Title: The Price of a Soul 01/09
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and language
Category: SAH
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; est MSR 
Archive: Yes, please.  
Feedback: Yes!  Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.  They are wonderfully 
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and 
Mitch Pileggi.  I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox 
if they sue me, for I am exceedingly poor and have nothing material 
they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought 
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Thanks: I have been remiss in not thanking my beta readers of
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they are.  I am blessed to have received some wonderfully 
flattering feedback on my stories.  Comments that range from 
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But invariably, I also hear from at least one person who remarks 
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and well-punctuated, with appropriate grammar usage and proper 
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and I know how easy it is to be distracted by a misplaced comma, 
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It is their hard work and effort that keeps my stories clean.

Summary: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner go to visit the children and
their adoptive parents only to find tragedy has struck and the
children are missing.  

Third story in the "Retrieval" universe.  Follows "Retrieval"
and "What Cost, Friendship."  


The Price of a Soul 01/09

"God, I hate these meetings!  I don't understand why
I have to be included in this."  Mulder was in full whine
now, and Skinner had to fight to suppress his smile.

"You're the head of the department, Mulder.  That makes
budget meetings your responsibility."

"But you know and I know Scully does all that administrative
stuff.  She's a lot better at it than I am."

"Yes, but that doesn't get you off the hook with the powers
that be."  Skinner looked around the empty corridor and
allowed himself to smile after all.  "And if you'd shown
up for the damn meeting last Monday, I wouldn't have 
had to reschedule it for today and we all could have been
on the plane out to see the kids this morning, instead of
letting Scully go on ahead."

Mulder dropped his head, shoulders slumping and Skinner
was immediately kicking himself.  He'd meant it as a joke,
but he should have known Mulder would take it seriously and
find a way to feel guilty.  Skinner glanced around again, then
reached out and patted Mulder's shoulder.  "Hey, don't get
like this.  We still have the weekend.  The big party celebrating
Steven's adoption isn't until tomorrow and we'll be there 
in plenty of time for that."  He looked down at his watch, 
then asked, "What time does the plane leave?"

"I rescheduled us for the 4:15.  We'll get in about 7:00
their time."

"Is Scully going to meet us?"

Mulder shook his head.  "Nah.  I told her we'd get a car.
I have a feeling we're going to need one.  Have you heard
Steven's agenda for the weekend?  Playground, baseball
game, zoo, the lake, amusement park, to say nothing of
meeting his teachers, seeing his school and church, his
friends ...  To be honest, Sir, I get tired just thinking about
it."  He looked over at his boss and grinned, pleased to see 
Skinner respond in the same vein.  

"We'll never fit it all in," the older man said.

"Well, you can tell him that.  I'm just looking forward to
seeing the two of them when no one's trying to kill us 
and nobody's injured."  He smiled again, shaking his head. 
"I never expected two little kids to get to me like this."

"They are special," Skinner agreed.  They had reached
the parking garage now, and both men stopped. 

"My bag is in my car," Mulder offered.

"Mine, too."

They looked at each other, then Skinner said gruffly,
"Not much point in taking two cars to the airport.  Why
don't you ride with me?"  

Mulder nodded and loped off to retrieve his bag from his
car.

Skinner watched him a moment then headed for his own
vehicle.  He'd never been a man who was easy to know,
and that had kept him from having many friends.  He was
still surprised at the feelings of friendship he had developed
toward his two X-Files agents.  And more surprised that 
those feelings were returned.  Surprised, but pleased.  
Part of the fallout of age: relationships became more
important as your time on earth grew shorter.

Mulder reappeared as he unlocked the car doors, and
with very little conversation, the two men headed for
the airport, and the children who had changed their
lives.

******************************************

They pulled up in the driveway of the brick and frame
house and sat for a while, both men lost in their
own thoughts.  This was a picture perfect house,
in a picture perfect small town, the perfect place 
to raise kids.  Wholesome, healthy, comfortable.
Mulder could imagine t-ball games and scout 
meetings, trumpet lessons for Steven, and flute
for Jessica.

"Did you ever want kids?" Mulder asked finally.

"I thought I did.  For a while, we even actively
tried to have kids."  Skinner paused, a fond look
of remembrance on his face.  "That was fun." 
He shook his head.  "But it never happened."

"You never looked into -- tried to find out why?"

"I got assigned to VCS.  Between the atrocities
of war, the things I saw and the things I did, and then
the atrocities of the World, I just never had much
inclination to pursue it."  He sighed softly.  "I
never felt I was that good with kids anyway.  I've
always been -- uncomfortable -- around them."

Mulder laughed.  "Steven and Jess put an end to
that.  Made you let your hair down," he cast a
sly look at his boss, "so to speak," and was rewarded
with a sound sock in the arm as Skinner laughed too.

"How 'bout you, Mulder?" Skinner asked.  "You
ever think of being a father?"

Mulder laughed again, but it was mirthless and hollow
this time.  "With my role models?  I don't think so."
He rubbed his hands together nervously.  "I don't
think the world will be that bereft if the Mulder genes
stopped with me."  He was silent a moment, thinking of
his sister, or the woman who purported to be his sister.
He took a deep breath, then added quietly, "When I
saw Samantha last year, she told me she had kids.
Two.  I'm an uncle."  

Skinner was hushed, letting Mulder have a moment,
then he reached out and grabbed the younger man's
hand, an impromptu handshake.  "Congrats, Uncle
Mulder," he said in a soft voice.

"Uncle Fox," Mulder answered wistfully.  "I would
let them call me Fox."

Skinner swallowed hard.  "Like Steven and Jess."

Mulder nodded quiet agreement, then took a deep
breath.  "Hey, we're here to celebrate and I have
to confess, I'm amazed Scully let us sit in the car 
this long without coming out to drag us in."

Skinner laughed and both men slipped out of
the car.  As they moved up the walkway, he reached
out tentatively, laying a hand questioningly on
Mulder's shoulder.  "You all right?"

Mulder nodded.  "Oh, yeah."  He mustered a 
smile, a genuine happy smile, and added, "I'm
ready to par-tay!"

They reached the door and Skinner lifted his
hand, knocking once on the etched glass center
of the light stained door.  The door swung open
silently, a gentle backward motion that should
have beckoned 'welcome,' but instead screamed
'beware!'  Mulder felt the world go still, a hush
seemed to settle over everything and he could clearly
hear his blood pumping in his ears.  He exchanged a 
quick glance with Skinner, both drew their weapons,
and Skinner pointed with his chin to the rear of 
the house.  Mulder nodded and leapt deftly over
the porch rail, moving rapidly on cat feet around
the corner of the house and out of Skinner's sight.

He opened the gate to the fence and slipped
into the backyard.  There was a deck on the back 
of the house, triple French doors opening from the 
den onto the redwood.  The palisade fence and neatly
trimmed hedgerow shielded the yard from prying
eyes and provided a haven of privacy.  Mulder
moved cautiously toward the deck, eyes on the
windows, then dropped behind the far side of the
deck as the den came into sight.  

The room was a beautiful great room, tastefully
decorated in soft blues and earth tones.  A fireplace
took up one wall, with a high hearth, perfect for
sitting on without having one's knees in one's
mouth.  Pictures of Steven hung in place of pride
over the back of the large overstuffed sofa, and 
a crayon drawing of a house with three people 
was framed and hung beneath the portraits.  The
carpet looked thick and soft, perfect for wiggling
one's toes on a lazy Saturday morning and for
laying on to watch the large entertainment
center TV or play the Nintendo 64 that sat
atop it.  A wooden glider rocker with light blue
cushions sat in a corner and Mulder wondered
how many times Steven and now Jessica had
been rocked to sleep in that very seat.

Over the mantle hung a new family
portrait.  New, Mulder deduced, because it
included Jessica.  The little girl wore a navy 
blue sailor dress, with a wide white collar and
bright red bow hanging from it.  Steven was
dressed in a navy blazer, just like his father,
both wearing light blue shirts with
matching red ties.  And Susan LaFreniere 
wore a light blue dress, matching the shirts,
with bright red earrings and necklace.  All 
four wore beautiful smiles, the happiness in
their faces almost palpable and Mulder shuddered
as he stared.

A perfect family moment, frozen in time to
stand forever as a counterweight to the carnage
that now filled the room.  The red of bow and
ties and jewelry was carried over to scarlet
streaks that covered the furniture in the room.
Great rivulets of red ran down the walls, entrails
hung from the lamps and curtains.  The glass
of picture frames and windows and television
streamed with still wet blood, dripping steadily
down the polished surfaces. 

And in the middle, their abdomens ripped open,
insides removed, sat what was left of Tom and
Susan LaFreniere.   

Mulder forcibly swallowed a gag, forcing bile
back to his sour stomach.  He scanned the room
once more for signs of movement, then climbed
onto the deck and moved to the French doors.  He
could see Skinner moving down the hall, weapon
drawn, eyes moving ceaselessly back and forth
as he surveyed the house, watched for danger.
Mulder tried the door and found it locked.  He
broke a window pane, watched as Skinner jumped 
almost imperceptibly, then moved even more 
swiftly to the family room.

Mulder was in now, eyes on the carpet as he
looked for places to step that weren't covered
in blood.  Knowing that he needed to preserve
the scene.  The shock of the situation was 
abating somewhat, and he could feel himself 
starting to slip into profile mode, trying to 
reason the who and why of this brutal attack.

Almost as one, the men looked up at each other,
Mulder mouthing 'Scully,' as Skinner softly
spoke, "Steven, Jessica."  They looked at 
the stairway, then Skinner moved down the 
hall toward it as Mulder veered off toward 
the kitchen.  

"Scully," he called, and could hear Skinner
doing the same thing from the second story 
landing.  "Steven, it's Fox.  Fox and Walter."
No sign of anyone in the kitchen so he moved 
on to the dining room, then the living room.
No answer.  Back to the kitchen.  This time,
he opened cabinets as he spoke, a quiet chant
meant to calm the children, soothe them, and
hopefully reassure them enough to come out.
Mulder could hear doors opening and closing
from the top floor as Skinner made his search 
of the house.  

He had almost finished the kitchen when he 
moved to open the door to what he assumed
was a laundry room.  Hand on knob, gun
still drawn, he was rocked backward when
the door flew open and caught him, knocking
him off balance.  He had a glimpse of a
face, a man with dark hair and dark eyes,
then there was a pain across his belly and
a warm wetness running down his stomach.
He dropped the gun, both hands clutching 
at his abdomen and the man was by him and
gone, out the door to the garage and disappearing
into the world outside.  

"Ahhhhh," he cried, a long drawn out squeal
of pain and anguish, finally realizing that the
children were gone, Scully was gone.  The blood 
was warm on his fingers, turning sticky on his
pants and all he could think of was that he'd
made a mess in the kitchen.  It wasn't enough
the family room was ruined, he'd had to come into
the kitchen and get blood all over in there too.

He was on his knees now, fighting the weakness
that was pulling him down, searching for something,
someone.  "Scully," he called softly, "Scully ..."

"I'm here, Mulder," Skinner responded, and there
was a renewed pain in his belly as Skinner was 
pressing on him, forcing him all the way down,
thick towels held tight to the gash that threatened to
cut him in two.  Distantly, as if from faraway,
he could hear Skinner speaking into a phone, and
he knew police, and FBI, and medical would be here
soon.

"Scully," he said again.  "Have," it was getting harder
and harder to speak, "to find," he coughed and could
feel the blood spurt into the towel Skinner still held
to his belly, "Scully."  That was it.  That was all he
could say.  The darkness was upon him now, the black
sucking him under in a vortex of pain and fear and
worry and helplessness.

"I know, Mulder," Skinner was saying.  "We'll find
her.  We'll find them all."  

He could hear sirens in the distance, growing louder
as they approached.  The house was silent, the sirens
a faraway noise, the blood pounding in his ears 
almost drowning out any other sound.  He could hear
something though, a persistent drone, deep and resonant
and unyielding.

"You're not going to die, do you hear me?" Skinner
was ordering, and Mulder had to smile.  Even now,
the man was in command.  "You are not going to
die.  You're going to be all right and we'll find
them, Mulder, we'll find them.  We'll bring them 
home and we'll find who did this and we'll make
them pay." 

His eyes were closing now, and he could feel Skinner
shaking him, the pressure in his belly relieved as
the older man shifted hands from abdomen to grip
his arms.  "Hang in there, Mulder," he cried, his
voice cracking, and Mulder could hear the genuine
distress in his friend's tone.  "Don't you dare die
on me!"

"Not.  Going.  Any.  Where," Mulder choked out,
and was relieved when Skinner laughed, despite the
tinge of hysteria to the sound.

"No, I guess you're not.  You're too damn stubborn
to die."  

The pressure was back on his belly and he could hear
other people in the house now.

"Damn.  Straight," he said, and sank into the waiting
arms of unconsciousness.

********************************************

"How long?" Mulder croaked, and Skinner immediately
rose and wet a cloth, holding it against his lips.

"Shhh," he said softly, "take it easy."

"How long?" Mulder repeated.

"Almost two days."  

The cloth was back, the moisture a blessing to his
cracked lips and parched throat.

"How bad?"

"He sliced your belly wide open.  Most of the gash was
the upper layers of muscle and tissue, but one corner
perforated the bowel and they had to operate."

"Hurts," Mulder noted.

"Not surprised," Skinner said gruffly.  "Wounds to the
abdomen are always painful."  His voice softened and
he reached out to touch Mulder's arm, rubbing briefly
above the IV needle.  "You're on some pretty good 
stuff though.  You should sleep and rest, let yourself
heal."

" 's why my head is muzzy," Mulder complained.  "I
hate that."

"Believe me," Skinner admonished, "you'd hate it a 
lot more if you weren't on them.  Your gut is gonna
hurt enough as it is."

Mulder nodded thoughtfully, then asked, "Scully?"

"I have a lead."

"How?"

"Unofficial channels."

"You have been busy."

"Yeah, well, not everyone could loll around in bed
all day," Skinner said lightly.  He turned serious.  "There's
a farmhouse ..."

Mulder groaned.  

"Yeah, well, that was what I thought, too.  Not very
original.  But if it worked the first time ..."

"Where?"

"Not too far.  Other side of the mountain.  Only one
problem."

Mulder quirked an eyebrow.

"There's talk of guns and drugs out there and some
multi-agency, multi-jurisdictional task force is preparing
to raid the place."

"You gotta get in first," Mulder panted.  "That could
screw everything up.  They have no idea what they're
dealing with."

Skinner nodded.  "I'm working on it."  He looked up as
a nurse came in, syringe in hand, and headed for the 
heplock in Mulder's IV.  "For now, you need to let yourself
float away on the good stuff, and concentrate on healing.
Let me worry about finding them."

Mulder was protesting, uselessly, and the nurse inserted
the needle, gently depressing the plunger.  "Doctor's
orders," she chirped, and even Skinner looked sickened 
by the false sweetness of her words.

"You gotta get in," Mulder pleaded, as the drugs hit his
system and his eyelids began to droop.  

"I will, Mulder.  Tomorrow.  It's all gonna happen tomorrow."
He patted his agent's hand again, a brief squeeze on the arm
as the younger man's breathing began to even out and the
sleep started stealing him away.  "You just rest and I'll 
be out there in the morning."

**********************************************

The badly marked dirt road turned into a gravel trail
as it descended through the timberline.  It was a poorly
maintained trail, little used, and left alone for long 
periods.  The truck slewed around a curve, and Mulder 
tightened his hands on the steering wheel.  He peered 
down the column of light which disappeared into the 
mist and the night as if eaten by some looming monster 
from the unknown.

Getting out of the hospital had been easier than he had
expected.  Skinner hadn't even posted a guard.  He'd
told the doctor the IV morphine made him queasy and
miserable and caused nightmares and she'd switched
him to an oral painkiller.  Which he'd been able to
palm and avoid.  He'd then waited until it was quiet
and slipped away.  A quick rummage in another patient's
closet and he'd had clothes and even shoes.  Thank 
God other men had big feet as well.  Then a taxi to 
the airport, a rental from Avis, and a stop by the local
bureau office for information on the pending raid -- FBI 
credentials could be very useful -- and he was on 
his way.

He could feel the pull and stutter of the Explorer through the
steering column all the way up his arms and into his shoulders,
to the nape of his neck, which prickled with apprehension.  
Even for an unused road, this lane was heavily rutted and rough.
The springs of the rental protested every bump and ridge, 
though the farther he went, the less he felt it.  His legs 
seemed to be going numb and he wondered what he'd 
done to the wound in his belly with all this jostling about.
*That* he could feel all too well.  Skinner had been right:
gut wounds were painful.  He looked up to see the silvery 
moon dropping at the horizon, but it still gave enough light 
to see the trail by and when he passed a large chunk of granite, 
split nearly in two by the power of a pine growing out of it, 
he paused and shone the flashlight full on it.

He'd driven up the mountain earlier, trying to survey 
the farmhouse even in the dark of early morning hours.  
And he hadn't seen this tree.  Which meant he was lost.  
Somehow, he'd taken the wrong turn in the dark.  As 
the beam played over the pine, he knew this boulder, this
tree, would have caught his attention.  He would have 
seen it at some point on his trip up the mountain.

He slowly nudged the truck into 'drive' and began his hesitant
trip down the rutted road again.  A branch whipped across 
the windshield and Mulder pulled hard, the truck swerving
across the trail in reaction.  Tires bumped, gravel flew up,
then pinged away from the undercarriage, and he felt the 
first moist weepings of new blood under the bandage across 
his belly.  He clamped his teeth together, defying the pain, 
and steadied the vehicle as he peered into the night.  Continuing
downward, the headlights reflected off two gleaming orbs, then 
the sturdy but full-grown neck of a deer, head flung back, 
stunned by the illumination, his rack huge and ancient with 
moss clinging to it.  Mulder hit the brakes.  As the blinded 
stag flung himself into the road, Mulder veered off the 
roadway with a curse.

The animal vanished, all sense gone in the instinct to run, 
careening through the brush and evergreens.  There was a thud 
of impact and a sapling bent under the bumper of the truck 
as it came to a stop.  The Explorer stalled and the woods went 
silent.  He pounded the heels of his hands on the steering wheel, 
then shoved himself out the door and around to the hood.  From
the radiator hot water and antifreeze spewed forth in a small
fountain.  He could smell the heat of the engine, the smell
of burned oil from the manifold where it seemed to accumulate 
no matter how well maintained a vehicle was, and the radiator
hissed a soft greeting as it died.

Mulder let the hood drop into place.  He climbed back into
the cab and looked around.  He had a jacket and a flashlight.
He was wearing comfortable shoes.  Aside from the gash in
his abdomen, he was as well prepared to hike down to the 
site as he figured he could be.  In resignation, he shut off 
the headlights and the trail went dark.  He pulled the
keys from the ignition, pocketing them, and climbed out.  
If he started now, he might still make the farmhouse before 
the raid began.

Once the heat of his self-anger faded, he could feel a definite
bite in the mountain air.  Mulder pulled the collar of his 
jacket up and kept his mind on his destination, his 
stubbornness keeping him on his feet, keeping him moving,
despite the warm, sticky trickle of blood that seeped from 
the wound in his belly.  He heard a sound, a stick cracking
in the woods, ahead and to the left, and paused.  He snapped 
on the flashlight, shone it around, and decided to keep on 
walking.  He may have lost his transportation, but he still
had the element of surprise on his side.  Skinner and 
the rest of the local agents thought he was safely tucked
up in the hospital bed, doped out of his skull.  

Mulder wondered again about Skinner.  He knew it was
only concern that had made the older man order him out
of this operation, a misguided sense of what he felt was
right.  Yes, he was injured, and yes, perhaps his thinking
was a little cloudy from the pain meds, but, damn it, this
was his partner, his Scully, they were talking about.  And 
the children.  Steven and Jess had crept into his heart in 
a way he never imagined.  How could Skinner expect him 
to stay out of this operation?

Mulder ducked his head as if he could dodge his own
thoughts and cut across the curve of the gravel road that
was eroding under his steps to less and less of a pathway.  He
saw a beam of light cut across the lower valley.  He trod
steadily on, ignoring the pain each step inflicted, still
thinking through Skinner's actions and his own feelings
of betrayal.  Jolted from his reverie, he jumped as branches 
cracked from below.  Someone cursed, softly, and moved on, 
his motion stealthy.

Mulder bent and circled a hillock.  The valley floor, dipping
down from the mountain, was steeped in night and fog,
and beams cut it every now and then, bobbing with the
stride of those carrying them.

He did not like what he saw.  This was too big, too many
people.  There was no way they could have the element of
surprise.  And Mulder could not believe that Skinner had
approved this massive an operation.  Not Skinner of the
one-man rescue missions.  What the hell had happened 
while he had been unconscious?  How had things gotten
so out of control?

The back of his mouth went dry and he dropped to one knee.  
Every instinct he had plucked at rapidly fraying nerves.  
He didn't know what he was walking into, and he had 
no intention of staying around to find out.  His goal
was still the same.  Move in, find Scully and the kids,
and get out.  He trusted Skinner's "unofficial channels."
If the big man thought Scully and the kids were here, there
was every chance they were.  He lowered himself to tender 
belly and began a cautious crawl back uphill, searching 
for a new way down to the besieged farmhouse.

Something heavy crushed the back of his shoulder.  "Hold
it right there."

Too little caution too late.

End part 01/09




The Price of a Soul 02/09

Despite the blindfold, Mulder could tell he was being 
taken steadily downhill, over uneven ground, and he 
could hear muffled voices which ceased entirely as he
approached, then passed by their location.  J. Edgar, as
he'd dubbed the young agent behind him, had refused
to listen to his explanation that he was FBI, and he had 
finally given up.  It took too much energy and he needed 
all he could get just to stay on his feet and keep moving.  
The cuffs on his hands chafed uncomfortably, and prevented
him from checking, but the belly wound seemed to have 
stopped bleeding.  For the moment.  Behind him, nearly 
out of range, he could hear the conversation rise again, 
muffled and secretive.

Then he heard a mature, decisive voice in front of him.
A voice that rang with an odd mixture of affection,
annoyance, and pride.  

"Where did you find him?"

"Up that abandoned gravel trail."

"Vehicle?"

"Rented Explorer."

"He's alone?"

"Yes," Mulder offered.  The blindfold was ripped from
his eyes and he stood blinking, trying to adjust to the
flashlight shining in his face.

The beam lowered and he could see the face of his
supervisor.  Skinner was in field dress, his eyes both
angry and concerned behind the wire rims.  His chin
jutted out and Mulder could make out the vein that
jumped beneath the skin as the older man struggled 
to control himself.  He wore a Kevlar vest, stenciled
with FBI in white across the black, and Mulder stared
away from it, across the camp.  They were on a small
rise, a clearing in the midst of a copse of trees, and he
could look down upon their target.  A thick fog blanketed
the farmhouse.  He could see other men in field gear 
moving in and out of the ground-hugging, wet,
gray clouds, clouds tinged purple by a dawn slow in 
arriving.  What in God's name was going down here?

He looked into dark brown eyes, wordlessly pleading
for understanding, and when Skinner nodded slowly,
Mulder let out a breath he didn't realize he had been
holding and began to slip to his knees.  Strong arms
reached out, catching him, and he felt his face pressed
hard against a sturdy chest.

"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled, as Skinner lowered him to 
the ground.

"Of all the ill-conceived, foolhardy ..." Skinner was
muttering, even as he laid Mulder out and called for
a medic.  Strong, but surprisingly gentle hands were
opening his borrowed windbreaker, lifting his shirt, and 
he heard the sharp intake of breath that confirmed he 
had, indeed, opened the wound again. 

"Give me the keys to the cuffs, you damn fool idiot,"
Skinner was saying, and then his wrists were free,
and he was lying comfortably supine, his head propped
on a Kevlar vest.

He opened bleary eyes and looked up to find Skinner
gazing down at him with compassion and understanding.

"Why'd you leave me?" Mulder murmured.  "You
of all people should have known I had to be here."

Skinner shook his head ruefully, then pressed a clean
shirt that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere over
the wound in his belly.  Mulder hissed through clenched
teeth, eyelids slamming shut again.  "I was trying to 
avoid just this situation."  Skinner leaned over and 
wiped the sweat from Mulder's brow with yet another 
piece of cloth.  "I didn't want to risk losing you, too," 
he whispered hoarsely.

Mulder's eyes opened briefly at the unexpected declaration,
then there was another person shouldering Skinner aside and
a pressure on his belly, and the darkness reached up and
dragged him under.

**********************************************

Mulder came to again in mere moments, the temporary
blackout not enough to hold him under and make him
miss the coming activities.  The medic was finishing
changing the bandage around his belly, and he held out
two tablets of something.  Mulder looked up, question
on his face, and Skinner answered.

"For the pain, Mulder.  Don't argue."

Mulder nodded obediently and swallowed the little pills.
"Makes me muzzy," he complained.

"Not muzzy enough, apparently," Skinner replied dryly
as he helped Mulder to sit.  

"Yeah, well, I may have cheated a bit in that department,"
Mulder confessed.

Skinner snorted.  "Why am I not surprised?"

They were in the nominal command post of the raid.
Agents in navy jackets, emblazoned with FBI moved
through their midst, along with local police, state
troopers, ATF, DEA, and -- Mulder shook his head and 
stared in open bewilderment at Skinner -- NSA.

"NSA?" he whispered.  "DEA?  ATF?"

"I know, I know," Skinner responded, the worry in his
voice evident.  "It's a fucking alphabet convention up 
here."

"Why?" Mulder mumbled.  "I thought this was going
to be one of your famous in and out operations."

"Best laid plans," Skinner muttered.  "Apparently this
little nondescript farmhouse had already attracted some
attention.  Supposed cult activity, drugs and guns.  The
whole damned law enforcement ensemble is involved.
There was no way I could make a move alone."  He shot
an apologetic glance at Mulder.  "I figured getting on
board was the best thing I could do.  Be here and try to
control the damage as best I could."

A vest was produced and Mulder shrugged into it,
Skinner fastening the clasps that his still numb fingers
refused to manage.

"So what's happening?" 

Mulder looked around.  A portable, but still elaborate 
collection of computers and scanners filled the area.  
An agent sat before them, headphones in place.  As 
Mulder clambered to his feet, one arm held tightly by 
Skinner, the man swiveled around slightly, his gaze 
appraising, one eyebrow raised on his swarthy face.  
He patted the ground beside him.  

"Have a seat, Agent Mulder, but you need to stay
quiet.  This is the listening post.  I've already briefed
the Assistant Director."

"I'll stand," Mulder said stubbornly.  He did move 
closer to see what was grouped in front of the com 
tech.  There were four computer hookups, two laptops,
two scanners, and some other electronics he was not
entirely familiar with.  He knew some people who 
would know, but unfortunately, they were beyond 
his reach at this point.

A metal carrying case was shoved behind him and he 
was gently forced down.  "Sit, Agent Mulder," Skinner
said kindly.  "There's nothing else we can do at 
this point.  That fool Borden," he gestured at a man
staring down at the farmhouse, "is in charge.  NSA."

Mulder found he had been holding his breath.  He 
took a gulp that was spiced with crushed pine needles
and mountain air.  He wasn't on the verge of collapse
anymore, but the half-numb feeling in his extremities 
was back and he wondered vaguely about blood loss 
and how long Skinner would let him stay before forcibly
hauling him back to the hospital.

No one came to speak to them; no one offered
anything.  Agents moved by like shadows in their
dark, drab clothing, their boots surprisingly quiet
on the forest floor.  He watched, with a kind of
horrified fascination, as this huge operation moved in
on the farmhouse.  He was struck by the realization
that they had no idea what they were up against.
He and Skinner alone had only an inkling, but
that inkling made them the most well-informed of 
anyone out there.  He gazed up at his boss, his 
friend, in wordless helplessness, and was rewarded
with a hand on his shoulder.  He shivered as much
in reaction to what he watched as to the still chill
pre-dawn air.

A preternatural hush descended on the area.  He
recognized it with a jolt.  Just such a hush had 
fallen over the house, the yard, the world, when
Samantha disappeared.  All traffic on the roads
had ceased, the crickets were still, the nightbirds 
quiet.  Not even a dog dared to break the stillness 
with barking.  It was a quiet that blanketed the 
world, but it was a poisoned quiet, evil waiting to 
happen.

"In position, Sir."

The NSA man glanced briefly at Skinner, then 
ordered, "Send the first team in."  

Skinner stood at attention, looking at home in this
quasi-military operation and for a moment Mulder had
trouble picturing him in a suit, behind a Bureau desk,
doing ordinary things like answering the phone and
signing requisitions.  In contrast, the communications
tech remained absorbed in his electronics, earnest, 
intent, concentrated.  

Captain NSA -- had Skinner said his name was Borden? --
tracked the team with binoculars.  Skinner had his 
own pair of field glasses and he watched avidly as well.
Snipes, the comm tech, followed the team by the electronics
they carried with them.

The first team crept downhill and across the clearing 
toward the outbuildings, dark shadows flitting among 
the lighter ones.  They had almost reached their objective
when spotlights snapped on, blazing like a nova, their harsh
whiteness pouring through the early dawn light.

"Motion sensors!"  Snipes hunched intently over his
display.  "Sir, I'm picking up something --"

And the world exploded.  Mulder had never seen war,
but this was what it had to be like.  Suddenly the air
was wracked with explosions, the ground leaping to life
beneath him.  Captain NSA fell, a red hole blossoming
in the center of his chest.  Around him men screamed in
agony and fear and he found himself back on his feet, 
frozen, staring at the house that was just now beginning 
to burn.  Flames licked up the wooden siding and an
irrational fear began to burn, deep in his wounded gut.
This was the house that could be holding Scully and 
Steven and Jess.

"They knew we were coming," Snipes muttered.

"Ya think?" Skinner responded sarcastically.  "Keep 
your ears on.  I want to know if you hear anything.
*Anything.*  This isn't just the local vegetable farmer and 
this facility hasn't been cobbled together.  We've seen 
something like this before, and there have to be tunnels, 
passageways, an underground.  And I especially want to 
know if you pick up any broadcasts.  This is a helluva lot 
more than a fucking farmhouse."  Skinner spat the words 
out, looking around him to place the other people.

Snipes gave a satisfied grunt, looking at a monitor in 
front of him.  "I already got my finger on the layout, Sir."

Skinner was not impressed.  "Too fucking much," he
muttered.  "This is too fucking much."

Mulder thought he was frozen, but he felt his mouth
thin, his lips draw back in a pain that couldn't be
contained.  But before he could give voice to his
fear, his agony, Snipes spoke again.

"Got 'em!"

"You're sure?" 

"Absolutely."  He stared intently at the monitor, then
lifted a hand to press the headphones tight against his
ear.  "You're right -- they've got tunnels.  Man, do they
have tunnels.  It's like a rabbit warren under there."

"Empty?"

"No, Sir."

Skinner looked at Mulder, their eyes catching in
shared concern.  Mulder shivered again.  

Snipes was speaking again.  "Sir, I've got movement
down there.  A lot.  This place is crawling with people."

"Understood."  Skinner in command was a force to
be reckoned with.  Mulder watched as he moved to
Borden's body, lifted a walkie-talkie from the man's
belt.  

"This is Assistant Director Skinner of the FBI.  Operation
Head Borden is dead, killed in the crossfire.  As the next
ranking official here, I am assuming command of this farce.
I want the perimeter held.  No one in ... and no one out.  In 
the meantime, withdraw and hold steady.  Is that clear?  
Respond in order and I expect to hear from every team."

A faint crackle.  "Team One.  Received and understood."

"Team Two.  Yes, Sir."

Mulder blocked it out as the teams continued to check
in and Skinner reconsidered the situation.  He was staring
at two pieces of hardware, wide but low metal rectangles
that sat on fat rubber swivel wheels.  Mulder wasn't clear 
on what their purpose was.  

"I want those probes deployed," Skinner ordered.

Two state troopers grabbed the machines and crept
forward to the fence surrounding the farmhouse yard.  
With quick economy of motion, they snipped through 
the chain-link and aimed the first machine onto the 
grounds.  Almost immediately, the second one bumped
after it, then made a turn and went in the opposite 
direction.  Short and squat, they darted across
the ground like sophisticated radio-controlled cars.  
Mulder had never seen anything like them.

A high-pitched whine cut through the air, building to a 
pitch which made Mulder's ears ache.  Then a beam sliced
through the air.  The probe at the far corner of the yard
exploded, orange and blue fire shooting upward, sparks 
and debris flying.  Snipes crouched and swore.  "Son of a
bitch.  Lasers.  Whoever's in there is not coming out 
without a fight."

"What do you hear?" Skinner barked.

"Mass movement."  Snipes blinked sharply and snugged
his headset closer.  "Sir, I hear screams.  Shots.  I can
hear -- children -- down there.  It's difficult to make 
anything out clearly."

Skinner's forehead creased.  "I need to know the firing
pattern.  I need those grid coordinates before I can send 
anybody down there."  He shot a look at Mulder, a plea for
understanding.

"We can take out the fence," Snipes began as the second
probe moved across the compound.  Mulder could hear
the whine building again, and then saw its beam lancing out.
The machine disintegrated, fiberglass and metal bits flying
outward in an art nouveau fountain.

"I think I can graph that grid for you now, Sir," Snipes said.

Skinner trained his binoculars on the farmhouse,
a blazing mass of wood and vinyl.  "What will it take
for you to be sure?"

Mulder realized Skinner had used the probes to
map the sweep of those deadly beams.  The AD
had caught on quick, quicker than he had.  He'd 
taken immediate action to determine how to get 
in without losing anyone to the lasers.  He narrowed
his eyes, fighting the all too familiar fire phobia, 
as he watched the farmhouse continue to burn.  He
could feel beads of sweat popping out on his 
forehead.  Skinner was going to send someone
into that blazing inferno.  He had to.  Mulder didn't
envy him the necessity of that decision.  

"I'm sure," Snipes said.  He reeled off coordinates
on the firing pattern.

Skinner's jaw worked, the vein on his cheek jerking
visibly.  Mulder wondered what he was thinking.  
About the people inside?  About Scully?  About
Steven and Jessica and their parents' horrific deaths?
Or was he totally focused on the situation at hand?
Planning, scheming, estimating, considering?  
Skinner looked at him then, taking in the misery
etched in his face, and graced him with a brief 
smile.  It cheered him immensely and he was once
again in awe at the way this man juggled the myriad
things that were thrown his way.  As Mulder watched
though, he could see Skinner detaching, pulling
back, and Mulder knew he was preparing to do
battle.

"What are you hearing?" he demanded of Snipes.

The comm tech was pale beneath his dark skin.  "It, uh,
sounds like a massacre.  Screams.  Shots.  More screams.
It's chaos."

"You've got it on tape?"

'Why?' Mulder wondered.  'Why was taping it
important?'

"We may need it later," Skinner added, "for explanation
or justification."

Amazing.  Mulder couldn't think beyond the immediate
and Skinner was already planning for their defense, knowing
what it would take to protect against any accusations that
would arise, and perhaps, gathering fodder to make
his own accusations.

"Yes, Sir."

"God forgive me, this is on my head," Skinner mumbled
under his breath, and Mulder wanted to go to him, to
offer him a grip on the shoulder or a squeeze of the 
arm, wanted to remind him he was not alone, but he
was rooted to his spot and could not move.

"All teams.  Let's move in.  Hostage situation.  Use 
extreme caution."  Skinner's head dropped for a moment, 
and Mulder saw the slightest shiver, then the man lifted
his eyes again, fastening his binoculars on the scene
before him.

Mulder watched as police and troopers, agents and
other feds rushed the fence, clipping it to short out
the electricity, then bringing it down altogether.
As the law enforcement teams poured out into the 
farmhouse yard, carefully avoiding the lasers and other 
armament, other men flowed out of the outbuildings like 
worker bees leaving the hive.

"Guns!  They're shooting at us!"

Smoke followed gunfire through the morning light, 
barely distinguishable in the heavy fog.  Men from both 
sides dropped to the ground.  Through the listening post,
Mulder could hear them calling to one another,
reassurances of their position and safety.  A new
sound rattled through the air, rapid-fire, assault
weapons, and the chatter from the radio ceased.

Mulder put a hand to his face and rubbed, as if he
could restore feeling and sensibility, but he could
barely feel the touch of his own fingers.  The 
gunfire slowed to scattered bursts.  Agents pinned
down fired only when fired upon.  Snipes was
frowning.  "Mr. Skinner, sir, I've got the audio
pinpointed.  I --" he paused, licking his lips
nervously, "I don't know what the hell is going
on." 

Mulder moved then, one semi-frantic step toward 
Snipes.  "I need ..." he pleaded, and the other man 
nodded and threw him an extra set of headphones, 
sounds spewing from it.

It was a child, screaming.  Pleading.  Begging.
"Please, please, no more.  Please.  Please don't
hurt me.  I'll be good.  I promise."

"Shut up, Steven."

Mulder's stomach turned and he gagged on the
sudden spurt of bile that filled his mouth.  His
hand caught the headphones and slipped them on,
almost without volition.  He was retching, hands
held tight to his opened belly, empty stomach 
struggling to produce, and he realized Skinner 
had turned to look at him.

A shot rang out and the big man, his back to the
battle below, was falling, scarlet streaming from a
hole in his pant leg, and Mulder was caught in some 
sort of schizophrenic dichotomy.  He watched in 
horror as Skinner stifled a scream and then went 
down in a graceful, slow motion collapse.

Frozen again, unable to move, he watched as 
agents converged on the AD, heard cries of "Medic!"
and "The AD is down!" and listened still as the
sounds from the headphones continued.  

"I said shut up, Steven," a cold and callous voice
repeated in his ear, the unfeeling words punctuated
by a keening scream of pain, then another plea.

"Pleeeease."

Mulder ripped the headphones from his ears
then stared in horror at them, as if distance 
could erase the unearthly screams that echoed
in the clearing.  He lifted his head to stare
at Skinner.  The man had shoved everyone
away from him.  His leg was wrapped in a 
white cloth, rapidly turning red, and he held
his face in a tightly controlled grimace.

"Mulder," he called.  "Mulder, I have to
talk to you."

"It's Steven," Mulder whispered in horrified
astonishment.  "It's Steven."

The sound of the child's fear and torment was
ringing in the clearing.  All other noise seemed
to have vanished and the boy's cries echoed 
loudly in the new silence.

Snipes stared at him, then at the AD.  "I can't
tell if this is real time or a playback."

Who would record such a thing?  Who would 
play such a recording?  Steven was dying, being
tortured to death as he listened.  Mulder stared 
down at the burning farmhouse.  He saw a wall
implode as the heat and flame crumpled in on
itself.  Oh, God, he hated fire and the whole
valley seemed to be aflame.  Below him, a shock 
grenade landed by a garage and the ground itself 
collapsed, an open area appearing beneath, 
just visible to his naked eye.  Fuck!  Was he 
standing on a mountain farmyard or the middle 
of wartorn Palestine?

Skinner coughed, then cleared his throat.  "Patch
me through, Snipes," he ordered hoarsely.  "I 
need to be heard."

"Yes, Sir."  The comm tech's fingers flew over the 
keyboards, hands dancing between the laptop
and scanner.  Before he completed Skinner's 
command, there was another deafening BOOM.  
The ground shook and Mulder struggled to keep 
his balance, his ears ringing.  Bushes exploded, 
clots of dirt and wood and greenery flying everywhere.  

"Fuck -- a chisel and a hammer would have more
finesse --"

Skinner snarled, his teeth gleaming in the morning
sun.  "Pull back!  Pull back!" he screamed into the
walkie-talkie, throat straining with the effort to be
heard over the sound of the explosions.  Destruction hit
the farmhouse dead center, fireballs rising with the 
thunderous sounds of devastation.  Columns of smoke
and fire rose.

"Jesus Christ!" yelled Skinner.  He ducked his head,
eyes narrowed as he strained to see through the 
binoculars.  "Was that propane?  Who the fuck set
that off?"

"It must have been them ...  We haven't gotten through
yet," Snipes responded.

Mulder peered through the smoke.  He had the 
curious sensation of being outside his body,
watching the whole scenario as if it were a reenactment
of some famous battle.  He could see gaping holes
in the ground, holes that revealed the skeletons of tunnel
structures.  From where he sat, wounded leg now
swathed in bloody gauze, Skinner swung his glasses 
over the scene below.  "Everyone keep down and HOLD
YOUR GODDAMN FIRE!"

Snipes was talking rapidly into his mike, and Mulder
was still staring dazedly at the devastation that 
surrounded him, his hands on the almost forgotten
earphones, now deadly silent.  He turned his gaze
to Snipes, and the listening post equipment, then 
picked up a wireless receiver, and a transmitter.  

Skinner had twisted on the ground, turning to
stare at him, a look of dawning comprehension 
on his face.  "Mulder," he called again, the pain 
evident in his voice.  He stared at the man, 
measuring the determination in his face.  "You're 
going down there," he said in resignation, and 
Mulder nodded.  He coughed, a thick, choked 
sound.  "Something you need to know."

Mulder walked slowly over to the AD, then crouched
beside him.  The pain in his belly seemed to have 
faded to a distant memory.  His whole being was 
focused on the sounds he had heard through the
earphones.  "I have to go," he said simply.

"I know."

"Scully could be in there, too."

"I know."

"I don't have a choice."

"I know."

"They're torturing Steven."

Strong hands reached out and gripped him, firm
pressure against his arms, yanking him from his
self-induced trance.  "I know, Mulder."

He raised his eyes, chameleon green meeting
worried brown.  

"Something you need to know."  Skinner released him,
then scrubbed at his own face, knocking his glasses
askew.  "After the scene at the house, the LaFreniere's
deaths, I knew you had to know."

"Know what?"  Mulder was interested despite himself.

"I didn't tell you.  I'm sorry.  I thought they'd be safe 
with Tom and Susan.  Safer than anywhere else.  Relative
obscurity."

"I don't understand."

"I knew after the accident.  I had them run blood tests."

"The accident?  Blood tests?  What the hell are you talking
about?"

"About the children.  Steven and Jessica."

"They are siblings, aren't they?" Mulder said with a 
small smile.

"Yes, Mulder, yes, they are.  And I was able to find out
something about their biological parents -- well, one 
parent at least."

Mulder gasped, then dropped from crouch to rest on 
his knees.  "Oh, God," he groaned, a tear threatening
to slide down his cheek.  "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
He looked at Skinner, horror etched on his face.  
"They're Scully's, aren't they?  Those bastards did this
to her again!  I swear to you, I will kill every one of them.
I swear I will."  

He started to rise, anger making him strong, fury 
coursing through his veins, but stronger hands held him,
fingers of steel biting into his arms.

"No, Mulder, they're not Scully's," Skinner said softly.

Mulder was confused.  "Not Scully's?"  He furrowed
his brow in concentration.  "Not Scully's?  Then what?
Whose?"

Skinner pulled Mulder closer, his face almost touching
the younger man, his hands holding him tightly.  "Steven
and Jessica are yours, Mulder," he said quietly.  "*You* 
are their father."

Mulder stared at Skinner in open-mouthed amazement,
confusion and bewilderment warring for dominance
in his face.  He slowly closed his mouth, then shook
his head.  

"Mulder," Skinner was calling him, but it seemed to come
from a long distance.  "Mulder, talk to me!"

He turned to look at the scene below, the fiery farmhouse,
the holes in the ground, the shattered outbuildings.  His
child was in that inferno somewhere.  Perhaps both his
children.  His children.  Oh, God, what had they done?  

"Mine," he whispered, then consumed with a strength he
never knew he had, he shook Skinner off, shooting to his
feet.  He broke into a trot, heading for the raw, open wound
in the ground, smoke and flames pouring out of it.

"Mulder!  Wait!  Get back here!  That's an order!"

But he didn't listen.  Static inside the equipment quieted long
enough for him to hear a small boy crying.  Steven.  His
son.  

He took one look back.  Skinner was standing now, supported
by two agents, binoculars trained on him.  He lifted a hand,
saw his friend do the same, then he plunged into hell.

End part 02/09


The Price of a Soul 03/09

He stumbled dazedly across charred earth and broken 
concrete, found an opening into the tunnels, and plunged 
blindly downward.  For lack of anything else, he took a 
piece of burned wood and scratched an arrow on the 
mottled gray of the structure.  Here.  Here is the exit, the 
way out.  Here is the escape from hell.  Mulder dropped 
the still warm chunk of wood from fingers gone weak with 
desperation.  He unclipped the flashlight from his belt and
aimed it inward.  Then he switched the torch to his left 
hand and pulled his gun.

Dust filtered thinly up from the tunnel, willow-wisp tendrils 
as if being pulled reluctantly into the open.  He hesitated, 
looking for smoke, knowing that bad air or heat would be 
deadly, killing.  His phobia was rampant now, screaming
at him to flee but he clamped down hard on the terror and
moved slowly forward.  The ground shook again and the tunnel 
echoed dully.  The walls around him seemed to shift.  In the 
earphones, he could hear the child's -- his child's -- fright 
grow ever more frantic.  The man shouted again, no love 
or care in his voice.

Steven was going to die, and it would be his fault if he didn't 
find him.  His son was going to die.  He paused a moment, still 
in shock over Skinner's revelation.  Mulder was still very 
much in the adjustment stage.  Every time he thought of
the boy, the child, Steven, his mind amended the thought.
His son.  His child.  Made of his flesh, his bone, his blood.
And he was being tortured as Mulder listened.

Another shriek in the earpiece and Mulder broke into a trot.  
The flashlight bounced with his steps, the illumination shaky 
and uneven.  The air grew denser, coalescing, as he moved 
fully into the unexposed part of the tunnel.  Dust and smoke
made the beam of light less effective, and he slowed, turning
slowly to orient himself.  He had never had a keen sense of 
direction, but he did have a flawless memory and he began to 
relate the tunnel's curvature to the lines he had seen on the 
computer screen.  A skeletal map, like a spiderweb, it had 
been, and he was -- here ...  He made an X on the map in 
his mind, having a weird sense that this was rather like one
of those video games, the map floating before the hero as
he chased the monsters and sought to rescue the fair maiden.
And though he had his own fair maiden to be concerned 
about, he was no hero.  And it was his child who needed him
now.  There was a child's moan in the earpiece and he turned
instinctively, his heart lifting slightly as the sound grew 
louder, clearer for a moment, and he knew he was on the
right path.

A few more steps, another turn and now, the infrastructure 
reverberated as another blast sent skids of earth cascading 
down around him.  He paused again.  Which way?  The 
headphones crackled with static and his flashlight showed 
access to a fork in the corridor, but he had no idea which 
branch to take.

A sense of urgency pounded like a pulse in the hollow of his 
throat.  He had to move quickly.  He was alone, trusting no one
with the single exception of Skinner.  The claustrophobia of
being caught down here with fire, fear, and foe raged wildly
for a moment before he stifled it.  He would be of no help to 
anyone if he panicked.  There was another burst of static, and 
his earphone went silent.  'Skinner,' he cried silently, 'don't 
let them cut me out.  I need you.'

He bore left, because it felt right in his memory.  The tunnel 
widened, grew taller and square, a hallway now, reminiscent
of a school or dorm.  Doors left open blocked his way, impeding
his progress and he stepped past warily, shining his light inside.  
Overturned chairs, a small table, cots in the corner, bedding 
pooling on the floor.  The room's occupants had fled in a 
great hurry.  And yet, he did not have the sense that this had 
happened just now.  The room seemed chilled, musty, lifeless. 
If not this raid, who had chased them out, and when?  They'd
known something was coming and obviously evacuated.  Why
hadn't they gotten everyone out?  Steven was here -- Mulder
winced at the memory of the boy's pleading cries -- but had 
they taken Scully and Jess in the exodus?

He backed out cautiously.  Moving onward, he chose a closed 
door and touched it.  No heat emanated from it.  The sheet metal 
paneling felt cool, perhaps even damp.  The knob turned in his 
hand and pulled open reluctantly as if a great vacuum fought 
to keep it closed.  He panned the flashlight around a laboratory
type room, or was it clinic?  Cabinets and sinks dominated 
the walls.  Two exam tables stood in the center.  A third wall 
was banked with stainless steel cages, specimen cages.  Specimens 
of what, he wondered.  Some were large enough to hold a human
being, or a being human sized.  They looked as if they had never 
been used.  The strangeness of its bland sterility bothered Mulder.  
Another lab?  It reminded him of more experimentation and research, 
more abuse of the unsuspecting.  It reeked of antiseptic air and
he closed the door gladly.

The tunnel flooring quivered under his feet.  Mulder looked 
up at the ceiling, saw it holding firm despite a fine shifting 
of dust motes caught in the beam of the flashlight.  These rooms
had given him a sense of unease.  What had they been planning 
here, doing here?

The next three open doors he passed were bunker-like residences, 
duplicates of the first, each one hastily abandoned.  One had a meal 
which had slid off the overturned table and had already drawn 
scavengers, two squirrels pawing through the morsels only to 
stare blindly at him when caught.  Who had lived here?  What
was their purpose?  And how many had been brought here
against their will as Steven and Jess had?  The flight had to 
have happened hours ago, perhaps even before nightfall.  Yet 
there had been no sign of the chaos from above.  He still didn't
understand the failure to get everyone out.  Unless it was
deliberate.  He shook his head.  He couldn't think about this
now.

The last room of the corridor was a hall, a massive one, set off by 
movable walls, and he saw computers and blackboards, small 
desks and chairs.  Alphabet cards decorated the back wall.  
Unmistakably a schoolroom.  His earphone remained quiet, and 
he sent another silent plea to Skinner.  'Help me find my child.'
The sight of the hall made his throat grow tight.  What were they 
doing with children here?  His children.  And who else's?  Had 
Scully's Emily spent time in a place like this?  And where were 
the children, all the children, where had they gone?

He realized, standing there, that he had gotten warm, and felt 
sweat drop from his face and mopped his forehead on the cuff 
of his windbreaker.  The bulky Kevlar vest Skinner had insisted
on only added to the heat, but he knew better than to take it 
off now.  If for no other reason than the pressure it kept against
his abdomen, helping slow the trickle of blood he still felt from 
the gash hidden there.  He backed out of this room too and trotted 
down to the bend in the corridor.  His earphones crackled faintly 
and he could hear the voices of agents guiding each other through
the labyrinth.  Like him, they had descended into the darkness 
and were searching, coming from other directions.  He had no 
wish to be caught by them.  No telling what had happened 
above, what orders Skinner had given.  They didn't have the same 
motivation for success that he did.  

In his mind's eye, he could see the spiderweb echo soundings 
again and bore left once more.

Shots rang out.

Mulder dodged to his right, slammed his shoulder into the 
tunnel and froze.  There was a loud rip and his windbreaker
tore on the uneven graininess of the wall digging into his 
shoulder.  He took a deep breath as his earphones shrieked 
with noise, temporarily deafening him.  Dropping the light, he tore 
them off, wincing, then realized the shots had been transmitted.  
A bloodcurdling scream pealed from the headset in his hand, 
a man's scream, piercing agony, and guttered away to silence.

He stared at the headset, found audio and turned it down, then
grabbed up the light again.  The metal casing on the torch was 
battered and dinged, and would never look the same again.  He
took several deep breaths, waiting as his heart steadied.

He played the flashlight over a massive break in the ceiling, 
where the tunnel had failed completely, a fall of dirt and debris
cascading down into the corridor.  Mulder moved toward it.  
As he got closer, something caught his eye.  Something foreign, 
alien.  He edged toward it.  Then he saw it.  A hand frozen palm
upward, fingers curled as if grasping or beckoning.  But not 
a human hand.  Liquid had congealed around the fingertips as 
if the victim had tried in vain to claw its way out from the rock 
and dirt.  Mulder knelt, touched the wrist, the flesh not cold, 
but cooling, and no pulse.  If you could feel a pulse on something 
like this.  

Dead.

He had not expected anything different, but it pierced him to 
the core.  Proof at last and no one to see it but him.  No way to 
preserve the evidence.  He could stay here until the raid was 
complete, refusing to leave, standing guard on what could finally 
expose them all.  Or ...  The earphone crackled again, and a small 
boy's crying could be clearly heard.  

"Nooooo," he wailed.  "Please don't.  I'll be good."

Mulder shuddered then rose to his feet and moved.  It didn't matter.  
All that mattered was finding Steven.  And Jess and Scully if they 
were here too.

He found a space between the wall and dirt pile and shoved through, 
then turned sideways and inched forward, catching his breath. 
Unsure of what led him in this direction, he paused, his chest 
tightening.  He could feel the wall and debris lean on him, 
closing vise-like around him, trapping him.  The fear of dying there
descended like an icy cloud, then exploded somewhere in his sternum.

He fought for breath.  It would squeeze him lifeless, he could feel 
the senselessness of the tunnel and the avalanche.  They were 
claiming victims.  And wanted another.  

He opened his mouth, jaw clenched so tight he thought he might 
have to unhinge it just to breathe.  He could feel his pulse singing 
in his ears and his face growing clammy.  His eardrums popped 
as he stretched for a yawning gasp of air.  Two whooping breaths 
went down, steadied him.  He could do this.  He could.  He *had*
to.  His hearing cleared.  His heart slowed, and he was moving
again, inching through, scraping by.  Despite its best efforts
the tunnel had not closed inexorably on him.  He shoved away 
the panic as he slipped through the stone's cold embrace.  Toes 
pushing, hands held before him, he inched forward until he broke 
through.

It was like being born again.  This deep in the complex, the 
corridors had a semblance of lighting, though it flickered 
now and then.  He turned off his flashlight and hung it 
back on his belt.  Four long strides and he halted at an 
intersection, hallways branching in three different directions.  

He put a hand to his earphone, but all was quiet now.  Did 
Skinner still have the signal but had lost him, or did Skinner 
have him ... and had lost the signal, and Steven?  What had 
he been thinking, that he could enter this maze and find him, 
with his sweet childish voice, raised high in fear and betrayal?  
Mulder rubbed his forehead.  This was not the right direction.  
He had had the barest look at the monitors, but his memory 
told him the antennae had not been focused here, at the 
center of the facility.  Steven would not be here.  He'd
turned wrong somewhere.  Mulder put his back to the wall
and retraced his path, uncertain, doubting himself now.  He
paused at the cave-in, then decided he had to move through it
again.  But not here, not at this wall.  This was too unstable.
It could shift further, more drastically, upset by the periodic
vibration of tunnel walls, and bury him there.  The weight of 
the debris would suffocate him.

He cursed his cowardly heart.  He needed to get in, get Steven,
and get out.  A dead man could do none of that.  Fighting his
visions, he pushed past the cave-in, then stumbled, expecting 
to grind his face into the wall.  Instead, he fell through empty
space.  He steadied himself against a new wall and brought 
the flashlight up and on, shining it wildly around.  He was in 
another corridor, a T intersection which the cave-in had hidden.  
His sense of direction swung like the light, dancing in the 
darkness, then oriented.  He shone the torch down the hallway.  
Farther down, there was another glow, and he wondered if
he'd set off a system.

He looked down an aisle of ruin.  His earphones came alive
again with a cacophony of sound, words machine-gunned 
over the air, voices speaking all at once.  He thought of
chaos and total disintegration.

"AD Skinner?  Sir, we need medics down here -- oh, God,
there's blood everywhere --" the distraught voice broke up,
followed by more confusing sounds.  He did not recognize the
background noises.  Explosions?  More tunnels crumbling?
Strident voices cut through again.

"Warning.  We're finding mines, trip wires.  Watch your
step.  This place is booby-trapped ..."

" ... bodies everywhere.  No survivors so far.  Men, 
women ... Oh, God, children."

"Heads up!  Heads up!  We have heavy smoke, zero 
visibility.  Get some portable ventilators down here, quadrant --
Jesus Christ, I don't know where we are --"

"Abort!  Abort!  Get yourselves out!  I don't want to lose 
anyone down there."  Mulder recognized Skinner's
command voice.  "Hear me?  Everybody out now, including
Mulder if anyone spots him."

Skinner was talking about him, but it didn't matter.  He 
could not leave before he did what he came to do.  He took 
a deep breath and smelled only dust, no hint of smoke.  
He adjusted the volume on the earphones again, trying to
hone in on that one faint voice he sought.

As if in answer to his prayer, he heard Skinner.  "Mulder,
get out of there.  You have to get out of there."  The older
man's voice caught, a terrible sound that echoed in his
ears.  "It's too late, Mulder, this is all I can find.  Snipes
put you on another frequency to feed you this," and his words
were echoed by a whisper, a faint keening, a small boy
crying.

"I'll be good.  Please, please, oh please.  I'll be good.  It
hurts, please, it hurts."

Mulder swung about in the catacomb.  Another word or
two, that's all he needed.  Although he hated to hear
Steven's pleading cries, he silently asked for another 
few words.

A high note, almost musical, rang in his ears.  Then, "It
huuuurts!"

Mulder turned and ran down the passageway, his heart 
quickening with every step.  

The tunnel curved slightly, became thinner, lower,
but the wailing in his earphones grew stronger, louder,
pulling him onward.  His eyes stung.  The lighting
dimmed, then came up again, still thin and weak.  Losing
power?  Battery, rather than generator?  The pasty
yellow glow illuminated a pair of doors.  But which door?
Did he have time to check them both?

If he picked the wrong one, would it alert those torturing
the boy -- torturing his son -- and would they end it before
he could get in the right door?

Then the voice came, as clear as if he stood next to him.

"I didn't mean to do it.  I don't mean to be bad.  Please,
please don't hate me ... oh, ow!  That hurts!  Please,
please, please."

Mulder closed his eyes for a second, and chose.

********************************************

Skinner spoke tersely.  "I want med evac in here immediately."
Snipes had patched him into the NSA, the nominal head of
this rapidly deteriorating fiasco, and he found that they were
already on their way in, choppers in the air literally minutes
after the disaster had begun.  Score one for Borden.  Maybe
the man had had some sense after all.

He growled into the mike, "This was supposed to be
a simple raid.  What the fuck did you people know and
not tell the rest of us?"  He listened in stony silence
to the empty placating words the NSA liaison mouthed
into his ears.

"I don't care.  I'll be filing a formal complaint.  It's 
a God damned slaughterhouse up here."

"More copters are on the way."  The liaison coughed
softly, an embarrassed sound that carried through
the radio.  "And body bags."

"ETA?"

"As soon as they can get there."

"It's not soon enough."  Skinner's mouth twisted as he
looked out over the charred ground of the farmhouse
yard.  Bodies were being laid out.  Bureau, Agency,
state and local, everyone had lost someone.  The air
was filled with pine and smoke, singed plastic and 
singed flesh, and over it all, the coppery sweetness of
blood.  "If you knew what was happening here, how
bad it was going to be, why the hell didn't you tell
the rest of us?"

"Policy."  The man on the other end of the radio 
breathed out.  "We're NSA."

"You're fucking murderers," Skinner responded,
deadly cold as he cut the connection.  He stood,
bloodstained pants a testament to the wound hidden
beneath the hastily wrapped bandage on his leg.  
His face glistened with sweat and his bald head was
dappled with soot.  "Fucking murderers," he repeated,
eyes watching the scene below him.

"Sir!  They're bringing people out, Sir!  Children!
They've found children!"

His heart stirred.  "Alive?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Thank God," he muttered, and began the trek down to
the field below.

*******************************************

The door flew open, and Mulder moved in, both
flashlight and gun held out before him.  Time 
stopped in that odd way it had, stirring Mulder's mind 
with snapshots of Steven, even as it froze his 
present.  Dust blasting inward with him seemed to 
pause in the sudden flash of light and drift as though 
caught and suspended.  Before him stood a large man, 
oddly out of place in his three piece business suit.  The 
knife he held in his hand glistening red as the flashlight 
caught its edge.  He looked confused for a moment, his
mouth opening in protest though no sound emerged.
Mulder did not recognize him.  He stood in what 
appeared to be a general office, a desk and chair 
centered by the wall, credenza behind.  File cabinets 
lined another wall and a computer table took up the 
third. 

The man stood behind the desk, between it and
the credenza, knife upraised in the air as if caught
in the act of some strange encouragement. 

And between them lay Steven, limp across the top
of the desk, his arms hanging down, a freshet of
blood running across one wrist, his cries now
stilled.  He wore a simple T-shirt and jeans and
was barefoot, and as Mulder stared at him, he
shivered in the draft of air that now blew through
the open door.  His face was wet with tears and 
sweat, his hair soaked and clinging to his scalp
and forehead.  His eyes were closed and Mulder
could just make out a whimper as he shivered 
again.

"You've made a terrible mistake, Agent Mulder," 
the man said softly.  "Leave, while you still can."

Mulder heard the words but meaning failed to
register, for when the man called his name, Steven
had turned fractionally toward him, and his eyes
parted briefly.  He felt his heart soar.  His son 
was alive!  And he knew that Mulder was there!

"Didn't you hear me?" the man growled again.
"Get the fuck out!"

Mulder moved slowly into the room, his eyes
darting back and forth from Steven to the crazed
man who still brandished his knife above the 
boy.  He felt his gut clench at the sight of Steven
laid across the desk like this, almost as if he 
were an offering on an altar in some perverse
ritual.  

"Give him to me," he ordered.  "He needs medical
attention.  I can get him out."

The man shook his head then grabbed Steven,
lifting the boy effortlessly and holding him to 
his chest, the knife against his neck.  Mulder 
went cold at the man's sudden movement, then
chanced a glance downward.  Steven's pale arm 
dangled from the man's embrace, and then, barely, 
he saw a finger twitch.  He looked up again and 
watched as the knife against his son's pulsing 
throat brought up tiny swells of crimson.

He couldn't stand there, but clear thoughts seemed 
to have bolted from his mind.  All he could do was
react to what he saw, and those reactions kept him
still, silent, appalled.  Steven was not dead.  Not 
yet.  He looked into the man's eyes, cold and emotionless, 
afraid he had felt Steven's movement within his
arms.  

Mulder found his voice.  "There's fire in the tunnels.
You should get out while you can."

The man shrugged as if he had no concerns.  "You 
can't touch me."  He raised the hand with the knife, 
gesturing toward Mulder, his coat sleeve fluttering 
along his brawny arm like a broken wing.  

"The smoke will get you before the fire does," Mulder
said calmly.  "The tunnels are blown, they're collapsing.
You really should get out while you can."

Mulder could taste the rise of smoke in the air now.  It crept 
in through the fissures, through the breaches in the room,
the tunnel, damning them all.  He could not get Steven
out, let alone himself, if smoke overcame him.  He took
another step forward, gun still pointed at the man shielded
behind Steven's still body.  The man moved and the blade
flashed down to Steven's neck.

The man took a step to the side, then flinched as a blast 
shattered the side of the room, deafening, the air filled
with dust and debris, the walls sundering.  The shock drove 
Mulder back and he connected with the door jamb, coughing, 
his eyes filled with grit, lungs choking, ears ringing.  The 
computer table crumbled and there was a loud popping
sound as the monitor imploded on impact with the floor.
The air stank of electrical fire.  He blinked wildly, trying
to clear his eyes, and saw the man, still standing, still holding
Steven, surrounded by wreckage and ruin.

Mulder took a deep breath.  "You don't have much time."

"Stand clear," the man ordered Mulder, smiling slightly.
"Let me pass."

"Give me the boy."

The man looked down, staring at Steven.  He took up
the knife and smoothed his hair back from his face, almost
tenderly, the knife's edge tinged red with the child's own
blood.  "You have no idea what you are doing, Agent
Mulder," the man said softly.  "You don't know who this
child is."  He looked up then, as if he had made a decision,
and all traces of the odd tenderness he'd briefly shown
were gone.  "The boy goes with me."

He started to move to the door.  One stride and then he
halted, one leg held back, stuck.  He stared down at his
ankles and kicked to free himself.  Mulder couldn't see
what it was that held him, but the man cursed as he wrestled
with the debris.  He convulsed in fury.  He plunged against
whatever trapped him from the ruins, kicking wildly
as if that would help.  Mulder knew he was out of time.  

The man's face was mottled with fury, and he spat 
venomous words at the rubble.  Mulder could see wire, 
wrapped in serpentine coils against the man's ankle.  
Steven moved again, drawing at the air, plucking at 
nothingness as if gathering up consciousness.  It was time 
to act.

Mulder ripped the headphones from his ears and threw 
them against the wall.  The man jumped, then shifted his 
gaze to see what had fallen, and Mulder fired.  A hole
opened in the man's forehead and Mulder leapt across 
the room, grabbing Steven from him, the child's limp form 
as light and floppy in his arms as a rag doll.  A tiny moan 
left him as he took him up.  "It's all right.  I've got you,"
he whispered into the boy's hair, as he turned and bolted 
from the room.

As he slipped through the doorway, the whole
tunnel seemed to shiver and he could see a black
coil of smoke, low and hungry, crawling down the
corridor's throat.  From the corner of his eye, he
saw movement.  He leapt again, his momentum
carrying him into the open on an angle.

Bullets whipped past him.  The tunnel wall spat 
out gravel like angry wasps.  He never looked back.
Steven stirred slightly against his chest.  He ran on,
holding him tightly, feeling the bloody warmth
of the child soak into the neck of his shirt, even
as his own blood spread from his abdomen to the
child's.  Steven murmured, so faintly he couldn't
understand the words.  The gunfire a distant echo
now, he slowed, then stopped completely.  He 
brought the boy down, checked his wounds ... torture 
wounds, shallow, except along the wrists, where 
crosscuts bled insistently, yet not life threatening 
unless left unattended.  He ripped his shirt and bound
them.  What in God's name had they been doing to his
child?

"I have you," Mulder told him.  "You're safe now."

The boy's lids fluttered and he opened frightened,
pain-filled eyes.  "Fox," he breathed, and Mulder
gave a laugh that was more cry, tears falling 
unabashedly down his face.  "Fox," the boy repeated,
and Mulder nodded, then leaned over and kissed
the child's forehead.  

Steven murmured again, and Mulder had to strain
to hear.  "Where's Walter?" the child asked, and this
time Mulder's laugh was one of joy, even as the child
slipped into unconsciousness.

"He's waiting for you, big boy," Mulder said.  "Don't 
let him down."  He rose, lifted the child and looked 
around.  Now, if he could only find his way out of hell.

End part 03/09

The Price of a Soul 04/09

Skinner limped down the hill to the staging area 
where the children had been brought.  Ranging in
age from very young to early teens, they sat in small
groups, older ones holding some of the younger ones.
He could see bandages on those who had been 
treated, bruises and blood still visible on many.
He scanned the faces as he moved through the
area, stopping now and then to speak quietly to
a worried child or try to calm one crying.  

After his third stop to quell a child's tears, he thought
back on his comments to Mulder from three
days ago.  How he wasn't very good with children.
He smiled inwardly, murmuring something 
soothing to the four year old he held in his arms
before passing the boy back to a medical tech.
Steven and Jess had changed him. 

He scanned the area again, still hoping against
hope to see a familiar face.  It was no good.  She
wasn't here.  He dropped his head, fighting to
control the sudden urge to scream in frustration, 
the need to break something, to hurt someone,
knowing that he needed to keep his cool.  He was 
about to turn, to retrace his steps back to the
command post and wait for word on Mulder
when a small hand touched his leg.  It was a
gentle touch, just below his bandage, and a tiny
voice said, "Got owie, Wa - tah?"  His heart
leapt and he looked down to see a small, worried
face looking up at him.

"Jess!"  He reached down to her and she came
gladly into his arms.  "Jess," he said more softly,
his face buried in her soot-filled hair.  She curled
into his shoulder, one chubby arm reaching around
his collar, thumb going into her mouth.  Her
fingers played with the wisps of hair at the nape
of his neck and he could feel a sudden moistness
on his face.

Jessica pulled back and studied him seriously,
then asked, "Cwyin' Wa - tah?"

Skinner nodded slowly and pulled the baby's
head back down to his shoulder, gently patting 
her back.  " 's OK, Jess, it's going to be OK."

" 'kay, Wa-tah," she said, sniffling now, and
he realized his own reaction had upset her.
He continued to hold her, his eyes still scanning
the area, noting the children with vivid bruises 
and bloodstained clothes.  There were even a few 
with broken limbs and he had to wonder if all the
damage had occurred in the collapse of the
tunnels.  Seeing the others' injuries, he was
suddenly aware of the fragility of the child in
his arms.  His friend's child.  Mulder's child.

He drew back to look at her again, scrutinizing
her tired little face, and asked, "Are you OK, Jessie?"

She nodded soberly, and tried to lay down on his
shoulder again, comforted by a familiar presence,
but he was still concerned.  "Do you have an
owie, Jess?" he tried again.

She nodded again, pulling her little shirt up to point 
to a livid bruise on her ribcage.  "Owie," she
whispered, and his heart seemed to leap into his
throat.  Oh God, what if she was seriously hurt?
He'd never be able to face Mulder again.

"Medic!" he bellowed, immediately murmuring 
to the baby when she jumped at his roar.  "Shhh,
I'm sorry, baby, it's OK now.  I've got you.  Walter's
got you."  He looked up again, a female EMT
standing before him.  "Check her, please," he said,
and started to pass the baby over, but she began to
cry, clinging to him and calling, "No, Wa - tah, 
no!  Jess tay Wa - tah."  

"Perhaps you should hold her, sir," the woman 
suggested.  "She seems attached to you now.  You
can help keep her calm."

The baby was crying now, and Skinner felt like
a heel for frightening her.  He spent several more
minutes calming her again, then limped to the 
side of the staging area and found an equipment
box to sit on.  With Jessie sitting in his lap,
he watched as the medic assessed and then treated
her injuries, giving thanks that they were all
fairly superficial.  As the last bandage was applied,
his radio crackled and Snipes came through.

"It's getting worse, Sir.  I think you're needed
back up here."

Skinner looked at the medic and she nodded.
He rose, still holding Jessica, and spoke into
the radio.  "On my way."  The hike back up the
small hill to the command post was no easier
than the trip down, but it seemed so, even though
he was now carrying an extra 25 pounds or so.
He looked down at the baby, almost asleep on
his shoulder, and sighed.  It was because of that
extra 25 pounds that his heart was light and 
filled with hope now.  If Mulder managed to
reach Steven, they would have both the children.
He frowned then, knowing that while recovering
the children was important, it was good, hell, it
was *wonderful,* it wasn't everything.  He still
had an agent out there, still missing, perhaps
injured, and Mulder wouldn't survive if Scully
wasn't found.  His commitment to her was complete,
and nothing, not even his own children, would 
ever be able to fill the empty places that she did.

Skinner sighed again, then laughed at the look
Snipes gave him as he reached the summit.  
"My agent's kid," he said gruffly.  "The reason
we were out here to begin with.  The boy is his,
too."

Snipes' eyes grew wide but he said nothing.  The
ground suddenly heaved beneath them, a giant
undulating wave that upset boxes, knocked men
off their feet and threatened to uproot the very
trees.  The comm tech looked up, concerned.  "That 
last blast must have blown the antennae.  I can't hear
a thing anymore."

Skinner considered the irony.  The baby slept now,
the trust of the truly innocent allowing her to rest
and let him take care of things.  He pulled on a strap,
trying to make the vest more comfortable, and not
succeeding.  He decided it was his own helplessness
chafing at him.  Not that he had lost control of this 
operation; he had never really been in control.  NSA 
would handle any investigation that came out of this. 
Despite his ability to force Bureau involvement, even 
his level of authority would not be enough to supplant 
the NSA.

However the NSA decided to cover this up, whatever
*this* was, there was still one question remaining:
What about the children?

*************************************

Muffled against the Kevlar vest, Mulder could
not tell if Steven still breathed or if his heart beat,
but his own hammered against his ribs like a 
wild thing trying to break free of a cage.  At his heels, 
with a sound like that of an oncoming freight
train, the chaos of fire gained on them.  His
own fear of flame was returning, threatening to
drag him down and make him useless.  His eyes
began to burn, the reek of smoke filled his nostrils 
and stung them.  He began to talk to Steven,
comfort and encouragement for the child, the same
for himself.

"Hang in there, Steven, just hold on.  I've got you,
you're safe now.  Just hold on a little longer, baby."
The endearment slipped out and for a moment he
was stunned by his own words, but they felt right,
and he hugged the featherweight body tightly as if
the embrace would slow the bleeding, bind the 
wounds he had no time to attend.

He twisted his way through the corridors,
reaching the cave-in.  The air here seemed a little
clearer.  He slowed, the adrenaline rush of the search 
for Steven fading now, fatigue dogging his movements.
Mulder shifted Steven's limp weight in his arms and 
mopped his face with the back of his sleeve.  His 
belly was bleeding again, and he could feel the 
lightheadedness of blood loss, only being held back 
by sheer determination.  How long did he have until 
the needs of the flesh overcame his stubbornness? 
A tiny draft of coolness played against the heat of 
his brow and he turned toward it instinctively.

"It's all right, Steven.  We're almost there."  He 
tucked the boy under his chin, and the exhalation
of his words ruffled the baby fine hairs on his head,
tickling his neck.  The child stirred slightly, as if gaining
awareness.  "Almost there," Mulder repeated
encouragingly.

But then he stopped in his tracks.  No way could he
pass through the crawlway holding Steven.  Even
if he took off the bulky vest and held him tightly
to his chest, there wouldn't be enough room.  He 
would be trapped between the wall and debris.  He 
took two quick breaths, thinking, deciding.  He would
have to go first and pull the boy after, as quickly and as 
carefully as he could.  

He stepped past the cave-in, then into the cleft in 
the wall, telling Steven what he was doing as he 
did it.  "This is narrow here, baby.  I can't go through 
holding you, but I am *not* leaving you.  I'm going to 
pull you in after me.  Don't be afraid.  I'm not leaving 
you.  I've got you and you're safe."

He laid him down, easing the fragile body to the 
ground with utmost care.  Steven stirred, eyelids fluttering, 
opening, veins like marble tracings on them, and then
he looked at him, fear and uncertainty slowly being
replaced with confidence and trust.

"It's all right," Mulder murmured.

Steven's lips moved soundlessly, so he raised the child
up again and cradled him close, his ear to the boy's 
mouth.  He trembled in his arms and slowly repeated,
"Like Walter.  He wouldn't leave me either."

Mulder swallowed hard and nodded, thinking how 
incredible that this child could still trust, could still
have faith.

"I'm going to get you out, Steven," Mulder said, and
watched as the boy's chin moved, ever so slightly, in
the affirmative.  He squeezed him, a last hug before
he spoke.  "I have to put you down, just for a minute.
I'm too big to get through if I carry you.  You have
to be brave a bit longer, Steven, OK?"

The boy entwined a slender arm tightly around his neck,
fear resurfacing in the face of being put down.

"I'm here."  Mulder kissed his brow despite the dirt
and smoke smudge and faint taste of blood.  "I'm not
going to leave you," he repeated.  He knelt to position
him again.  Steven clung to him with a wiry strength
that both gladdened and saddened him.  He still had
strength in him, despite his torture, his hurts, his fear.
Mulder peeled away his arm and quickly stepped away,
holding his hand, their arms linking them as he
extended.  Then he let go entirely.

The loss of contact with his son, his touch, his warmth,
was like a physical blow, and he staggered.  A coldness
swarmed him, and he could smell anew the acridness of
smoke.  The tunnel shook with a faint booming, another
explosion, and he could hear the concrete and gravel begin
to slide, the ground shaking beneath his feet.  Steven
let out a shrill cry.

Mulder pushed through the narrow passage, then flung
himself down on his stomach, disregarding his own
pain, and reached back in, praying that he had not 
underestimated the distance.  Another blast rocked through
walls and floor, and the mound next to him shifted,
dirt drifting down.  Mulder coughed harshly as he shoved
himself deep into the cleft, reaching, fingers splayed out, 
touching ... nothing.

Oh, God!  The panic gripped him and he forgot to
breathe for a moment.  He had to be there!  He
couldn't have moved.  Couldn't have crawled back
into the intersection.  Couldn't be gone, not beyond
his reach.  He lay on his flank, twisting his neck,
unable to see, his reach one of faith and hope.

"Steven!  Take my hand!  I'll pull you through.
C'mon, baby!  Hurry!"

A third blast, so much closer his ears rang with
it.  Dirt skidded in earnest, faster and faster, raining
down on him, filling his mouth as he shouted for
the child.

"Take my hand!  C'mon, Steven.  Reach for it!
You have to try!"

He thrust himself in as far as he could, gasping
and choking, straining, hands, fingers, searching 
blindly.  Then, a tiny touch upon his fingertips.  A
whisper of sound carried through -- "Fox ..."  He 
seized on it.  

"I'm here, Steven," he called.  "I'm here."

Yes!  Smaller fingers, chilled ones, and he captured 
them and swallowed them up with his hand, hungry 
for the child's touch.  He had him!  His whole hand, 
and then, his wrist.  Slowly, carefully, he began to 
crawl backward.  Debris shifted and showered him with 
every movement.  Jammed between concrete and gravel 
and dirt, he could see little as he inched his way back out.  
The partial cave-in gave way, cascading down, its weight 
dropping onto him, threatening to bury them both.  Surging
upward in the violent heaves of floor and walls, a piece 
of metal rebar jabbed into the shoulder of his vest -- searing 
pain -- snagging him immobile.

He squeezed his right hand tighter around Steven's wrist. 
"I've got you.  This is the tough part.  Don't let go!"
Squirming, he got his left arm free and tugged at the 
stubborn end of the rebar.  The twisted metal had impaled 
him like a javelin.  In his right hand, he could feel Steven 
go suddenly limp.  Had the dirt smothered him?

"NO!  Steven!"  He shook the boy as hard as he
could with only one hand on a still, thin wrist.  "Wake 
up, you've got to wake up, and *don't let go!*"  Fear 
rocketed through him.  He gave a mighty heave, and 
the rebar ripped through flesh and the edge of the Kevlar 
vest and then he was free.  He clamped down even
harder on Steven's wrist, so hard, he knew he was 
bruising him, risked cutting off circulation, afraid to 
grip him any less tightly.

With one last massive pull, Steven's thin form 
slipped through, as the tunnel shuddered one 
last time, like a dying animal, its gasp an endless 
shower as it imploded on itself, trying to suck them
under.  Mulder gathered the child up and staggered down
the tunnel, blind in the swirl of dust and smoke.
Fear dried his mouth.  The collapsing tunnel spat
him out like Jonah from the mouth of the whale, in
a spurt of smoke and ashes, his marker showing him 
the way to the surface.  He clambered up the gully, 
shouting and coughing.

Hands reached for him and he could hear, finally,
something besides the ringing explosions.  They 
drew him up and out and someone took Steven from
his arms, throwing a blanket over him.  Someone else
eased the vest from his shoulder, saying, "Jesus
Christ, look at this hole, he's been shot --" but the
words did not sink in.  He could not have been
shot, it was the rebar, it must have been but it did
not matter.

"Steven!"  He pulled away from the hands and reeled 
after the child until they reached clear air.  He turned 
and saw billowing smoke geysering up from the hole 
in the ground and realized how close to disaster they 
had truly been.  Nothing could have breathed in that 
inferno.  Agents drew him with them, the grass dewed 
with silvery streaks, and fresh morning light shone 
down on them, and he went to his knees, blinking in 
exhaustion, as they laid Steven gently down.

Like an apparition out of nowhere, Skinner was 
suddenly there, a looming presence, familiar and 
comforting.  The AD knelt, his injured leg making it 
awkward, and reached out to steady Mulder as he 
swayed.  "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

Mulder looked at him, saw the compassion and 
concern, and would have answered, but he found
it difficult to breathe.  Skinner was totally focused 
on him and Mulder could see the man was making
his own assessment.  He wouldn't want to wager on
his chances of avoiding a hospital stay this time.  One
strong hand still held his arm, oblivious to the sleeping
baby tucked securely in the other.  He started to laugh
at the sight, but a spasm of coughing kept him down 
until he could finally draw a clear breath.  He paused, 
looked around, and realized there were bodies on the 
ground.  "Scully?"

Skinner shook his head slowly, and Mulder started
to ask about Jess, but a child's whimper interrupted.
"Steven!"

He crawled to his side and his hands, God bless his
hands, they knew what to do as they gently straightened
the boy's tangled limbs and brushed his hair from his
face.

Steven gave a rattling breath, and color came back into
his paler than pale skin.  He reached for Mulder's
hand, and wove their fingers together, his tiny ones
almost lost in Mulder's long, elegant ones.  "Be
careful," Steven whispered.  "Be careful."

Skinner leaned forward.  "Shhh," he soothed, and
Steven looked up at the big man.  "Walter," he 
whispered.  "Fox said you were here."  He blinked
in confusion, then a smile blossomed on his grubby
face.  "And you found Jessie."

His gaze flicked from Mulder to Skinner and back
to Mulder.  He tightened his hand about Mulder's
and reached for Skinner with the other one.  "Be very
careful," he whispered again, his eyes sliding shut
once more, hands going limp.

Skinner put his hand on Mulder's good shoulder.
"He's in shock.  Medical's on the way."  He leaned
over and caught Mulder in a hug, holding him awkwardly
careful of both the sleeping baby he held and the 
injuries Mulder sported.  "He's alive!  You did good, 
Mulder, you did so good!"

Mulder nodded, inordinately pleased to have the praise
and admiration of this man he respected.  He nodded 
again, wordlessly, suddenly growing lightheaded and dizzy,
darkness threatening the edge of his vision.  He had
gotten Steven this far.  And Skinner had Jess.  He gently 
broke from Skinner's embrace and leaned over Steven 
again.  "You're alive, son.  You're safe, and you're alive."

He lifted his head to meet Skinner's eyes.  "But now --
where is Scully?"

*********************************************

Skinner woke suddenly to wiggling weight landing 
on his chest.  He groaned softly and was answered by
a high pitched giggle, echoed by a voice to his side.

"Steven," he said in mock sternness, "didn't I tell
you not to get Jessie out of the crib?"

"She was getting whiny, Walter," the boy explained.
"She isn't used to having to stay in the crib once
she wakes up."  The child's tone turned wistful.
"At home, she had a regular bed, only smaller.
Mama worried because she was always climbing 
out of the crib and she was afraid she'd fall and 
hurt herself."   

"So they got her a regular bed?" Skinner asked,
one hand gently hanging onto the baby as he
hitched to the side to make room for Steven to
climb up.

"Yeah," the boy said sadly.  "She only had it 
a couple weeks but she really liked it."  He
lay down beside Skinner, head resting on the
AD's shoulder, and Skinner stretched an arm
around him.  "Walter?  Jessica and me, we're
not going to get to go home, are we?"

Skinner swallowed and looked over at the fourth
bed in the room.  Mulder was sleeping, the IV 
administered pain meds keeping him under.  No
help from that quarter.  He rubbed the boy's back.
"No, Steven, you're not," he said quietly.

"Because the bad men hurt Mama and Daddy?"

"Yes."

"They killed them, didn't they?"

Skinner swallowed again, still rubbing the boy's
back.  He wasn't prepared for this.  He would never
be prepared for this.  Who could expect to have to
be prepared for this conversation?  "You know 
your mom and dad love you a lot, don't you Steven?"
he asked gently.

"Yeah.  That's why they were 'dopting me."  He 
paused a moment, thinking.  "We were gonna have
a party -- to celebrate."

"I know.  It's a good thing to celebrate."

"They love Jessie, too.  They were gonna 'dopt her
when she was old enough."  The boy sniffled, and
buried his head in Skinner's chest.  From her place
on his other side, he could feel the baby begin to stir
fretfully, worried by Steven's obvious agitation.
"But they won't now.  The bad men killed them."

"Yes, Steven, the bad men killed them."

The child was silent for a long time, and Skinner
could do nothing but hold him and hope that his
presence was comfort of some sort.  Finally, the 
boy looked up, meeting Skinner's eyes.  "What's
going to happen to me and Jess?" he asked, tears
hovering in his eyes.

"For now, you're going to stay with me and 
Fox," Skinner said reassuringly.  They all turned
to look at the man still sleeping in the other bed.
Jessica sat up again, using the hospital bed rail
to pull herself up.  

"Shhh," she whispered.  "Pox seepin' now."  

Skinner laughed quietly.  "Yep, Fox is still sleeping,"
he echoed.  

"We're gonna stay with you?" Steven asked again,
needing to hear the words.  This child had been 
through so much, his whole world shattered.  Skinner
was glad to be able to offer him this much.

"Absolutely.  For now, you stay with us."

"Where's Dana?" the boy asked.  "When is she coming?"

Skinner froze.  How to answer this one?  He played
several options through his mind and finally settled on
honesty.

"Steven?  Do you remember when Dana came?  Before
the bad men?"

"Yeah ..." the boy answered, slightly uncertain.

"And then what happened?"

"We played.  She said you and Fox were coming later."
He paused, brow furrowing as he thought back.  "Mom
fixed dinner and we ate."  He sucked in a gasp of air,
trying mightily to stifle a cry.  "Then the bad men came."

"Do you remember what happened to Dana?"

The little face puckered again, thinking hard.  "They 
brought her with us," he said finally.  "They hit her --
hard -- and then she was sleeping, but they picked her
up and carried her out to the van with me and Jess. 
She was fighting but they were really big men.  And
they hit her on the head.  They didn't bring Mama and 
Daddy," he added sadly.

The boy cuddled closer and Skinner held him tight.
Bandages stood out in stark contrast to the boy's 
darker coloring -- Mulder's coloring he thought to
himself.  Around both wrists, beneath the hospital
gown, on his chest, and on both legs, razor sharp
cuts had been cleaned and dressed in white gauze.
He'd been cleaned up, given a bath and Skinner 
could smell the clean scent of baby shampoo from
both children.  He tucked the child in tighter, wishing
he could take away the pain, set things back to the
way they were before.

"I tried to fight them, Walter," Steven said in a
small voice.  "I tried hard.  I kicked and I hit, but
the man just picked me up.  I was trying so hard ..."

"You were very brave, Steven," Skinner said, 
waging his own battle with the lump in his throat.
"You are the bravest boy I know."  He was hugging
the child, wondering where the conversation would
go next, when a nurse walked briskly into the room.

"In with you again, I see, Mr. Skinner," she said,
smiling.  

"We like Walter," Steven said defensively.

"Like Wa - tah," Jess echoed.

"I know you do," the woman said soothingly, "but
you know I need you in your own beds to look at
your boo-boos."

Steven rolled his eyes.  "You mean my injuries,"
he corrected.  "I don't call them boo-boos anymore."

The woman smiled again.  "Well, then, into your
own bed so I can check your injuries, young man."
She came to the side of Skinner's bed and let the rail
down.  "And you really shouldn't let them climb 
over the rail, Mr. Skinner," she admonished.  "It's
just not safe."

"I know," he answered, abashed.  "But they snuck 
up on me."

Steven had climbed down and padded over to his
bed.  Skinner watched as the boy jumped up into
his bed, not seeming to feel any discomfort from 
the numerous cuts and abrasions on his body.  The
nurse produced an aural thermometer and Steven
tolerated having the thing in his ear with obvious
distaste.  He handled the dressing changes better, 
but Skinner could tell his patience was wearing
thin by the time it was done.

"When's breakfast?" he asked as soon as the nurse
turned away.  

"Soon," she promised as she came back to Skinner's
bed, scooping Jessica up to do her exam.  "You must
have a lot of pull," she said jokingly to Skinner.  "I've
never seen the hospital allow children to stay with
adults -- not even family members injured in the same
trauma."

Skinner gave her a warning look, then said quietly,
"We wanted to be with the kids."  It was the truth,
but it belied the whole story.  The story that had
involved hours of explanations and phone calls, and
was the reason the four of them were sharing a 
hospital room with two guards outside the door.

The nurse finished with Jess and put her down on 
the floor, watching as she toddled over to the
impromptu play area they had established in one
corner of the ward room.  The only play room 
was on Pediatrics, and there was no way Skinner
was allowing the children out of his sight.  He
was determined they were all staying right here,
together, until Mulder was well enough to be
discharged and they could all leave together.
Then they would have to deal with the legalities
of custody.  And the realities of the same.  

And then, the search for Scully could begin.

End part 04/09



The Price of a Soul 05/09

Scully awoke.  That groggy feeling that often came from 
being drugged was fogging her mind, clouding her thoughts, 
making it difficult to get a clear assessment of her situation.  
She lay on a tattered old cot.  The smell of mildew thick 
beneath her nose.  Her hands were bound cruelly behind 
her back.  And she could feel wire within the cords that
secured her.  Her fingers were numb and she wiggled them 
uselessly trying to restore sensation.  The room was dim.  
The only light coming in was through a narrow grimy 
window tucked up close to the low ceiling.  Wiggling on 
the bed, on the cot, she surveyed the room and decided 
she was in a basement.  Concrete floor and rough 
cinderblock walls that glinted with the moisture that 
sweat through the brick.  The room was quiet.  No
sound to be heard.

Fighting the chemically induced cloud in her mind, 
she thought back on the events that led to this.  The 
trip out to the LaFreniere's had been uneventful.  She 
had enjoyed an afternoon with the children and dinner
with the family before hell had come to call.  She 
remembered watching in helplessness as the 
children were hauled away before her eyes.  And
then the feel of the needle sliding into her tightly 
held arm followed by the inevitable slide into 
unconsciousness.

Twisting her head she looked around again.  No 
sign of the children or Tom or Susan.  She kicked 
her feet experimentally and was surprised to find 
them loose in marked contrast to the tight bonds 
that held her hands.  Fighting a rising wave of nausea, 
she gave a mighty heave and shifted to a sitting 
position, her legs sliding over the edge of the
cot, her bare feet resting on the cold concrete floor.

What the hell had happened?  She twisted her head 
again, taking in the small, dark, dank room.  And 
where the hell was she?

Rising tentatively to her feet, she stood by the cot 
for a moment and then began a careful perusal of 
the rest of the room.  By the heavily filtered sunlight 
she could just make out the shape and details of her
cell.  She walked across the cool cement floor to 
stand by the wall beneath the window.  The room 
was low-ceilinged, barely a foot above her head, and 
were her hands free, she would be able to reach the  
window with little difficulty.  She snorted in disgust.  
Not that reaching the window would do her any good.  
It was too narrow to allow even her slender form to 
pass through.  

She took three paces from the window to reach the 
first corner, then turned and paced five more times 
to reach the second.  Three paces brought her to a 
rough hewn door with no visible latch or knob.  
Knowing it was futile she nonetheless dutifully
pressed against the door even going so far as to 
make a running jump and slam it with her shoulder. 
All that tactic did was earn her a very sore shoulder.  
She took three more paces to reach the third corner,
turned again, repeated the five steps of the short wall, 
and paused as she reached this last corner.  

There was a small jug of water and a plate that held a 
chunk of bread.  It almost made her laugh.  How was she
supposed to eat or drink with her hands bound behind her? 
The third object in the corner could only be a chamber pot.  
And she became aware of the pressure in her bladder.  Once 
again, perhaps the thought counted for something, but the 
reality of her situation made using the damn thing almost 
impossible.  She might be able to get her pants down but
with her hands bound the way they were, she didn't think 
she would be able to get them back up.  And she was at 
enough of a disadvantage as it was.  She didn't think she 
wanted to meet her captors with her pants around her ankles.

Her stomach rumbled and she realized she had been kept 
unconscious for quite a while.  She looked wistfully at the 
bread and water but decided she wasn't ready to eat 
doggie-style at this point.

Inspection of the room complete, she returned to the cot 
and sat.  There was no sound from outside the window -- no
cars, no barking dogs, no children playing, no birds, no 
frogs, no crickets -- nothing to give her a clue as to where 
she was.  The room itself seemed to echo with silence.  Her 
own ragged breathing and the blood pounding in her ears
was all she could hear in this eerily silent place.

Since her assault on the island she had kept her distance
from others becoming even more reserved and professional 
then was her usual wont.  Only Mulder slipped inside the 
reserve.  She smiled as she thought of her dark-haired lover.

And Skinner.  The man who had saved them both. 

But this silence, this isolation, was too reminiscent of that 
terrible time.  And she knew her strength would be tested.  
The residual effects of the drugs still had her confused, 
mildly disoriented, and she knew her thinking was not at 
its best.  She took one last look at the room, realized no 
miraculous escape had appeared, and decided sleep and more
time to clear the drugs from her system was her best course
of action.  Laying awkwardly down on her side, her right 
elbow digging into her hip, she closed her eyes and let 
thoughts of Mulder carry her away.

************************************************

Skinner stood by Mulder's bed, the baby snuggled in his 
arms.  She stared down at the sleeping agent and then 
demanded, "Pox, wake up now!" and Skinner chuckled.

"Fox is sleeping now, Jess," Skinner murmured.

"Pox, wake up now!" the baby repeated more insistently. 
She began squirming in his arms and Skinner was 
hard-pressed to keep a hold of her.

"I think she wants down, Walter," Steven said from the 
play area.

Skinner turned to look at the little boy and the baby took 
advantage of his momentary distraction to make her escape.  
With a kick to his belly and a sharp pull to the right, she
launched herself from Skinner's arms and swan-dived 
onto Mulder.

The younger man woke with an "Oomph!" and raised bleary 
eyes to look around.  Two little hands reached out to each 
cheek holding him still as a tiny nose approached his own.

"Pox, seep 'nough!  You pease wake up now."

"Uh, Sir?" Mulder began and Skinner immediately lifted
the baby from her roost on Mulder's tender abdomen -- the 
baby who promptly began to scream in protest.

"Sorry, Mulder," Skinner muttered, then repeated himself 
in a louder tone when Mulder indicated he couldn't be heard 
over the little girl's shrieks.

"Want Pox!"

Mulder raised his hands and covered his ears briefly 
then lifted long-suffering eyes to Skinner.  "How did I 
get to be so popular?"

Skinner snorted.  "*You've* been sleeping for two days. 
I think she's getting tired of me."

"Two days?"  He looked around carefully, counting beds.
"Scully?" he asked.  "Have you found Scully?"

"Want Pox!" the baby shrieked again, flailing her arms 
and legs.

Skinner was amazed at how much damage those little 
feet and hands were capable of.  He lifted her higher in
his arms trying to protect the vital parts of his anatomy 
from the kicking feet, then held her straight out from
his chest, her feet dancing in the air.  "Not yet.  I've
got people on it."  

"Want Pox!  Want Pox!  Want Pox!"

Skinner cast a nervous glance to the door of the ward 
room and wondered how long it would be before a nurse
came to see who was torturing this child.  As the baby 
landed another blow, this time catching him across his 
tender Adam's apple, he gave a strangled cough and
fleetingly wondered if he had the authority to coerce the 
guards outside into a more active form of guard duty.  He 
blinked and she nailed him on the nose and tears sprang 
to his eyes.  A more hazardous form of guard duty
he mentally amended -- babysitting.  Surely one of them
had kids ...

"Want Pox!  Jess want Pox!"

Skinner was at a loss and was ready to put the child down 
and ask for help when Mulder spoke again.  "Put her next 
to me," he said to Skinner.  He reached up with one arm 
and grabbed a wildly kicking foot, saying, "Jessica, stop this."

The baby's noise ceased as abruptly as it had begun.  "Pox
wake now," the baby said happily.

The baby immediately settled in Skinner's arms smiling 
with pleasure at both men.

"Jess," Mulder said quietly, "if you want to sit with me,
you have to sit still."

The baby's face turned serious.  "'kay."  She reached for Mulder
and Skinner gently set her down at his side.  One little hand 
reached out and gently traced the bandage on Mulder's shoulder.  
"Pox got owie," she whispered, then leaned over and planted 
a sloppy kiss on Mulder's hospital gown.  Mulder smiled.
A kiss from Jess was nice, but he really wanted Scully there.
Somehow her kisses were more healing.  

"You're pretty good at this, Mulder," Skinner said.

"Scully says it's my childlike personality," Mulder responded 
self-deprecatingly.  "The kids recognize a kindred spirit."

"What's kindred?" Steven piped up.

"It means alike," Mulder answered.

The little boy got up excitedly and moved to stand by 
Mulder's bed.  "We are alike!" he said.  "You and me and
Jess.  We have the same hair and we have the same eyes.  
We really are a kindred."

The two men exchanged a knowing look.  Mulder seemed 
to be pleading silently with Skinner who only shrugged.  
They probably weren't going to get a better entre into this 
sensitive subject than the one they were offered.

"Steven," Mulder said, "what do you know about your mom 
and dad?"

"They're dead," the boy said sadly.  He took a ragged breath 
then lifted tear-filled eyes to gaze at Mulder and Skinner.  
He lifted one hand and placed it over his chest.  "It makes 
my heart hurt when I think about it."

This was not going as Skinner had envisioned it at all.  And 
he couldn't stand by and watch this child suffer any more.  
He couldn't take away the hurt, but maybe he could do something 
to help.  He moved swiftly around the bed and lifted the startled 
child with strong, comforting arms.  The boy's legs wrapped 
around his waist and his arms snaked out to encircle his neck, 
the dark head nestling trustingly in the hollow of his shoulder.

Mulder frowned up at Skinner and sent a silent query 'Are you 
sure we should do this now?'

Skinner tightened his grip on the young boy and nodded.  This
conversation was never going to get any easier and it needed 
to be done.

"You know your mom and dad loved you, right Steven?"

The boy sniffed, rubbing his face against Skinner's shoulder 
and nodded mutely.

"They loved you very much," Skinner continued.

"They were 'dopting me," the boy agreed.

"Do you understand that you have another mother and 
father?" Skinner asked gently.  "Your biological
parents?"

Steven nodded again clutching tightly to the AD.

In the hospital bed Mulder pressed a button and the top half 
of the bed began to rise.  The baby giggled happily as she 
rode the bed to an upright position.  Mulder was sitting up
now and Skinner freed one hand to lower the bed's guard-rail 
then seated himself carefully on the foot of the bed.

Mulder spoke, "Steven, sometimes there are tests that can 
be done to find out if people are related."

The little boy lifted his head from Skinner's shoulder to 
look worriedly at Mulder.  "Tests that hurt?" he asked with 
concern.

"Oh, no," Mulder hurried to reassure the child.  "We've
already done these tests, Steven.  Do you remember when 
they took some blood after we had the accident?"

"When you and Walter came and found us."  The little 
boy nodded.  "Jessie cried, but I was brave."

"Yes, you were," Skinner said, rubbing the boy's back.  "You're 
still the bravest boy I know."

The boy beamed happily, thrilled to be praised by his hero.

"Well," Mulder continued, "from that blood the doctors were 
able to find out some things."

"What kind of things?" Steven asked.

"You know how you and Jessie look alike?"

The boy snorted in disgust.  "We don't look alike.  She's a girl 
and I'm a boy.  She's a baby and I'm big."

Mulder laughed and Skinner chuckled, then the older man
said, "But remember what you just said about your hair and 
Jessica's hair being alike?"

The little boy nodded and his eyes lit up for a moment, 
excitement clearly visible before it died and a frown 
crossed his face.  "But Jess can't be my mother," he said,
causing the two men to burst out laughing, "and I can't be
her father."

"No," Mulder said indulgently.  "But you can be her brother."

The little boy thought about this for a moment and nodded.  
"Her real brother, you mean, not just her 'dopted one?"

Mulder started to speak, but his throat closed up and he 
looked helplessly at Skinner.  Nodding again, the older 
man rubbed Steven's back softly, and said, "We know that 
Jess is your sister but we also know who your father is.  
Your real father.  Your biological father."

The little boy looked up in curiosity.  "Really?"

"Yep, really."  Skinner smiled down at the boy.  He glanced 
at Mulder and smiled then looked back to meet Steven's eyes.  
"Fox is your father.  Yours and Jessica's."

The child's eyes widened in amazement.  "You mean Fox 
is our daddy?"

"Pox daddy," Jessica echoed, and Mulder wondered what, if
anything, she understood of this conversation.  She seemed 
to be listening avidly, alternately at rest in his arms, or 
fidgeting restlessly as her brother grew agitated.

The boy stared somberly at the agent in the bed and Mulder's 
heart froze in fear.  He had known this wasn't going to be 
easy but he had hoped the child would be somewhat pleased 
at the revelation.  Instead Mulder watched as his son's expression 
changed from shock to disbelief and finally to anger.

Steven pushed away from Skinner and slid down to the floor 
moving several feet away.  "Are you really my daddy?" he 
demanded petulantly.

"Yes, Steven, I am," Mulder responded quietly with a nod.

"Daddy Pox," Jessica said throwing her arms around Mulder's
neck and kissing him soundly.  Mulder grinned.  At least
one of the children still liked him.  He patted the baby then 
shifted slightly as she settled down beside him.  He looked up 
to meet the angry and confused eyes of his son.

"If you are really my dad," Steven said, "why didn't you take
care of me when I was little?"  His small hands balled into fists 
at his side and his body went rigid.  "And how come," he 
continued, "if you really are our dad, you didn't take care of 
Jessica?"  Steven paused for a moment, chest heaving, as he 
fought back tears.  "Dads are supposed to take care of their kids."

Skinner's heart was breaking.  For Mulder and for Steven.  He 
didn't know who needed him more but he feared any offer of 
comfort to either of them would be rebuffed.  For this, they would 
have to work it out themselves.

"I didn't know about you or Jess," Mulder pleaded, the pain in 
his voice so tangible it hurt Skinner just to listen.

"No!" Steven said with a snuffle.

"Yes," Mulder insisted.  "I didn't know about you."  He extended 
both hands toward the boy.  "Steven, you have to believe me.  If I
had known about you, I would *never* have let them hurt you."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You would have wanted me?"

"Steven, I *do* want you," Mulder said injecting every ounce 
of sincerity and believability he could into his tone, willing the 
boy to believe this most basic truth.

The child stood stiffly, immobile, as he waged an inner battle,
and Skinner and Mulder waited, breaths held, afraid to move.

"You really want to be my dad?" Steven asked finally.

"Oh, Steven," Mulder responded, "I would be so honored if you 
would let me be your dad."

At that, the dam burst and tears began to flow down the child's 
cheeks.  He ran the few feet to the bed and launched himself into 
Mulder's waiting arms.

Skinner was concerned about Mulder's wounds but this was 
more important.

The boy clung to his father, weeping, and Mulder's tears flowed 
freely too.  Steven pulled back from Mulder's arms a tiny
bit, and looked up at him.  "You're really my 'logical
father?"

Mulder glanced at Skinner, both men smiling now, and
answered, "Well, I don't know how 'logical' it is, but,
yes, Steven, I *am* your father."

Steven missed the joke, but nodded and continued to
stare up at Mulder.  "And you're not going to leave me?
Or Jess?  You're going to stay with us and take care of
us forever?"

"Forever," Mulder promised.  "After all, dads take care
of their kids."  He hugged the boy tightly, unwilling to
let him go for even a minute now.

Skinner lifted a hand to wipe his own eyes, happy to see 
this issue resolved, but wondering how they would move 
on now.

As Steven's shudders calmed and the tears ceased, Jessica 
solved the problem of moving on when she patted Mulder 
and said, "Daddy Pox?"

When Mulder looked up at her, she pointed at Skinner 
and said, "Who dat?"

Mulder got a big shit-eating grin on his face and said, 
"Wellll -- Steven, baby Jess, I'd have to say, that's your 
Uncle Walter."

**********************************************

When Scully woke the next time, it was dark.  The little
bit of light the narrow window had admitted was gone.
Her stomach rumbled in complaint, and her bladder felt
full to bursting.  The drugs seemed to have left her system
for she felt clear-headed and the annoying fog that had
clouded her mind had lifted.  She moved experimentally
on the cot, and was relieved to find her hands had been
freed at some point as she slept.  

She rose quickly and moved to the corner where the
food and water had been left - and the other necessity.
She took the bread and water back to the cot, then returned
to the corner and relieved herself.  Moving back to
the cot, she spared a minute amount of water to rinse 
her hands and face, then drank deeply.  The bread 
vanished, followed quickly by the water, and she was
amazed that stale bread and lukewarm water could taste
so good.  Scully sat quietly for a few minutes, trying 
to get her bearings in the blackness, trying to come
up with a plan.  

A sudden cramp clutched at her belly and she 
was reminded that gorging on an empty stomach was 
never a good idea.  Her tummy heaved, and she
tasted bile, but she managed not to vomit, although
the sharp stink of mildew and her wastes made it
a temptation and her mouth tasted unspeakably
foul.  She reached up, clawing her hair out of
her face, then ran a weary hand over her eyes, 
pressing hard against closed lids.  Her head pounded
now, her abdomen quivered, and the darkness 
seemed to become denser.

She was alive.  There was that.  In the dark, in
an unknown place, held captive for an unknown
reason by an unknown enemy, but alive.  Being
alive was not in itself terribly reassuring.  She
wondered if the other occupants of the LaFreniere
home had been so lucky.  Scully shook her head,
forcing herself to her feet and decided to make
another assessment of her prison.  This time 
with a clear head.

She was content with her measurements from
the last time; 6 paces by 5 paces, approximately
12 by 10.  The place she was in, other than being
black as pitch, was cool, but not dangerously so.
The concrete was rough beneath her bare feet,
and she wondered for the first time where her
shoes were.  And why they had felt it necessary
to remove them.  She moved slowly to a wall,
reaching out tentatively and touching the
damp cinderblock.  She traced the blocks, 
confirming they were cinderblock, and decided
she must be in a cellar or basement, not too
well insulated if the moisture of the ground
was weeping through the block.

The temperature seemed constant, the earth
itself serving to regulate it, and there were
no sounds or even vibrations to give a clue
as to where she was, or if she was alone.  
A sudden thought crossed her mind, and
she felt panic stab at her consciousness. 
What if she had been buried alive in this
small room?  What if there was no house
above?  No one to come for her?  No clue
to where she was?  She closed her eyes
tightly, fingernails biting into the palms 
of her clenched fists.  Think, Dana, she
admonished herself, think.  Would they
leave you water and food if they were going
to forget you?  Would there be a window --
that's right, there was a window -- if this was
a crypt?  The temporary insanity receded
and she could feel her breathing begin to 
slow and even out.  

She made her way to the cot and sat again,
knowing that she would have to find a way
out.  Mulder and Skinner were good, but
she had a feeling her captors were better in
this case.  It was probably as if she had 
vanished off the face of the earth.  But she
was still alive.  God only knew if any of the
others still were.  She had a sudden case of 
guilt.  When the men had attacked, beating
Tom and Susan, grabbing up the children so
cruelly, she had been shocked.  Not prepared
for violence, she hadn't been wearing her
gun and despite her best efforts had been 
easily overpowered.  She hadn't been able to
*do* anything to protect the LaFreniere's.
Nothing.  

But despite her situation, despite her seeming
disadvantage, she wasn't shocked anymore.  
And she wasn't unprepared.  She knew something
that these men didn't know.  They would look
at her and see a small woman.  Strong, yes,
but they would consider her strong for a woman
her size.  They would be like most men were 
who tangled with her.  Unprepared for her
advantage.  Unprepared for her determination.
Unprepared for her readiness to do whatever
it took to get free.

She drew a deep breath and then froze.  She
had heard nothing, but there were vibrations
where there had been stillness, in the concrete
beneath her feet, and in the air that brushed
her cheeks.  She paused a moment, thinking
of Mulder.  Mulder who was her love, her
strength, her safe place.  He was her comfort.

Then she thought of Skinner.  A big man,
a strong man, who had spent time with her 
after the island.  Time showing her how
to use her size to her advantage.  How to use
his size against him.  He was her mentor, 
her teacher, her friend.  

She flung herself back onto the cot, going
loose in a facsimile of sleep or unconsciousness.
A lock turned, then a bolt, then a chain.  Hinges
groaned and then there was light!  Real light.
Beautiful, bouncing, blinding light.  She readied
herself without moving, prepared to spring up
if the chance presented itself.  Tiny, quick
breaths, each one designed to hide the rise and
fall of her chest.  

There were footsteps in the room now.  One man.
Were there others upstairs?  She dismissed the
thought.  One step at a time.  If she made it out
of here, she would soon know if this man was
alone.  She thought once more of Mulder - his
touch, his taste, his tone.  She wanted to experience
him again.  They had waited so long to know one
another, she wasn't ready to let go yet.  After the
island it had been Mulder, and Mulder alone who
had let her feel safe enough to be a woman.  Who 
had made it all right for her to be with him.  Who
made it good to not be alone.

And she thought of Skinner -- the black and blue 
marks he hid beneath the starched white shirts as 
he taught her to fight as he had been taught.  The 
aches and pains he suffered willingly to make her 
stronger, to give her back her security.  It had been
Skinner who had made her strong enough to be a
woman.  Who made her know again that she could
take care of herself.  Who made her strong enough
to be alone.

She waited in total relaxation on the bed, ready
to react to whatever situation presented itself.  
And she thanked both of her men that she was
prepared this time.

End part 05/09