused on the file under Mulder's arm. 

"Yeah, Spender. What do you want?"

"What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

"Had some work to do. I'm gonna go now." 

"Sure. See you on Monday."

"Yeah. See ya." 

Mulder could feel the man's eyes piercing in his back when he exited
the office. He didn't stop for anything now, simply walked to his car,
got in and left the parking lot. Only when he was out of the bureau's
range did he take the
opportunity to take a deep breath and look at himself in the mirror.
He was pale as a sheet and still trembling. He
wasn't cut out for this stuff. 

But he made it ! He would be able to take the file to the Gunmen, copy
it there, leave his copy with them, and return
here with the file. Back and forth in less than two hours on a
Saturday morning. Plain and simple. Very simple. But
then why was Spender at the office on a Saturday afternoon? And why
today of all days?

When he left the FBI, a smoking man watched him, sighing deeply. Of
all the people in the world, he did not want Fox
Mulder to have his hands on that file. And the man was angry at his
son for letting this happen. 

 3.    December 13, 1998
3 p.m., Washington, D.C. 

Perhaps, if Mulder hadn't been so deep in thought, he would have seen
the silver Chevrolet that had followed him ever since he left the
office. He might even have seen the faces of the men that were
assigned to retrieve the file at any cost. He might have suspected
that they came for him and were sent to make sure he wouldn't be able
to keep the file.

Now, he didn't notice it until they were right behind him, following
him through the crowded streets of Washington
DC. He only saw them when the car was at his tail, almost forcing him
off the road. Suddenly he felt a bump as the
car hit his, forcing him to pull the steering wheel with a vengeance.
He shifted quickly to the left, then regained control and drove back
to his own side of the road. A car horn beeped somewhere nearby. He
saw them now in his rearview mirror, but their faces were hidden in
shadow. 

"Shit !" he heard himself curse when the second bump came, this time
much harder. 

He quickly took a right turn, hearing the shrieking tires of the car
behind him as the men followed him in his tracks.
Mulder immediately knew he had screwed up. He was completely
unfamiliar with this area, which seemed peaceful
and quiet, with only dilapidated empty buildings. They would easily
catch him here, in this lightly inhabited area of
town. He had to get out of here.

He grabbed his cell phone, choosing the speed dial to contact Scully.
It seemed to take forever before he reached her.
Her voice responded loud and clear, and he heard muffled noises in the
back. He recognized this area now, he was only ten minutes away from
her. Perhaps he could make it to her place. It was time to get her in
the picture.

"Scully, I'm in trouble." 

It was all he needed to say to get her on her feet, saying urgently
over the phone, "Mulder, where are you?"

"Near Georgetown, I'm going to try and make my way over to your
place."

"What's going on?"

"Two men in a silver Chevrolet are trying to run me off the road.
Apparently I've got something they want." 

"Where are you exactly? I'll call the cops." 

"Just passed 4th and Weston Street. I'm only two blocks away. Don't
call the cops, they won't be able to do anything.
I ..." 

A third bump made him drop the phone to the ground, between his feet.
He could hear her voice as he desperately tried to maintain control
over the steering wheel, but the men behind in were determined to stop
him. She shouted his name as he yelled and regained control.

He shouted, "I'm okay, Scully. I'm still here." 

He pushed his gas pedal even further down. The car sped up now, taking
another dangerous turn to the right. The other car followed swiftly,
taking him back into the business district. 

Mulder had no way of knowing that a car stolen by two young
delinquents was headed for the same intersection as him. Nor did he
know that although the lights were already red on their side,  the
driver would choose to ignore the signals in order to get rid of the
cops on his tail. The car was heading for him full speed when he
crossed Smithfield and West. 

The only thing he did know was when the stolen car came crashing into
him.. The only thing he heard was the
sickening noise of metal against metal, and car against car, taking
him into oblivion almost instantly. The last thing
he heard was his own voice calling out Scully's name as he slid
between the metal of the dashboard and steering wheel and the seat.
The airbag blew up in his face, working like a little bomb against his
temple.  The car turned over and over, ending up on its side. Then
everything went quiet, including the cell phone. The last thing he was
aware of, was a strange smell, like gas was leaking out of the
vehicle.

 4.    December 13, 1998
 3.15  p.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown. 

Dana Scully sat powerless and numb for minutes before hanging up the
phone. She had no other choice, Mulder's line went dead. She had heard
the sickening crunch of metal against metal, and then his shouts
before he passed out. *Oh, God, he called me and now he's dead and I
don't even know why or where.*

But the agent in her awoke and she grabbed her phone to dial 911 to
report an accident near 4th and Weston.  The
woman on the phone said something like, "We already know, ma'am." 

"A federal agent is involved," Scully interrupted. "Somebody was
following him. Get some officers over there!" 
Scully hung up and grabbed her jacket. If Mulder was only two blocks
away, she wasn't going to sit here waiting until she heard the news.
He had called her because he needed her. So she was going. If only to
find out whether he was still alive. 

Mulder wasn't aware of the men and woman approaching the cars on the
crossing, nor did he find out the men
following him were gone. He didn't hear the sirens approaching the
scene, or the cops that were close enough to get
to the scene before the ambulances did. 

He only woke up when hands started pulling his jacket, and others
touched his throat and face. He opened his eyes to see three different
faces stare at him through the broken glass that was all around him.
Another face was closer, and it were the hands of the man above him
that touched his face.

"Hey buddy, can you hear me?" the dark man's voice said. Only now did
he realize the voice must have been talking
to him for quite a while, beckoning him to wake up. 

He was trapped behind the console, stuck between his steering wheel
and the seat. Metal was forced against his
shoulder, the window was shattered into a million pieces. The airbag
lay like an empty balloon before his face. He could still feel the
impact. He could taste his own blood. He had bitten his lip. He could
feel his body turn sore already, but at least he was able to sense
pain in his arms and legs. At least he wouldn't be paralyzed for life.
He moaned quietly, trying to focus on the action at hand.  

"Sir?" the voice insisted, taking him back into reality. 

"Yeah," he responded hoarsely, trying to straighten his body. 

He caught a whiff of a faint, strange smell. Something was wrong. He
heard their voices from a distance. They were
talking about him like he wasn't even there. The man turned his face
away from him and the car seemed to move under
his weight as he shifted it. 

"We've got to get him out of there now. The car's gonna blow up at any
minute. Gas leaking, he's trapped. How long
before they get here? Can we move him? We can't wait for the fire
trucks to get here. He's a goner if we don't help
him." 
He felt a sense of panic and started to move. He wanted to shout for
help, knowing no worse death than to die trapped in flames and an
explosion. The hands kept him on his place, unstrapping him from his
seat belt. "

I'm fine," he croaked in panic, ignoring the terrible pain all over
his bruised body. "I'm fine, just get me out of here." 

He heard noises now, and the sound of metal being pulled. Then the
hands started to work to move him over the front passenger seat,
pulling him up. The car moved under his weight. He could hear a 'pop'
when his legs were freed from the console. Then the hands were
underneath his armpits and they pulled him hard yet gentle. He shifted
until his body was pulled through the forced opening on top of him,
the car still moving and creaking. He held his breath and winced with
pain when other hands lifted his legs, taking him away from the car. 

"The file," he said weakly, "get out the file."

They didn't listen to him. What was one file when lives were in
danger?

He tried to stand when they got him out, but they were stronger and
faster than him. A few seconds later he was yards away from his car,
taken there by uniformed cops. He heard the sirens and more voices and
noises. 

Soon, he was gently lifted onto a gurney. He wanted to turn and see
his car, but he couldn't. He was being pushed down on the gurney, and
he could hear himself croak, "I'm fine, really. No need for all of
this." 

His heart was racing like crazy, his head was about to explode, and
his body was already showing the first signs of the crash he had just
survived. But the file was more important. He needed to get the file
out of the car. 

Then suddenly a yell, and a shriek, and someone said, "It's gonna go!"


The next moment the world seemed to shake and tremble and he could
hear the terrible noise. He knew it was his car.
He forced himself free from their grip and turned to see. His car was
lying on its side (something he hadn't even
realized before), and was now turned to one big burning pile. It was
gone, and so was the file. He sighed with
disappointment and fear. If they ever found out, he was a baked
cookie. He'd never be able to deny the fact he was at
the office today, and Spender had seen the file underneath his arm.
This would cost him his career.  It was finally over.

They were still attempting to get him to lie down on the gurney. He
refused with a vengeance, his hands still clutching the sides of the
gurney. He saw their worried frowns and their questioning looks. He
knew they wanted to ask him what happened but he couldn't tell them.
Not right now. He stretched his neck to see what had happened to the
other driver and his passenger, but all he could see was two bodies
underneath white sheets. They were gone.

"What's your name?" the cop that pulled him out asked, "can you tell
us, buddy?"

"Fox Mulder," he heard himself say, "I'm with the FBI." 

He went for his jacket pocket, only to find the cop was already taking
out his wallet and ID. The gun somehow had
stayed attached to his side, and that was being removed also, along
with what was left of his jacket. The right sleeve
of it was bloody, and he noticed the wounds on his hands and wrist. So
he had torn some skin, so what? At least he
was still alive and breathing. 

"Agent Mulder," the cop said, bending over so he could see the agent's
eyes, "can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know." 

Another car pulled over and a redhead ran towards him. 

He smiled faintly at her, saying," Hey Scully, sorry I scared you like
that." 

He was glad that she arrived just in time to stop them from asking him
the wrong questions. He would talk about it,
but not now. 


From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 2/11

2/11

Scully quickly took over, showing her style and class as she talked to
the police officer in charge, asking him what had taken place. Her
initial fear that her partner had died was smothered as soon as she
saw him sitting upright not
the gurney. His pale features and numb exterior however quickly told
her he was going into shock, even if he didn't
know it himself.  He needed to lie down.

She knelt down, smiling at him while she said, "Hey Mulder, I can't
even leave you alone on a Saturday, can I?"

He responded with a faint smile. That was all she needed. She lifted
his eyelids and took his pulse as he sat down, still refusing to lie
down. He was determined not to go to the hospital, even if she said he
had to. He just didn't want to. He closed his eyes and concentrated on
simple breathing. In and out, in and out. It was all he needed right
now. Just concentrate and be okay. She asked him some questions but he
didn't respond. He just let it all happen. 

Scully frowned as she watched her partner's strange behavior,
wondering whether he knew who had been following
him. What was he not telling her? She looked at the EMT's, asking them
about the other people involved. She stared
in shock at the burnt wreckage of Mulder's car, for a moment not even
realizing it was his car that had been burnt to
a crisp. The silver Chevrolet he had mentioned was nowhere in sight.
They were gone as soon as his car had crashed
with that of the thieves. 

He breathed in deeply. In and out. He could do it. He would calm
himself down and make sure he got out of here to
talk to Matheson. The file was gone but there would be other evidence.
He simply had to go. He slowly pulled himself up from the gurney until
he was unsteadily on his feet, grasping her arm. 

"Where do you think you're going?" Scully's voice was right besides
him, and her hands were already pushing him
back down, taking over again. 

"I'm fine," he repeated, ignoring her just like she had ignored him
when she was talking to the EMT's. He didn't like
being treated like a patient. "I'd like to go home now."

"Mulder, you were just in a very serious car accident. You're not
going anywhere. Sit down." 

They seemed to be plotting against him. Several people now pushed him
down on the gurney, strapping him within
seconds. Before he could protest he was shoved inside the ambulance,
and the doors were closing behind him and his partner. He had heard
her talking to the cops. They would take care of her car.  She was
going to the ambulance with her partner. To set force behind her words
she was already inside the vehicle before they could even attempt to
shut the doors. One fierce glance at them showed them they needn't
bother with trying to get Mulder to the hospital all by himself. 

Mulder smiled despite everything. Leave it to Scully to make the world
turn against them. And leave it to him to get
a file destroyed he'd just swiped from the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.  What if they searched his car? What if they found the
remains of that file? What if Spender reported the file missing? What
if those goons returned to finish him
off? What if ... 

Somehow the world faded before the ambulance arrived at the hospital. 

He woke up in the ER again under the supervision of a Dr. Matthews.
The man ordered X-rays, poked him here and
there, made sure he didn't have any internal bleeding and then filled
him up with painkillers, warning him he would
have a few terribly painful days. He hadn't broken anything, miracles
it be, but his body was badly bruised, he had some nasty lacerations
and a definite concussion. He would be suffering for sure. 

*Great,* Mulder thought, *I'm not only out of a job, I'll also be
bouncing back and forth in trying to find a nice,
comfortable seat.*  The first thing he thought about when he woke up
was the file. Then he thought of himself, fearing for one long moment
he had screwed up and would be beyond repair. He did see the bodies
underneath the white sheets after all. What if he was next?

But Matthews was friendly and thorough, accurate and straight on in
his words. He would be just fine. Nothing a set
of painkillers and antibiotics wouldn't cure. An IV was quickly
attached to his hand to slip him the antibiotics and
medication for the night. Without argument Mulder slipped off to la-la
land , letting Scully take care of things. He
didn't know she was worried about him doing just that. It wasn't like
him. He had struggled to get home at the accident site, but now he
seemed too eager to get some sleep. Little did she know it would be
the silence before the storm, something Mulder had already realized.
He would need his strength to face the death squad as soon as he got
out of this place. And he needed all the sleep he could get right now.

In the middle of the night he woke up in the coziness of a private
hospital room. It was 4 a.m. December 14. She was
there when he opened his eyes, sleeping in a chaise longue with a
blanket over her slim body. Her hand was still lying on his bed,
holding on to his wrist. 

5. 
December 13, 1998
7.05 p.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown Medical Center

Dana Scully had learned a long time ago not to worry too much about
her partner. Somehow he always got himself into trouble one way or
another. The numerous times she had stayed with him when he was sick
or hurt, or when he was simply out cold for a long time, she had dealt
with the fact that one day it might be too late. That he would not
regain consciousness and die. 

This time however he had scared the shit out of her. Not because of
his injuries, they weren't even that bad considering the car wreck
he'd been in, but because she was on the phone talking to him when it
happened.

But what exactly did happen? She remembered arriving at the scene to
find her partner sitting upright on a gurney,
talking lucidly to the men that had dragged him out of his car. The
car, however, was gone, exploding minutes after
impact. A gas leak the cop explained to her. They were lucky to get
him out. 

There was nothing more in the world that she wanted to find out more
than who drove after Mulder and hit his car,
but strangely enough the impact had come from the side, not the rear.
The cop mentioned two kids stealing a car and
then crashing it into her partner's, leaving him unconscious and
themselves dead.

"Your partner's one lucky son of a bitch, ma'am," the cop said full of
respect, "he was lucky we were in the area."

"Did you find the men that were chasing him?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was on the phone talking to him. He said he was chased by some men.
They hit his car. Where are they?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the cop said, frowning his face in surprise, "I
have no idea what you are talking about." 

She decided to pursue this thing. If her partner was being followed
and forced into an immediate collision with the
stolen car, this "accident" was a felony. An attempt had been made on
his life and he would have to press charges.

Despite Mulder's weak protests, he was taken to the hospital. She
stayed with him in the ER while the doctor
examined him. They had cut up his suit, given him a gown and were
taking him up for X-rays. Why had he been
wearing a suit? Had he been on a case? Did he visit the bureau during
the weekend? She didn't understand why he
didn't tell her. He always told her.

She wanted to ask him and had already put her hand on his arm when she
noticed he was out cold. The worry returned immediately. What if he
had internal injuries or was bleeding heavily? What if he simply died
in this ambulance?  But he didn't.

He woke up in the ER and sounded just as lucid as he had before,
listening to the doctor's medical expertise. He
hadn't protested when they filled him up with painkillers and took him
up to a private room where he could rest.

By the time he was in his room he was asleep again, and she left the
room to get something to drink. It was late and
she was tired.

"Agent Scully." She turned around to find her boss, Assistant Director
Kersh walking over to her. His entire presence represented class and
style and impressive behavior, but she dreaded the moment he came to
talk to her.

"Sir," she said slowly, anticipating the moment he would ask her
questions about her partner's accident. 

"How's Agent Mulder?"

"Resting. He's fine. Doctors are going to let him out tomorrow. Thank
you for coming on a Saturday night."

"I heard it wasn't an accident?"

"Sir?" She sounded genuinely surprised when she glanced at him,
wondering how he knew. She hadn't spoken to
anyone about Mulder's phone call except to the cop, whom waved it off
as being silly. 

"Was it an accident, Agent Scully?"

"I don't know, sir," she said carefully, "we won't know until Agent
Mulder is ready to give a statement."

"His car has been taken for investigation. Tell Agent Mulder to get
some rest. I'll see you both on Monday. I want
a testimony from Mulder on my desk by 10. If this was an attempt on
his life, we'll do whatever we can to catch them."

"Yes, sir." 

Kersh turned around and let her numb alone in the hallway. What was
there about the man she didn't like? She missed talking to Skinner. In
fact, she missed The X-Files as well. Her scientific mind should be
happy that they were assigned to somewhat regular, normal cases, but
the interaction with her partner while discussing the weirdest of
possibilities had kept her going over the past five years. Now that
this was gone, she missed it. 

She returned to Mulder's hospital room and sat down with her partner,
wondering why he had lied to her. For as sure
as she knew she could trust him with her life, she also knew that he
was avoiding the truth. She could read it in his
eyes.


6. 
December 13, 1998
Alexandria

Alan Wade stared down at the woman in his bed, wondering when and how
it had all gone wrong. She was asleep, her left arm stretched out over
his side of the bed. She didn't even realize he was not beside her. In
her sleep, all that
mattered were the dreams she probably had about her lover. 

He felt like hell had frozen over and he'd somehow got frostbite. If
there was one person in the world that would not
miss him after his suicide, it was the woman in his bed. She didn't
even wear the wedding ring anymore. She was
simply a necessity for the nights of loneliness, just like he was a
necessity for the money she needed to lead her wealthy life.
*He's stupid. He doesn't know I'm screwing his best friend. He's good
enough for the money but he doesn't know. He
doesn't give me enough love. Look at him sitting there, he's a weak
character. I prefer Dan. God, I just wish he would
go away and leave me the money.*

*She's a good screw, that blonde he's married to,* thought Dan as his
buddy sat on the stool next to him drinking beer. 
*Poor bastard, little does he know about her,* Alan thought. *She
wants to get rid of me. I wonder if she's going to
kill me. I wonder if she's going to kill him, too, once she's had
enough of him. But she'll have the money and she'll
have a good lover. That's all she needs.*

He would give both of them what they wanted. 

He grabbed the box of pills from the counter and stared at them. Where
in the world had it ever gone wrong? When
had he ever gained the ability to get into someone's mind and find out
what was going on in there? When and how
would he ever stop feeling this way?

He knew the answer. Only in death would he find peace. And his death
would come right here, right now.

A pounding headache, knocking on his skull like a hammer woke him out
of his stupor. He needed to get out of here,
to catch some fresh air. 

He grabbed his jacket and left the bedroom, not caring if he closed
the door quietly. At the end it was always him alone.
Despite the wedding ring on his finger and the woman in his bed. 

He took the knife he had chosen for the occasion and tucked it in his
jacket. Somehow it seemed appropriate to do it
outside, and not in this glass building he called his house. He had
never felt at home here and now that he was going
to die he chose not to die here. 

I'm losing my favorite game. You're losing your mind again. The
neighbor's radio was still playing. He could hear the
music. How appropriate, even more so. It was meant to be like this. 

He closed the back door and walked away from the house he had designed
himself, and which he hated. Every square
inch, every piece of brick and glass. 

He put his hand in his pocket and touched the sharp blade. His fingers
bled when he took his hand out again. He
brought them to his mouth and tasted his own blood. It was the final
straw that drew him over the edge. Alan took a
few decisive steps towards the park. He sat down on the swing he had
used even when he was a kid. Some  things never changed. Then he
simply took out the knife, closed his eyes and let the blade do its
work. The last thing he knew were not the thoughts of other people
running through his mind, telling him what to do and think, but his
own. He was actually happy to be able to die.  


7. 
December 14, 1998
8.05 a.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown Medical Center

It took a while for Fox Mulder to clear his head after a stressing day
and a strange, painless night. Once he had
succumbed to the painkillers, however, he felt great. No, not great,
but just fine. His body ached and hurt all over but
he didn't care. He knew what kind of death he had just escaped, and he
would live on without permanent damage or
scars.

Early in the morning he slid out of bed after listening to the noises
down the hall. It was a busy Sunday morning, but
somehow he felt grateful to be able to listen to the sounds. He was
wearing a hospital gown, one that didn't exactly
cover his entire body. He felt embarrassed despite knowing Scully had
seen him naked several times before. Quickly
he tried to move every inch of his body, stretching out his limbs, and
he came to the conclusion he was a very lucky
man. His arms and legs were black and blue, as was his abdomen and
chest, and his face and back probably as well,
but it was all superficial. The airbag had saved him from a more
serious head injury, the metal of his car had spared
his arms and legs. Only the cuts on his wrist were bandaged and taken
care of. Someone had disconnected the IV in
the middle of the night. He was glad, at least now he wouldn't have to
pull out the damn thing himself.

In the privacy of the bathroom he took off the gown and took a better
look at his body. Despite the bruises, there was
no sign of internal bleeding or cracked ribs. Just the flesh and skin
that had suffered in the crash. Nothing that would
keep him here for another day. He had been in hospitals too often not
to know he was about to go home.

Carefully he dressed himself again, still feeling naked, and returned
to the room to find Scully awake, pushing aside
the blanket a nurse had laid over her. 

"How do you feel?" she asked, helping him back to the bed. He refused
to lie down again and simply sat down, resting his hands on the
sheets. 

"I'm fine." 

"What happened to you out there, Mulder?"

"I don't know. Some goons followed me, I don't know why. Then that car
came out of nowhere and hit me. I don't know ... it's all I remember."


"Did you do anything to cause this, Mulder?"

He looked at her curiously, wondering what she was referring to. But
he knew what she meant. "No," he said firmly,
"I didn't do anything." 

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me the truth?"

"Your feeling is wrong, I'm not lying, Scully."

He was surprised by her next action. She leaned over to the bed,
saying, "You're not alone on this, Mulder. Whatever
it is, I want to help you. Don't you know how much you worry me?"

He felt embarrassed for lying yet good for her remark, but he didn't
tell her, because he knew exactly how she felt, and
because he couldn't face the possibility she could be next in line to
die because of him. 

If they knew she knew they would risk killing her. If there was still
danger for him, he would not draw her in the fire
line, taking the chance she might catch the bullet meant for him. Next
time it might  not be a car following him, but
an army of goons getting even with him.

"I'm sorry if I worried you," he said, carefully sliding back into the
bed, "I didn't mean to drag you away from whatever plans you had over
the weekend." 

She smiled softly, "I'm sure my brother will survive. Besides, he's
got his hands full with Matthew right now. I 
called him last night." She wondered why she was explaining all of
this to Mulder. It's not like they owed each other
any explanations. Not even when they got run off the road. 

A moment of awkward silence followed before she said, "So, how do you
really feel?"

"Like your brother kicked my sorry ass." He grinned. "I'm fine,
Scully. Let's get that doctor in here so I can get home." 

She got out of her chair, laughing, and left the room. When he was
alone, the impact of the event seemed to crumble
down on him. He needed help, and he knew it. Alone the truth might die
with him. 

8. 
December 14, 1998
10.05 a.m. 

Walter Skinner never cared much for people that woke him up on a
Sunday morning before 11 a.m., especially not after a night on the
town with some friends. When the phone repeatedly rang, he groaned and
turned to pick up the receiver, moaning his name as soon as he did.

"Mr. Skinner," a too familiar voice said, "I believe we need to talk."


Walter Skinner didn't even bother to figure out how the man knew his
private telephone number. People like him knew
too much of anyone anyhow. Instead he simply said, "What do you want?"

"Your friend Fox Mulder is in some trouble. I thought you and I might
want to discuss how to deal with the situation."

"Get your facts straight," Skinner replied, "Mulder no longer works
for me."

"But I'm sure you miss him. I'm sure he misses you."

"What's this about?" 

"A file has gone missing early yesterday afternoon from the basement
office. Your agent, Jeffrey Spender, was not able to handle this
terrible matter with discretion so he simply made notice to his
superiors. I'm surprised he didn't inform you."

"Are you insinuating Mulder took it?"

"I know he did. I watched him do it."

"I'm sure you're happy then, He's burned his own bridges."

"Frankly," the man with the Morleys said, "I am not. I want you to
help Mulder out of this situation. He's in need of
someone within the bureau that can help him out."

"Why would I?"

"Because of what you know. Because the contents of that file cannot
reach the streets. The file is gone but the
information is still out there. If Mulder goes around asking too many
questions, he will die. I don't want that to
happen."

"What do you mean, the file's gone?"

"Check around in Georgetown. Your former agent is in a bit of a rut." 

One click and the man was gone. Skinner sighed, leaning back heavily
in the soft pillows of his comfortable bed. If
Mulder was in a rut he would probably be in a hospital. Tracking him
down would be easy. And then what? 

Skinner knew sleeping was out of the question now. He showered and
dressed quickly and used his cell phone on the way out to check if his
hunch was right. Within five minutes he had confirmation. Mulder had
been in a car crash and was hospitalized in Georgetown.  But where was
that file? And what was in it?  And why would the smoking man want
Mulder alive? 


From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 3/11


9. 
December 14, 1998
10.05 a.m. 

Medical Examiner Noel Markham, didn't like performing autopsies early
on an Sunday morning, but the call came in from the top level. 

Therefore, instead of enjoying breakfast with his wife Elise, he found
himself standing in the morgue, looking down on the body of a man in
his early thirties, drained of three quarts of blood.  Markham turned
on the tape as he proceeded with the examination of the man, wondering
why in the world anyone this young, with a wife as lovely as the one
sitting in the waiting room of the Georgetown Medical Center, would
want to kill himself so viciously. 

The slices on the man's wrists were deep and thorough. Even if someone
had managed to witness the suicide attempt, nobody would have been
able to do anything about it. He practically cut off his left hand,
after slicing deep into his right. The man had been right handed, yet
he had managed to keep the knife steady as he cut his left one,
obviously ignoring the pain and damage he had already inflicted on
himself.

He was found on a playground near his own house. Fortunately the
people who found him were an older couple and not some kids. Markham
had arrived at the scene shortly after the police, taking a first long
look at the body and blood that surrounded it. The man lay in a pool
of his own blood, his eyes dead and distraught staring into
nothingness. His pallor was gray from loss of blood. His body lay
almost peacefully on the ground. It was a morbid scene in a morbid
situation. 

"What do you think?" D.A.'s Investigator Richard Grant, asked,
"suicide?"

"Definitely," Markham answered, knowing he would have to perform an
autopsy anyway. "There's no sign of a struggle. If someone else had
inflicted this on him, there would have had to be at least several
people here to keep him steady. But I don't doubt suicide."

Anytime someone died who was not under the direct care of a doctor,
an autopsy was always required. Markham took samples of the blood,
sending it to the lab for further examination. He opened the chest,
thoroughly examined the vital organs. He didn't bother with the head.
The cause of death was as obvious as the rest. 

Markham heard footsteps in the hall way as he cleaned and washed up.
As the door opened he turned around, expecting to see Grant. Instead,
six men entered the room dressed in dark suits. Their faces were as
quiet as their voices. 

Except for one. One man spoke to him as they approached the table,
saying, "Dr. Markham, this body is to be wrapped up and taken to the
Naval Institute for further examination. Please be so kind as to end
your inquest." 

"Why?" Markham asked surprised, wondering what the hell was going on,
"this man wasn't with the government." 

"He is now. Please step aside."

Four of the men started to wrap up the body, taking the tissue samples
Markham had marked and sealed with them. Markham wondered if they
already had the blood samples sent to the lab. There wasn't a doubt in
his mind that they had.

"What the hell is going on?" Markham grabbed the man by the sleeve,
forcing him to look at him. The man just pulled away and watched as
his associates proceeded. Then they simply left, lifting the body onto
a gurney and carrying it outside. Markham followed them to the door
and stared in surprise as they left. 

Markham quickly looked up Grant's phone number and used his cell phone
to call the man. Grant didn't respond. Markham took off his white lab
coat and pulled on his jacket, grabbing his things. He was furious.
How could they do this? 

Noel Markham was able to reach the end of the corridor leading to the
outside. Then one silent shot ended his life, throwing him backwards
against the wall, as a bullet entered his brain. 

Markham never knew what hit him. Nor would he ever know why he died.
And little did he know that in his office downtown, the district
attorney himself sat with closed eyes, covering his head between his
hands. His investigator had mysteriously disappeared and he knew
Markham would likely do so as well. He knew why. 

 10.   
December 14
11:05 a.m. , Georgetown Medical Center

Mulder had spent enough time in hospitals to know whether he was fit
for release. Also, he knew for a fact the injuries inflicted upon him
were not serious enough to keep him strapped to a bed for much longer.
But Scully didn't like it. He knew she watched him for any signs of
fatigue or exhaustion, or anything that might force him to stay in the
hospital room for a day or so longer. 

Despite her obvious protest he got out of bed, stretching his arms and
legs continuously. 

"Why are you so nervous?" she asked him, watching him carefully.

"Who says I'm nervous?"

"You've been staring at the door long enough, Mulder. Are you
expecting someone?"

*Yeah, the death squad.* "No," he lied, "who would know I'm in here?"

"Only the entire bureau. They're looking for the men that ran you off
the road, remember?"

"They didn't run me off the road. In fact, looking back at it I'm
wondering whether they even hit the car." 

He knew his words sounded hollow and stupid, and she didn't buy it. He
was hiding something and she was determined to find out what. 

By the end of the morning, Dr. Matthews came in and examined him under
Scully's supervision and the assistance of a nurse. Mulder took it
gracefully and calmly, anticipating the moment he could get out of
here. He assured the doctor he felt fine, despite the terrible pains
in his back, legs and arms.  His head felt like one giant football,
ready to be used for a game at any time.  But as the doctor assured
him, he would live. 

Dr. Matthews prescribed him painkillers and sleeping pills for the
long, aching nights, telling him over and over again he should check
in immediately if the pain worsened or persisted.  But there was no
need to stay in the hospital any longer, and frankly Mulder didn't
want to. He couldn't wait to go home and think with a clear head about
the file he had appropriated then lost. 

"Now remember," Matthews said, handing him the prescription, "I want
you to take three of these each day, but if the pain is bad, you can
go up to six. They're not just painkillers, they'll also help you
heal. If you feel like shit, they'll patch you up, all right? If you
run out of tablets you can always have your partner prescribe you
more, but take them no longer than two weeks, okay?"

"Okay," Mulder said, staring uninterested at the piece of paper in his
hands. 

He was in pain but he would refuse to take any pills as long as it
wasn't necessary. Beyond that, he would pick up what was left of his
career at the bureau. If they came to arrest him, he would lie. If
they acted as if they didn't know, he would return this favor. 

Matthews gave him an injection, telling him the drug he had given him
was a strong painkiller. Mulder didn't object and let the man talk as
he warned him not to drive for the next five or six hours, and to take
it easy. 

"Take a nap as soon as you get home, let the drug do its work. It's
rather effective so you'll feel the results immediately. It's the same
stuff that I prescribed to you." 

"Okay." 

Mulder already felt a bit light in the head as he stumbled onto the
bed again. Scully grabbed his arm worried, asking him if he was okay.
He nodded and smiled. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

Mulder heard his partner talk with the doctor while he got dressed in
the bathroom. He couldn't figure out what they were saying though.  He
felt like an old man stumbling out, wearing the clothes Scully
obviously had someone pick up. Under her supervision he was ready to
go. 

The walk to the elevator went slow and heavy. He had trouble walking.
As the doors slid open, two men got out, looking in surprise at the
two agents in front of the elevator.

"Agent Scully," Walter Skinner said, "Agent Mulder. I didn't expect to
see you up and about so soon."

Mulder grinned painfully, "I'm fit for duty, sir." 

Skinner smiled vaguely, and examined the face and posture of the man
who used to work for him openly. Tom Fielding, special agent with the
VCS and a friend of the agents, shook Mulder's hand and showed him a
box of chocolates with a grin, "I figured you were at least going to
wait until you had a chance to check out all the nurses, Mulder." 

Mulder couldn't help but smile, "You mean the ones you haven't checked
out?" 

The young agent laughed and turned his attention to Scully, giving her
a hand as well. "I bumped into Assistant Director Skinner in the
lobby," the agent explained. "I wanted to see if you needed anything
more except for Mulder's clothes."

"Well, the man's up and about," Scully answered, giving Mulder a shy
look, "he's released and ready to go home."

"Let's go home then," Mulder said impatiently, wondering if their
friends were going to join them as they returned to his apartment. He
couldn't help but wonder if his apartment was even still in one piece.
The goony troop could have taken his absence as a chance to check his
apartment for copies of the files. But Tom had been there and not
mentioned anything. His fish must still be alive. 

"Mind if I pop in later this afternoon to check up on you, Agent
Mulder?" Skinner asked quickly, "we need to talk about a certain
file."

Mulder froze in his movements, staring at the AD for one long moment.
"Yes sir, that would be fine." 

"Good."

The four of them took the elevator down. Mulder walked carefully over
to Scully's car, feeling every fiber of his lean body. If he felt this
sore today, how sore would he be tomorrow? Things could not get any
worse than this, despite his own macho ideas that he would be off just
fine. Right now he just felt like sitting at home on the futon,
watching a good classic movie. He couldn't care less if Scully was
with him, he just wanted to be left alone. 

Skinner said goodbye outside the lobby, obviously not ready to discuss
anything in the presence of either Fielding or Scully. His eyes
however were focused on Mulder's look of guilt, as the agent walked
over to Scully's car. Fielding offered to tag along to see if Mulder
was fine. To his big surprise Scully accepted the invitation and
waited patiently until Tom followed in his car. Mulder could see her
glance in the rearview mirror regularly, obviously to make sure
Tom was still following. Somehow Mulder got the impression the whole
thing was a setup to get him to talk about whatever was bothering him.
But he was a stubborn and persistent man. He would not budge. 

For the first time since long neither agents felt like saying much in
the car. He knew she was burning with questions, and she knew he
wasn't ready to answer any. He could feel her stare at him
occasionally, wondering what had really happened the night before. 

Since it was Sunday, they would have to wait until Monday morning to
file a report at the office, but she somehow knew he would exclude the
goons in the silver Chevrolet. He would simply state that he was
driving along, minding his own business, and that a stolen car
suddenly appeared and crashed into him. He would neither confirm nor
deny to Kersh what had taken place, for one reason or another
protecting the men that had followed him and caused this.
Or was he protecting someone else? 

The official statement, as they called it, would conclude that the
whole thing was an accident. Of course, if the bureau found traces of
paint on Mulder's car, they would question him until he told them what
had happened. And then they would try and find the men that followed
him. But they would never find them. They'd dealt with their kind
before. They would probably deal with them again sometime soon.

 11.   
 December 14
 1:10  p.m., Washington, D.C., FBI 

The man sitting at Skinner's desk knew the phone call was for him. He
didn't bother to wait for the second ring but picked up at the first,
lighting a cigarette.

"The medical examiner is dead," the man on the other side said, "it
was an unfortunate course of events but we had no choice. The autopsy
had already been performed."

"It doesn't matter," the smoking man answered calmly, wondering if the
M.E. had suffered before being murdered. "Where's the body?"

"At the morgue. We couldn't take it with us. The D.A. knows. He'll
take care of business. A report has already been filed."

"Good. Make sure no one sees it." The smoking man hung up and stared
at the painting right in front of him. Skinner had redecorated the
office obviously. He wondered why. It wasn't as if the man was going
to be here much longer. Not if he could help it. 

The smoking man slowly got out of his chair and left the office. In
the morning, all hell would break loose. The men responsible for the
current events would be forced to deal with decisions not everyone was
happy to take. But most of all, the man that had worked in the
basement office was bound to loose much more than just his job. He
would lose his sanity and everything linked to him. 

The man pushed his cigarette in the ashtray. He could imagine what the
agent was going through right now. Bruised
and battered he would be thinking about his fate, his destiny. Would
he regret coming in this office only a day ago to
take the file? Would he have taken greater risks by reading what was
in it? Would he realize that what he had in his
hands was the key to one of the greater mysteries of this present day?
No, he would never know. If he wanted to stay alive, Fox Mulder was
never to know. It was a promise the smoker made himself. Fox Mulder
would never know what had happened to him. 


The fish were still alive. Silly, but it was the first thing Mulder
thought about when they entered his apartment. With
relief he said down on the futon, wondering when he would be able to
spend some time alone. It felt like ages since
he was last here but it had only been 24 hours. 

Tom had opened the door for him, using the key Scully had given him.
Mulder felt lightheaded and swayed a bit as
they helped him to sit down. Scully immediately took charge and
removed his jacket. Lifting up his feet she started
untying his shoes. He didn't protest. Whatever the doctor had given
him was heavy enough to keep an elephant down for the count. 

"Where can I find a blanket or something?" Tom's voice came from a
distance. 

"In the closet," Scully directed him. Mulder wondered since when she
had become so familiar with his apartment. He
smiled. Sooner or later they could really end up together. It was a
lovely thought to end a strange morning. 

They were obviously determined not to leave him alone in the
apartment. He could hear their voices in the kitchen as
they prepared some coffee. They were talking about him. 

"Are you sure he's okay?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, he's fine. Just tired. He was extremely lucky. He'll doze off
and then he'll be fine. But I don't want to leave him
alone in here. Not until we know who followed him and why."

"Do you think he knows?"

"I'm not sure. I've seen him avoid me like this before, when he was on
an undercover case and I wasn't allowed to
know. He acts the same -- guilty almost. It's like he's hiding
something that I'm not supposed to know about and I don't know what it
is. I've checked around. He was at the office yesterday but left
rather quickly. I don't know why he was there." 

"And he won't tell you?"

"He says he was catching up. It's a lie, I'm sure of it." She sighed.
"I can't force him to talk to me, Tom. Mulder's
always been a very private man. Even when we're on cases, there's
always a part of him that shields himself off for me. I've always
respected that, but this time it's different. I don't know what's
wrong with him but I want to find out." 

"How can I help?"

"You can't. Just be around. He might want to talk to you when the
time's right. He feels comfortable talking to you,
I've noticed that before. He might take the first step in confiding in
you." 

As they returned to the living room, Mulder turned explicitly on his
side and fell asleep, his face directed towards them. A few seconds
later his breathing became steady and firm. Scully, deep in thought,
watched him sleep, wondering why he felt he had to keep secrets from
her.. 

 12.   
December 14
 2:15  p.m., Washington, D.C., district attorney's office 

John Breaux stared for several minutes at the body of the man whose
brains had just been blown out by an
unknown entity. Noel Markham had worked closely with his office for
four years, dedicating his life to his work.
Breaux knew the man had experienced  serious trouble with his marriage
for a couple of months before things
started to turn better. Now, Breaux would be the one informing the
grieving widow about the loss. 

Breaux didn't understand. He didn't need to. All he knew was that the
message came from the top, telling him to
back out of the investigation surrounding the suicide of Alan Wade.
All he knew was that it had something to do with the senator's death.
He suspected his own investigator had been killed for refusing to back
off the case as Breaux ordered.

Breaux was not a curious man. At least not when it came down to saving
his life and career. He was well paid and
ambitious, climbing up the ladder faster than anyone. Within a couple
of months he would be moving to the White
House, consulting the vice president. It would be the perfect moment
to start thinking about a political career again.
He had put his plans in the freezer for two years while working for
the Project. He knew once the Project was executed, he would have a
role in it, and his life would be saved. 

After all, your own life was all that mattered at the end. Just like
the lives of the ones you love. He had been able to
save his wife and child from the list and he was rewarded with the
murder of one of his best friends. It was a price all
of them had to pay. 

"Wrap the body and take it to Bethesda," Breaux remembered the orders
he had given to Grant. "Make sure the
report is filed before the end of the day. Noel Markham has been
murdered by one or more unknown individuals."

"Sir?" The investigator hadn't understand as he stared at the district
attorney in awe and respect. For years the
experienced detective had worked for Breaux and thought he knew him
well, but now he was just as surprised as
anyone in the long corridor. 

"The investigation is ongoing, Richard," the district attorney said
forcefully, "don't ask any further questions." 

But Grant wouldn't leave it there. He pressed and threatened to go to
the police. The man never made it home to his
family that night.



Mulder woke up around 3 p.m. after sleeping perhaps an hour or so.
Thanks to  the painkiller that obviously had effect on him, the agent
felt rested and better than before. Tom Fielding was gone.  Scully was
determined not to leave him alone at the apartment. He could feel her
eyes piercing his back when he struggled to sit down in a comfortable
position, ignoring the terrible aching he had all over his bruised and
battered body. 

She handed him a cup of coffee, sitting down next to him. He sipped
the hot fluid, savoring its taste. It felt like heaven. She took the
cup from him again and watched him closely. "I think you should come
with me to my apartment," she suddenly said, "at least until you feel
better."

"I can take care of myself, Scully," he responded with a smile, "but
thanks for suggesting it." 
          
"Then I'll stay here," she said firmly. He saw she had already removed
her jacket, showing a white shirt on top of a
jeans. She was making herself at home already. He felt irritated at
the gesture, wondering since when he was in dire
need of a baby sitter.

"Don't you have somewhere else to go, Scully?" he asked mildly. 

She seemed shocked by his question, and obviously did not seem able to
respond without giving him a smart retort. 

"No," she simply said, "I'm going to make sure you get all the rest
you need." She hesitated before adding, "And I'm
going to stick around until you tell me the truth." 

He opened his mouth to utter the protest he had become so good at, but
one look at the expression on her face told him to keep quiet. She
would not listen to reason, let alone leave him here by himself. He
knew however that there was another reason for her determination. Even
though he had come to believe somehow during the last few hours that
the goons wouldn't be returning, she still feared for his life. And
she didn't even know why. It didn't even seem important right now. All
that mattered was that her partner was going to tell her the truth,
and she would be there to listen to it.  

Mulder's brain was already figuring out a way to get rid of her so he
could talk to Matheson about the file. He couldn't take her with him,
Matheson would never go for it. He needed to get to the Hill by
himself, without her on his tail. The only way to do that was to
convince her he was going to rest all day, and take it easy for the
next couple of days. And that it would be safe for her to go home and
get some stuff, if she was that determined to stay with him, that was.


He winced slightly as he tried to lift his heavy legs on the couch.
Immediately she sat by his side, helping him. "You're in pain, I'll
get you some medication. It's been a couple of hours." 

She returned to his side with a glass of water and two tablets. He
recognized the little blue pill. It was a sedative which he knew would
knock him out for hours. He wouldn't take that one, but the other
painkiller the doctor had prescribed him he would eagerly digest. If
he was going to talk to Matheson he would want to do it without
collapsing onto the senator's doorstep. 

Mulder shifted the pills in his hand until he was able to take the
white one first. He swallowed it with some water, and
then took the second on in his mouth, drinking again. She seemed
pleased when he asked for more water. 

She got out of her chair and walked over to the bathroom. He took
advantage of the moment to spit out the tablets in
his left hand. He couldn't get rid of it now, so he simply kept his
fingers over the evidence, making sure she didn't see
it. When she returned, he drank again and closed his eyes, seemingly
tired.

She helped him shift his long legs on the futon, and as he turned to
his side with his hand underneath the pillow, she
seemed content that he was sleeping off his pain. He knew perfectly
how to fake sleep. Take even breaths, don't shift,
don't move. 

After what seemed an eternity he heard her leave. There was a
scribbling sound, as if she was writing him a note, and
then her footsteps turned towards the door and she left. He waited ten
long minutes in silence, waiting for her possible return, but she
didn't come back. He opened his eyes to find himself indeed alone in
his apartment, and a note on the table told him she was going to
return in the evening with food.  He smiled. Food and drink could fix
everything, at least for Dana Scully. 

He could forget about being quick on his feet. The position he had
forced himself into made him ache even more,
leaving him stiff and sore. It took forever to balance in a somewhat
straight position. He changed into another sweater and jeans, probing
his body parts for any further damage. Shoes and socks were a pain in
the ass to deal with, but he managed. At last he was ready to go. 

He grabbed the phone, calling Matheson at his home address. The
housekeeper answering the phone didn't want to
call the senator to the phone at first, it took all the persuading he
had in him to be put through. After what seemed like an eternity, the
senator's voice spoke to him. 

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" the man said quietly, knowing that
they might be listening.

"Yes, I need to explain but not here."

"Meet me at the usual place. Washington is lovely in the evening,
Agent Mulder." A single click and he was gone.
Mulder stared at the phone for seconds before placing it on the coffee
table. As he grabbed his jacket, a short knock
on the door startled him, and instinctively he reached for his gun. 

"Who is it?" He could actually hear the thickness of his own voice as
he was ready to fire at the intruder. 

"Agent Mulder, open the door." Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner
obviously did not like to be kept waiting. 

Mulder sighed deeply and opened the door for his former boss, looking
at the man with an expression that was mingled between distress and
anticipation.  The A.D. didn't wait to be invited in but simply
entered the apartment, checking out Mulder. 
"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere where I can solve my problems." 

The A.D. sat down on the futon and looked around. "Scully's gone?"

"Yeah, she went to pick up some things."

Skinner sighed and rubbed his forehead worriedly. "I didn't want to
believe it, Mulder, but you took that file, didn't
you?"

"Yes." 

"How the hell could you have been so stupid? Was it worth taking the
risk, Mulder? You're going to lose your job over this, everything
you've worked for. They know you took it. Why?"

"Because of its contents."

"What contents?" 

Mulder didn't sit down as he nervously stared at his watch. "I can't
talk about it right now. I've got to see my contact.
I need to call a cab."

"No. I'll drive you."

"No, sir. If he sees you, he'll back off."

"He doesn't have to know I'm there."  Skinner got up, showing the keys
of his car deliberately. "Do you risk taking
a cab and being followed, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder put his gun in the holster, feeling somehow ridiculously safe
knowing Skinner would be around. There was
no point lying to the man if he already knew the truth. But he was
curious though. How did the A.D. know?  

Both driver and passenger didn't feel like talking much as they drove
to Mulder's contact. Mulder had the A.D. stop
in a parking lot about 400 yards from the bench near the Potomac where
Matheson would be waiting for him. 

"Mulder," Skinner said quickly before the agent got out, "I know you
must have had a good reason to steal a file you
don't have any access to, but I'm warning you. If I don't like what
you are going to tell me, I'll haul your ass to the
committee myself and make sure you get what you deserve, got it?"

Mulder sat back quietly, and slowly said, "Sir, have you ever thought
about what it would be like not to work for a
government that tests innocent civilians? Do you know how much better
this world would be if we weren't sitting here in this car in the
evening darkness to talk to someone about a file that contains so many
secrets it's too hot to handle for anyone? And do you know how
different my life would have been if they hadn't taken my sister from
our house when I was a kid? I would have been a psychiatrist, a
doctor, a tutor, whatever. I wouldn't have to scavenge through the
government's shit to find out something that has been kept from all of
us. If that isn't enough reason, sir, then you might as well leave
right now. I'm not going to drag Scully into this. You chose to be
here, so don't you dare to tell me what might or might not happen to
me if and when you decide not to like my reasons. I don't need help
like that, sir." 

Skinner was still trying to form an answer when his former agent slid
out of the car, leaving him alone in silence. He
knew Mulder had given him the chance to back away from all of this,
and to probably even save his own hide. But he
couldn't. He wouldn't. He'd been involved in Mulder's search for the
truth for too long and too many times to back away now. He'd stay put
until the agent returned. And then they would talk. 


From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 4/11

13.   
December 14
2:45 p.m., Bethesda Naval Hospital 

The three bodies on the slabs stared back at him and he wondered where
the test had gone wrong. Sen. Westfield's face was practically
unrecognizable. The man had blown out his own brains, leaving
scattered wrecks of flesh and blood all over the Potomac. They had
trouble dragging him out of the river and gathering all the evidence
that lead to him.
No one would ever get to see this body. Not the federal government,
not his wife and relatives, not the president
himself. The body would be destroyed soon, leaving the tracks covered
and cleaned. 

The second body was a surprise to him. Alan Wade was not supposed to
die like this, at least not now. Was the test
an immediate result leading to his suicide? Had the drug somehow
caused all of them to kill themselves? Did it affect
some nerve or hormone telling them to do this to themselves? He could
not know, at least not without more tests. 

And then there was the medical examiner, the only one that died
because he had seen something that wasn't supposed to be seen.
Fortunately they had been able to cover all their tracks. The blood
samples from Wade's body had been gathered. The tissue samples were
gone too. They would be burnt along with Wade's remains. And the
M.E.'s death would remain unresolved. The investigator's body would
likely never be found at all.

The tests would go on. 

The only person bothering him right now was the FBI agent. Mulder had
been lead to the file in the basement office,
and to the discovery of the truth. But who had put the file in that
office? Who had been so stupid and careless? Who
wanted to expose them? 

It was something the older man would have to find out before talking
to the others. Somehow he knew the Morley-
smoking man would know more about it. The only way to find out was to
talk to him.

Strughold walked over to the door and knocked on it. A guard opened
the door for him, and lead him out. The older
man with the German accent slowly said, "Destroy the bodies tonight.
Make sure the coffins sent to the families are
sealed. They will be empty."

"Yes, sir." 

The guard took charge of the situation and left him alone in the white
painted corridor of the hospital. The silence
overwhelmed him and made him long for better times. The Project used
to be so simple. Now it was all one big
confusion.


 14.   
December 14, 1998
6:15 p.m., New York City

The Cigarette-Smoking Man seemed uncomfortable seated before the
gathered committee. He wanted to defend the
young agent he still felt respect for, but didn't know how to do it.
This time, the agent had gone too far. The threat and warnings of the
previous night were being ignored. They all knew the agent was talking
and asking questions, even as they sat together to discuss the man's
future.

"The file is burnt to a crisp," the smoking man said with
self-assurance, "Mulder won't be able to gather any evidence
now."

"How did he found out about the file in the first place?" the older
man with the hoarse voice asked.

"Matheson's been talking."
"Matheson should keep his mouth shut. He'll risk everything, just like
Westfield.."

"Did you kill Westfield?" The man lit a cigarette.

"No, he killed himself. Couldn't face the truth, I suppose." The
firm-built older man simply shook his head. "His death
was unfortunate but not unexpected. Mulder's death however will bring
unnecessary suspicion. Kersh needs to sit on his boy."

"Kersh isn't sitting on anyone." 

"Then we must make sure that he does," the German-accented voice from
the far corner said. All turned toward
Strughold, the man in charge. His mustache seemed to move up and down
as he continued, "if not, Agent Mulder must be sacrificed to the
cause."

"No !" The smoking man angrily lit another cigarette, his anger raging
through his body. "We had a deal Mulder would not be harmed. Our men
were instructed to retrieve the file. The accident was an accident,
Mulder shouldn't have been in it. I refuse to participate in anything
else." 

Strughold slowly made his way out of the chair and walked calmly up to
the man that had been working for him for
many years now. A man he didn't trust as far as he could throw him,
but a valuable assistant to the Project. Now,
discussing events that happened far beyond the Project, he found a
strong adversary in the smoking man. He would
indulge the smoker, but only once. And just until he knew who planted
the evidence in the basement office, waiting
to be discovered by Mulder.

"He won't be harmed then. But you cannot hold me responsible for any
further accidents. Your agent is a bomb about
to burst. There are enough people out there wanting to kill him."
Strughold simply turned his back towards the smoker and sat back down
in his seat, continuing, "this is only a small part of the larger
scheme. The tests we have performed in Washington are small potatoes
compared to our greater purpose. The file Agent Mulder so desperately
wanted and which is now destroyed, only gave him a glimpse of what we
were doing with the senator's approval. Matheson will keep his mouth
shut. He knows his involvement in this situation would bring him down
in the next elections. Mulder will run into a dead end and give up. If
not, he will be another subject for our tests."

The smoking man froze. "No. Mulder is not to be harmed."

The man with the hoarse voice simply said, "It's too late. He's
already been subjected to the tests." 

The smoking man got up and left.

 15.   
December 14, 1998
6:35  p.m., Washington, D.C.

Senator Matheson did not feel at ease when he rested in his chair,
staring outside the window. He could just picture
the bench near the Potomac where not even so long ago one of his best
friends had sat down, pondering his life. Then that friend had killed
himself.  Matheson knew why and he couldn't accept it. He was just as
responsible as the ones inflicting this on Westfield. But Westfield
himself was responsible, too, for volunteering to become a test
subject. 

It took a while before Mulder arrived. The senator watched him as the
agent slowly made his way inside the quiet
office. The guard at the front door had let him in, guiding him
upstairs and into Matheson's office. 

It was obvious Mulder was in a great deal of pain. He sat down without
a word. The senator glanced openly at him,
taking the opportunity to scan the damaged face of the FBI agent. He
had seen the photos of the car crash the previous night, and wondered
how anyone could get out of that wreckage nearly unharmed, as Agent
Mulder had done. 

The FBI agent looked pale though, his face sweaty with exhaustion and
fatigue. As soon as the man sat down, he
reached for a small bottle with tablets, excusing himself while he
took one.

"Painkillers," he said with a faint grin, "a man's best friend." 

"I hope they won't knock you out."

"No, not these." Mulder stretched himself, wondering when he would
ever feel comfortable again simply sitting on a
chair. But he had other things to think about right now, and his
attention had to be focused to the present. "The file
is gone, sir."

"I know. An unfortunate course of events but one that could not be
avoided apparently."

"You need to tell me what was in it."

"I can't." Matheson got out of his chair and poured himself a drink,
not offering the agent anything.

"Why did Westfield kill himself? You have to know, otherwise you
wouldn't have told me about that file."

The senator turned towards him, scanning his features. "Have you ever
wondered what it was like to feel a permanent
intrusion on your privacy, Agent Mulder? To have the simplest of
thoughts run through your mind, knowing that
someone out there was listening in on them, knowing everything you
know? Or what it would it be like to be the
intruder, to be able to read everyone's thoughts like they were your
own?" 

"Yes."

"When?"

"When we found Gibson Praise. That boy has the ability to do exactly
what you are telling me now. He's the missing
link between them and us, the truth and the ability to find the truth.
I've always wondered how he was able to live with it. To know
everything other people know."

"Have you ever wanted to be like that boy?"

"No," Mulder said after long hesitation, "I don't think I could handle
it. Having a photographic memory is one thing,
but to constantly know what others are thinking would be immensely
terrifying. I'm not sure anyone else could handle it either. Not if
they don't have the strength that boy has." 

Matheson smiled for a long time, pondering Mulder's remarks. The agent
wondered what he was thinking.

"I was wrong to tell you about the file. But you'll be in big trouble
because of it. They know you took it and they'll want to make sure you
don't know what was in it. They've already killed to conceal the
evidence."

"Who did they kill?"

"Two innocent men, people who were ordered to investigate the suicide
of one of the victims. You won't find their
bodies. They've already been removed."

"Who were these men?"

"I cannot tell you. You'll have to find out for yourself. I've already
said too much."

"How did they find out I took the file?"

"They saw you do it. The man working in your place is a puppet to
their strings. They saw you take it, and now they'll use that
knowledge against you. I can't help you on that matter. But other
people can. You need to trust someone within the FBI to know the
truth." 

"Who can I trust?"

"There are several. Walter Skinner. Your partner.  The friends you've
made within the VCS. There are more friends
in there than you might realize. But I cannot help you anymore." 

Mulder slowly raised himself from the bench, feeling less pain now.
The painkillers were already starting to kick in.

"So you're backing out?"

"If you want to call it that ... yes." 

"I didn't know you were such a coward."

"I'm not. But I know where to draw the line." Matheson all of a sudden
turned towards Mulder with a vengeance, as
if ready to attack the agent. "You have to go now. I won't talk to you
on this matter anymore." 

Slowly the senator stretched out his hand. Mulder quietly shook it,
feeling the piece of paper to the palm of his hand
immediately. He opened it with the least of movements, reading it
quickly. Slowly he nodded his head, understanding.

"All right," Mulder said, trying to sound angry, "I'll go. The file is
gone, there's no more evidence. Kersh will kick
my ass in the morning anyway. I'm probably out of a job because of
this. I'm sorry to have bothered you, sir."

"I'm sorry not to have helped you." Matheson nodded quietly. 

Mulder turned and left the office. Outside he tore the piece of paper
in a million pieces, tucking them in the pocket of
his leather jacket.

 16.   
December 14
7:20  p.m., Washington, D.C. 

Walter Skinner didn't even bother to try and hide the fact he was
worried about Mulder. As soon as the agent left the
car, the AD spent the next five seconds wondering if he should get out
of the car and follow the agent. He didn't. He
already knew where the man was headed. The rumors about friends on the
Hill were finally confirmed.

Skinner did start to worry when it seemed to take forever before the
agent returned. Finally, after waiting at least half
an hour, he got out of the car and walked the 400 yards Mulder had
walked as well. He stopped in front of the building, wondering whether
to try and get inside. He didn't. 

Suddenly the door flung open, and his agent walked out. Skinner had
the conscience of mind to quickly rush aside,
making sure Mulder didn't see him. The agent seemed to preoccupied to
notice him. Skinner was already figuring out
a way to explain his absence in the car, but there was no need. Mulder
had no intention of returning to the car. Instead he crossed the
street and chose an alternative route towards the river. 

Skinner wanted to follow him, only to be stopped in his tracks once
again when a man with gray hair got out of the
building and took the same route. Skinner recognized senator Matheson.
The man in the suit was just as fast in his
movements as Mulder tried to be, keeping a distance between the agent
and himself. Skinner followed as third, making sure neither man saw
him. 

Mulder crossed the bridge and walked over to the bench near the river.
The "Do not cross" tape was still there.
Instinctively Skinner knew this was the spot where Westfield had
killed himself. Why would both men meet here? 

Mulder sat down on the bench, basically ignoring the tape in front of
him, and waited. A few moments later Matheson sat down besides him.
Skinner couldn't hear what they were saying. But the thing he did see
was the men in the silver Chevrolet, slowly approaching the site. And
while both the FBI agent and the senator were too busy talking and
arguing, the window slid down and revealed a gun with a silencer. 


Mulder anticipated the moment senator Matheson sat down to tell him
the truth. He barely looked up as the man in
the suit took a seat next to him, his eyes focused on the river.

"Westfield died here, didn't he?" Mulder asked, "why here?"

"He wanted to end his life near the place that has destroyed him,"
Matheson answered, "he was always a cautious man, but the events of
the past few days have left him distraught and vulnerable. He had no
choice but to kill himself."

"Did you know about it?"

"I suspected it but there was nothing I could do about it. Westfield
always kept to himself. Even in death that remained the same."

"Why?" Mulder asked quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets.
 
"Westfield was financing a project within a project," Matheson quietly
said, his voice almost soundless, "he was
supported by high-ranking officials. Rumors are even the president
knew about it."

"What project?"

"One that you are familiar with. The one that caused you to track down
your partner in the Arctic."

Mulder stared at the senator, for once without words.

"This smaller project Westfield was involved with started when they
found  Gibson Praise. He was the missing link,
as you said, Agent Mulder. They wanted to know how and why. But the
boy was a threat to them as well. He could
expose what they had been hiding for fifty years. So they tried to
kill him at first, but didn't succeed. Then they
abducted him, and tested him, basically cutting open his brain and
skull to see what he was hiding."

"And they found out, didn't they?"

"Yes. They took the knowledge and refined it, eager to try it out on
others. They wanted to know what the effects of
it would be like on others. So they started testing the truth on
innocent people, victims of a scheme only a few know
about."

"Who are they testing?"

"Several people in the city are receiving medication they think will
cure their illnesses, but what they are really given,
is a new treatment that will strengthen their abilities to apprehend
the paranormal. We all have a sixth sense, Agent
Mulder. Everybody. Each and every one of us can grasp beyond reality
with a bit of help. They are giving them that
help. With a course of synthetic hormones, and a drug that stimulates
that part of the brain Gibson Praise had access
to. It took them months to refine it, but they did." 

"Are you saying the government is experiment on innocent civilians
right now?"

"Yes. Right here in D.C." 
Mulder had heard a lot of stories in his career, some of them more
shocking than others, but this time he genuinely
was scared. If they were doing this randomly in the capital city of
the U.S., how would he ever be able to find out who
the subjects were and why they were chosen? How would he ever be able
to work against those that ran this country? 

"The file I took ... I need to know what was in it. Why was it so
important?"

"That file contained a list of names. A list of people being tested,
even as we speak. They are being monitored closely and thoroughly and
the effects of the test that has been inflicted upon them.  It's only
a matter of time before they all die, Agent Mulder. As soon as the
test is over, they will be exterminated. They've become a liability,
especially after Westfield's death. And one of them has already died
by his own hand, just like Westfield."

"Was Westfield a test subject too?"

"Yes. He couldn't face the consequences. You need to stop them before
more people die."

"How? The list is gone."

"That list, that file, was placed inside the basement office by the
Smoking Man, as you call him. I don't know why,
but I know it was him. I think it was a test for his son, to see how
far his loyalty would go. That son, Agent Mulder,
is now working on your X-Files, and taking the place that belongs to
you."

"He was testing his own son?"

"Yes. And his son succeeded in getting his father's approval and
trust. He did what he was told to do. Jeffrey Spender knew about the
contents of that file and he hid it in the office. He didn't do
anything about it. Listen to me, Mulder. There must be a list of names
still out there, and you need to find it in order to save those
people. And to find out how many people have already died." 

"You mean there were more deaths?" Mulder said in disbelief.

"Yes, without a doubt. But I don't know who or when. That's for you to
find out."

Mulder swallowed and stared at the senator. "The test. What happens to
them after the treatment commences? Will
they die because of it?"

"Nobody knows. All I know is that several people have committed
suicide because of it, and one innocent man has died because he found
out what the treatment did to those people, and another because he
refused to shut down the
investigation. Can you imagine that, Agent Mulder? That you have the
body of a man in front of you and the proof of something so hideous
and fascinating at the same time that it will kill you?" 

Matheson slowly got up, staring at the darkened figures across the
water, looking straight at them. He knew they were out there, watching
him as he watched them. Perhaps one day the inevitable would come and
they would kill him.  At the same time he had no fear for his life.
Because he knew he was too valuable to the Project and the ones that
commenced it. Even Mulder didn't know he was involved, and probably
would never find out. 

"What happens to those people, sir?" Mulder's voice made him turn
around, and he stared at the agent in surprise, as
if he hadn't expected the question. 

"Do you remember what I told you before, Agent Mulder?" 

"About reading minds as being an unwilling intrusion? Yes."

"What happens to those people is they can't turn it off. Eventually,
it drives them mad." The senator's eyes pierced into Mulder's,
watching the concept of the idea form on his face. Mulder stared at
the man in shock, for once not knowing what to say. 

"You've got to be kidding," he eventually blurred out, grasping the
bench with both hands. Matheson noticed how pale the agent became,
immediately regretting his confession. The man obviously was in no
state to think straight right now, let alone accept the fact that
there might be dozens of Gibson Praises out there. 

The senator leaned forward to give the man a helping hand, at the same
time noticing the car stopping behind them
and the window sliding open. The barrel of a shotgun was clearly
visible, even in the approaching darkness.

Then, at the exact same time, a voice came from a distance, shouting
firmly, "Mulder, look out !" 
The agent turned around, straining every single muscle in his neck and
back, seeing the weapon as it was pointed to
him. Then two strong hands pulled him on the cold concrete, and a
strange sound whistled in his ears as something
passed his skull just by inches. The following second another pair of
hands pushed him down even more, and the sound of screeching tires was
clearly heard all around the area.

Someone pulled Mulder up, forcing the agent to struggle on his feet
again. "Mulder, are you okay?" 

"Yeah." 

Three men awkwardly stared at each other and then the senator quickly
hurried away from the scene, ignoring the
agent and his ex-supervisor. He felt embarrassed. There was so much he
still had to say the man, to warn him about,
but right now he couldn't. Mulder had to find out the truth for
himself eventually. Mulder shivered as Skinner pushed
him gently yet firmly on the bench, making sure the man was okay. 

"That was Matheson, wasn't it?" Skinner asked questioningly. 

"Were you following me?"

"I was worried. I figured that, whoever they are, they might want to
try and kill you again. I guess I was right." Skinner sat down and
looked at the agent, wondering what to say next. How could he force
the man to tell him the truth?  
*Jesus, he looks like shit.*

"What would you look like if someone played Demolition Derby with your
car?"  Mulder suddenly realized he had
spoken his remark out loud, not even knowing he had responded to a
silent question by Skinner. Only when the man
stared at him in shock, did he know something was wrong. Quickly he
got up and said, "I gotta go."

"Where are you going? Mulder, you can't go home. They might be
waiting." 

"If you're so worried, tag alone. I'm sure you don't mind playing my
bodyguard while I eat some decent food." Mulder
knew how scruffy he looked. It was time to shower, change and eat
something before he dropped at Scully's feet. 
Scully! He had completely forgotten that she was coming back with
food. She would be extremely pissed if she noticed he was gone. Only,
right now, he had other things to worry about. His own life. For there
was no doubt in his mind that he was the target for this little
shoot-out. Then why hadn't he been killed? People like this didn't
make mistakes, as Kurtzweil had told him once. If he was still alive,
it was only because they still needed something from him. And maybe
there was someone out there protecting him. 

Slowly, Fox Mulder got in Skinner's car and let the man drive him
home. Despite the heater inside the car, the agent
felt like he would never get warm again. The world seemed to become
more and more of a threat. And the danger of
the ongoing Project seemed to envelop more and more, leaving them all
vulnerable and ready to be taken over by an
alien race. The danger was invading into their lives more and more.
Innocent people were the subjects of an ongoing
test and they didn't even know about it. 

He closed his eyes and heard random thoughts invade his mind like
several voices speaking at the same time. He
wondered where they all came from. He was so tired. Too tired to
sleep, too exhausted to stay awake. His body ached
so. He just wanted to find a bit of peace and quiet right now and
think things through. But Skinner and Scully wouldn't let him. He knew
that for a fact.   
As the car stopped in front of his apartment building, Skinner touched
his wrist slightly, saying, "Mulder, wake up."

"I'm awake." The agent opened his eyes and looked at the A.D., knowing
exactly what the man was thinking. 

*He can't stay here alone tonight. I hope Scully is here to check him
out. His attitude worries me.*

Somehow Mulder knew Scully would be waiting. 



From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 5/11

 17.   
December 14
 8:25  p.m., Washington, D.C.

Jeffrey Spender had always been a quiet young man without many
friends. With a mother like Cassandra, that probably was a given fact.
The woman simply chased away those who wanted to be close to her son,
scaring them with her stories about alien abductions and human tests.
But now that she was missing, he missed her. She was his mother after
all. No matter what happened before, she gave birth to him, she fed
him and nurtured him and gave him love. Then why was he such a lonely
man? He couldn't, wouldn't give that answer. He was even too afraid to
ask the question himself. Throughout high school and college, all
through his FBI training and work in the field, he never gave himself
the chance to stand still and contemplate his past. He refused to.

And then that smoking man came to him and told him he was his father.
Jeffrey recognized himself in the man's
features and attitude, seeing the haunting loneliness of someone who
hid too many secrets from the outside world. He hadn't believed him at
first of course, but then the man came with pictures and evidence --
everything Jeffrey needed to know about his father, a man he had never
known.

Sure, he remembered a man visiting his mother's house occasionally
when he was a kid, but that was a long time ago.
And he remembered the talks in his mother's living room. The man
demanded to take the boy with him, to give him
a proper education. Cassandra had always refused, stating that no one
was better equipped to raise a son than she was. After all, their son
was the result of a union taking place only once. What kind of father
would the man be?

But now, Jeffrey had been given the chance to get to know the man that
claimed to be his father, only to be confronted with dirty little
government secrets he didn't want to be a part of, yet nevertheless
was -- just as much as Fox Mulder had become a victim and a pawn in
the tests and Project started so long ago. Jeffrey knew it all and
understood. But how would he ever be able to tell the truth, knowing
that the truth was so terrible? 

That and so much more he pondered about sitting in a chair in his
living room, recalling over and over again the
moment he had seen Mulder in the hallway, with the file underneath his
arm. The guilt on Mulder's face had been so
obvious Spender simply knew the man had taken what his father had said
he would take. And Spender had gone down to the basement office and
checked the filing cabinet, and he had found out. And as he had turned
around, his feelings a mixture of relief and anger, his father had
been standing there, saying, "It's a good thing Mulder took that file,
son. Let him be."

"But aren't you angry then?" Jeffrey had responded."Why did you let
him take it? I thought you agreed with the tests?"

"The tests are too dangerous and risky. They should have been stopped.
They should never have started. Mulder can stop them now."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to." His father had turned around and left the room in
a hurry. Spender debated whether or not to be
angry at his old man for setting up the theft of the file like this,
and decided he simply did not care. He wanted to be
no part of it. 
But now, in the darkness of his apartment in Washington, D.C., after
finding out the file had been destroyed, Spender somehow knew Mulder's
time was coming to an end. And ironically enough, he regretted it.
Because somehow, despite everything that had happened, he had come to
respect the man that was able to bury himself inside a basement
office, with files scattered all over the place that held more truth
than anyone would ever know. Jeffrey Spender now knew. 

A knock on the door woke him out of his stupor. He didn't really want
to talk to anyone right now, but he knew he had no choice. Some lights
inside the apartment were still burning.

"Who is it?"

"Agent Spender, open the door." 

Spender was surprised to see the man entering his apartment. He didn't
know what to say. 

"You are aware of the stolen file?"

Spender knew there was no point to lying. "Yes." 

"I want you to file a claim in the morning. Agent Mulder must be
terminated from the FBI. That's all, Agent Spender."

"Yes, sir." 

As the door closed again, Spender sank down in the same chair and
stared at the black television screen for a long time. Yeah, he was
starting to figure out the game pretty well. And they were using him,
just as much as they were using Mulder. He hated his work. He hated
himself. 


18. 
December 14, 1998
9:15 p.m., Washington, D.C., Hilton Hotel

The woman obviously had trouble composing herself as she sat down on
the bed. Her hands were shaking and every
fiber in her body shivered and shook with contempt for herself and the
situation she had got herself into five years ago. 

Now, as she stared down at the body of the man she had just killed,
she could not even remember feeling sad or angry or guilty about what
she had done. All she could remember was the one moment when she
picked up the knife and stuck it in his throat, slashing it from left
to right like a madwoman. She watched the collar of his shirt turn
red, and the blood that was on his hands and face was also found on
the floor next to the bed. But the biggest pile of blood was on the
bed itself, over and underneath his dead body. 

Now, Theresa Fielding could only stare at her own face in the glass of
the mirror in front of her, and she hardly
recognized herself. She was in despair and big trouble, and she needed
help. She pointed the knife at her own throat,
forcing the sharp blade against the jugular. But she didn't stick the
knife in. She backed away, thinking of the one man that might be
saddened by her death. Her brother. 

She cried as she picked up the phone, dialing his number. It took a
while before he answered it, but then his voice
sounded loud and clear and alarmed as she called out his name.

"Resie," he said, using the name he hadn't used for such a long time,
"Resie, where are you?"

"Can't say."

"Resie, if you want me to help you, tell me where you are. Were you
working again? Were you on the streets?"

"Yes. I needed the money, Tommy. I can't tell you where I am. I killed
someone. Tom, help me, but you can't come
near me. There's something inside of me, Tom, and it needs to get out.
I hear things. Voices. Help me, Tom."

"Just calm down, honey. Tell me where you are so I can get you the
help you need. How long have you felt like this?"

"Dunno. A long time. Two weeks. Tom, I can't stand it anymore. I hear
everyone!" 

A sharp noise behind her made hr turn around. She held the phone
pressed so tightly against her ear, her head ached
from the way she held the phone. The noise returned more sharply now.
Someone was outside the room.

"Resie? Resie, where are you? Talk to me, Resie!"
 
Theresa Fielding dropped the phone to the floor. She heard a soft
thump, but she was already at the window, shoving it open. Her leg was
already pushed through it when they came, grabbing her and pulling her
back inside the room. She fought for all she was worth, as their
silent thoughts ran through her mind.

*We need this one alive. We need to test her.*
*Grab her! The bitch, she bit me.*

Then, something was shoved over her mouth and nose, and a sharp odor
made her dizzy. Her body slumped against
theirs, and they pulled her up and laid her on the sofa in the room.
There were several people in the room now, all
looking at the mess she had made.

"Make it look like a burglary," the German voice said, sighing deeply.
"Leave not a trace of her in here. In the morning
his wife will come in and find him." 

The men went about their business quickly. Closets were opened,
jewelry stolen. No one would find a trace of the
expensive call girl who had been hired for the evening and then went
berserk, killing her john. The wife was scheduled to arrive in the
morning to join her husband at the Fairfield convention. Now she would
come in to find him dead. A high official had been murdered but it
could not be prevented. The tests inflicted on Theresa Fielding were
successful. 

But the one problem that remained was her disappearance and the fact
that her brother, Tom Fielding, was an FBI
agent close to Fox Mulder. If Mulder put two and two together, they
would come after them for sure. On the other
hand, the Mulder problem was already resolving itself in a similar
manner. Soon, they would find the man the way
they had found Theresa Fielding. Unable to account for his own
actions, and unaware of the fact that he too was a test subject in an
ongoing scheduled experiment to preserve and protect the alien
colonists. 

Theresa Fielding's body was picked up shortly after 10 p.m. Sunday
evening, and brought unconscious to the service
elevators. She then was removed to a lower floor of the prestigious
Hilton Hotel where she would await transfer to a
safe haven. She would not be linked to the burglary and death of
Robert Mason, Attorney-at-Law. His death would
be described as unfortunate and unforeseen, the world would mourn. 

Strughold closed the door behind him and followed his men to the
service elevators. He didn't like the killing. In fact,
he resented it. But it seemed that the killing had become inevitable,
a necessary means to a greater scheme. 


19. 
December 14
9:15 p.m., Alexandria

Walter Skinner knew Mulder felt lightheaded when they finally entered
the brightly-lit apartment. With regret, Mulder
stared at the woman sitting on his couch, and the cold Chinese food in
front of her. Her face spoke of anger and worry, but the worry
obviously was the worst.

"Where the hell have you been?" Her voice sounded cold and accusing,
and it was obvious she had yet to see Walter Skinner enter the room. 

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said, feeling guilty immediately, "I forgot
you were coming by tonight."

"So it seems," she said coldly, getting up. He took off his jacket
with an effort, and threw it on a chair. He sat down
on the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. Now, she saw Skinner,
and her face flushed as if she tried to remember what she had sounded
like. She was surprised to see the A.D., but pleased nonetheless.
Somehow she had the feeling this thing with Mulder needed more care
and help than she could offer. And definitely more protection.

Scully softened up immediately when she took a closer look at her
partner, seeing the physical pain in lingering in his
body language.  

"Are you okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I just needed to get some fresh air. I'm fine." He looked up
and smiled apologetic at her. She knew she had
already forgiven him, even before that one smile that melted away the
rest of her anger. But he still had some answers
to give her. She could see it in Skinner's eyes. 

"Where have you been, Mulder?"

Mulder didn't give an answer but relaxed on the couch, closing his
eyes as to demonstrate he didn't want to talk about it. But Skinner
wouldn't let him off the hook that easily. The man sat down next to
him, saying, "Care to tell us why someone tried to blow off your
head?"

Scully's shock was obvious, but still she didn't ask Skinner why he
was here. Instead she focused her attention to her
partner, who hadn't opened his eyes when he spoke, "They wanted to
scare me off. I was never in any danger." 

"Who are they, Mulder?"

"I don't know. I have no idea what they wanted."

"Why were you talking to Matheson?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Damn it, Mulder!" Skinner's anger was clear enough to make Mulder
open his eyes. "Don't play games with us. You
can use all the friends you have right now. Don't even think about
pushing Scully and me away from this. You're
obviously up to your neck in shit, and if you don't start talking
soon, we *will* turn away from you, got it?"  Skinner
knew he never would do that, but anything he could come up with right
now to make the agent talk, he would use. 

Mulder gingerly got off the couch and stretched his body. "I'll shower
and eat and then we'll talk, okay?"

"Sir, he can't stay here," Scully said quickly, taking the opportunity
to get Skinner's help on this one. "If they come
here he's an easy target. But they know where I live, too. I'm not
sure what to do." 

"Bring him to my apartment, then," Skinner proposed, ignoring Mulder's
clearly visible protest. "He'll be okay there.
No arguments, Mulder!" 

Mulder shook his head and tried to blur out the pain. Whatever. He
couldn't care less right now. He was tired, strained, stiff and sore.
All he wanted was a nice hot shower and then some sleep. And a
painkiller wouldn't hurt either. 

"I'm going to arrange a few things and then I'll be expecting you
both," Skinner said, putting on his coat, "if I don't
see you at my apartment in two hours, I'll send the cops after you,
got it, Mulder?"
Mulder nodded and sat down again. Skinner left in a hurry, leaving
them alone in silence. He reached for the bag with
the Chinese food, but Scully was faster than him and forced him to sit
down. He heard her in his kitchen, heating the
food. She poured out two glasses of water and returned to the living
room to find him sitting on the chair near his
computer, going through the photo album he rarely took out. It
reminded her of that one night when she came to tell
him she would quit.

This time however his eyes were focused on a picture of his family,
Samantha included. The four of them sitting in
the back yard of the Chilmark house, feeling very happy. *Had there
ever been happiness in the Mulder family?* she
pondered, *was there ever a time when the four of them watched a movie
together, eating popcorn and drinking coke
from cans?* 

"Mulder?" She sat down besides him, putting her hand on his knee. His
face seemed more pale against the dark bruises on his temple and left
cheek. He was far gone, in a place she would not be able to reach him.
She waited patiently before calling out his name again, wondering when
he would tell her what really happened the night before. 

He looked at her straight now, and his voice sounded almost unbearably
quiet when he said, "Did you ever believe
Gibson Praise was able to read people's minds, Scully?" 

She waited for a few moments and then said with conviction, "Yes." 

He seemed surprised with her response, mostly because it didn't take
her any effort to admit her belief in the boy's
powers while at other times she seemed to struggle with the smallest
of confessions.  

"Do you believe there's an ongoing project that will bring alien life
to this planet?" he continued, waiting for her
answer.

This time, she had more trouble responding. He could see the avoidance
in her eyes, just like before, when testifying
to the committee about what she believed she saw. 

"I don't know." 

He nodded his head slowly, anticipating this response. He closed the
photo album and put it back in the drawer, closing it softly. Then he
got up from his chair and said, "I'm not really hungry. Why don't you
eat? I'd like to take a shower."

She wanted to protest but didn't. "Sure," she simply said, watching
him as he left her alone in the room. She could hear him in his
bedroom, probably looking for clean clothes. He returned with towels
and clothes, and closed the bathroom door behind him without looking
at her. She ate absent-mindedly. watching some old movie on TV. From
the bathroom, she could hear the water from the shower running for a
very long time. 


Dana Scully had learned a long time ago not to ask Mulder any
questions when he was obviously not in the mood to
answer them. Tonight, however, she was determined to get some straight
answers out of him. If need be, she would
knock them out of him, adding a few more bruises to his already
ongoing list of damage.

Her obvious determination however was smothered by the fact her
partner did not seem able to leave the bathroom in
a hurry. It must have been over an hour before she finally realized
something must have gone wrong. The water was
still running, but beyond that she heard nothing. No noise, no
struggles to get dressed or undressed, and no Mulder
to tell her he had overestimated himself and now needed help to get
dressed. He would never ask her if he needed help of course. He'd
rather drop like a fly, hitting his head once more. 

She debated for a long time whether or not to force her way into the
bathroom and help him out, or to simply knock
on the door and ask him if he was okay. She couldn't concentrate on
the movie, nor on the cold Chinese food that rested on her lap.
Eventually she put down the plate and walked over to the bathroom
door, knocking it slowly, calling out his name.
"Mulder, are you okay in there?" 

She heard nothing. Her hand tried the doorknob and found it turned
easily. He hadn't locked his door. Good boy. She
had seen Mulder naked several times, so that didn't really bother her.
What did bother her was the invasion of his
privacy. She was in his apartment, and if he didn't feel like talking
to her, he shouldn't have to.

"Scully, leave me alone." His sudden response shook and scared her.
She caught a glimpse of him sitting in the bathtub, the shower water
running over him. It was warm, she could sense the steam that filled
up the bathroom. 

"No." Her determination was just as forceful as his request to get out
of here. Slowly, she approached the shower until she saw his
shivering, black and blue body. She had seen him like this once
before, and it had shaken her up just as much back then. Then, he had
been the subject of a test he had inflicted upon himself, in an effort
to try and figure out where Samantha was. This time he had been in an
accident and was in just as bad shape, even if he didn't realize it. 

Mulder obviously felt like crap, clutching his arms around his knees.
His head was face down on his knees, his eyes
were closed, his arms wrapped around his long legs. Now, she saw he
seemed to have been crying. He still didn't look
at her. 

"Please, leave me alone. I need to think." 

"Only if you get out of there right now. This is not good for you,
Mulder." 

"I promise. Just ... leave me alone." 

She closed the bathroom door and bit her fingernail, wondering whether
she did the right thing leaving him in there
like that. She didn't have a choice in the matter. He was just as
stubborn as she was. He would ask for her help when
he needed it. 

He came out a couple of minutes later, dressed in the T-shirt and
jeans he had picked out in the bedroom. His hair was still soaking
wet, his face pale. He looked at her and then passed her, sitting down
on the couch. 

"Mulder, what's going on? Please, talk to me. I can't help you like
this."

He sighed and looked straight into her eyes. "I stole a file last
night. I went into the basement office, took out a file 
to copy it at the Lone Gunmen's place, but didn't make it there. The
file burned up in my car, and it will likely cost
several people their lives because I screwed up."

"I don't understand." 

"The file contained a list of names of people being tested upon right
now. It has something to do with the alien Project. They're testing
people, Scully. Gibson gave them the last link they needed to start
the tests. Somehow those people have the same abilities Gibson Praise
has, at least that's what I suspect. Innocent people, Scully. I
screwed up. The file's gone and now these people will die."

"You're not making any sense, Mulder. Are you saying our own
government randomly picked people to test them?
Why? For what reason? It just doesn't make sense. Why did you take
that file? Why didn't you read it at the office? You shouldn't have
taken that risk." 

"Don't you think I don't know that?" he said bitterly, "I stole that
file and they'll fire my ass for it. I dug my own grave, Scully. I'll
be charged with theft. Spender saw me. Unless I can find out who those
people were and expose their tests, I'm a goner for sure."

She tried to remain calm, listening to his every word. He was right of
course. If he had stolen a file, no matter why,
he would be charged and dismissed without a chance of reinstatement.
And she knew why he hadn't told her or Skinner until now. He was
protecting them once more, making sure she wouldn't get involved in
this. But it was already too late. She got involved when they assigned
her to him. Whether he liked it or not, she was his partner for better
or worse.

She could see him shiver, his body near shock. He obviously did not
know what to do. Neither did she, for that matter, but right now that
wasn't of any concern. All that mattered was that he needed to take
care of himself, first. After that, the rest would follow. 

"The file is gone, Scully," he repeated, "but there's another list out
there and I've got to find it. Or find those people
in some other way. They are already dying because of it, and we need
to stop this."

"While you are playing the part of a sitting duck? Don't you think
your first priority is to make sure you are okay,
Mulder? You were already almost killed for it twice before. Do you
think they'll stop now?"

"No. I'll find those people, Scully, but without your help. I want you
out of this. The moment you get involved in this,
you'll be going down with me. I can't do that to you. You didn't
deserve this. Too much has already happened to you."

"Mulder," she forcefully said, taking his hand into hers, "I chose to
be with you through good and bad times. You're
my partner and friend. I'm not going to sit back and let this happen
to you. Not if that list is still out there, and we have a chance to
find it."

He laughed, despite everything. "For a moment there I thought you were
wearing a wedding ring, Scully." 

She smiled. "Who needs a wedding ring?" She leaned over and kissed him
softly on the cheek, missing the corner of
his mouth by an inch. Her lips lingered there for a long time, not
saying the words he'd wanted to hear for a long time,
now. When she let go of him, she forced him to lie down on the couch,
stuffing two pillows under his head. 

She returned with one of the pills in the bottle in his jacket.
"Here," she said, "I want you to take it easy for a while.
I'm going to make some phone calls and see if there's an APB out on
you yet. If so, I'm going to make sure you'll get
legal representation. But I don't think they'll have done it like
that, Mulder. They need to know what you know, first."

"You're right. Arresting me would only expose them," he said groggily,
"but I'm afraid, Scully."

"What are you afraid of?"

"That every second we sit here and talk might mean the end to
someone's life. I can't bear the thought it's all on me
now." 

"It isn't. Sleep, Mulder." 

He closed his eyes and immediately sank away in a fast sleep. He
didn't hear Scully's cell phone or the frantic voice
of Tom Fielding, begging them for help. Only when she shook him awake
was he able to focus on reality again, and
to go silently with her when she asked him to. His bag in her hand
didn't escape his attention. Somehow, he knew he
might not see his apartment for quite some time. And who would feed
his fish?



From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 6/11

December 16 
10:15 p.m., Washington, D.C. 

Dean Hampton was a 45-year-old real estate agent with a spotless
medical record until that day in early December
when he returned home from the office. The roads were slick with
sleet, the day  too dark and dangerous to be assuring. 
If he hadn't been so occupied with his work and the million dollar
deal he'd just closed, he might have been more
cautious. Caution was something he thrived on; in his job and career,
but also on the roads. Only not that night.

The next thing he knew he lost control of the steering wheel, and felt
the tires slide on the concrete. Then the car hit
something he couldn't identify, and seemed to tumble and spin for an
eternity.  The men who hauled him off to the
hospital were friendly and concerned about him, but he was more
occupied with the fact that he would waste time in
the ER. 

The attending physician patched him up. A few stitches here and there
and he was ready to go home. A prescription
for painkillers which he got at the hospital pharmacy, and he took a
cab home. But things didn't improve after that.
He started feeling worse every day -- headaches and fatigue, moments
of near blackouts. He was a total wreck.

And then the voices inside and outside his head. Everywhere he went he
could hear them, and couldn't shut them out, couldn't silence them.

*Make them stop, make them stop!*

But they didn't hear his plea. He could only hear their hidden truths.

Nothing worked for him anymore. He spent his days and nights at home,
watching TV. His mind was overwhelmed
with thoughts and fears. Thousands of voices inside his mind talked to
him at the same time, voices of people he saw
all around him but didn't know. Their thoughts ran through his mind
like a knife through butter. Slicing and dicing
through his brains, telling him the truths he didn't need to hear.
Silent confessions of killers and burglars, of
entrepreneurs and players, of adultery and demons. Everything
everybody kept to themselves and wouldn't want the
outside world to know about. He'd heard it all and he couldn't deal
with it.

He popped more painkillers and sedatives, trying to become at ease
with himself and the rest of the world. It didn't
work. Nothing worked for him anymore. And it took only two weeks to
drive him to the edge of insanity, leaving him
all alone in the world.

He read about the suicide of the senator. The man had put a gun in his
mouth and pulled the trigger. It seemed so
inviting to him. He wanted to follow in the man's footsteps, and to
get rid of his own pain. And on that cold Sunday
evening in December, he decided to go out with a bang.

Dean Hampton had no trouble whatsoever picking up the phone. A glass
of bourbon was sitting next to him on the
small table. He sipped it as he dialed. He called 911. A man
responded, "911, what is your emergency?"

"You'd better get down here," Dean Hampton said, "I'm going to kill
myself and there's no one left to find my body."

The man on the other side immediately changed the tone in his voice,
"Sir, please relax and tell me what's going on.
We might be able to help you."

"No. I'm going to make this short. Something has been done to me. I
can feel it. I hear your thoughts, sir. They're like
voices inside my head, and it's been done by others. I can't handle it
anymore. I've left a note for the police. Goodbye."

Hampton hung up quickly, knowing they would be here at any minute. The
gun was already waiting for him. He sat
down on the couch and took one last look at the suicide note. It said
all it needed to say. Cars stopped outside his house.
He walked over to the window and watched several men in dark suits
exit the vehicles and walk over to the house.
They were trying to open his door. He brought the gun to his temple. 

The door opened as he pulled the trigger, blowing himself into the
afterlife. A man smoking a cigarette said, "Damn
it. Clean up the mess. They'll be here in four minutes. We need to
move the body now."  

The men in suits quickly went about their business. Scavaging the
house for medication and painkillers, taking the
suicide note, and taking the documents linking him to the accident and
the hospital. The records at the hospital had
already been removed. No one would remember the incident which brought
the real estate agent to the hospital and
into their hands.

"Two minutes."

The body was shoved inside a black bag and pushed in the trunk of a
car, in between the spare tire and the metal. 

"One minute."

The last traces were removed, leaving the room and house spotless. As
the cops arrived, they saw nothing but a clean house and empty rooms.
The phone was on the hook, nothing revealed terror or a suicide.

"A crank," the cop in charge said, dismissing the other cops. The
house was left and closed. There was no one to report the man missing,
no one to see he was gone. His disappearance would not be obvious for
another week or so. By then, it would all be over.


December 16
10:25 p.m., Washington, D.C.  

The 14-year-old girl never felt so agitated and alone in her life. She
was a teenager who should have been happy and
content with her life, but she wasn't. Not since that quick visit to
the doctor a week ago. It had been routine surgery,
or so they had said. Remove your tonsils, get two nights in hospital
being stuffed with ice cream, and then return home. Painkillers for
anything that might hurt afterwards and you'll be just fine.

Her mom was with her when she woke up after the surgery, feeling like
crap. She was nauseated from the anaesthesia,
and threw up. There was nothing in her stomach to give up, but the
bile was bad enough. 

Fortunately, the second day she got the ice cream she wanted and had
been promised, but it still felt terrible. When she went home, she
started taking the painkillers. The doctor asked her to return for a
checkup soon but she never did. 

In the morning things only got worse. She stayed home from school,
refusing to speak to anyone. The voices! She
heard them all the time, everywhere she went, no matter what she did.
It was a nightmare she couldn't deal with. Her
life turned from heaven to hell within two days. Then she simply went
crazy. In the middle of the night she got out of
bed and slipped into the bathroom downstairs. In the medicine cabinet
she grabbed all the medication she could get
and swallowed it with three glasses of water. The last thing she took
were the hospital painkillers. 

In the morning, her parents found her inside the bathroom. She lay on
the floor in fetal position, her eyes wide open.
Empty glass on the floor, empty bottles next to them. She was dead. 

Her father's urgent call to 911 came shortly after but they all knew
it was too late. She had left no note. Her body was
brought to the morgue of the Georgetown Medical Center. An autopsy was
required, of course.

While her parents were at the hospital, three cars stopped in front of
the house. Men in dark suits got out and made
their way inside the house. Going through the documents of the family
was a piece of cake. Taking whatever they
needed was easy. The empty bottles, still scattered on the bathroom
floor were being removed. Nothing would link her death to her hospital
admittance a week ago. Nothing would explain the sudden suicide of a
14-year-old girl. 

Ten minutes later, the body of the young girl vanished from the morgue
and was transferred to Bethesda. The coroner was left without a clue.
No one saw the transfer. 


December 16
10:55 p.m., Crystal City

Never before had Tom Fielding, been so angry with himself. He had
known Theresa was in trouble again but he wasn't able to prevent it.
But everything had gone so well lately! She had been able to stay away
from the drugs, and had picked up her life again.

He had helped her to find a small apartment in downtown Washington,
and a job to pay for it. She had shown up for
work for three months, and then one morning a call came in saying she
had been in a minor accident. Her car was
bumped on the side, and so was she. They had taken her to the hospital
and given her some painkillers. Her left kidney was bruised but didn't
need surgery. Tom had excused himself from work to drive her home. In
the car, she apologized for the bother, but she seemed just fine.

And then she started to change. So quickly and so badly he hardly
recognized her when he came back to check on her the following day.
She had been popping painkillers all night and day, and her face was
contorted with pain and fear.
She became suspicious of him and told him to get lost. She accused him
from spying on her, and claimed she could
read his thoughts about her.  Then she had shown him the door.

He tried to get in touch with her several times the next couple of
weeks, feeling more worry about her every day. He
debated whether or not to talk to Mulder about it, but the man
obviously had his own worries with Kersh breathing
down his neck. And Theresa was not someone Tom had ever spoken about.
Ever since she'd gotten into trouble as a
teenager, their mother had told him to stay away from her. She would
compromise his career and credibility within
the FBI. He agreed. It seemed like innocent kids' games back then. But
then she started hooking to pay for her
addictions, and she left Washington for a long time, to return
suddenly about six months ago.

Tom had felt sorry for her immediately and took her under his wing,
still revealing nothing to his superiors within the
bureau. He gave her a place to stay, helped her out and made sure she
kicked her habit.

And now this. He just knew that she was back to prostitution when she
called him. Her voice had sounded so frantic
and scared he didn't know what to do. By the time he was able to get a
trace on the phone, she had hung up. Or
someone had hung up for her. He heard sounds of a struggle and then
her cry before the line went dead and he was
left powerless. The only thing he could do then was dial Mulder's cell
phone number. It was the only number he had.

Fox Mulder didn't pick up the phone. Only then, did he realize the
cell phone had been destroyed in the car. The man
obviously didn't have a new phone yet. So he called Scully's number,
hoping she would be with him. 

"What is it, Tom?" she said softly, telling him Mulder was fast asleep
at last. 

He quickly explained what had happened, leaving out the details, only
telling her his sister was in trouble. He knew
he sounded frantic and like a rookie but right now he needed the
strength of an experienced agent to help him out here.

He was right. She asked questions swiftly and thoroughly, but when she
suggested to call the police to have her
apartment checked, he quickly said no. He couldn't explain it right
now, he said, but they needed to discuss the matter.

She asked him to come to Skinner's apartment, explaining that Mulder
was not safe at his own apartment. She would
tell him everything later on. Tom hung up quickly and left for Crystal
City, talking on the phone to Skinner. The man
would have to be informed, too. Just as Mulder needed friends within
the bureau, so did Tom. 

When he arrived at Crystal City, he was let in by Skinner. Terence
Davis was already there. Tom felt shivers down his
spine, realizing immediately Mulder was in great danger and needed
help from people that could provide that help.
If not, the man would surely pay for whatever he was involved in. And
so would his sister. 

Tom frowned and rested his head in his hands, debating whether to tell
them what his sister had become and why, but he didn't. He needed to
talk to Mulder first. Somehow, deep inside, Fielding had the strange
gut feeling that his sister's phone call and Mulder's trouble were
linked to each other. He couldn't explain why or how, but he just knew
that in order to find Resie, he would have to trust in Mulder's
abilities to profile and track down the ones that had her. 


December 16
11:21 p.m., Crystal City

Mulder listened quietly to the radio playing, disturbing the silence
in the vehicle. He could hear her thoughts just as
clearly as his own, feeling the bottle of soothing painkillers in the
pocket of his leather jacket. 

*How can we find that list before Mulder gets killed? I can't bear the
thought of losing him like this. I need him. Kersh
needs to know. No, not Kersh. He might be involved. But who can we
trust on this? Who's going to be there to help
us?

He turned towards her, touching her hand, "It'll be okay, Scully. They
won't kill me, I'm sure. I don't know why but
they're probably following us right now, keeping taps on me. They just
want to know if I'm going after that list, and
if I've read the file before it got destroyed." 

"Then why don't they kill you?"

"I know this might sound stupid, but I think someone inside their
organization is protecting me. And I think it's that
smoking bastard."

She seemed shocked, "Why?"

"Because I'm playing a part in their scheme and I'm useful to them
somehow. I dunno, maybe I'm doing exactly what
they want me to do. As are you." 

"Mulder, I know you believe in that alien conspiracy, and that your
sister was involved in that too, but as long as we
haven't found evidence of that, how can you be sure?" 

"How can you not?" 

"Less than a year ago, you believed that our government was
responsible for my abduction, and that there weren't any aliens. You
said so yourself several times you were being lead to believe. What
you saw and experienced in the Arctic changed your mind, I know that.
But what if that was a part of their scheme too?"

"If you had seen what I saw, Scully, you wouldn't say that," he said
quietly, "but I don't blame you for not believing.
Sometimes it's easier to believe a lie than the truth. If the lie is
focused on the ability of denial and believe in science,
it's easy to believe it. But I can't believe it anymore, because I
know what we're heading for. It's dark and cold in the
world tonight, Scully, but perhaps we'll find out more about it."

She looked aside at him briefly, ignoring his pallor. She wanted to
take him in her arms and tell her it would all be
okay but he wouldn't let her. She knew that for a fact. Even now, in
his most vulnerable position, he was still the
strongest of them. But he wouldn't get rid of her. Not as long as she
was able to defend him and help him in his search. 

She smiled despite everything. Since when had she become she involved
in what her partner was about? When did this happen? Perhaps there was
hope for her still. Perhaps one day she would believe in the
paranormal just as much as he did, going along with the fact that
aliens were among them, taking human lives. 

Right now, however, the reality was more dangerous than Mulder's
beliefs. If people were being tested, how would
they find them? Washington, D.C., alone would be a disaster area to
look into. How would they find out if there was
a copy of that list around?

"There is a copy around," her partner said out loud, again reading her
thoughts, "Matheson told me as much."

"But is Matheson to be trusted?"

"Just as much as anybody," he said with a grin. 

She laughed and parked the car across the street. He followed her as
she pushed the button of the intercom. A few
moments later, Skinner let them in. 

Mulder wasn't even surprised to see Tom Fielding and Terence Davis in
Skinner's apartment. The three of them had
obviously been waiting for them for quite some time, apparently
figuring out what was going on. Perhaps they already knew. 

"You look like a train ran over you , Mulder," Terence Davis said,
gripping Mulder's hand.

"Feels like it too," Mulder smiled in return, actually glad to see his
former boss again. "How's it going, Terry?"

"Taking a wild guess, I'd say I'm doing better than you,."

"I only look bad, Terry, I don't feel bad." Mulder turned his
attention to Tom, glad to see the man again. Tom's
expression however was distraught. It was obvious he had a lot on his
mind.
*I'm worried about Theresa.*

"What happened to your sister?" Mulder said out loud. Fielding stared
at him in shock, wondering how Mulder knew. Then he saw something
else, something he'd seen in his sister's eyes as well. The man was
changing somehow. Whatever the hell had been wrong with Theresa, was
also wrong with Mulder.

Mulder sat down on the couch and waited patiently and quietly until
Skinner had provided them all with drinks. They
were all tense in their own ways, the ones that were seated here.  

"So," Skinner said, taking a sip, "start talking, Mulder."

Mulder took a deep breath and told them everything. The call from
Senator Matheson pointing him to the file in the
basement office, Westfield's suicide, somehow linked with the
experimenting on innocent people, and the goons
following him when he took off from the bureau.

He didn't bother to hide Matheson's name anymore. There was no use.
Skinner had seen him, knowing he was the one helping out the FBI
agent. The surprise in Davis' eyes, however, was obvious. It became
clear to the A.D. there were still a lot of things going on no one
knew about. Things that Mulder hid from everybody, even his own
partner. 

The room went quiet when he told his story, ending with the facts.
Tomorrow, Mulder knew, he would probably be
questioned regarding the missing file, and people would start dying,
as if they weren't already dying. He was in big
trouble. But he didn't mention the fact that he, too, was hearing
things he shouldn't be hearing. Somehow it hadn't even occurred to
Mulder that he had the same ability. Not yet, anyway.

"The only man who has that list is the one man we can't talk to,"
Mulder said quietly, "we're standing with our backs
against the walls and there's nothing we can do about it. And even
though I appreciate you all being here, neither of
you can help me."

"Mulder," Skinner said calmly, taking a seat opposite the man, "the
FBI was created with the intent to help people and investigate crimes.
If people are dying because of something that was done to them, there
has to be proof. We will find the evidence you need using the bureau's
resources. It might take days or even weeks, but we will stop these
people."

"How can you, sir? They've been going about this for fifty years. All
the evidence Scully and I have gathered for more than five years is
gone. I hate what's going on, but I hate myself more for not being
able to stop them." Mulder leaned back heavily on the soft couch. He
was exhausted. The medication was wearing off again. Frankly, it
didn't help that much to begin with. He rubbed his eyes, sighing
deeply. He felt Scully's hands touch the insides of his pockets.

"Where are your painkillers, Mulder?"

"Left pocket."

She took out a bottle, glanced at it quickly and went to the kitchen
to refill the glass of water Skinner had given him
before. When she returned she saw Fielding struggling to remove
Mulder's jacket. Her partner winced at the pain in
his body but tried to help as much as possible. His face was sweaty,
his eyes filled with pain. She saw an expression
she had never seen before. Not one from pain or agitation, but one
from fear.

"Here, take these." She put two tablets in the palm of his hand and
watched as he swallowed them. He drank eagerly,
leaning back with closed eyes until they set in. After a while his
body seemed to relax, and he was able to sit upright
again. "I'm sorry," he sighed apologetically, "this whole business is
a mess. I'm not feeling too good, here."

Skinner looked at him carefully, using his words just as cautiously.
"You did the right thing, Mulder. Even though you were an idiot in
stealing that file, you still did the right thing."

"That's not a big comfort, sir." 

"I know, but you're not alone on this one. If Matheson is right and an
M.E. has died, there is bound to be proof of that. If the body of that
man has disappeared from the morgue, others might have disappeared as
well. That's where we'll start looking. They may be able to conceal
evidence, but the families and friends of the victims might want to
talk. Also, we'll be checking into any suspicious deaths and suicides
over the past couple of weeks. There has to be a link between the
victims and we'll find it."

"I'll do the digging" Davis said, "Tom and I are able to use the VCS
resources without arousing any suspicion."

"What about me?" Mulder asked quietly. "Do I show up for work
tomorrow?"

"Of course," Skinner continued, "you will go about your business as
usual. Pretend you don't know anything. If you
feel sick, you stay at home, otherwise you come to work. If they know
the file is gone and start accusing you, I'll vouch for you. If they
want to arrest you, they'll have to go past me. I'll tell them you
were researching a case for me, that's why you were at the bureau.
Don't tell them anything, let me do the talking." 

Mulder stared at him in surprise, shocked by the A.D.'s firm
commitment to lie for him. Would they get away with it?
 
"Whatever they have against you, Mulder, it's nothing. The file is
destroyed your fingerprints will be in the office, but since it was
yours before and you have been seen in it after they restored it, that
will not look suspicious. It might take some convincing but we'll pull
it off." 

"And in the meantime?" Scully asked carefully.

"I will request a temporary assignment for the both of you at the
VCS," Davis quickly said. "If we're dealing with an
experiment here and people are dying, I will make this a serial killer
case to give you the chance to investigate. I'll
spread the rumor a new killer is out there and I need your help to
find him. We've done it before, it will work again.
Kersh will agree."

Mulder slowly nodded his head, realizing Skinner and Davis had just
given him the best options possible. They would proceed to track down
the victims of the Project, and they would succeed in their attempt to
do so, using the FBI's help and resources.

"Thank you," Mulder said hoarsely, "I don't know what to say."

The men in the room nodded as Mulder glanced at Scully. She smiled
reassuringly, her voice as firm as ever when
she took his hand, and said, "It's going to be fine, Mulder." 
*We'll take care of you. You're safe with us. Just trust us.*

Tom Fielding felt tears in his eyes as he watched the interaction
between the two agents. Then he thought of his sister. Where was she
right now? What were they doing to her? And why was she one of the
victims on that damned list? 

Mulder turned towards him suddenly, saying, "We'll find out, Tom,
trust me. She's still alive." 

"How do you know?"

"I dunno. It's just a hunch."

Tom felt stupidly reassured. He believed in Mulder. He trusted him
too. His sister would be found, and she would be
okay. As would they all.

Davis and Fielding said their goodbyes quickly and promised to keep in
touch in the morning. As they left the
apartment building, Strughold waited for hours for Mulder and Scully
to emerge but they didn't. And after a long time, Scully came out
alone and drove home. Mulder wasn't with her. A few seconds later the
lights went out and all was dark. 

The man with the mustache sighed and started the car. He was saddened
and worried, because he knew he would not
be able to keep his promise to his friend. Agent Mulder was already
becoming more of a threat than anyone could have imagined. And the
test was already affecting him the same way it had affected the
others. It was just a matter of time now.

Part II : The Test 

1. 
December 17
4:05 a.m., Crystal City

Walter Skinner struggled with sleep as the continuous ringing of a
phone woke him from his stupor. It seemed only
ten minutes since he had fallen asleep. In reality, he had slept for
two hours. 

Before the man was able to react, the ringing stopped. He entered the
living room to find Mulder speaking quietly. He
didn't seem to see Skinner at first, and when he finally did, he still
kept on talking. 

"Yes, I understand. Yes, I'll take Scully with me. Yes. Okay."  

Mulder quickly hung up and rubbed his eyes, still feeling the effects
of the sleeping pill Scully had forced him to take.
The call had left him wide awake though. 

Skinner sat down on a chair and watched him, waiting for him to say
something. 

"It was Matheson. We need to go down to the morgue quickly. A body has
been stolen last night -- a young girl.
He thinks they're already trying to cover it up." 

"What girl?"

"According to him, she was on the list. She committed suicide last
night. Fourteen years old. I need to take Scully with me. He doesn't
want me out there on my own."

"I'll go with you as well."

"No. If it turns out to be something, I need you to be at the bureau.
They'll be suspicious if they know you went with
us, sir." 

Skinner knew the man made sense but he couldn't help but feel anxiety
over the fact of letting the man go outside on
his own. 
*You might get hurt.*

"I won't be alone, sir. Scully's with me. Besides, I'm used to getting
my ass kicked."

Skinner's vague sense that something was wrong now got worse. How in
the world did his agent know what he was
thinking? Mulder quickly got up again and looked at his jeans and
sweater on the chair next to the sofa. When he'd
fallen  asleep on the couch, listening to Skinner and Scully talking,
Scully had stripped him from his clothes, leaving
him asleep in his T-shirt and boxers. Then she had left, despite his
request that she stay at the apartment as well. He
reached for the bag with clean clothes and frowned at the wrinkled
shirt. It would have to do for the day.

"I'll call Scully." Skinner said, looking at him as he left for the
bathroom. 

Mulder closed the bathroom door behind him, and stared at himself in
the mirror. Oh great, the bruises on his face
were turning an ugly green and purple. He really did look like shit.
No wonder they all thought he was going to drop
at any second. 

The ache in his body had become a sore, dull pain that constantly
reminded him of the fact he had been in a car wreck.
Everything he did or forced himself to do made him hurt even more.
This would stay with him for a long time,
reminding him every day of how stupid he was. 

"Mulder, are you okay in there?" Skinner's knock on the door scared
him. 

Quickly he started tugging the pants of his suit over his legs. 

"Yeah, I'm okay." 

He left the room, dressed and shaved, having using Skinner's electric
razor. It was the one thing Scully had forgotten
to pack when she prepared his bag with clothes. He felt a bit fresher
when he emerged. Skinner had put on some coffee, and handed him a cup.


"Scully will be here any minute."

"Thanks." 

"How do you feel?"

He wanted to lie and say he was fine, but he didn't, "Worse than
yesterday. I've got a headache the size of New York
City. But I'll live."

Skinner nodded and handed him the bottle with pills sitting on the
table. "Scully asked me to make sure you'd take
these. She said you'd probably forget." 

Mulder swallowed two tablets, hoping they would deaden the pain in his
limbs. Whoever said that things could only
get better was lying. They could only get worse. 

*I wish I could persuade him to take it easy.* Skinner thought.

The doorbell rang. Mulder was grateful for the interference and
grabbed his coat. "Gotta go. Talk to you soon. Try to
get some sleep, sir."

Skinner smiled vaguely, knowing sleep was out of the question. Instead
he'd pick up a newspaper and see if there was any news on Westfield's
suicide. Somehow he knew any bit of information would all be lies. 

Mulder hurried downstairs, knowing Scully was waiting for him. In the
large, marble corridor it suddenly struck him.
The immense sounds all together in one big giant whirlwind, invading
his brain. Thousands of thoughts like them,
voices talking at the same time, telling him the secrets he didn't
need to know. The inner voices of those who lived
inside this building, and those who started to wake up outside. 

*God, leave me alone. Don't do this to me.*

He grasped the glass door, leaning against it to catch his grip on the
world. He saw Scully on the other side of the glass but she couldn't
see him yet. She was approaching quickly though, striding forcefully
through the large corridor. A few more seconds and she would find see
him hanging onto the door for dear life.

*I'm going to force Mulder to have another check up at the hospital if
this pain keeps up. He really does look terrible.
I'm worried.*

No hospital. It was one thing he wanted to avoid right now if he
wanted to find out what had happened to those people, and what was
happening to him. But how could he keep this secret from Scully? She
would notice immediately. Oh, God. 

He regained his composure quickly, having trained himself over the
years to keep Scully from worrying about his sorry hide. He gripped
the door handle and opened it quickly, surprising his partner just as
she was about to open it herself. 

"Hey," she smiled, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," he said, nothing more, nothing less. 

He wouldn't be able to pull off further lies. He touched her arm
slightly, and even managed to smile at her, making sure she would
believe him. If she noticed his pale face and slumped posture she
didn't comment on it.

"Good," she said, "let's go then." 
*I was right, he's more sick than yesterday. I don't understand. He
hasn't been taking his pills. Damn it, Mulder! Do
you want me to baby sit you? I'm going to talk to Skinner about it.*

Mulder didn't comment, knowing it would start to make her suspicious.
But he hated being able to read her mind, and
to know what she knew. He didn't want to find out how she really felt
about him, if she felt anything at all. He simply
didn't want to know. He wanted to keep on believing she might actually
feel more for him than friendship. After all,
she was the one making him a whole person. 

Mulder walked after her, feeling ridiculously safe with his gun in its
holster and his badge near his chest. They were
the only things protecting him against the fear and danger of the
outside world. He felt a fear he'd never felt before.
Vulnerability and sensitive emotions would keep him from doing his
job. Never before had he dreaded talking to
anyone he didn't know or anything that was after him. But he needed to
in order to find out how they had done this.
How they "infected" him with the ability to read minds. 
*You were right, Matheson, it's like living in hell.*

Thousands of voices again assaulted him as soon as they took off for
the morgue. He could listen to them and figure
them out but they gave him useless facts. And he had to ignore them
just as they ignored him. He started to become
good at it, just as he became good at lying to Scully.



2.    
December 17
5.12 a.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown Medical Center 
The man sitting at the desk looked up surprised from his morning
newspaper when he saw two people provide their
badges, requesting to speak to the investigator in charge regarding
the disappearance of Amy James. 

"Disappearance?" the man said with a wry grin. "No offense but our
guests are quite dead. This isn't Highlander." 

Mulder smiled back, "Then I'm sure one of you people in here can tell
me who took her body and where it is right
now." 

The technician's smile vanished as he picked up the phone, "I'll
check, sir." 

A few minutes later, Mulder and Scully were guided into the office of
Dr. Ben Highley, the acting medical examiner.
Neither of the agents were surprised to see the man at work on this
ungodly hour. As soon as they were seated, John
Breaux arrived, as well, and eyed them. The name sounded familiar to
Mulder but he couldn't quite place it. The man
looked as if he'd been awakened from a deep sleep to get his ass over
here. What were they hiding?

"I've been told you are here to investigate the disappearance of Amy
James' body?" Highley started, playing nervously with a pencil.

"Yes, we are," Scully said, "as we have been told she died by her own
hand?" 

"Yes. Suicide. But there isn't any talk of a disappearance here
though. Her body was transferred."

"Oh really?" Mulder said surprised, "why and where?"

"She was transferred on my orders," Breaux added, "there was no need
for an autopsy. Her death was explained
quickly. It was obvious she committed suicide."

"Was there a note on the scene?"

"No."

"So you have no way of knowing she was forced to take those pills?" 

"Who said she died of pills?"

"That's what we've been told." Mulder shifted uncomfortably on the
chair, looking straight at the district attorney.
The man looked nervous. Mulder tried to pick out his thoughts in the
whirlwind of images he was exposed to. 

*They know we're lying. We need to get them out of here. How in the
world did they find out so fast?*

"Are you saying the girl died in another fashion, Dr. Highley?" Scully
asked, focusing her attention on the M.E.

"Yes, she slashed her wrists. No evidence of pills was found." 

"Then why have we been told otherwise?"

"Whoever told you must have been lying. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's
been a very long night and I would like to go
home." The M.E. got out of his chair and looked directly at the D.A.
"I'm sure Mr. Breaux can give you all the
information you need. After all, he's the one transferring the body."
*And I still hate him for forcing me to lie to her parents. Sick
bastard. Noel Markham's dead because of him.*

"Who was Noel Markham, Dr. Highley?" Mulder asked before he could stop
himself.

Highley stopped in his tracks and stared at him in surprise. 
"Excuse me?"

"Noel Markham died yesterday. Who was he?" 

"A colleague of mine. I regret his death. Excuse me." Highley was gone
before Mulder could ask him another question.
Scully stared at him in surprise, then turned to Breaux. The D.A.
rubbed his throat and said, "Noel Markham was
the medical examiner. He was shot to death yesterday just down the
hall. We don't know why."
*And they took all the evidence with them. I hate myself for letting
this happen.*

"Where is Amy's body, Mr. Breaux?" Scully asked carefully, waiting for
an answer. Breaux shifted nervously and rose from his chair. He needed
a drink despite the early hour. 
*Bethesda. But I can never let them know. Enough people have been
murdered.*

"Thank you, sir." Mulder got up and smiled as he reached to shake the
man's hand, "you've been very helpful." 

Before Scully could say anything more the agent was already out of the
room. Mulder took a deep breath in the hallway. It was very quiet in
the hospital. Still very early too. They would not find anything here.
The solution to their problems lay in Bethesda, but they would never
be able to get in there. They had done it once before to find the
bodies of the firemen blown up in the Dallas bombing. They were
keeping an eye out for him now. Perhaps someone else could get in
though.

"Mulder, what the hell was all that about?" Scully asked angry as she
closed the door behind her. "We still don't know anything !"

"The bodies are in Bethesda, Scully, I'm sure of it."

"Bodies? Are you saying there are more?" 

Mulder looked around nervously and took her by the arm. As they
silently walked through the corridor, he continued, "I've been told by
Matheson that the M.E., at least the man who held that position
yesterday, was shot to death after performing an autopsy on a suicide
victim. The victim vanished. What if there are more, Scully? We need
to find out how many and why they all died. Something must have killed
them, triggered their suicidal behavior somehow. We need to find out
quickly before anybody else dies." 

"How can you be sure they're in Bethesda?"

"It would make sense, wouldn't it? A hospital run by the military and
the government. Where else would they be?
Where would you bring them?"

"Bethesda," she agreed quietly, "but we'll never get in there. Not
after last time." 

"Then we'll have to find someone who can." 

As they left, Breaux opened the door of the medical examiner's office
and stared at the two departing agents with
disgust. He hated himself. To protect himself and those around him he
loved, he would have to keep on lying. It was
the only way to preserve the Project. 


 3.    
December 17, 1998
5:45  a.m., Washington, D.C.

The one-armed man hated the sound of the doorbell this early in the
morning. It could only mean trouble. 

It took him a while to get out of his sleepy stupor and head for the
door. In the meantime, the bell kept on being pushed and by the time
he had unlocked the door Krycek was angry. His feelings were only
worsened by the sight of the man in front of him.

"What do you want?" he sighed, turning from him. 

The smoking man closed the door behind him and looked at Krycek. The
man was wearing no shirt, showing the scars and missing limb clearly.
Krycek made no effort to hide his handicap. He sat down on his couch
and rubbed his eyes with the remaining right hand.

"I need your help. Agent Mulder's in trouble." 

"What's that got to do with me? Mulder's no friend of mine."

"Really? That's not the impression I got. As I recall it you paid the
man a friendly visit not so long ago. You've had
plenty of opportunities to kill him, Alex. I'm sure you don't want him
dead."

"Neither do you." 

The smoking man smiled and lit a cigarette, sitting down on a chair in
front of the man he didn't trust. He waited until
the inevitable question came. "What's wrong with Mulder?"

"He knows about the tests we're performing right here in D.C.. He's
subject to them as well."

This was enough to get Krycek's attention. "You're kidding me. I
thought Mulder was to be protected? Why and how
did he become a subject?"

"It's a long story and not one I'm going to share with you. Let's just
say his exposure was accidental and could not be
prevented. I had no idea until it was already too late. But I think
it's time you and I start thinking about a counteraction, Alex. After
all, we do work for the same goal, don't we?" 

"My goals are mine alone." 

The smoking man smiled. "Of course they are. I don't give a damn about
them. Get dressed, Krycek. We're going for
a little drive. I have a thing about talking in places I don't know." 

Krycek thought of the man he had worked with so long ago in the FBI.
He thought of everything he had ever done to
Mulder, making sure his partner got abducted, leading him into Russia
to be exposed to the black cancer. And at the
end it would be Mulder's own hand that would kill him. How ironic. But
perhaps it wouldn't be too late. Perhaps there
would still be a chance to save the agent's life. If he still wanted
to be saved. 

Krycek sighed as he dressed himself and forgot for the moment the
resentment he felt for the smoking man. He had
returned to the U.S. some time ago as a means to an end, knowing that
he needed to get close to the government
again in order to find out the truth. If it meant now helping this
smoking bastard, that's what he would do. And in the
meantime he would be saving his own hide. After all, that was Alex
Krycek's first priority. It had always been that way. 

In the car, Krycek received his instructions. Then he was let out of
the car with an assignment that would be almost
impossible to perform. But Krycek would pull it off. The smoking man
was as sure of that as of anything else in his
life.

 4.    
December 17, 1998
 8:15  a.m., Washington, D.C., J. Edgar Hoover Building

The man smoking all those Morleys sat quietly in the office of Walter
S. Skinner when the A.D. arrived early in the
morning. He had smoked three cigarettes already during the past
fifteen minutes, lighting one after another. He was
nervous as hell, and showing it to the outside world. Today would be
the day of truths, he knew that as sure as he knew anything in his
life. Today would be the day determining Fox Mulder's future or demise
within the FBI. 

Walter Skinner wasn't pleased to see the man though. His voice sounded
as angry and impatient as ever as he sat down, ignoring the cigarette
butts in his ashtray. 

"What do you want?" Skinner finally asked, looking up from the papers
that were already spread out on his desk. 

"I've been told Agent Mulder is in some sort of trouble," the smoking
man said, examining the pictures on the wall.

Funny, he'd been in this office so many times before but he'd never
noticed the way Skinner loved to keep the place
classy. He was probably the only A.D. within the bureau to do so.
Kersh definitely did not care about it. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Skinner said quietly. 

"He was seen in Spender's office, and left with a file. That file is
missing." 

"Has Agent Mulder been charged yet?"

"No, not yet. I don't know if he will."

"Then why are you here?"

The smoking man got out of his chair and pushed the cigarette butt in
the ashtray. "I know you met with Mulder last
night. I know he came to you looking for help. If you want him to
survive this, you'd better keep him away from this
investigation, Skinner." 

"What investigation?"

"Some people are going to die, but they die for a cause. Accidents
happen fast. Suicides do as well. Don't let this
happen to Mulder if you care about the man."

"Is this a threat?"

"Call it what you want. I'm here as a friend. Keep Mulder under
control or he'll suffer like the rest of them." The
smoking man turned towards the door.

"You've got the list, haven't you?" Skinner angrily said, "you know
who's being tested. Where's that list?"

The smoking man glanced at him by the door. "Of course I do. Mulder
had his chance to get his hands on it and he
blew it. Don't blame me for that, I did what I could. Their deaths are
on his head, now." He was gone before he could
stopped. Skinner sat down, shaking with anger. If anything could be
done, it would have to be done without the
smoking man's help. No deals, no ways of finding out the truth. 

 5.    
December 17, 1998
9:12  a.m., Washington, D.C., Federal Bureau of Investigation 

Diana Fowley did not like the man she was forced to work with but he
was a means to an end. She had what she
wanted, now, and she would not give it up, not even for Fox Mulder.
She did miss the man though and everything
about him. She missed having sex with him, missed his company, missed
the arguments they sometimes had when they were still together.  The
man sitting in the office with her was cold as a fish as the man he
claimed was his father. He didn't care about anybody or anything. His
career was the utmost importance in his life, his cooperation in the
ongoing Project the one thing that protected him from death. After
all, one was killed quickly when they dealt with scum and trash, but
this man definitely knew how to defend himself against his enemies.
Even if it meant working against Fox Mulder.

Even removed from the basement office Mulder still was a threat to
society, or so it seemed. Diana was not surprised
to find her partner sitting at Mulder's desk and staring into
oblivion. 

"Good morning, Jeffrey," she said as cold as ever. "What's wrong?"

He looked at her as if he saw her for the first time in his life. Then
he simply got up and left the office, leaving her
alone with a cold cup of coffee. She sighed and sat down, grabbing the
newspaper from Spender's desk. Headlines
spoke of the death of the medical examiner in Washington, D.C. Claims
that the man had stumbled onto something
and was killed for it were quickly being smothered by John Breaux, the
D.A. The man's death was still under
investigation. Diana felt shivers down her spine. Why did she feel
like Mulder was involved in it somehow? 
 
Spender's anger was clearly visible as he walked quickly through the
corridor, ignoring everyone until he arrived at
the water fountain. There, a man stopped by his side, waiting
patiently until he looked up. It was his father.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," Spender said impatiently and
wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. 

"Have you pressed charges?"

"Yes."

"I asked you not to." 

"I had no choice. I got a visitor. They wanted me to." 

The smoking man's features changed as he realized who the visitor was.
"I see," the smoker said slowly. "They even
want to set my own son against me. This will not happen. But it's
okay, you did what you had to." 

"What's going to happen to Mulder now?"

"I don't know." The smoking man left his son alone in the corridor and
hurried outside of the building. If Mulder
continued to be a test case, it wouldn't matter anymore. He was
already subject to dying. 


Mulder knew things were going wrong the moment he entered the office.
He was stopped in the lobby by two security guards, asking him to go
with them to the second floor. He entered a small office quietly, to
see a committee of five waiting for him.

"What's this about?" he asked as self-assured as he could possibly be.


"Sit down, Agent Mulder." Section Chief McGrath spoke to him, his
voice almost thrilled with the possibility of finally getting Mulder
as he had always wanted.

Mulder sat down carefully, glad he had taken a painkiller before he
entered the office. He was all alone, fearful and
vulnerable in a room filled with enemies. Scully was not there to help
him. She wouldn't be allowed to, anyhow. He
was all on his own. 
  
"Agent Mulder, we have reason to believe you are involved with the
theft of a file assigned to agent Spender. This theft occurred on
Saturday."

"I was in the hospital on Saturday."

"We know, Agent Mulder. Please answer the questions. Are you aware of
the theft of this file?"

"What file?"

"An X-File Agent Spender had opened on November 30. Do you or do you
not have this file in your possession?"

"I do not."

"Did you enter Agent Spender's office last Saturday and retrieve this
file?"

"I did not. Am I being charged?"

"Not yet."

"If I'm being charged, I'm entitled to an attorney." 

"This is a preliminary hearing. Where were you last Saturday between 2
and 3 p.m.?"

"I was in my office working on the paperwork on a case. I left and got
hit by another car. My car exploded. I was
rescued by the Washington P.D. I'm sure my medical files can confirm
this."

"Was the missing file in your car when it exploded, Agent Mulder?"

"It was not."

"Did you see A.D. Skinner last night, Agent Mulder?"

"Yes, I did."

"On what matter?"

"A private matter. A.D. Skinner and I have become friends. We talk
regularly."

"Does A.D. Skinner know about this file, Agent Mulder?"

"How can he when I didn't know about it myself until now?"

"Agent Spender saw you with a file under your arm leaving the office,
Agent Mulder. What file was this?"

"I don't know what Agent Spender is talking about, sir. I had some
paperwork with me which burned up in the car,
but it wasn't a file. Unfortunately I cannot show you. It was
destroyed in the fire." 

"How convenient, Agent Mulder."

"Are you suggesting I'm lying, sir?" 

A silence. 
*We need to tie him to the theft. Without it I have no case. Damn it!*

McGrath continued, "We will check out your story, Agent Mulder, but I
strongly suggest you to tell us the truth. If
evidence shows you have stolen that file, you will be dismissed
without chance of further reinstatement. You will also be charged with
grand larceny. Is that clear?"
*He doesn't stand a chance. Too many people are against him. He blew
his last chance. He's finally out of the bureau.*

"Yes, sir," Mulder said, "it's all very clear to me now." 

Slowly, Mulder go out of his chair ignoring the wave of dizziness that
made him sway. Outside, Tom and Scully were
waiting for him. 

"What happened in there?" Scully asked. "Are you okay?" 

*God, he looks like hell. I need to get him home so he can get some
rest. He's hurting. Why won't he tell me the truth
about his health? I'm sure there's something else going on.*

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was as expected. They'll be talking to Skinner
now. I hope he'll be able to get me out of this mess."

"He will, don't worry. They don't have anything on you," Tom said,
resting his hand assuring on Mulder's arm. 

Mulder smiled wryly. "We both know that's a lie, Tom. They've got
everything on me. It's just a matter of time now
before I'm indicted and dismissed." 

"We'll have to prevent that, then. I suggest we talk to the parents of
Amy James as soon as we can. I cannot imagine
them lying about what happened to their daughter," Tom said. "In the
meantime Mulder, why don't you get some rest? You look like you could
use it." 

*And I hope we are able to find my sister soon. If she dies, I don't
know how to survive.*

"There's some work to do at my desk," Mulder said, turning his back to
them quickly. 

Dana Scully didn't know how to react for the first time in her life.
They had both been in trouble before, even to the
verge of dismissal, but it had never been like this. There was nothing
she could do to help him, except roll the dice
and hope that all would turn for the best. She felt desperate and
helpless. 

*I wish that he wouldn't listen to his informants. I wish they would
leave him alone so he and I could live a normal
life. I wish I could take his place.*

Mulder stopped in his footsteps and turned towards her saying,
"Scully, I wish this hadn't happened either but it has. Let's make the
best of it."

She nodded in surprise and smiled as he hugged her. He rarely took her
in his arms these days and somehow she
needed to feel his strength, to draw upon it. He had stopped her from
resigning before and he would stop her from
giving up now. She was just as tired as he was. The fighting would
never be over and they both knew it. It was simply exhausting.
*I'm going to lose him. Something's wrong and I'm going to lose him.*

Just as suddenly as he had hugged her, he let go and left her standing
alone in the hallway. Only then did she realize
she had been crying. As she looked aside, she saw Tom staring at her
in concern.

"What is it, Dana?" he asked, afraid to listen to her answer.

"I don't know." 

She stepped forward and left the man alone. 


 6.    
December  17, 1998
10:25 a.m., Bethesda Naval Hospital

If there was one place Alex Krycek could not reach Fox Mulder, it was
at the FBI. It was also the one place he would
have to avoid for the rest of his life. After all, despite the
assurance coming from the Consortium, no one could give
him the assurance he would not end up in cuffs and behind bars as soon
as an FBI agent spotted him.

Right now, Krycek had other things to deal with though. In shock, he
stared at the autopsy results of the bodies brought in here yesterday.


"These results can't be right," he said out loud, flipping through the
charts one by one.

"They certainly are, sir," the man in the white cloth said, wondering
why Krycek was so surprised. Who was this man
they had sent to pick up the results, if he didn't know anything about
the tests being inflicted on their subjects? "The
tests are as we expected. The results are very satisfying and
assuring. We can proceed on a higher level now."

"To what cause?"

"To make sure we have a defense against the colonization. To use what
we have learned against the alien colonists.
If they are our superiors, we will be forced to turn to more desperate
measures in order to ensure our own safety."

"Are you saying you've been testing this product on humans first and
are going to try it in the presence of the aliens?" 

"Yes, that was our one and only intent. Their mind control is superior
to ours. We have only made a first step here
toward our preservation but it was a good one. The only thing we're
not clear about is why the high number of suicides. My belief is that
the human mind cannot withstand the pressure of the drug and produces
the necessary chemicals to stimulate suicidal tendencies."

"How are you going to prevent that from happening?"

"We have a living subject who has survived so far. We are testing her
right now."

"I want to see her." 

"Of course. But she's not here. We've transferred her to a safe house.
There are only a few who know she's still alive.
We didn't want to suggest any positive progress right now, not until
we know why she has survived so far." 

"What about the others?"

"They're all dead. We have two more living subjects walking around
right now. One is a young woman who was in
a car accident four days ago. She's on her fourth day of mind control,
or MC, as we call the drug. She's still not
suspecting anything. The other subject is a man brought into
Georgetown on Saturday. He's .."

"An FBI-agent."

"Yes," the doctor said surprised, "how did you know?"

"I heard he was on the MC but didn't believe it."

"It's an unfortunate fact, though. He wasn't supposed to receive it
originally, but it couldn't be helped. The order came from a higher
level of authority. It's a dangerous course of events though. I cannot
help but wonder why they chose him for the purpose. I've read in his
file he has a photographic memory. People like that, who use their
minds on a different level than most human beings, are more
susceptible to the MC than anybody else. I'm afraid the use of the
drug on him will make him suicidal within three, four days, basically
killing him by the end of tomorrow."
"I see," Krycek said thoughtfully, "Doctor, I might need your help
soon. I was wondering if you could show me to the girl now." 

"Of course. I've been given instructions to provide you with any
information you might need." 

"I know," Krycek said with a grin, "isn't it wonderful?" 

As the men left the hospital, the burning of the body of Amy James was
already in progress. Her parents would receive a closed and sealed
empty casket. 


Mulder noticed the stares of those around him. He knew what they were
thinking. The story of the theft had already
gone through the building. It was worse than he thought.  The voices
returned, echoing in his mind. 
*Spooky's got himself in real trouble now. Too bad. He was a good
asset once.*
*He'll be out of here before he knows it. They won't let him get away
with this.*
*It's a shame. I liked the guy.*
*He couldn't have done this. He's a good man.*
*I wonder what's going to happen to him now. He'll go nuts if they
sack him.*

He caught their glimpses, and opened his mouth to respond to their
thoughts, but he didn't. He was scared. Everything seemed to tremble
around him. He felt like the world was colliding and turning against
him. Soon he would be all alone again. Scully would be taken from him
and he would be on the streets with nothing. What would he do? How
would he survive? He knew he couldn't. He needed his hold on the
bureau even if it was this way. 

Scully entered the room and sat down next to him, with her back
towards the others. She leaned over to him and said,
"I haven't been able to track down Amy's parents. Seems they moved in
the middle of the night. The house is empty,
Mulder. Nobody knows where they went. I have a pretty good hunch we
won't be able to find them. Something's gone wrong here." 

"Do you think they killed them too?"

"I don't know. Or they moved them and offered them a huge fee. In the
end you can bribe anyone, Mulder. Killing
them would probably be too obvious. They can't afford many more
deaths. And something else -- a call came into 911
yesterday. A man claimed he was going to kill himself, only when the
police arrived the place was empty and the man
was gone."

"Who was he?"

"A real estate agent named Dean Hampton. Nobody reported him missing
so far but I might be able to get a tape of
his 911 call." 
*I wonder how many people have died, and how many will be dying. I
wonder if we're not already too late. If people
are dropping like flies right now, they might have killed themselves
yesterday, all at the same time. Perhaps a mass
suicide.*

A mass suicide ... He thought of Amy. Oh, God, not another one. 

"Excuse me." In the middle of Scully's sentence he got up and hurried
to the men's room, just in time to get rid of the
coffee he had for breakfast. When he looked up, he saw his own pale
features. What was going on? He should be feeling better by now, not
worse. But it all seemed to tumble down and end up in a large hole in
the ground, along with the thoughts running through his mind. A man
entered the room, waiting patiently until Mulder saw him. 

"Hey Tom." Mulder quickly rinsed his mouth and washed his hands. 

"Mulder, what's going on?"
"I don't know," Mulder lied. "Ever since the accident I've been
feeling like hell. Must have caught a bug in the ER or
something."

"You look like it. Why don't you go home?"
*He's lying.*

"No time. We've got to find that list first."

"You're not alone on this, Mulder. Scully's worried about you. She
sent me in to see how you were."
*Scully was right. Something's going on we don't know anything about.
Mulder knows, but he won't tell us.*

"I know she's worried," Mulder said softly, tired of fighting this
thing on his own. He needed to trust in someone, even if it was to get
out it all out in the open. He took a deep breath and continued, "I
could read it in her thoughts."

"What?"
*Oh my god, don't tell me this is happening.*

"It is happening, Tom," Mulder grinned wryly, shaking his head slowly.
As he turned away from his friend, he caught
Tom's eyes in the mirror. The younger agent looked shocked and hurt as
if he didn't want to hear this.  "I don't know
how but I can hear your thoughts just as clear as if you were talking
to me. Not just you, everyone. I can hear other
people's thoughts and it's scaring the shit out of me." 

"That can't be." 
*His name can't be on that list!*

"I don't think my name is on the list. I think I've gotten too close
for comfort and now they want me to kill myself. But
I'm not suicidal, Tom, I just read minds." Mulder laughed harshly. It
sounded just as scary as the words he had just
spoken. 

"But how?"

"I don't know. But whatever is happening to those people, is happening
to me too. I've become the victim of their
schemes and now they want to finish me within the FBI. And I don't
even know what was in that goddamn file.!"

"Mulder, you're not making any sense."

"I know." He laughed almost hysterically, grasping the sink tightly.
"Ain't life a bitch, Tommy?" 

*Nobody every calls me Tommy except for Resie.*

"Resie is still alive. We'll find her. They need her. I think everyone
else is dead already, Tom. I just feel it."

Tom stretched out his hand carefully, as if to support his friend. His
fingers lingered for a while on Mulder's arm. The
agent felt the warmth of Tom's hand and smiled. It actually felt good.
Then he straightened himself and ran a hand
through his hair. He couldn't prevent himself from being this pale but
he could stop himself from collapsing on the
spot. 
*She needs to know. How in the world am I going to tell her?*

"Don't tell her," Mulder said out loud, "Not yet at least. We've been
through a lot, both of us, she doesn't need this."

"Don't you want her to know?"

"No."

"Why? She's your partner for goodness sake, and a doctor. She needs to
know. You can't walk around like this,
knowing you might kill yourself, too."

"You're not going to stop me from working. And I won't be the one
telling her I might kill myself in a couple of days.
She'll find out soon enough."

"But there might be a cure ! How can you not take the chance of
finding that?" 

"Once we find the list, we'll find a cure. I'm sure of it." 

"Then let us help you ! Whatever is going on, Mulder, it can be dealt
with. We can deal with it!" Tom's hand was on
his arm now, forcing the other agent to look at him. 

"No." Mulder pulled himself free, "this one is mine alone. Don't tell
her. Keep this to yourself if you care about
anything that is going on here. Promise me, Tom !"

"No. I can't."   

Mulder sighed and opened the door quickly. Scully waited outside
patiently, looking into his eyes when he passed her. She followed him
quickly as he returned to his desk, typing away at his computer
viciously.  Scully sat down and
returned to her own papers, wondering how long it would take he would
tell her the truth. But as she stared at Tom,
she was shocked. The man's pale features and guilty expression
indicated to her that he knew what was happening.
And he wouldn't tell her.



From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 8/11

 7.    
December 17, 1998
11:21 a.m., Washington D.C., Hoover Building

Terence Davis needed no introduction to those in the field of
investigations. He had started as a rookie agent in '75,
after 'Nam and college. He was an excellent profiler back then, when
the serial killers were already vicious, and the
murders already vile. He made his way through the bureau quite ably,
but he had to fight for his promotions. He had
seen a lot of agents passing through his department. Some of them were
burned out after two years at the VCS. Some
of them never returned to the bureau after taking medical leave. Some
of them turned out to be brilliant young agents
with the ability to do just about everything. For those agents he
would walk through fire if necessary. He would protect them and kill
for them, and he would trust them with his life. 

One of those agents was Fox Mulder. The man that had left a stamp on
Davis in a way rarely anyone had ever before
or ever after. The man had come through for him several times. Now
that he was in trouble, it was Davis' turn to return
the favor. 

But despite his knowledge and experience at the FBI, Terence Davis
could only think about the demons and nightmares Mulder must have seen
and encountered during his career. He didn't want to be in Mulder's
shoes, but then again, who would? 

Davis was already on the phone to different hospitals trying to get a
list of suicides over the past month that had been faxed to him. The
faxes were already coming in when a knock on his door woke him out of
his thoughts. Tom Fielding entered the office frowning worriedly. 

"What's wrong, Tom?"

"It's Mulder." Fielding sat down and stared at the fax machine, "I'm
worried about him."

"He'll be fine. He always pulls through."
"I know, sir. Are those the suicide lists?"

"Yes."  Davis gave him two sheets of paper with a number of names.
"You've got some work cut out for you, Tom. I
want you to go over these lists with Mulder. If one of these people
was a victim, we need to find similarities in their
lives or deaths."

"Any suggestions, sir?"

"No. Count on Mulder's profiling skills. He'll have ideas. Work
closely with him."

"Yes, sir." 

Tom got up and clutched the papers. At the door he was stopped by
Davis' voice. "Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"What's going on with Mulder?"

Tom bit his lip. 

"He has it too, hasn't it?"

"I believe so, yes."

"My God." Davis sunk back in his chair and rubbed his face profusely.
"How?"

"I don't know." 

"Is he accountable for himself?"

"Right now? Yes. But I don't know for how long. And Scully doesn't
know. He refuses to tell her and I'm not sure how to go about it."

"Then stay with him. I'll talk to Skinner about it. We'll find a way
to help him, Tom." 

"Yes, sir." Tom left the office with five sheets of papers, all filled
with names. Over the past month, 69 people had
committed suicide. A huge list for a huge city. A sad list.
Unfortunately, also a long list. How would they ever be able
to find out who had been a test subject? How would they ever stop
anyone from being a subject again? Would Mulder's name be on this list
as well?  Tom sighed and walked over to Mulder's desk. As Davis said,
they had their work cut out for them.

 8.    
December 17, 1998
11:45 a.m., Washington, D.C., FBI

Walter Skinner had rarely before been interrogated at such lengths as
he was today. He found himself in front of a
committee of ten people, whereas Mulder "only" had to talk to five
people. Again, McGrath asked the questions,
enjoying the moment thoroughly.

"Have you spoken to Agent Mulder over the weekend?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"On Sunday evening. He stopped by for a drink."

"Does he do that a lot?"

"Yes. We've become friends since he's been reassigned to A.D. Kersh.
He wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"Several things,  personal things." 

"How long did he stay?"

"A while. It became late."

"Did you know he was in an accident on Saturday?"

"Yes, of course. Scully called me and told me." 

"Did you visit him in the hospital?"

"Yes. I also visited him at home and drove him around when he needed
some groceries." 

"That was very kind of you, sir, do you care about all your agents
this much?"

"As I said before, Agent Mulder is a friend of mine."

McGrath snorted and moved on. "When did you hear about the missing
file?"

"Early this morning. Agent Mulder did not take it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Where did Agent Mulder go after he left the office and before he
crashed his car?" 

"I don't know. You'd have to ask Agent Mulder."

"Is it your believe that Agent Mulder is wasting his time at the FBI,
Assistant Director Skinner?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you believe that Agent Mulder is still valid as an FBI agent?"

"With all due respect, sir, that is a lousy question. Agent Mulder is
the best agent I have ever worked with, and I regret his reassignment
every single day. I would be proud to have Agent Mulder under my
guidance again. He is a fine agent with an unique track record. I'd
welcome him with open arms."

McGrath did not like that answer. 

"Would you take a polygraph test to support your claims, A.D.
Skinner?"

Skinner swallowed, "yes, I would. But it is my impression that the FBI
would not like it known that its assistant
directors were being asked to take polygraph tests. Don't you think
so, Section Chief McGrath?"

9. 
December 18, 1998
1:15 p.m., Washington, D.C., Hoover Building

The list of 69 patients was down narrowed quickly to 45, after
excluding the terminally ill and psychiatric patients with
a long track record of illness and previous attempts. Mulder stated
they were looking for healthy people who only
recently went crazy. That was the profile he had written. 

Scully attempted to get her hands on the medical files of both Dean
Hampton and Amy James but to no avail. She was furious when she was
told after being put on hold for minutes that the files apparently
had gone missing. And so had the 911 distress call from Dean Hampton.
Nothing could be discovered on their health or state of mind.

"I don't understand, Mulder," Scully said as she sat down furiously,
"why would they go to the length of concealing
the medical files of their victims?"

"Maybe there's the link," Mulder proposed, "they underwent some sort
of treatment which needed to be concealed. My guess is, Scully, that
more bodies have vanished suddenly over the past few weeks and have
all been destroyed. As soon as we have found out which, we will also
find their medical histories being gone. So we need to find out where
and when they were treated. We'll need your medical degree to get you
a badge and a way to get into Bethesda or any of the hospitals here in
the city."

"How many possibilities do we have left?"

Tom showed her a list of the 45 remaining suicides on the list. Going
through the police and FBI track records another
12 victims could be excluded. They all had attempted suicide before,
leaving no doubt about their current success. And their bodies had
been identified by their relatives. 

Of the 33 remaining victims, 18 medical records could be traced
instantly. Going on Mulder's hunch these people
where not involved in the experiment. That left 15 potential victims
whose medical records could not be found.
It cost them almost the entire afternoon to narrow down this list.

"I'll take Agent Wilson and go talk to the families of these people,"
Tom said tired, not looking forward to this part
of the job. 

"You won't find them," Mulder said convincingly, "they're all gone. At
least, if the same M.O. has been followed." 

"What are you thinking, Mulder?" Scully asked leaning back in her
chair.

Mulder got out of his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. "I think all of
these people were perfectly healthy when they were exposed to the
test. They would take subjects who were in perfect health, right? So
anyone who's already spent some time in the hospital would not fit
their profile."

"So why are their files missing?"

"Because they did end up in hospital once," Mulder said, feeling the
tiny weight of the bottle of pills in his pocket. It
all made sense to him now. "During that visit in hospital they were
given something, some sort of medication. At least that's what they
thought. In reality however they were exposed to the test." 

"But that doesn't make any sense, Mulder. My sister was a drug user.
She doesn't fit the profile. Why would they use
her?"

"Maybe they didn't know she was a drug user. Perhaps somehow that also
kept her alive until now. You said she was
fighting against herself when she spoke to you, wasn't she? Maybe some
chemicals lower the effects of the tests on her. It's all speculation
of course but I don't see any other explanation right now."

"So how are we going to find out what happened to all of them? And
where Theresa is?" Scully asked, reaching for
her jacket. 

"Neighbors and friends. Anybody who was close to them. It's going to
take a while, Tom, but by talking to just one
friend we might be able to find the link. Scully, why don't you and I
go to the hospital and talk to some ER doctors
there?" 

"Okay. I'll be right back." Scully got up and left her partner alone
with Tom.

"I'll make some inquiries," Tom said, getting up as well.

"Make it quick, Tom."

*Count on me, Mulder. I hate seeing you like this.*

"I know you do," Mulder said out loud as his friend turned his back
towards them. 

"What?"

"You hate seeing me like this."

Tom stopped in his tracks and stared at Mulder with fear and surprise,
"How did you ...? Never mind."

Mulder grinned, grabbing his coat. "I've got to go."

Tom watched his friend leave the room, then freeze and stare at Agent
Brown seated near the window. The look on
Mulder's face spoke of the unspoken hurt and pain the man never said
out loud. Whatever Brown was thinking was
hurting the man obviously. Brown's eyes met Mulder's and the older
agent suddenly blushed and turned away from
Mulder, feeling embarrassed. Mulder waited for Scully by the door and
turned towards Tom, looking at him with a
meaningful glare. Tom understood.

Fielding waited until his friend had left the office, and then walked
over to the office of A.D. Skinner. The assistant
director had just returned from the committee hearing, looking wiped
after a five hour discussion. 

"I need to talk to you, sir," Fielding said, "it's an emergency."

"My office. Kim, hold all my calls." Skinner closed the door behind
him, watching the younger special agent stand
straight, though nervously. 

"What is it, Tom?" 

"Mulder's been exposed to whatever it is that's killing those people.
He's in a bad way, sir."

Skinner stared at him in surprise. "How?"

"I don't know, sir. Davis knows as well. He was going to talk to you
about it." 

"Is he suicidal?"

"I don't think so. Not yet. Sir, he can read my thoughts. It's
uncanny. He knows everything anyone in his environment thinks. It's
driving him up the wall. We need to find that list, sir. And a way to
undo what has been done. I think Agent Mulder doesn't realize how bad
it is. He refused to tell Scully. He thinks he's protecting her like
this."

"What do you suggest we do?"

"I've heard you all talk about the smoking man. Let's make a deal with
him."

"No. No deals."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't keep his end of the bargain. He never does."

"Then how do we get the list?"

"I don't know. Not yet. Go about your business."

"What about Mulder?"

"I'll talk to him, make sure he's okay. Thanks, Tom." 

Fielding left the office feeling a bit better. At least now someone
who knew Mulder better than him, knew about the
telepathy. He hadn't told Scully. He hadn't betrayed Mulder.

The A.D. picked up the phone and dialed the number he had not used in
over a year. He knew the smoking man would answer and meet him. A deal
should have been out of the question, but something needed to be done,
even if it meant dealing with scum. 


 10.   
December 17, 1998
2:45 p.m., Washington, D.C.

Alex Krycek stared in shock at the woman sitting in the glass cage.
She was trapped like an animal, the palms of her
hands pressing against the glass furiously. The men in the cubicle had
trouble strapping her down on the bed, and
putting her on an IV. She had already pulled out the previous one,
leaving a trace of blood on the floor. 

Theresa Fielding screamed as they put in the IV again, and then
relaxed immediately as a syringe was emptied into
her arm. 

"What drives her crazy like this?" Krycek asked carefully.

"The MC no doubt. She was exposed to drugs for years. We found old
needle tracks in the crooks of her arms. The MC first had a minor
effect on her and now has made her aggressive. I don't know why, yet,
we'll have to do a number
of tests. I do believe that we might be able to reverse the effects of
the tests though."

"Really?" Krycek asked interested, "how?"

"The MC works on the metabolism of the human body, you have to
understand. In fact, it attacks those parts of the
body that are not in use, like the larger part of the brain. We only
use a fraction of our brown because we don't know
how to use them effectively just yet. There have been a number of
tests where monkeys for instance have been subject to drug tests to
see if they would start to improve their intelligence. This experiment
basically does the same thing. It affects that part of our brain that
we don't know or haven't learnt to explore yet. Gibson Praise knew how
to explore it because he was born this way. By slowing down the vital
functions of a human body, we are also slowing down the knowledge and
functions of the brain. In other words, fight fire with fire." 

"Are you saying you have a counteragent for the MC?"
"Yes," the doctor smiled, "that's what I've been saying." 

"Can we use this on Agent Mulder?"

The doctor looked surprised, "do you want to save the agent?" 

"Let's keep it to testing. Think about it, doctor. Theresa Fielding is
not a good subject. Fox Mulder is. His rapid
downfall will learn you more about the human body than anything else.
We need him. But I need your quiet approval
on this. No one can know we're testing him. Think about it! You'll be
rewarded if you improve the drug."

The doctor didn't need long to think about it. He knew he would go
along with Krycek, no matter what cost. After all,
he would be able to pull off things he'd never been able to pull off
before. 

"Okay," the man said, "I'm with you."

"Good. Otherwise I would have had to kill you." 

The doctor paled as Krycek left the room, leaving him alone. If it
wasn't for the money, the doc would have quit the
job a long time ago. Not to mention the fact there wasn't even the
possibility of quitting. He was involved in this shit
for life, no matter how old he became. Krycek's words were only
another confirmation to the fact.

Krycek pulled out his cell phone and called the smoking man on his way
out of the building. Somehow, he was sure
his employer did not know about the woman. He would have mentioned it.


"What news?" the smoker asked. Krycek could hear noises in the
background. He was not alone.

"It's been confirmed. Agent Mulder is the last living test subject.
They'll come after him soon."

"Then we'll have to make sure they don't have a reason to come after
him. Go ahead."

"Yes, sir." Krycek hung up and looked behind him. 

The screams of the young woman had started again. He didn't want to
know what was going on inside her head.
Somehow he knew it would be too inhuman for anyone to survive. 

11. 
December 17, 1998
4:14 p.m., Washington D.C., Potomac River 

"Scully, please stop the car." 

Dana Scully pulled over and stopped the car near the bench at the
Potomac. She had bad memories about the last time she had sat down
here. Not even so long after that she was taken away by Duane Barry.
Now, another man sat on that bench and he was staring across the
river. She didn't need to see his face to know who he was. 

"I'll wait in the car," she said quietly, watching her partner
struggle to get out. Then he turned and said, "No, I want
you to go to Bethesda Hospital and try to get in. I'll meet you back
at the bureau. Be careful, Scully."

"Mulder, I'll never get in."

"You can be persuasive if want to."

"What about you? I hate leaving you alone."

"I'm a big boy," he said, tapping on the holster of his gun. She
smiled despite everything and drove off. Mulder made
his way to the bench and sat down next to the man.

"I thought you might be trying to find me," Senator Matheson said, not
even looking aside.

"You knew about this, didn't you?" Mulder asked, "You knew I was a
subject too."

"Yes."

"How?"

"The moment I heard you were admitted to Georgetown. That's where all
the subjects were being treated. You didn't
know it yourself, but you came under their care and they decided to do
it, to see how you would react to the drug they slipped you." 

"Who was responsible?"

"The man you know as Dr. Matthews. He's probably gone by now. He was
the one taking the files of the victims after
they all perished. That wasn't foreseen, you see. That they would all
die so suddenly. You are the only one left. You,
and a young woman they have right now." 

"Where is she?"

"I don't know." 

"You don't know or you don't want to tell me?"

*I don't know.* 
"I don't know," the senator said, avoiding the agent's eyes. "I'm
really sorry."

"You lie."

"I'm not lying."
*Believe me, Mulder. I don't know.*

"I can hear your thoughts. I can hear you say, "Poor Mulder, he's
suffering because I lead him to this case." I know
you're regretting my involvement in this case, sir, but it's not your
concern. Now tell me where that list is."

*The smoking man has it. I don't know where it is.*
"I don't have it," the Senator said out loud, "you have to believe
me."

Mulder believed him. Slowly the agent stretched his body and stared
over the river. "What's going to happen to me?"

"You will get worse, just like the others. I don't know why it's
affecting you so rapidly. The others took weeks. I also
have no idea how they give you the drug. I don't know if they're still
slipping it to you."

"The pills. I've been given painkillers, but they didn't help." 

"Have them examined, you might find a way to save yourself." 

"Will I kill myself at the end?"

"Probably. Unless you find a way to overcome the drug. But I have to
warn you, they might try to get their hands on
you. Eventually they will unless you find the way to win."
"Why didn't you tell me? You could have prevented this !"

"I couldn't. I'm risking my life already for you just by sitting here
and talking to you. I am exposing myself as a part
of the project that you have been chasing for five years! By exposing
myself I will turn everyone that is dear to me, and everything I have
worked for so long will go to waste. I can't do that, not even for
you, Fox."

"So you simply let me die?" 

"I'm talking to you now, aren't I? I have lead you to the file,
haven't I? I have told you the truth. If that's not good
enough for you, then we will never speak to each other again."

Mulder sat back quietly, wondering what to believe. Then his informant
sat up quietly and said, "Mulder, sometimes,
help comes from a corner you don't expect. And sometimes those that
you hate will act for the good and become your
allies. This is what you need to remember." 

The senator stretched out his hand and shook Mulder's, pressing a
piece of paper against the palm of the agent's hand.
Mulder got up and left without a word, knowing his enemies would be
watching. Quickly, the agent hailed a cab and
instructed the driver to go to the bureau. From the corner of his eye,
he saw two men walk up to the senator and request him to come with
them. A second later a black car stopped near the bench and the
senator was forced into the back. Mulder knew there was nothing he
could do for the man. And the man couldn't do anything for him
anymore. 





From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 9/11

12. 
December 18, 1998
5:15 p.m., Washington D.C., Hoover Building

Tom Fielding waited patiently as the smoking man entered Skinner's
room. The young agent's patience had come to
an end. He was desperate to find his sister and a means to help her
and Mulder. But he knew he couldn't. He was too
vulnerable and had nothing to offer the man. 

But someone else had. The young VCS agent walked to the elevators and
chose the basement, knowing the man in
there was the only one who could talk some sense into the smoker. He
would also be the only one that had a grip on
the smoker. After all, he was his son. 

But the man wasn't inside. A dark haired woman was the one looking up
as soon as he entered the room. 

"Yes?" she asked surprised taking in the name on his badge. 

"I was looking for Agent Spender. Is he in?"

"He left a couple of hours ago to talk to a committee. Can I help you
with something?"

"No. Thank you."

"You're Fox's friend aren't you? The one from the VCS?"

Surprised Tom turned around and stared at her. "How do you know?"

She got up and stretched out her hand. "My name's Diana Fowley. I've
known Fox for years. I was wondering how he's doing. He was in an
accident, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He's fine."

"You don't sound convincing."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

She smiled faintly. "I'm not sure we're still on speaking terms. It's
a long story."

"Do you know about the file?"

"Yes. But I don't think he took it. He wouldn't do that."

"Do you know what was in it?"

"No. Should I? As Agent Spender has made very clear to me, I'm only
here because I know about the paranormal.
Spender doesn't take this job seriously. He's only doing  it because
it will bring him to a point in his career where he
can choose for himself. He's as ambitious as anyone, I suppose. If I
were him I would do the same thing I guess."

"You don't seem to have much respect for the man. He is your partner,
isn't he?"

"For now, yes." Diana smiled again. "Tell Fox I said hi."

Tom closed the door behind him only to find the smoking man leaving
Skinner's office. As Fielding knocked on the
A.D.'s door, he immediately knew things had gone wrong. 


The smoking man was fully aware of the power he held in his hands
right now. It was a feeling he hadn't had in a long
time, not since he got shot by his own men. Then, he had been betrayed
and lead into a trap he himself had inflicted
by caring too much about Mulder's situation. By protecting the man he
had sentenced himself. But now he was back
with a full vengeance and he would damn well show them he was not to
be messed with. 

Walter Skinner didn't feel at ease as he watched the man sit down and
smoke a cigarette. He waited patiently until the
smoker started to talk, and already dreaded the sound he would most
definitely hear in the man's voice. 

"So you want another deal to save Mulder's life, Skinner?"

"No. No deals. I want you to help him. I know you're willing to do
so."

"Why would I help him? We're on opposite sides."

"Because whatever happened to him wasn't in the plan. Somehow, Mulder
got involved and you didn't want it to
happen. You've been protecting him for quite some time, I know that
now. It was the reason you got shot, wasn't it?
Why is this happening to him? What did he do to deserve this?"

The smoking man's face seemed to darken as he turned away from the
A.D., ignoring the man's fierce eyes. He couldn't hide his feelings. 

"I know you set the office on fire. I've known it for quite some time.
By destroying it, you wanted to protect him as well, didn't you? You
thought it would stop him from searching for the truth, but he didn't
give up. He found the virus and went in search of his partner. Were
you there too? Were you the one making sure they were found out on the
ice? If you want to help Mulder ... if you ever wanted to help him,
help him now. He needs you."

The man stubbed out his Morley in the ashtray, saying, "I can't give
you the list."

"Then tell me how to save him."

"You can't."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Believe it. Mulder is going to die and there's nothing you can do
about it. There is no cure to a disease that isn't even a disease. It
was a test. You cannot stop its consequences." The smoking man left
the office, leaving the assistant director alone and desperate. 

And then Tom came in and asked him about it. Skinner's expression said
enough. The A.D. took off his glasses and
rubbed his eyes. Time was running out. They knew it. Everyone knew it.


Another knock sounded and Mulder entered the room, his eyes wild and
angry. 

"It's all so clear to me now," he said, throwing the bottle with pills
on the table. "I checked with Georgetown. Dr.
Matthews has disappeared. There never was a Dr. Matthews there. All
the victims came in through the ER, caught up
in some sort of minor accident. They were all healthy and fit for
testing. He gave them the pills and they killed
themselves not knowing why. But I know, now."

"My God," Skinner said, staring at the bottle. "How many of these have
you taken?"

"Too many." Mulder sank down on a chair and covered his face with his
hands. "We need to find Matthews. He took
a flight to Boston early this morning but he'll be back soon. He's
booked on another flight into town tomorrow at four
using a fake name. I don't know which but I'll recognize him. We need
to find him at the airport." 

"How do you know?"

Mulder threw a piece of paper on the table. "Matheson told me." 

Skinner picked up the paper. The flight number and time was written on
it. Mulder leaned back heavily, closing his
eyes. He was so tired, so exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep. 

"Mulder?" 

Fielding's voice came from a distance, ringing quietly in his ears. He
didn't have the strength to open his eyes anymore. The world seemed to
spin. Strong hands helped him to his feet and supported him as they
made their way to the couch. The next moment he was lying on the
couch, his feet up. 

He heard his former superior open the door, saying, "Call an
ambulance, Agent Mulder is not feeling well." 

Then he picked up the phone. Mulder could hear him talking to Scully.
He knew his partner was on her way down. 

Tom sat down on a chair next to his friend, laying a hand on his
flushed face. 

*He's dying. Something went wrong. This isn't supposed to be
happening.*

Mulder grabbed Tom's hand as the man touched him, forcing Fielding to
lean forward to listen to his words. "I'm not
giving up just yet." 

There were more voices outside the room, all focusing on the man
inside. Kersh was there, so was the smoker, so were several others. He
could hear all their silent remarks. 

*He looks like shit, had no idea he was sick.*
*He's burning himself at the stake before someone else does it.*

*Where the hell is that doctor?* That one was Skinner's worried
thought. *Look at that smoking bastard. He knows
what caused this and he won't do anything about it.*
But the smoking man's thoughts were describing his own worries as
Mulder listened to the silence. 

*There's nothing I can do. Where the hell is Krycek?*

Mulder opened his eyes in shock. "Krycek?" he spoke out loud. "Where
is he? Where is he!?" Fielding needed all the strength he had to keep
the agent down. 

Fielding turned to Skinner and asked, "Who's Krycek?"

The smoking man whirled and left the room. 

Before the ambulance arrived, Mulder lost consciousness.

13. 
December 18, 1998
5:14 p.m., Bethesda Naval Hospital 

Dana Scully's body language could only be described as nervous yet
self-assured when she entered the hospital
reception area. The security guard looking at her waited until she
spoke. "Dana Scully with the FBI. I'm a forensic
pathologist and was sent here to autopsy the body of Amy James."

The man looked on a piece of paper and said, "There's no one been
brought in here by that name, Agent Scully. Who
gave you this order?"

"Senator Matheson. He was supposed to inform you I was on my way. I
thought you would know. I don't have much
time here."

"Wait here, Agent Scully. I'll get someone down here to talk to you." 

Scully sat down nervously and impatiently, knowing that the man coming
for her would be someone familiar. She was
right. District Attorney John Breaux came up to her, looking annoyed
and angry as she got up.

"Agent Scully, still looking for corpses?"

"A district attorney that works in a naval hospital? What brings you
here, sir?"

"That is none of your concern. What you are looking for is not here.
Friends like Senator Matheson will not help you
in here. Amy James' body is gone and if I were you I would leave it at
that." 

"What do they have on you, sir? How did they manage to rein you in? Is
it the upcoming elections? Did they promise
you a promotion and pay raise? What does it take to get a D.A. in on
the deal, sir?"

"I think you'd better leave now, Agent Scully."

"Not until you tell me why at least fifteen people have been brought
here after committing suicide, and why people like yourself are
attempting to hide it."

The D.A. slowly said, "I think you should worry about your partner
instead of those people, Agent Scully."

"What?" Scully stared at him in shock. As the D.A. turned around,
Scully's cell phone rang Shocked, she listened to
Skinner's request to come to Georgetown immediately. Her partner would
be there.

The ER of Georgetown Medical Center was as crowded as ever when Scully
arrived to find her partner being examined in a private cubicle.
Skinner was there, and so was Tom. Neither of them were leaving the
room. They watched the doctors suspiciously. Scully didn't understand.
One look at the pale face of her partner told her he had collapsed,
either from exhaustion or something else. 
*Oh god, don't let it be something else.*

Mulder opened his eyes and looked straight at her, as if he had known
she was there. But she hadn't spoken a word.
He stretched out his hand and beckoned for her to come. She stepped
forward beside Skinner and grabbed her partner's hand. He smiled. 

"Hey," she said, "I told you to take it easy, not to end up in here
again." 

"Scully."  Skinner touched her elbow and pulled her aside, leaving her
partner in the room alone with Tom. She
suspected the truth immediately before her former supervisor told her,
but she let him speak. 

"He's been infected with it. The painkillers he'd been given weren't
painkillers but an unknown drug which is now
being examined in the FBI labs. We haven't been able to identify it,
yet, but it seems to be some sort of stimulant that
works directly on the brain. He collapsed from exhaustion and pain,
apparently. The doctors are at a loss, they don't
know what to do. They want to keep Mulder here to monitor him. I've
told them about all the symptoms we know.
That's all we can do for now."

*Oh god, it's worse than I thought. He's dying.*

"I'm not dying," Mulder said out loud, looking at her from inside the
room.

*Oh my god, he can read my thoughts.*

"Yeah," he said quietly, "I can."

*He's scaring me.*

"I'm sorry that I'm scaring you."

She felt tears in her eyes, for the first time since she met him not
knowing what to say. She simply stepped forward
and grabbed his hand again. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Scully."

"I know why. Don't worry about it. All that matters now is that we
find a way to stop this." 

"I'm open for suggestions," he smiled, "but I'm glad you're here."

"So am I." 

She kissed the fingers of his hand and helped him sit up after he
insisted on it. The last samples of blood were taken
away. He felt lightheaded but okay. He didn't want to stay at the
hospital. This time Scully seemed to read his mind. 

"You can rest here, Mulder. They want to keep an eye on you to be
sure. We'll stay right here, okay?"
*Be damn sure I'll stay here to take care of you. I won't let  you out
of my sight.*

Mulder knew she wouldn't. But he couldn't stay here. If he did, the
one man able to help him might be gone for good.

"We'll find Matthews tomorrow, Mulder," Skinner said, "Scully knows
him too. We'll find him." 

"I know," Mulder said, "I know." 

14. 
December 17, 1998
10:24 p.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown Medical Center 

Mulder lay awake in the dark silence of his room listening to her even
breathing. She was the only one left in the room now, sleeping on the
other bed. Tom and Skinner had left half an hour before. He had taken
the sleeping pill the nurse put in his hand, only to spit it out as
soon as she left the room. Scully was in the bathroom when he did. He
knew she wouldn't let him leave, but he had to. The message Matheson
had written on the paper had been for his eyes only and he had ripped
it off before throwing the flight number on the table. 

As soon as he heard the name "Krycek," Mulder knew what was going on.
The enemies Matheson had spoken of were revealed now. And ironically
enough, they would be the ones saving his life. He would have to trust
them somehow.
Even if it turned out to be a trap, it would not matter. The rage
inside of him had been building up for quite some time
now. If he stayed here he would be dead for sure. He couldn't just sit
back and let it happen, not when all the others
were gone. But the girl might have a chance to survive. After all, she
had survived so far. 

Mulder slid out of the bed quickly and quietly. Getting dressed was
easy. Leaving the hospital would be easy, too. With a bit of luck, it
would take some time before they missed him. As he put on his coat he
looked at Scully's sleeping features and apologized in silence for
ditching her again. But this was something he needed to do. If not, he
would never forgive himself for missing the chance of saving a human
being's life. 


The cab brought him to the address on the piece of paper. An abandoned
warehouse was his destination. Here he would find Alex Krycek and
Theresa Fielding, Tom's sister.

The place was dark and abandoned. He didn't like it. He pulled out his
gun and opened the door quietly, hearing the
wood crack underneath his feet. No one had been in here for ages. Or
had they? Quickly he made his way upstairs only to find nothing but
rubble and garbage. He went downstairs again, and tried every door he
could find. Only one was locked. But behind it were people. He picked
up their thoughts. 
*Mulder is late. He was supposed to be here already.*
*He'll come. He wants to save the girl.*
Hearing footsteps, Mulder turned. Before he could make another move
the door was flung open and a gun was pointed straight at his face,
just as the agent's gun was pointed between the eyes of the other man,
Alex Krycek. 

"I knew you'd come, Mulder." 

"Where's the girl?"

"In the basement. She's fine."

"I want to see her."

"Later. Put down the gun, Mulder. I'm not going to kill you, and
you're not going to kill me. The only person you want to kill is
yourself." 

"No, I don't." 

"Not yet. But you know it's going to come soon. You've been given a
drug called MC, short for Mind Control. You
helped them create that drug, Mulder."

"How?"

"By giving them Gibson Praise. You were right, he is the missing link.
And now he's your demise unless I help you."

"Why would you help me?"

"Put down the gun and I'll tell you. There's not much time." 

"Time for what?"

"To save your life. Now come with me."

"No." Mulder put the barrel of his gun closer to Krycek's face. "I'm
here to pick up the girl, nothing more. Let me
pass." Carefully, the agent walked past the man he once worked with.
Krycek didn't stop him. The next moment
something stung him incredibly hard in the leg, just above the knee.
He stared down at his leg, and saw the needle.
Only then did he see the second man standing inches away from him,
wearing the white robe. Another doctor. 

Mulder's leg seemed to collapse and lose its strength, and seemed to
become detached from his body. Then the rest of him gave in. He
couldn't do anything but fall to the floor.

Mulder did everything he could to fight the waves of dizziness in his
mind and body, but he was losing the fight
rapidly. He could hear the doctor's thoughts. 
*We got him.* The doctor's inner voice spoke of triumph. Then Mulder
was lying on his side, dropping the gun. They were beside him
instantly, turning him on his back. Krycek looked down on him.

A third man approached before Mulder closed his eyes. It was the cab
driver. 
*Oh, God, now, no one will know.*

Mulder's eyes were closed but he was still conscious. Krycek's voice
spoke, bringing Mulder out of his stupor for a few seconds. "Get him
to the basement now. We need to work fast in order to save him." 
*I'm sorry this had to happen to you, my friend. I told you to believe
me, and now you're paying the price. Now I'm
the one saving your ass. Some day you'll hate me for it.*

Mulder could feel his body being lifted on an ice cold table. His
jacket and shirt were being removed. He shivered.
Someone lifted his eyelids saying, "He's still awake." 

"That's impossible. He should be out like a light."

"He's fighting off the drug. I can't do anything like this." 

"Use the mask. Hurry." 

Mulder used all the strength he had in him to open his eyes and stare
at the men around the table. He didn't recognize
any of them, except for the man with the short, black hair., leaning
over him. 

"Mulder," Krycek said, "don't fight the drug. I'm trying to save you,
here." 

"W - Why?" Mulder hardly recognized his own voice, but he needed to
ask the question. His lips were dry, every
muscle in him ached and protested against the painful position on the
cold table. He was surrounded with equipment
and medical tools, everything he had dreaded all of his life. 

"Don't ask any questions, now. You're going to be fine."
The man in the white coat put a mask over Mulder's nose and mouth,
pumping twilight into his system. Mulder didn't
want to inhale the stuff but he had no choice. He sensed a sweet taste
in his mouth, and then his lungs were filled with the gas. The same
moment something sharp stung his hand, and the dizziness overcame him.
He had no choice but to let himself slide into the abyss, realizing
that no one knew where he was or what was happening to him. Hell, he
didn't even know himself. 

15. 
December 18, 1998
2:14 a.m., Washington, D.C.

Scully was angry. At herself for falling asleep and angry at Mulder
for taking off like that. But she understood why.
After all, he was the one in danger. Wouldn't it be normal for him to
try and save himself? 

Skinner entered the room and sat down with a sigh. "We've got nothing
to go on, Scully. I called all the taxi companies in the district
myself. No one can tell us anything. Mulder is on his own."

"I won't let this happen," Scully said angry, "not if there's still a
chance to help him." She felt tears weld up in her eyes. She was
tired. 

Tom grabbed her hand and pushed her against him. She felt comforted.
Why was this happening? And how could she ever tell Mulder now how
much she cared? He might die thinking she didn't care enough to find
out where he was or how he was. Yet at the same time she knew he knew.
After all, he could read her mind. 


16. 
December 18, 1998
7:13 a.m., Washington, D.C.

He woke up in the silence of a lonely room. He opened his eyes and
focused on where he was and why he was there.
He was in some sort of storage room, paper-thin walls hiding him from
the sight of others. He could hear several
monitors working besides him, all attached to his body. A tube in his
hand, another one in the crack of his arm.
Something over his mouth and nose. He could feel oxygen float into his
system. His mind worked slowly and seemed
too tired to think about anything.  But the main thing was the utter
silence. He seemed to be all alone.  Or was he?

Somewhere in the far distance he could hear voices. They seemed faint.
He had trouble focusing on them. He couldn't
even recall who they were. It didn't matter now. Then there were
footsteps and he closed his eyes again immediately,
faking sleep. A curtain was slid aside and he felt vulnerable and
naked as the men approached the bed and stared down at him. He had no
trouble pretending he was still out of it. His thoughts were too slow
and fuzzy.

"It's going to take a while before he's able to overcome this," an
unknown voice said, "we're talking days here, Alex.
The dosage they gave him was just as effective as any of the others." 

"We don't have days. He needs to be returned today. They're all
looking for him. We're already exposing ourselves
here. Soon they'll know I was the one helping him. My life won't be
worth anything anymore," Krycek said. 

"The best I can do is slow down his motions even more and hope for the
best. If he's a fighter, the dosage I'm giving
him will break the MC. If not, he's a goner. There's no way you'll be
able to prevent him from killing himself then." 

"Have you found out how it was given to him yet?"

"The tests are still ongoing. I'll have more news for you soon. My
guess is Matthews gave him the painkillers, just like the others.
There's no other way he could have digested the MC." 

"Good. Let me know." Footsteps were heard again as Krycek turned to
leave the room. 

"Krycek." The other man stopped him, "I have to warn you. Mulder might
not be grateful to you for saving his ass. He's a paranoid and
vulnerable man right now. If you put him on the streets again and he
still has his gun, he'll turn towards anything or anyone in his way.
Stay out of his way, you hear me?" 

Krycek nodded and left the room. The doctor was still at Mulder's
side. The agent slowly opened his eyes to see
the man preparing a syringe to be emptied in the IV attached to his
arm. Mulder cleared his throat, making the doctor
look at him. 

"Look who's awake," the doctor said, actually smiling, "how are you
feeling?"

"What did you do to me?" Mulder asked weakly, staring at the man. 

"We're treating you with large dosages of a sedative I have prepared
myself. If you want to continue living I would do as I say." The
doctor looked at his syringe, reaching for the IV line. The next
moment Mulder's free hand was at the man's throat, forcing him
backwards. The IV pole fell to the ground as both men struggled for
control. Mulder groaned with pain as the tubes to his arm and hand
struggled hard to stay inside of him. The doctor was pushed backwards
against the wall, dragging one of the machines with him. The man
stayed down for the count. Mulder bit his lip as he pulled out both
tubes and detached himself from the machines. He lifted his legs over
the edge of the bed and slid to the ground. He swayed as his legs
tried to keep his weight up, but felt himself sinking to the ground. 

"Damn it!" he groaned out loud as his  knees buckled, leaving him
vulnerable and exposed on the ground for anyone
to find him. His hands gripped the cold bars of the bed as he pulled
himself up again, managing finally to stand
straight. The room danced and swayed. He convulsed, spitting nothing
but bile, and turned to see Krycek next to the
curtains. With one move the man was next to him and gripped him,
pulling him to his feet. Alex reached down and
grabbed the syringe, ready to shove it in the agent's body. 

"No, please don't." Mulder's plead stopped the one-armed man,
basically forcing him to listen. 

"Mulder, you're a very sick man. I'm trying to save your ass here." 

"This isn't about me," Mulder croaked, fighting against the spots and
lights in the corners of his eyes, "this is about
our government. We don't have time for this."

"There's nothing you can do if you're sick. I don't give a damn about
the government. There's nothing we can about
them." 

"I need your help. There's no time. All the evidence will be gone
soon. If you're my friend as you say you are, help me." 

Krycek pushed the agent gently on the bed, debating with himself. 
*He's right. There's no time.*

"I've never asked for your help before but I am now. Help me," Mulder
wanted to do nothing but sleep and rest and
forget everything but he couldn't. It was coming to a close now and
they both knew it.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Matthews is the key to this all. I'm sure of it. He's the one we need
to find."

"He vanished."

"No, I know where he is. I need to contact Scully. We need to find him
before your friends in the government do."

"I can't help you on this. If I do, I'm dead. I don't care about the
others, but I do care about myself."

"And me apparently."

"I'm paying you back for old times," Krycek said, "there are certain
people out there who don't want to see you die.
This wasn't supposed to happen, Mulder. If you feel anger, turn it
against those who inflicted this on you." 

"I will." Mulder licked his lips, fighting off the sleep. He knew he'd
lost the battle when his body slipped off the side
of the bed and onto the cold floor. The last thing he felt was Krycek
tugging at him and shouting his name. 

Then it all just went black, and Krycek was the one putting him on the
bed again, with the help of the cab driver. The
tall African-American looked down at the body of the FBI agent. "Is he
going to live?"

"Yeah. He'll be fine if we continue to treat him. Right now we don't
have time. Guard him, I need to make a phone
call."

The tall man nodded and looked down at the agent. It would be a shame
to kill this man. He might be the only one
surviving the tests. After all, the girl was on the verge of dying. He
could hear her croak in the other room. She was
not surviving the attempts to save her. Strughold wouldn't allow it to
happen anyhow. 

The tall man pulled out a gun and pointed it at the face of the FBI
agent, only to find a barrel of another gun pointed
at his back. 

"I thought you were going to show your true self sooner or later,
Adam. Turn around slowly and hand me the gun." 

The tall man surrendered quickly, handing the gun to Krycek. As he
turned around he saw the shorter and younger
man smile nervously. "Who sent you?"

"Strughold." 

"Does he know we're trying to save Mulder's life?"

The tall man turned quiet. Krycek sighed disappointed, knowing they
would not be able to make it with the girl and
the doctor. They would have to stay behind, only to be found by those
who were sent to kill Mulder and him. 

"Turn around and walk away, Adam. I don't wish to kill you. Get out.
Next time we meet you're dead." 

The tall man did as he was told. He quickly left them behind. Krycek
sighed as the man on the bed began to stir. The
doctor on the floor was still out cold. He couldn't wait for the man
to wake up. He needed to move Mulder quickly. 

"Come on Mulder," Krycek sighed as he lifted the man up from the bed
and supported him with his right arm. Despite
the agent's protests they moved quickly, leaving the building. Outside
the tall man was sitting in his car and waited
patiently. 


From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 10/11

17. 
December 18, 1998
10:23 a.m., Washington, D.C. 

"Something's wrong here, Scully."

Dana Scully looked up at the sound of Fielding's voice. The man sat
next to her and stared at the numbers on the piece of paper Matheson
had given Mulder. Scully had been trying to reach the senator for
hours now, but he didn't respond.
His secretary finally told them he was out of town on a business trip.
Scully knew they wouldn't find him, at least not
before it was too late.

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously, looking at him tiredly. 

"Matheson has been feeding Mulder information. They know. Why would
they tell him which flight he was on ? What if they gave him false
information to lead Mulder to the airport to kill him?"

"Why would they kill him in the airport?"
"A robbery gone wrong, some thugs stealing his wallet and gun. A
single stab wound in the heart. It would arouse less suspicion than a
car crash." 

Scully stared at him shocked. "Do you think Mulder's been at the
airport all this time?"

"He could have been. Keeping an eye on the passenger terminal. He has
no way of knowing the man's identity, but the doctor might be there
and Mulder won't take the chance of missing them. Perhaps they even
count on Mulder's current state of mind. Perhaps they want him to kill
the doctor."

She grabbed her jacket. "Let's go then. Warn Skinner and get some men
out there." 

 18.   
December 18, 1998
10:10  a.m., Washington, D.C.

The men sitting in the small meeting room weren't too pleased with the
course of events. Mulder was missing and the
entire bureau was in search of him. It was publicity they didn't need
right now, nor the knowledge that their secret was out in the open.
Everyone now knew Mulder had been subjected to the test. It would give
him the sympathy he had lost over the past couple of years and the
support he needed to return to the path he so desperately was seeking.

"Mulder has to be removed. He's becoming too dangerous. We cannot wait
for the MC to take its course. Make sure
he doesn't survive." 

"No." The smoking man's face changed features as he got up and refused
to look at the others. "We had a deal,
Strughold." 

"We never had a deal. It is inevitable." 

"Then I shall withdraw from these tests." 

"As I believe it, you already have," Strughold said angrily, "or did
you think we don't know you sent Krycek to save
Mulder?" 

The smoking man paled. Strughold smiled. "Don't worry, you will not be
harmed this time. We accept your betrayal,
but only this once. Next time you will suffer the consequences of your
actions, as I have promised you one time before. Now get out of my
sight before I change my mind."

The smoking man left the room and swallowed away his anger as he left
the building. There was nothing more he could do now. He had done all
he could. And he didn't even know if it was worth it.


19. 
December 18, 1998
10:20 a.m., Dulles Airport

The one-armed man supported him as they moved towards the passenger
terminal. Krycek didn't like being seen in
public with the man he was supposed to be curing. If the others were
here to kill the doctor, they would be spotted.

"I need to rest." Mulder leaned heavily against a metal bar, shifting
his weight so he could find a comfortable position. The man licked his
lips again and was sweating profusely. Krycek didn't like it. After
Mulder had regained
consciousness again, he had all the trouble in the world to convince
the man to take some medication in order to stop
the progress of the MC. Mulder sighed and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly,
he seemed able to move again and the both of them moved further.
Krycek looked around suspiciously. 

"They're not here."

"How do you know?"

"I can't hear them." Mulder grinned wryly. "That drug you're giving me
is working though. I have trouble focusing
on anyone's thoughts, even my own. I'm too tired to think about
anything." 

"Good, I'm glad it's working. Now look around and see if you spot
him." 

Mulder chose a seat near the passenger exit leading from the terminals
and stared at the faces passing them. The doctor wasn't amongst them.
Mulder knew it was going to be a long day. Then, as he leaned forward,
Mulder suddenly saw the man who had given him the painkillers at the
hospital, the one causing all of this. It was Matthews. 

Mulder slowly got up and walked over to the man. The doctor didn't see
him at first, but instead was looking around
for something or someone. Just a few inches before Mulder reached him,
the doctor looked up and saw him.
Immediately he paled, revealing his guilt. As the man turned to walk
away, Mulder saw a tall African American
approach the doctor. The black man pulled out the gun from the
waistband of his pants. The following second, a single gunshot rang
from behind Mulder. Mulder felt something splatter on his arm and hand
and then the doctor slumped forward, falling into the arms of the man
who had killed him and was trying to avoid the doctor's heavy weight. 

Mulder couldn't think anymore. The sound of the gun had been deafening
and disturbing. He heard screams and shouts and there was confusion
everywhere. As he turned around, he saw Krycek's expression of anger.
For him, too, the last chance had just been killed. Krycek quickly
grabbed Mulder's arm, pulling him with him as the man underneath the
doctor struggled and freed himself from the dead man's weight, shoving
his gun forward and firing twice. Mulder felt the impact of the
bullets in the wall next to him. Other screams and shouts and people
running added to the disturbing
atmosphere.

"Come with me," Krycek said pulling the agent's jacket. Mulder felt
numb as his legs seemed to obey Krycek without
questions asked. The former FBI agent seemed to know exactly where to
go. Through corridors and hallways he went, until he suddenly pushed
open a door and pulled Mulder inside. The FBI agent leaned heavily
against the door, still not believing what he saw. The expression on
Krycek's face. He had known they would come to find the doctor. He had
led them straight to it! 

"You set me up," Mulder sighed, banging his fist in disbelief against
the door, "you were sent to kill the doctor.
Bastard!"

"I didn't want him dead." 

"You knew they were looking for him too! Why didn't you tell me?"

"We all make choices in life, Mulder. You should know by now I usually
choose for myself." 

"Not this time." Mulder pulled out his gun and shoved it against the
man's cheek, his anger no longer in control. The
fatigue he had felt before was completely gone. The rage had returned
in all its complicated awareness. He wanted to
kill someone. Krycek, or someone else. Himself. It didn't really
matter. 

Krycek pushed aside the gun, saying angry, "Don't kill me, Mulder. If
it weren't for me you would have died a long
time ago. If you want to remain alive you'll do as I say."

"No." Mulder's move was fast and sudden as he shoved the barrel of the
gun into Krycek's face. The next moment his former partner slumped
backwards until his head hit the wall. The man sank down without a
sound. Mulder took his gun and tucked it in his coat pocket. Then he
opened the door again, only to find his partner standing just a few
inches from him. He couldn't let her find him like this. Not before he
turned his gun on the smoking man and blew him to Kingdom Come. After
all, what was there else left in life but to kill the man that caused
all of this? And what better
way to go out yourself, after destroying that what had caused you the
most pain in the world?

Quickly, he closed the door again and walked past the luggage
containers. There were men at work but they didn't pay any attention
to him. But one man was behind him, his gun ready to be used. It was
the tall, black man, avoiding the crowds in the airport. It was the
man sent to kill him. 

 20.   
December 18, 1998
10:45 a.m., Dulles Airport 

Scully knew they were too late as soon as they entered the airport
terminal. The body on the floor could only be
identified as Dr. Matthews, the man that had slipped Mulder the drugs
at the ER.

"Damn it!" she heard herself say, "he was our one chance to gather the
evidence we needed." 

"These people wouldn't have allowed it, Scully," Skinner said behind
her, "we need to find Mulder. Witnesses saw him and a one-armed man
running away from the scene." 

"Krycek?" she said, shocked. "So he's back in town."

"I have all exits covered," Skinner continued. "They are probably
still inside. So is the man that killed the doctor.
Witnesses describe a tall black man. Details are sketchy, it all
happened so fast. The assassin tried to kill Mulder and
Krycek as well. My guess is he's after them."

"So we have to find Mulder before he does," Tom said, scanning the
area, "or before Mulder kills himself." 

Scully stared at him in shock. Until now she hadn't even considered
this possibility. But  now it had become a real fact. If her partner
was in trouble and on the run, it would only add to his already
ongoing feeling of paranoia. 

*Mulder, read my thoughts,* she beckoned, *know that I'm here.*

 If ever she believed in one man's abilities, it was in her partner's.
If he was able to read her mind, he would know she
was there and trying to find him. And if he wanted to be found, he
would himself be found. 

But the trouble was, did he want to? 

 21.   
December 18, 1998
10:55 a.m., Dulles Airport


Mulder heard noises coming from behind him. Quickly, he spun around to
see something coming at him. He was faster than whatever was about to
hit him. He dropped to his knees, driving his fist into the man's
belly. The tall man yelled and tried to grab the agent again, dropping
himself to the floor in the act. There were noises coming from behind
them as both men got caught up in the struggle for the upper hand.
Mulder yelled as his gun was yanked away from him and the black man's
weight forced him onto the luggage transport. Then the man was on top
of him again, forcing the back of his head against a suitcase.
Mulder's fist lashed out, hitting the man straight in his face,
breaking his nose. 

Mulder could taste his own blood as he slid off the luggage transport
and onto the floor. The gun was still lying there. Quickly, he went
for it, grabbing it with his right hand. His opponent was right behind
him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket. Mulder went down again,
his hand letting go of the gun. The tall man had the gun now, and
pointed it at him. Two shots rang out at the same time. Mulder's last
attempt to get out of the way of the gun was rewarded with something
hard hitting him in the left upper arm, slamming into flesh and bone.
He screamed and protected himself by rolling into a fetal position,
protecting himself against an impact that would never come.  

The tall man lay dead against him, his eyes staring into oblivion. A
bullet to the back of his head had finished him off.
Mulder sighed deeply and shivered continuously as he stared at the
man's body. Then his right hand found the gun
again and he pointed it behind him, at the man who had just saved his
life. Krycek stood there, bleeding from the blow Mulder had given him
minutes before, the tall man's gun pointed at its owner. Both men
stood opposite each other again, and Mulder crawled to his feet,
keeping his bleeding arm against his body. 

"Drop the gun, Mulder, or do you want it to kill yourself? I'll shoot
you if I have to -- if it means saving your life." 

Mulder's injured arm burned as he brought his left hand to his face
and wiped the blood away from his split lip. "I'll
kill you first." 

"Have you forgotten I have saved your life, not once but several
times. Is this your gratitude towards me?" 

"What do I care about gratitude? You didn't give a shit about me when
you betrayed me. Go to hell, Krycek." Mulder's trigger finger tensed
as he remembered the last time he had pulled a gun on Krycek, his mind
filled with slumbering feelings of hatred. He had wanted to kill the
man more than once. Now, at last he would get his chance. Or would he?

Krycek lowered the gun and dropped it to the floor. He stood there in
defeat, saying softly, "They'll be here soon. If
you want to finish me, do it now."

Mulder stared into the man's eyes, knowing he couldn't kill him. Not
if there was a way of staying alive through all
of this. But he did want to kill himself. To make it all stop. The
pain and the hurt, the hatred and the aching. Oh, God,
he just wanted to end it all.

A voice seemed to bubble inside his head until he could make out what
it was saying. It was her. He had seen her from a few feet away and
now she was trying to reach him and to assure him he would be fine. 

Mulder lowered his gun and stared at Krycek. Then he stared at his
hand holding the weapon. Two years ago, he had
been sitting in his living room staring at his own gun too. He had
wanted to put a bullet inside his head and get it over with. Now, he
had come to a point in his life where he would be doing just that. He
would finish the job others had been trying to finish for quite some
time now. 

"Mulder, no !" He heard a voice coming from behind him, shaking him
out of his stupor. He didn't want her to see this, not like this.
Instantly Krycek moved forward, knocking the gun from his hand. The
following second, the two men went down, and Mulder was pinned against
the floor. Krycek's knee was on his chest. The man moved quickly.
Before Scully could reach him, he had already dug out the syringe from
his coat pocket. 

"Krycek, freeze!" Skinner was next to his agent, backing her up with
his own gun. There was another younger man
with them Krycek didn't know. 

Krycek moved slowly putting his one hand in the air. The syringe was
still in it. "You have to listen to me," he said
slowly, "I'm trying to save Mulder. What I have here can save his
life." 

"Move away from him now," Scully said forcefully, her hand eager to
pull the trigger on the bastard that had caused
her so much trouble in the past. "Move away, Krycek, or I'll shoot." 

"No, you won't. Not when you know I'm the only one left who can ID the
ones that did this. Now are you going to let
me help Mulder or not?" 

Scully shared a glance with Skinner. How could she trust him? But one
look at Mulder's face told her that her partner
was in bad shape. Already, he was struggling to get his hands on the
gun again. He would not listen to reason, not from her or anyone. He
would kill himself, no matter what they did. Krycek moved quickly and
plunged the syringe into the agent's injured arm, causing the man to
cry out. The next moment, the one-armed man moved away, again, raising
his hand in the air. He was pulled away from Mulder and shoved against
the wall by the younger agent he didn't know.
 
Quickly, Scully assessed the situation and knelt by her partner,
checking his pulse. Mulder stared at her in surprise.
His vital functions seemed to slow down and she watched him fade into
unconsciousness as she put her hand behind his neck and supported him.


"It's okay," she said soothingly, "you're going to be fine." 
*I won't let you die.*

He smiled and grabbed her wrist as he winced in pain. "Listen to
Krycek. He knows where the girl is. Please, Scully."

"I will," she promised and then watched her partner go down for the
count. As she turned towards Krycek, she asked, "what have you given
him?"

"A drug, slowing down the effects of the test in his brain. If you
move fast, you might be able to find the doctor who
can help your partner and the girl you've been searching for. I can
lead you there," Krycek said calmly, looking at
Mulder's unconscious form. "That is, if you want to save your
partner's life."

Scully knew she had made a promise to her partner but that didn't mean
she had to like it. She sighed as she pushed
Krycek forward, knowing the man would win no matter what. At the end,
he would be the one walking away from all
of this. 


From: san@net4all.be
REPOST: The File 11/11

22.   
December 18, 1998
12:14 p.m., Washington, D.C. 

Tom Fielding dreaded the sight he would be forced to witness when the
team moved into the building. Under Krycek's guidance, they entered
the hidden basement, finding a very surprised doctor and his still
alive patient behind a couple of fake walls. The doctor didn't protest
as they moved in and arrested him. Nor was he surprised when they
didn't bring him to the FBI's headquarters but to a hospital nearby. 

Tom held his breath as he stared at the form of his sister. He hardly
recognized her. She had been strapped down to
a bed to keep her from harming herself. She was physically and
mentally exhausted, having fought the drugs inside
of her for weeks now. Her eyes were dilated and unnaturally large. Her
mouth was dry and her lips cracked. She hadn't eaten in days. The
doctor explained what he had done to keep her alive. 

As they moved their suspect and victim outside, a man was standing
near a black car only a couple of yards away from the building. He was
smoking a cigarette and smiled as he watched the removal of the two
people from his shelter. The girl would live without a doubt. And the
doctor would be sent to save Agent Mulder's life.

Another car stopped next to his and a man with a German accent got out
and eyed him angrily. "I know I have had
a number of things to make up with you, my friend, but this has paid
for it all. If anyone within the Consortium finds
out, we are both dead. If the aliens know, they won't hesitate to kill
us."

"They will never know," the smoking man said, dropping the butt on the
grass. "Or will they, my friend?" 

The German sighed and left. 

23.   
December 18, 1998
2:45  p.m., Washington, D.C., Georgetown Medical Center 

Mulder was aware of the cold. That was the only sensation he felt. Not
outside of him but inside of his body. He felt
tired, exhausted, cold and oh so lonely. The dreaded feelings
lingering in his mind now came out to haunt him again.
He had overcome these feelings so many times but now they seemed to be
winning. Yet, at the same time, his body
seemed too weak to do anything. He couldn't think straight anymore.
All he wanted to do was sleep and forget about
everything except Scully. She was the only thing keeping him from
insanity right now.
*You're my one in five billion too.*

He opened his eyes and looked straight into her eyes. She was leaning
over him and smiled, "I knew you would pick
up that thought, Mulder." 

"Where are we?" 

"The hospital. You'll be feeling very tired and drowsy for the next
couple of hours and days. We're trying to save your life."

"Krycek?" 

"He's around. He's giving the doctors instructions on what to do.
They're going to keep you out for a while, Mulder,
until the effects of the MC drug subside. Hopefully, by the time you
wake up again, you'll be as good as new." 

He reached for her hand and winced when he felt a sharp pain in his
upper left arm. He remembered the bullet hitting
it. She understood and grabbed his right hand. "It's okay, I'll stay
here."
*I'm so sorry I let you down. You won't leave my sight again.*

Another syringe was emptied into the IV attached to his arm. He wanted
to fight the drowsiness and talk to her some
more but he was already gone. She sighed and sat down on the edge of
the bed, staring into the eyes of the doctor she didn't trust for a
second. There was no way she would leave her partner, now he was
vulnerable and an open invitation for anyone who wanted to kill him.
No way at all. 


It seemed to take days before the first signs of Mulder's fight
against the MC was coming to a close. For days, the
people that cared about him listened and struggled just as hard as he
did against the feelings he had inside of him.
Straps were attached to his body, keeping his legs and arms restrained
and making sure he wasn't able to hurt himself. His screams were heard
outside his room, chilling those who walked around it. 

But then the hazel eyes of the FBI agent opened again and for the
first time in days he requested water and something to eat as he
stared into Scully's eyes, not recognizing her at first. He called her
ma'am and treated her like she was a complete stranger. She chilled
immediately, fearing a permanent memory loss. The doctor however
assured her it was a way for his brain to overcome the strain put on
it. 

The doctor seemed right. Two hours later, Mulder opened his eyes again
and recognized her, being able to talk to her
in a normal fashion. She smiled as she listened to his account of a
dream he had about Samantha. He told her
everything, including the minor details, and smiled when she smiled.
She knew then he would be fine. 

Epilogue 

The man sitting in the small interrogation room did not feel like
talking to the ones that were doing the interrogating.
The only one he wanted to talk to was the FBI agent he had helped, the
one he had worked with now for several years in secret. 

It was something he waited patiently for. Until then he wouldn't start
talking. And after that he probably wouldn't start talking either. So
he waited. And then the door slid open and the A.D. entered the room
and dismissed the others inside. He was accompanied by the man with
the cigarettes. 

"You can go now," the A.D. said, opening the door for the one-armed
man. 

Krycek got up quietly , surprised, grabbed his coat and walked to the
door. "How's Mulder?"
"He'll live. I'm sure you'll bump into him sooner or later. Now go."

At the door Krycek turned and said, "When are you going to tell him
you're involved in the Project, Kersh?" 

Kersh pressed his lips closely together and didn't say a word. Krycek
knew Mulder would never know. At last not now. The man whistled as he
left the federal building a free man. He would bump into Mulder again
soon enough. That, he knew for a fact. 


The voices had faded to a dull numb sound in his mind, lingering there
until he was able to stop listening to them.
He knew that he was being forced to take drugs in order to keep him
from going crazy, but he was being turned into
a zombie. At least that's what he felt like.  But the drugs helped,
and he started to feel human again. And the voices
stopped at last. He could sense them no more. 

Scully was worried about him, he saw it in her eyes. Kersh had put him
on undetermined sick leave so he could
recuperate from his ordeal. She brought him home a week after his
admittance at the hospital. He had lost weight and
seemed stressed, yet when she talked to him, he seemed perfectly calm
and relaxed. He refused to tell her how he felt
though. She knew it would take time. 

The first night he was alone at home, a knock on the door surprised
him, yet at the same time it didn't. He knew who
it was before he opened the door. He didn't have to read minds to
know. 

"Mulder," the one-armed man said, entering the room, "I'm glad to see
you up and about again."

"Who set you free, Krycek?"

"That is none of your concern. You didn't possibly think I would spend
time in jail, did you? I am a liability to my
employers, as was the doctor. But killing us they could not risk. Too
many people have already died."

"Eighteen in all," Mulder said quietly. "You knew about the tests and
you let it happen. Is the list complete now,
Krycek, or are there more?" 

"No. The tests have stopped. You won't be harmed anymore."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Do you know Tom Fielding's
sister has brain damage? She's a vegetable,
Krycek. She might as well have died. I've been pumped full of drugs to
stop all this. If you expect me to feel gratitude
towards you, forget it." 

"Mulder, I helped you because you need to help me. I told you some
time ago, things were going to be turning for the worse. The date is
set, Mulder, and if you're not on our side, you will be left in the
darkness with the rest of them."

"Why should you care?"

"Believe it or not, I do."

"I don't believe you."

Krycek smiled and turned towards the door. "I'll see you soon, Mulder.
If I were you I would concentrate my energy
on things more important now. You should be thankful. Your
interference stopped the remaining tests. You saved lives, Mulder,
even if it doesn't feel that way right now. There was nothing you
could have done to help the ones that killed themselves."

Mulder sat down slowly, saying, "I promise you this, Krycek. I will
expose every single one of you involved in this.
There are more people out there who know the truth. Sooner or later
every single one of you has to come out of their
hole in the ground and I'll be standing right there to wait for it."

"Just keep on telling yourself that, Mulder, and some day you will
believe it," Krycek smiled, leaving the agent alone
in the dark. Mulder didn't bother to stop his former partner. He knew
Krycek would never be prosecuted. Neither would anyone involved in
these tests. It was always the same. 

Mulder didn't feel like going back to work and performing shitty
assignments for Kersh, not knowing if and when he
would be able to go back to the basement. If they never would allow
it, there was no point of staying within the bureau. But he wouldn't
give them the satisfaction of quitting either.

The charges against him were miraculously dropped during his time in
hospital. The missing file had supposedly
returned, of course containing nothing but innocent materials. Jeffrey
Spender kept his mouth shut as did Diana
Fowley. No one would come forward now to claim Mulder was a thief.
Everything was as it was before. Wasn't it?


In the middle of the night, Mulder woke up feeling strange sensations
through his mind and body. He lay quietly on
the couch listening to the street noises. He could feel the sensation
rippling through his brain like a wave predicting
an upcoming storm. He knew then, as he lay there, that he would never
be the same again. And that one day, perhaps
even soon, he would hear the voices again, beckoning to him as if they
were his own thoughts.

He would never be safe again.