TITLE: SIEG UND VERLUST (includes So This is Agent Mulder)  
AUTHOR: aka "Jake"
SPOILER WARNING: Big ones for early Season 8, mytharc eps
RATING: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Sexual Content) 
CLASSIFICATION: X, MSR 
KEYWORDS: Mytharc, Character Death

SUMMARY: The Apocalypse is at hand and G-Men Mulder, Skinner, and Doggett bust their asses to fight for the future of mankind. They face life and death, good and evil, courageous heroes and dastardly villains. Redolent with testosterone, the language is harsh and the men are manly. And of course, there is a damsel in distress.

"So what's next, Agent Mulder?"

"The shit-storm of all time, Agent Doggett. You ready for it?"   

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, John Doggett, the Lone Gunmen, Margaret Scully, Director Kersh, CGB Spender, Alex Krycek, Marita Covarrubias, Diana Fowley, Cassandra Spender, Gibson Praise, Conrad Strughold: do these characters really all belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. 

Author's notes: This story is complete. The vignette "So This Is Agent Mulder" (from which this story sprang) is included at the beginning. Thank you to all who asked for an extended version of the original short story. Special thanks to mimic for her super fast beta.


SIEG UND VERLUST (Victory and Sacrifice) (1/1)
By aka "Jake"

PROLOGUE (So This is Agent Mulder) 

FBI Headquarters
8:27 A.M.

So this is Agent Mulder. Dana's long lost partner. The real deal. Not the man I saw on an Arizona cliff, the guy who "looked like Mulder but wasn't Mulder," kidnapping Gibson Praise, evading capture. Not a shape-shifting, bounty-hunting doppelganger from outer space...if you believe in that sort of B.S. This is *the* Agent Mulder. The man who exposes government plots, hunts alien invaders, makes theoretical leaps in a single bound. I'm surprised he isn't wearing an "S" on his chest...or a little tinfoil cap on his head. Golden Boy or lunatic, he's dressed in ordinary blue jeans and a T-shirt -- much like his imposter in Arizona. 

Although he's freshly scrubbed, dressed in clean clothes, hair combed, nails clipped and probably ass wiped, Agent Mulder smells...bad. The odor reminds me of a place I visited years ago, back when I was serving warrants -- a torched animal shelter. You don't forget a stench like that. Burnt hair. Cooked flesh. Animal excrement. The whole building reeked. The same terrible air of death clings to Mulder now and the stink sets my teeth on edge. 

Jesus. Agent Mulder's been fucked over with a capital "F." Black-and-blues cover his neck and head. The cuts on his face look like roadmaps to Hell. His hands are crisscrossed with scratches, and the split knuckles would indicate he didn't go down without a fight. Both his wrists are bandaged and I can't help but wonder if the hidden wounds are self-inflicted. 

Mulder's eyes dart around the room as if he's keeping tabs on ghosts. Being abducted by EBEs must take a sizable chunk out of a man's sanity. That's where he claims he's been, by the way. On a ship of extraterrestrial origin. I don't know if I should laugh or believe him. Dana believes him and I've come to trust her instincts, so if she accepts what he says is true, I guess I have to, too. At least until proven otherwise. 

AD Skinner is here backing them both and he's about as straight-laced as they come, so who am I to argue? Sitting behind his desk, the AD is strung tighter than usual today. Jaw set. Shoulders back. Ready to rush the next hill and conquer the universe. His scowl could singe the devil himself. Glad I'm on his side. 

At least, I think I'm on his side.

Mulder stands in front of Skinner's desk, scarcely able to keep himself upright. Dana paces the room. Her eyes never leave her swaying partner and she stays within arm's reach as she walks around him. She's prepared to catch him if he drops. For the time being, though, he's holding his own. Barely. 

After an unscheduled eight-week absence, Mulder unexpectedly resurfaced early this morning. I didn't hear the news through official channels, unless you consider the bullpen "official." My exclusion from the loop wasn't worth taking personally however. Christ, Dana's had plenty on her mind lately. And let's be honest, I never did make it onto her speed dial. Hell, I was satisfied when she finally started to call me John instead of Agent Doggett. 

As soon as I'd learned Mulder was back among the earthbound, I phoned Skinner and bullied my way into his unofficial, pre-Kersh debriefing. It wasn't an easy boxing match. I had to remind the AD exactly how I'd risked my ass filling in for our wayward agent over the past several weeks. It wasn't until I mentioned the slimy creature I sliced outta Dana's back in Juab County, Utah, that Skinner finally relented and allowed me access.

Holy Mother of Christ, the glare Dana shoots at me when I crash their private party could frost Mercury. I've seen Lebanese sandstorms that look friendlier than the "no trespassing" signs flashing in her eyes. Message received loud and clear, Agent Scully: no intrusions on Mulder's homecoming speech. I close my mouth and slide into the back of the room as inconspicuously as possible. 

No one makes any introductions, but the way Mulder eyeballs me, I get the impression he already knows exactly who I am. And he doesn't seem at all pleased I've been keeping his seat warm while he's been away. It's clear he doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me, and considering the shape he's in right now, that wouldn't be very far. 

The feeling's mutual. I don't trust him either. Dana may think the guy's a Boy Scout but I gotta go with the facts. And the facts include car rental receipts on Agent Mulder's Visa, four consecutive weekends in May, same mileage each trip. A debit to a Raleigh, North Carolina, mortuary. A headstone in the Mulder family plot with Fox Mulder's name engraved at the bottom. Then there are his medical records -- recent stuff, from the past year. Clear documentation of physical decline -- Dana saw the documents herself and vouched for their apparent authenticity. And let's not forget the kidnapping of Gibson Praise and our merry chase through the Arizona desert. 

I get Mulder, I really do. I understand obsession. So I gotta ask how far would he go? I mean, would he stage his own disappearance to buy himself time to gather the proof he thinks he needs? 

I'm told Agent Mulder is only after the truth. Well, so am I and I worked tracking fugitives for the NYPD long enough to smell a red herring. The question now is who's responsible for this smokescreen? Mulder? Or, as Dana suggests, is he just being used?  

I stare right back at him. What the hell else can I do? 

"Their timetable?" Skinner asks his itinerant agent, not the least interested in the private face-off between Mulder and myself. After all, a planned alien invasion usurps almost anything else you can think of. And Deputy Director Kersh has scheduled a little inquisition of his own at 0900 -- a half-hour from right now.

"Not sure. Soon," Mulder whispers, his voice sounding raw. He shakes when he speaks. Exhaustion threatens to drop him where he stands. "Busy...getting ready."

"How many are there?"

"Lots." He chuckles at this, although I can't imagine why. "They know about...about the vaccine. They're prepared this time."

"Prepared? How?"

"Blood. Mine. Provided the necessary ingredients for their secret recipe."

"What about the Faceless Rebels? Can we expect help?"

Mulder nods and the effort causes a spasm of pain that nearly topples him.

"What are 'faceless rebels'?" I chance a question and earn three sets of angry eyes. "If it's any of my business." 

"An extraterrestrial resistance group," Skinner says, although it's clear he doesn't want to waste precious time bringing me up to speed. "They're interested in preventing the alien invasion."

"Why?" 

From everyone's expression, I'd have to guess this is a new question.

"A lot of the details remain sketchy, Agent Doggett," Dana says. At some point in the last few hours she's decided to drop our hard-won informality. "We don't have all the answers." 

"Do we have any?"

"We know they have a lethal virus." Dana continues her pacing, hands on her hips, eyes still fastened on Mulder although she speaks to me. "Held within the pollen of genetically altered corn, the virus is to be distributed by bees whose sting transmits the pathogen, causing--"

"Causing the growth of an extraterrestrial biological entity inside its human host," Mulder finishes for her.

I try to picture it, but I simply can't make the image come. "Inside...?"

"Infection is always fatal unless the vaccine can be administered within ninety-six hours."

Jesus Christ. The scope of this nightmare makes Anthony Tippet's bad dreams seem like kid's stuff. I can't accept it. I just can't. Viruses and aliens and planned invasions...it's too much. Maybe Mulder's been sitting with this stuff long enough to believe it, but my brain is shouting for a time out. "Dana, do you...do you really believe all this? You've actually seen it?"

"Two and a half years ago...I was infected. I would have died if..." She stops, struggling to control her emotions. This is hard for her. Obviously, it's personal. But I suspect the intangibility of the circumstances frustrates her, too. She has no evidence to hang her hat on. Dana's background is in science and I've worked with her long enough to know that's where she looks first for answers. I've also worked with her long enough to know she's willing to open her mind to more extreme possibilities when science doesn't provide any answers. But aliens from outer space? How can she accept such an impossibility? She clears her throat, steadying her voice. "Our only defense is a weak vaccine."

"*Was* a weak vaccine," Mulder corrects her. "Now that's useless, too. They've developed an uber-virus...thanks to me."

"Can't we develop a stronger vaccine to counteract their new virus?" I suggest.

"Not with our current technology and the given timetable." Mulder shuffles to one of the chairs facing Skinner's desk. He walks like an inmate who's been wearing shackles for half a century. When he eases himself into the chair, he exposes a line of fresh blood running across the back of his right hand, originating from somewhere beneath his bandage. 

"It took more than fifty years to develop the last vaccine," Dana tells me. She notices the blood, too.

"My fault," Mulder mutters. "Shouldn't have gone to Bellefleur."

Christ, I'd hate to carry the guilt this guy must be feeling. I'm guessing he expected to be the hero in all this, infiltrating the enemy camp and bringing back Lord-knows-what to stop Armageddon and save the day. Instead, he's unwittingly aided and abetted the bad guys, whoever the hell they are. I'm not yet willing to concede the black hats are from any world other than our own, but somebody's responsible for beating the crap out of Mulder. And that same somebody scares the hell out of Dana and Skinner.   

"They would have found you wherever you went," Skinner tells Mulder.

"Maybe they didn't know...didn't know I was immune...until they did the tests."

"Stop blaming yourself. They know everything."

Skinner, Mulder, Dana -- they look beaten down. Not hopeless exactly, but bone tired. 

"Nobody knows everything," I say, "And everyone's got a weakness. You just need to find it. What other weapons do they have? Is the virus their only means of attack?"

They stare at me as if I'd morphed into a green-skinned alien myself.

"I'm going back," Mulder announces, struggling to his feet. 

Dana is immediately at his side, steadying him. "You're in no condition to go anywhere, Mulder," she whispers.

"No choice. My day pass is running out."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Skinner's on his feet now, too.

"When the Rebels attacked the ship, they set fire to everything on board." 

Well that explains the smell I noticed when I first walked in. 

"They freed me, but only for a few hours. They want me back. They're waiting now."

"No. They can take me instead," Skinner volunteers, adamant.

"Sorry, sir, wrong blood type. The Rebels were too late to destroy the new virus. The Alien Invaders had already FedExed it to their buddies back home. So the Rebels took the next best thing -- me. They want to use me to recreate the new virus...and then develop an antidote. And I plan to help them. Sir, you're the only one I trust to watch Scully's back while I'm away."

If that's an insult aimed in my direction, I take no offense. Hell, Mulder doesn't know me any more than I know him. He hasn't any idea I've been playing white knight to his partner while he's been fighting for the future of mankind. 

With a quick glance at Skinner, Dana laces her fingers through Mulder's, hiding the blood on his hand with her palm. "No. You can't go back. Not now. I-I need you here."

"Scully..."

"I won't let you go. Not alone. Not again. I'm going to go with you this time."

Both Skinner and Mulder object and then it hits me. All the clues fall into place. The doctor's appointments and the hospital stays, the way Skinner covers for her...she's pregnant, for Christ's sakes. My eyes go straight to her stomach and I feel like such a fucking idiot. She and Mulder are not just partners; they're lovers and she's carrying his child. I suddenly feel like the world's stupidest detective.

Dana's pregnancy, Skinner's concern, Mulder's injuries all add up to the same thing: Mulder never staged his own disappearance. There are no selfish motives here. What they've been saying about an alien invasion is grounded in truth, no matter how bizarre it sounds. To top it off, Mulder expects to walk right back into the middle of it. 

Wrapping his arms around Dana, Mulder plants a kiss on the top of her head. "Don't worry, Scully. They promised to let me out for good behavior."

"I don't trust their promises," she mumbles into his shirt.

"Then trust mine. I promise I'll be back before he's born." He holds her more tightly and aims a lopsided grin at Skinner. "Besides, Uncle Walt will be here if you need anything."

"Believe it," Skinner assures.

I'm reluctant to intrude on their sentimental scene, but I've still got questions. "Agent Mulder, why let you go at all? Why let you return here today?" 

Mulder draws back from Dana to study me. He's taking stock, judging my trustworthiness, my loyalty, my beliefs.

"To enlist reinforcements. The Rebels need a little help organizing an effective human resistance. Staging a few well-placed diversions. Infiltrating a couple of strategic strongholds." He squints at me. "The chances of success are kinda slim, but the cause is just."

Well, what do you know? It's an invitation. So this is Agent Mulder. Not a kidnapper. Not a crackpot. He's a man of courage. A good and brave man, throwing himself at an inhuman threat from the stars, ready to risk his life for a greater good. And willing to trust me to help him. The guy's a damn hero. 

Hell, maybe we'll both be heroes before it's all over. 

"I'm in...if you'll have me," I tell him and when he extends his hand, I shake it, sealing the deal with a smear of his blood across my palm. 

Dana and Skinner merely blink at us, unable to believe what just happened. The Lebanese sandstorm expression has vanished from her eyes and Skinner looks downright envious. Mulder doesn't give either of them the opportunity to speak. 

"Any partner of Scully's must have a good quality or two,"he says.

I nod, hoping I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my life. "So what's next, Agent Mulder?"

"The shit-storm of all time, Agent Doggett. You ready for it?"

Strangely, I find that I am. Not exactly what I was expecting when I got out of bed this morning, but I'm an optimistic man. 
Despite the odds, I'm in this game now, and Mulder and I are about to take our best shot for the home team. 

Besides, I'd rather face an army of little green men than try to explain to Deputy Director Kersh how Agent Fox Mulder slipped through the FBI's fingers a second time.

- - - - - - -

PART I

El Rico Air Force Base

Agent Doggett. Scully's new partner. My replacement. Visions of Payton Ritter dance in my head, along with a mental image of my unborn child somersaulting behind the battle scar left by Payton's bullet. Did I mention she almost died because of that wet-behind-the-ears, irresponsible, reckless idiot's no-excuse lapse in rational judgment? So, yes, my first instinct is to hate this squinty-eyed, Paytonesque bastard who's been trying to fill my shoes while I've been off having my molars drilled and my ass probed.

Eight weeks lost in space with gray-skinned, Josef Mengele wannabees gives a guy a bit of an attitude, so sue me if I don't warm up to the man who's been smelling Scully's perfume for the last two months. I missed her. I missed her so much I ached from the inside out. The holes they drilled in my teeth were nothing compared to the one I felt in my chest after I said goodbye to Scully in D.C.

But you should've seen her face when I showed up at her apartment earlier today. Hooooo! Definite Kodak moment. Two a.m., pitch dark, not a creature stirring. I picked her lock to get in -- had to, since I lost my copy of her key, along with everything else after boarding the ship in Bellefleur. I managed to sneak all the way down the hall to her bedroom without falling on my ass and spoiling my grand entrance. Then there she was. The love of my life, snoozing like Sleeping Beauty...with a loaded SIG Sauer on her nightstand. I sat down on the edge of the bed and Scully's beautiful baby blues flew open at the first creak of the bedsprings. With her weapon aimed point-blank at my chest, all I could think to say was "Hi, honey, I'm home." She threw the gun at me. Damned if it didn't catch me right in the left eye, adding another bruise to the many I now sport. 

Scully was beside herself with apologies, hurrying to the kitchen to get ice and then running back to kiss me. Questions poured out of her. Where had I been? What had I been doing? Why the hell had I gone and left her alone and pregnant?

Pregnant?

This bit of news wasn't as welcome as one might suppose. My first thoughts were of alien-human hybrids, nefarious medical experiments, CGB. But Scully assured me all was well. The baby's fine, normal...mine. 

Mine? 

My panic was swept away by genuine, heartfelt, manly pride. I'd knocked up my partner! Imagine what the guys in the bullpen must be saying!

Of course I was happy for other reasons, too. Lots of other reasons. Lots and lots of other reasons.

I kissed her.

I kissed her the way I'd been dreaming of kissing her for the last sixty-one days, seven hours, and twenty-six minutes, give or take a second or two. I wrapped my arms around her nicely padded figure -- not that I didn't appreciate Scully's former slim-and-trim shape, but her new softness made me want to--       

Anyway...back to Doggett.

He stands beside me outside a hanger at El Rico Air Force Base, waiting for our ride. We won't be taking your standard 747 this morning -- the fare, like the ride, would be out of this world. Instead, our hosts are providing private transportation, which is a shame -- it's a bitch to lose all those frequent flyer miles. Our final destination is somewhere beyond Earth's atmosphere, on an alien Rebel ship. 

"Hope you ate before you left," I tell Doggett. "There won't be an in-flight meal. Not even peanuts." 

"I'm not hungry." 

That's all he says. He asks no questions. He just eyeballs our cold, empty surroundings.

"You realize where we're going, don't you?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm having a nightmare and I'll wake up any minute."  

Hold on to that fantasy if it helps, pal. 

Scully told me Doggett is an ex-cop. NYPD. Fugitives. Warrants. Guess he's been in a few risky situations before, although I doubt he's encountered anything quite like this little adventure. Chasing America's Most Wanted is a cupcake-walk when compared to running after extraterrestrial biological entities.

To be honest, I was surprised when Doggett threw in with me back in Skinner's office. It's obvious he's a skeptic and I doubt he trusts me any more than I trust him. Why should he? EBEs, spaceships, Faceless Rebels, deadly viruses. I sound like a damn lunatic.

If Doggett thinks I'm off my nut he hides it pretty well -- better than most of the naysayers I've encountered over the last couple of decades. Usually I get rolling eyes, derisive laughs, patronizing jokes. Not to mention the nickname "Spooky." But Doggett remains pokerfaced. 

Skeptic or not, he's here and I'm grateful for his help.

Skinner's, too. It took some talking, but I convinced Skinner to take Scully away. Hide her. The aliens spent eight weeks digging at my flesh like 49ers at Sutter's Mill. They drilled holes into my head as if my brain held the answers to all the questions of the universe -- a goddamn Rosetta Stone of life. I'm not sure what mitochondrial mutation they were mining for, but if Baby Mulder is a chip off this ol' block, he's a target just like his old man.   

A car pulls up in front of the hanger and a faceless man exits the passenger seat. When I say faceless, I don't mean the guy could blend into a crowd, go unnoticed. He's not ordinary by any stretch of the imagination. Puckered scars blur his features, sealing his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears. 

"Meet Frank," I say to Doggett.

"Frank?" Doggett stares at the Rebel's scarred face.

"He was 'Dr. N. Stein' until he put us on a first name basis by sticking something long and slender up my ass. Believe me, these guys know how to conduct a proper strip search. It's the biggest thrill you'll get for a while." I give Doggett a smile, enjoying the dent I've made in his mask of calm. A priceless expression of discomfort washes across his face.

The Rebel gestures us toward the car.

"Last chance to opt out, Agent Doggett."

"I'm already here. Might as well see it through."

I shrug and head for the car. Doggett's a big boy. He's been warned. I climb into the back seat and Doggett slides in beside me. The Rebel shuts the door behind us and joins his twin up front. Our two hosts don stylin' shades -- an attempt to hide their disfigurement from prying eyes. The dust on the windshield will conceal the rest. We drive north.

"They're not going to blindfold us?" Doggett asks.

The idea makes me laugh. "Doesn't matter if we see where we're going or not. We can't get back without them."

He nods, but stays alert. Once a cop, always a cop. 

Traffic picks up as soon as we leave the base and I watch car after car whiz by. Businessmen, families. Ordinary people on their way to ordinary places. I remember not too long ago Scully asked me, "Don't you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn car? Settle down and live something approaching a normal life?" At the time, I wasn't paying much attention, bent on finding the proof I'd always believed was out there but never held in my hands. I thought I wanted the truth more than anything else. I learned the hard way, you need to be damn careful what you wish for because some sadistic fairy godmother might just grant you your heart's desire and you'll end up wishing like hell for another wish. 
    
"What happened to you, Agent Mulder? Over the past eight weeks?" Doggett asks, keeping his voice unnecessarily low. 

Should I tell him about my visit with the aliens or would it be more humane to spare him the gory details? Their chair of horrors, for instance -- a cross between a Barcalounger and an iron maiden -- how the hell do I describe that monstrosity? I decide he doesn't need a blow-by-blow. And neither do I. A more varnished version of the truth will be enough for us both. 

"Despite the countless testimonials to the contrary, Agent Doggett, spaceships are not silvery-white, bright, smooth, and clean. They're organic. Muggy. They overload the senses. Breathing is nearly impossible, not because the air is so goddamn thick it feels like molasses pouring down your throat, but because to think about such a god-awful place stalls your lungs. Probably a good thing, or you'd go mad listening to yourself scream." 

I let him chew on that for a minute while I arrange myself more comfortably in my seat.

"These..." -- he points to our hosts -- "are aliens?"

"Yes. They're faceless rebels."

"Meaning?"

"It means they have no faces, Agent Doggett."

"I get that. Can you tell me how these aliens differ from...other aliens?"

Where do I begin? It's taken me a lifetime to tease a few teensy-weensy factoids out of this bizarre drama and I still feel in the dark most of the time. I know more about vampires, flukemen or OBEs than I know about EBEs. Especially the faceless variety.

Years ago, Cassandra Spender told me that the different alien races were in upheaval. Krycek warned me about a planned alien invasion. Diana hinted that my role in the coming apocalypse had been known for a long time. And Cancer Man -- the fucking bastard -- his claims were the most unlikely of all. Am I really to believe I'm his son, mankind's knight-in-shining-armor, savior of the entire universe? And what the hell does that make him? God? 

The idea is preposterous. 

True or false, their hearsay tells me nothing. I can't draw one single solid conclusion from such vague commentary. Scully would laugh her ass off if she could hear me say this, but I'm at a point where I need some hard evidence. So assuming I'm not certifiably crazy, let's tally up the things ol' Spooky Mulder's seen with his own eyes: 1) I was taken aboard an alien craft by a man who can shape-shift, changing his appearance at will; 2) I was tortured for eight weeks until the Faceless Rebels arrived and set fire to the Colonists' ship, rescuing me; and 3) I was allowed to return home to gather reinforcements. But for what? What's the Rebels' true cause? I agreed to help them only because they fight the same enemy I fight. In reality, I'm clueless about their ultimate goal. It's possible I'm heading for my own end zone.

Story of my life.   

"I'm tired, Agent Doggett," I tell him, deciding he can pick up what he needs to know later. "I'm going to sleep now. It may be my last chance for a while." 

He starts to object. I close my eyes anyway, shutting him out while I try to picture Scully. Not the way she looked when I left her this morning, but the way she looked on the night our child was conceived. The best moment of my life. Bar none. However, hard as I try, the images won't rise to the surface, not even with my photographic memory. Instead, I see Scully crying in Skinner's office while I walk out of her life one more time. 

- - - - - - -

Scully's Apartment

"Sir, I don't need to--"

"Pack, Agent Scully. That's an order."

Whether she wants to or not, she's going to a safehouse. I try to look imposing. I feel scared shitless. Not of her, but of her enemies, Mulder's enemies. My enemies. Scully's eyes threaten bodily harm, but I'm not budging. Not without her. I have no intention of losing her the way I lost Mulder in Oregon. Mulder asked me to hide her, keep her safe. He's counting on me and I won't let him down. Not again. I won't let either of them down.

There have been too many times when these agents turned to me, trusted me, and I failed them. Times when I could've helped, but didn't. It may be impossible to make up for that now, but I promise to do whatever it takes to protect Scully and her baby. Nothing, *nothing* is going to stop me -- not Krycek, not my superiors, and certainly not my own cowardice. I'm taking Scully out of here, even if I have to carry her. 

She's pissed, of course. She spins on her heel and heads to the back of her apartment, leaving me to suck in a big, fat sigh of relief. 

I don't want to fight her; I only want to keep her safe.

"This isn't necessary." Her voice fires like a Tomahawk down the hall. I'm ground zero. "I don't want to be hidden away for the next five and a half months. I want to help."

"You need to stay alive." I cross to a window and scan the street. A delivery truck raises my suspicions. Are we being surveilled? 

"What if I need a doctor?" Scully challenges from the bedroom.

Good question and I don't have an adequate answer. Scully's already been admitted twice to Washington National Hospital for "tests" -- the nature of which she refuses to share.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." 

A drawer slams shut.

"What am I supposed to tell my family? My mother?" she yells, her voice ricocheting through the apartment. 

"Nothing." 

More drawers crash and bang.

She returns to the livingroom, bag in hand, her expression as dark as a thundercloud. "Where are you taking me?"

I shake my head, letting her know I won't talk about it here. There's no doubt in my mind her apartment is bugged. We've already said too much.

"My mother will worry. I won't have her thinking I've been abducted. I won't put her through that again."

"There's no choice, Agent Scully. The knowledge of your whereabouts puts your mother's life at risk." I decide to make a point by placing my hand on her abdomen. She flinches from the intimacy of my unexpected touch. "Don't endanger your family."  

- - - - - - -

Location Unknown

"Agent Mulder, wake up." I elbow Mulder and he groans. I doubt there's a spot on his body that isn't bruised.

"We there?" He yawns, stretches until his knuckles graze the car roof and his legs meet the seatback in front of him.

"You tell me. I have no idea what I'm looking at here." The air shimmers beyond the hood of our parked car. I see nothing but an empty field, distant trees, and an unpaved road overgrown with weeds. Our mysterious drivers wait for us outside.

Mulder blinks the sleep from his eyes. "You a Star Trek fan, Agent Doggett?"

"No. Never watched the show."

"Never watched...? Then I guess you don't know what a Romulan cloaking device is." He opens his door and steps out.

I climb out after him and follow him toward...nothing, feeling a bit like one of the Pied Piper's rats. We stand in the middle of a hayfield, killing time for god-only-knows what.

Then the air ripples, buckles like an accordion.

"Hold on to your hat, Agent Doggett, 'cause you're gonna love this." He points at...

Holy Mother of...  

A wall flickers into view. A fucking huge wall that blocks out the field, the trees, the sky. It's several stories high. I-I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's a ship. A goddamn enormous aircraft or spaceship or whatever-the-hell. Dana's always telling me to keep an open mind, but I swear to God, there was nothing there just a--

"They make Siegfried and Roy look like amateurs, don't they?" Mulder chuckles and heads toward an entrance, a tall vertical slit in the smooth, black hull. I can't make my friggin' legs move. Mulder yells to me without turning around, "Come on, Toto. Emerald City is this way."

Two more faceless men stand at the entrance. They wear uniforms without markings and I can't tell if they're soldiers or a maintenance crew. One of them takes my gun, then ushers us into a small antechamber about the size of an elevator, where three identical doors line the back. 

"Eeny, meany, miney," Mulder says, but the faceless man has a suggestion of his own and directs us toward the center door. It opens with a sucking thud that sounds like a bullet piercing a Kevlar vest. We pass through it and enter a narrow corridor. The faceless man remains behind, shutting us in.

"What is this?" I try to make sense of a series of symbols marking the corridor's walls.

"DeCon. It's bath time, Agent Doggett."

Chriminy. Mulder starts to strip, dropping his jacket and T-shirt inside out on the deck. I follow suit but don't get much further than pulling my tie from my collar. I'm stopped short by the sight of Mulder's injuries. 

Jesus. Puncture wounds pepper his arms and chest. Welts swell the skin of his neck, biceps, ribs. The thinnest, straightest scar I've ever seen runs from his throat down to his abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. 

"Come on, Doggett. No need to be shy. It's just us guys." He unfastens his fly and pushes his pants to the floor. 

Christ Almighty. Purple-black bruises cover his hips, thighs, knees. The scar on his chest continues right to his pubic bone. Two more stripe his legs from groin to bandaged ankles. Whatever the motive -- to extract classified information or, as Mulder suggested in Skinner's office, to gather genetic material -- his captors tortured the bejesus out of him. Some of his scars are nearly healed, indicating his mistreatment began weeks ago. Other injuries make it obvious his suffering continued uninterrupted until only very recently. He unwraps one bloodied bandage from his wrist and a circular scab oozes beneath it. 

"Were you shot?"

"No." He unwinds the dressing from his other arm, revealing an identical wound. "I was pinned like drosophilae under a geneticist's microscope." 

Removing the bandages from his ankles one at a time, he exposes injuries similar to the ones on his wrists. The holes go straight through to the other side and the raw lesions remind me of the stigmata of Christ. Clearly Agent Mulder's had a helluva cross to bear.

I tear off my jacket, angry as hell. Not at Mulder for leading me into this trap, but at the bastards who did this to him. I pop two buttons in my furious rush to remove my shirt. 

"It only hurts when I laugh, Agent Doggett." 

"I don't see you laughing." 

"I'm saving it up. I plan to laugh my ass off when I wave goodbye to the Aliens." He nudges his clothes aside with one bare foot.

I kick off my shoes, yank my socks from my feet, and drop my trousers. 

The moment I step out of my pants, a cold, sticky substance sprays down on us from the ceiling. An antiseptic -- or maybe it's a pesticide -- burns my sinuses and stings my eyes. I can't imagine how it must be hurting Mulder's open wounds. The stuff stinks like a roach bomb and tastes even worse than it smells. It sets us both coughing.

"Don't breathe," Mulder gasps.

"Now you tell me. What the hell is this stuff?"

"Don't ask me; I flunked the Pepsi Challenge." He blinks, trying to clear his eyes, which redden and run. "It tastes better than anything they'll give us to eat though."

The mist stops and we spit traces of the bitter decontaminant from our tongues, wipe its sting from our eyes, and sniff the air before we suck in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. I grab for my pants.

"Leave 'em," Mulder warns as the door at the end of the hall opens. "They'll give you something clean to wear."

"I want my wallet."

"You plan to do some shopping, Agent Doggett? The import tax'll kill you."

"No, it's...a photo. I don't want to leave it behind."

"Sorry. They don't let you keep mementos."

"But--"

"It's not worth the fight, Agent Doggett." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Let's go." He crosses the threshold, accepting a meager stack of folded clothing from another faceless man in the next room.  

- - - - - - -

Location and Time Unknown

I'm guessing it's been about an hour since Doggett and I were dusted for fleas. The chemical sticks to our skin, our hair; it gives off the same rancid, bad-apple smell that lingers on everything here. With each breath, I'm reminded I'm not in Kansas anymore. 

They gave us clean jeans and T-shirts. Nothing more. Tugging the clothes on over our sticky skin was a tad awkward -- felt like ripping off Band-Aids. Pulled every damn hair. Still feels like my dick is caught in my zipper. 

Because the aliens like their surroundings toasty warm, it's hotter than Hell in here. Fine with me, since I'm sans footwear. I already miss the open air, and wish I'd stopped to smell the hayfield when I'd had the chance. I also wish I'd kissed Scully one more time. And eaten a Grand Slam breakfast with an extra side of fries. Shoulda, coulda, yada, yada.

Doggett and I wait for an audience with the Grand Poobah, cooling our heels in a dismal little room with nothing to entertain us but each other. Doggett's taken the opportunity to grill me with questions, pacing back and forth while I sit on one of the room's two uncomfortable benches. There are no windows, so I close my eyes and let my ears follow Doggett's slapping footsteps from one side of the room to the other. 

"They communicate with their minds? Like ESP?"

"That's my best guess."

"Why do they seal their eyes, their mouths?"

"To protect themselves against infection by the black oil. The oil contains the virus."

"The virus that causes an alien to...uh...?"

"Gestate inside its host. That would be the one."

"I thought you said the virus was found in genetically altered corn pollen?"

"It is." I shift in my seat in an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable -- the bench is concrete-hard and my skin is as sensitive as the Princess with the pea under her mattress. "The original vehicle for the virus was the oil. It's millions, maybe billions, of years old. The corn pollen is a more recent development."

"Didn't you say the black oil is absorbed through the skin?"

I open one eye to look at him. "And your point would be...?" 

"Why seal the eyes, mouth, et cetera, if the oil can enter the body through the skin?"

I glance at his bare feet and, for the first time, I think about how vulnerable he is...I am...we are. 

"Maybe their skin is different from ours, Doggett. Maybe it's impervious. Maybe...maybe the only way the oil can infect them is through the orifices."

"How do they see with their eyes sealed? How do they eat?"

"I have no idea."

"Do they piss, shit, screw in the usual--"

"Jesus, Doggett."

"It's a valid question."

"To which I have no answer."

"From where I stand, Agent Mulder, you have very few answers."

Fuck you, John Doggett. I'd punch him, if I had the strength to make a fist.

"Dana told me about men...aliens...who could change their appearance, disguise themselves to look like somebody else."

"Oh, 'Dana' told you that, did she?"

"She claims I saw one. It looked like you."

I hadn't considered they might try to impersonate me. "What was I doing?"

"Kidnapping and resisting arrest."

"Kidnapping who?"

"A boy named Gibson Praise."

That figures. "Did I succeed?"

"No. Can these..." -- he gestures at the walls around us -- "Can these faceless aliens change their form?"

"Not as far as I know. However, they are masters of disguise. They put Jim Phelps to shame."

"Jim Phelps?"

"Secret Agent. Mission Impossible."

"You watched a lot of TV as a kid, didn't you, Agent Mulder?"

Well, you'd anesthetize yourself with television, too, buddy, if your sister had been abducted by aliens, your father had conspired with assassins and your mother was zoned out every damn day on Valium. Life in the Mulder household wasn't exactly like living with June, Ward, and the Beav.

I decide it's my turn to ask questions. 

"Doggett, how long have you been assigned to the X-Files?"

He slows his pacing, squints at me. 

"What you really want to know, Agent Mulder, is how long I've been working with Dana." 

Dana. There it is again. I find I can make a fist after all. 

"Whatever."

He doesn't speak. He wants me to say what's really on my mind; he wants me to be honest with him. 

"All right, Agent Doggett. How long have you been working with *Agent Scully*?"

"Couple of months. But I think you knew that already. Why don't you ask me the one question you really want answered?"

"And that would be...?"

"Was she angry at you for leaving? Did she ever give up on you?"

"Those are two questions, Doggett, and I already know the answers." 

"Then ask me something you don't know."

Right. Where do I begin? Eight weeks feels like a lifetime. I've missed so much. I want to know it all. I want to know when Scully found out she was pregnant. I want to know how she took the news. Was she glad? Did she tell anyone? And who was the lucky bastard who got to hear it first? Doggett? 

"How...how's she been?"

"Fine. She's a good agent. Thorough. Tough." He faces me, sees this isn't what I want to hear. "We solved quite a few cases -- mostly her doing. She's intuitive. Able to make some pretty impressive leaps. She threw a glass of water in my face the first time we met."

"Really?" Now we're talkin'. I picture Scully dumping a whole pitcher over Doggett's head.

"Yep. I don't think she liked me much. But we worked it out."

The picture in my head changes. I see Skinner sending them to a team-building seminar in Florida where they construct a tower of furniture. I see Scully standing on Doggett's shoulders with a pencil sharpener clutched in her little hand. I see her telling him that maybe he'll get lucky and it'll start raining sleeping bags. Then I see it raining sleeping bags.

"Agent Doggett, I didn't know Scully was pregnant when I went to Bellefleur."

"It's none of my business."   

"I wouldn't have gone. I wouldn't have left her."

"I'm not judging you."

"I love her." I stare him to a standstill; I practically climb into those little pinpoint pupils of his.

"I believe you." He steps closer and squats in front of me so we're eye to eye. "Agent Mulder, she never gave up on you. Never."   

- - - - - - -

Lone Gunman Publishers

"Come on, boys. Open up," Scully speaks to the surveillance camera and rings the buzzer again. "Frohike! Byers!"

"Coming," we hear over the intercom. Locks clack and bolts slide on the opposite side of the door until Melvin Frohike's gnome-like face peers out at us. "Mr. Skinner and the lovely Agent Scully. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" He steps back, sweeping us in with a flourish of a gloved hand. His admiration for Scully is obvious -- he rakes her from head to toe with the most lascivious eyeballing I've ever seen. I guess the fact that she's carrying another man's child isn't enough to cool his steaming gonads. 

"I need a place to stay," she says and the lust in his eyes morphs into hope. He's thinking she wants to move in here. 

"Somewhere discreet," I add. "I was told to mention Nikpartok."

"Shhhh!" Frohike hisses. He slams the door behind us and fastens every deadbolt and chain. "Keep it down. You weren't followed, were you?"

"No, we weren't followed. Can you help?" Scully asks, making herself at home in the middle of their motherboards and headsets, tape recorders and newspapers. I feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Computer parts, diskettes, and watchmaker's tools lay scattered everywhere and I'm afraid I'm going to break something just by looking at it.

"Who told you about Nikpartok?" Byers asks.

"Mulder." 

"Mulder's back?" Langly's eyes widen behind his thick lenses.

"When? How?" Byers asks. 

"He showed up this morning." Scully settles onto a high stool beside the workbench. 

"Is he okay? Why didn't he come with you?"

"He couldn't stay," I break the bad news. 

Mulder's friends exchange glances, check Scully's reaction.

"Major bummer."

"Life ain't fair."

"We're on a tight schedule, boys." I'm in no mood to discuss life's inequities. "Can you help us or not?"

Another quick look and they reach a unanimous decision.

"Yes, of course we'll help," Byers says. "We'll give you Nikpartok."

"What the hell is Nikpartok?"

"It's not a 'what' but a 'where.' It's..." Byers waits for a nod from Frohike. "It's our emergency hideout."

"Hideout?"

"Yeah, you know, in case they drop the big one," Langly explains. "Or disco comes back."

Frohike points to the frontpage headlines on several of the newspapers that clutter the countertops. "Governments have been known to mess up," he reminds me. "A concerned person needs a safe place to go."

"Where is this emergency hideout?"

Frohike shushes us again and signals Langly to switch on a very loud recording of CCR performing Bad Moon Rising. "Even *our* walls have ears," Frohike whispers.

"Well, *we* won't have ears if you don't turn down the volume," I shout. "Is the noise necessary?" 

Frohike scowls at me like I'm an idiot. The Gunmen huddle around Scully and I have no choice but to join their circle, or miss everything they say.

"Nikpartok is Eskimo for 'waits quietly.'" Byers explains. "Several years ago, we built and stocked a hideout...just in case."

"Where exactly is it?" I don't like the Eskimo reference -- it sounds cold and remote, which is great for a hideout, but not so great for Scully's pregnancy.

"Yukon. Peel River, just east of the Continental Divide--"

"And south of the Arctic Circle."

"I don't think so, boys. Scully's baby--"

"Not to worry, Mr. Skinner. It's secluded, but it's quite comfortable," Byers explains.

"It's got food, water, heat, computer access. Everything but cable," Frohike brags.

"And we can arrange to pull down programming from one of the broadcast satellites, if you like," Langly says with pride. "Completely unnoticed, of course."

"Mi casa es su casa. Beats anything you've got in the Witness Protection Program," Frohike insists.

"How do we get there?"

"A series of drop-off/pick-up points that'll confuse even the most experienced tail. The last leg is by snowmobile."

So much for that idea. "Sorry, boys--"

"We'll take it," Scully interrupts. "Sir, if I need emergency medical attention, we can call in a helicopter."

"Scully--"

"You said it yourself, sir -- I'm a risk to my family, to my baby. Mulder suggested Nikpartok. He must think it's safe."

"No one will find you there, Mr. Skinner, unless you want them to," Byers adds.

I'm not liking it, but I'm fresh out of other ideas. 

"Fine," I concede, "Get out your maps, boys."   

- - - - - - -

Location and Time Unknown

A pair of faceless men steer Mulder and me down a series of halls to a conference room of sorts. Mulder was right -- this isn't at all the way I pictured alien spaceships. Not that I thought much about them before I was assigned to the X-Files, but after reading the testimonies of several hundred purported alien abductees, I had the impression alien ships would be bathed in white light, all metal, barren, and spotless. No one ever mentioned the smell or the way the air sticks to the back of your throat, the inside of your nose, the tips of your fingers. This place reminds me of the Southside Salvage Yard -- congested, filthy, and chaotic.  

The "faceless rebels," as Mulder calls them, give me the heebie-jeebies. I wish they'd say something. Or think something, whatever. If they're communicating at all, they must be able to control the volume. So far, I haven't heard so much as a peep out of them. Their scarred faces make the Idaho bat creature look like a cherub-faced kid next door. Sneaking about their business without so much as a grunt or a nod, they make it impossible to know if they're looking at me or at something behind my back. The confusion keeps my head swiveling and my nerves on edge. 

Mulder sits on one of their backless chairs, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. The guy's understandably exhausted. I sit beside him, hoping for something to happen. Answers or orders, I don't care. I didn't come all this way to sit around twiddling my thumbs. I wanna get this damn show on the road.

Uniformed aliens file in, fill up the room. Couple dozen. Dressed in identical, unmarked uniforms. This is more like it. 

I'm surprised when an old man in a wheelchair is pushed into the room. His eyes and mouth aren't sealed shut like the faceless aliens. He's human. Not in the best of health, but he's smiling. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one loose, and lights it with a gold lighter. A curl of smoke screens his face for a moment. 

The smell of burning tobacco straightens Mulder's spine. He lifts his head from his hands to focus on the smoking man.

"Well if it isn't the fucking Energizer Bunny."

"Life is a never-ending surprise." The smoking man sucks on his cigarette. "Wouldn't you agree, Fox?"

"There was a rumor you were dead."

"Can't believe everything you hear. As you can see, I'm very much alive." The smoking man signals his guard and the faceless alien wheels the him closer to us. Mulder's fists clench, pumping fresh blood from the wounds in his wrists. 

"I guess it's true what they say, Spender -- you should never send a boy to do a man's job."

"To be fair, Alex did manage to finish what he started this time. I was, for all intents and purposes, dead."

"Then who opened the crypt and pulled the stake back out of your heart?"

The smoking man's smile is tolerant. "You misjudge me, Fox. You've always misjudged me." 

"Tell me you're not a murdering son-of-a-bitch."

"I've protected you. I've protected you for years."

"You're a liar." Mulder's anger hangs in the air as thick as the smoke. "You've done nothing for me that didn't serve your own best interests."

"Really?"

"You killed my sister, you black-lunged son-of-a-bitch!"

"I saved your sister."

"You experimented on her. You treated her like a lab rat. She was just a little girl!"

"She was part of something greater," the old man inhales another puff of smoke. "As are you."

"Quit with the vague Revelations crap. Tell me what I am. Tell me -- what's my role in all this?"

"You're going to save us, Fox. You're going to save us all."

"You're full of shit."

"Am I? Why do you think you were brought here? Your immunity to the virus? Don't be naive. Neither the Colonists nor the Rebels need a vaccine. Why would they want to eliminate a virus that kills us while procreating their own species? So ask yourself, what is it you can offer these aliens, Fox? What could they want from you?" The smoker finishes his cigarette, crushing it on the arm of his wheelchair. 

"The God Module." 

"Now you're catching on." 

"My ability to read minds, answer questions before they're asked -- that power came from them. That's how they walk around with their eyes closed."

"And you carry their genetic remnants."

"But I don't have those powers anymore. You saw to that."

"All is not lost. I simply turned off your overactive brain activity -- before it killed you."

"Billy Miles," I say and the smoking man turns to face me for the first time. "And the other abductees in Bellefleur. They all experienced anomalous brain activity. I saw their medical records."

"Your replacement's been paying attention, Fox."

"Dana called it...uh, electro-encephalitic trauma--" 

Mulder is out of his chair, hands around the old man's throat. His move surprises the smoker. The old man's eyes bulge as fingers tighten around his neck. Rebel guards move in and overpower Mulder, pull him away, force him back into his seat. They hold him there.

"You son of a bitch!" Mulder struggles against his captors. "You sent me to Bellefleur because you knew I'd be taken, along with the others! You orchestrated the whole thing!" 

"You give me far too much credit." The smoker clears his throat, straightens his clothes. "Yes, I knew the value of your gift. I've known it for a long time. But I had no idea you'd be fool enough to get yourself captured."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to believe that I had plans of my own for you."

"Thanks to Diana, your grand scheme failed."

"Not entirely. I learned from my mistake. Your gift was never meant to be mine. Not directly. My body rejected the transplant. It would have killed me, if Alex hadn't pushed me down the stairs first."

"Why aren't you dead?"

"Salvation arrived at my doorstep." He gestures at the Rebels before lighting another cigarette. "They have great healing powers. You've seen it yourself."

He must be talking about Jeremiah Smith. I read Mulder's file on the guy. A shooter named Muntz, injured in a fast food restaurant in Arlington, Virginia, claimed his terminal wound was healed by a Holy Man. It's Mulder's opinion the guy's guardian angel was alien. An alien, or alien/human hybrid, named Jeremiah Smith. 

"Aliens also have an ability known as Remote Viewing," the smoker continues, "that allows them to see beyond their own sealed eyes. They're rather accomplished prognosticators, too. But their sight into the future has limits, very much as does our own eyesight. You and I can't see through walls and they can't see to the end of time. But they can anticipate events. Their powers are substantial. For example, they're able to see far enough into the future to know that the Colonists' experiments are doomed to fail."

"Fail how?"

"We all die, Fox. Humans. Colonists. Rebels. You see, when all things are equal in war, no one has the power to win. We end up destroying each other."

"So I'll ask again: what's my role?" Mulder demands. "I don't have the ability to read minds or predict the future. Not any more."

The smoking man grins; excitement and what appears to be pride light his eyes. "The aliens have been trying to stimulate the God Module in humans for decades by transplanting their own brain tissue into human subjects. Unsuccessful, they resorted to creating alien/human hybrids with the hope of transplanting the enhanced brain tissue into them and circumventing its rejection. The hybridization program never had anything to do with the virus. That was just a ruse, a lie to keep the Consortium from discovering the real plan. As it turned out, the genetically engineered God Module didn't work, not even when transplanted into hybrids." The old man turns his face to the ceiling and laughs. "Then an amazing thing happened. A natural human donor appeared. The boy, Gibson Praise."

"He's out of your reach," I tell the smoker.

"Nothing's out of my reach, Agent Doggett," he snaps at me, then cools his annoyance by drawing on his cigarette. "Preliminary tests were done on the boy before he slipped through our fingers. We discovered his enhanced brain tissue worked no better in the hybrids than the alien tissue we'd tried."

"So what good is it?"

"Its value is beyond estimation. You see, although the boy's tissue was rejected by the hybrids, it was not rejected by our human subjects. The transplant succeeded -- the boy's abilities were transferred."

Mulder hisses, condemning the old man's scheme. "You plan to create an army -- a human army with precognitive abilities."

"Tipping the scale."

"In whose favor?"

"Ours, of course. You, Fox, will lead the army to victory. After you've undergone surgery to restore your abilities." 

"The experience nearly killed me the last time."

"We know how to control it now. Slow the activity in the temporal lobe. Stop the aggressive behavior, the agitation. We can repair the damage, rekindle your proficiency. You won't be harmed."

"No, fight your own damn war -- without me."

"You don't understand. This war isn't mine alone. It's yours, too." The old man studies Mulder through a veil of smoke. "You're not the only one who's been hearing rumors, Fox. I believe congratulations are in order, are they not? You have a new family member on the way."

"You fucker!" Mulder lunges at the old man again. The guards hold his arms. I stand to help, but I'm shoved down into my seat before the idea has barely formed in my head. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with Scully's pregnancy! Tell me!"

"I was dying, Fox," the old man says when we're securely pinned. "I wanted to leave something behind...a legacy. Perhaps not the one I described to her, but certainly a more reasonable one. The aliens had the ability to heal her infertility and I wanted a grandchild."

"Damn you!"

"I did you both a favor. I saw to it Agent Scully's barren condition was reversed. And then, thanks to you, nature took its course." 

"I should've killed you years ago when I had the chance!"

"Why? Because I wanted what was best for my son and his partner?" The smoker snubs out his cigarette and smiles. "Here's what's going to happen, Agents. You're both going to undergo surgery. Fox's anomalous brain tissue will be stimulated, then divided. Agent Doggett will receive a small sample. Then, you'll both use your new extrasensory talents to help win this war. If you don't, I'm certain my unborn grandchild carries the necessary raw material for us to proceed without you." He leans closer to Mulder. "Agent Scully can't hide from me, Fox. Not as long as that chip remains in her neck."  

- - - - - - -

God damn that fucking bastard! He's used Scully and he's used me and he's willing to sacrifice his own grandchild. I knew he lied to Scully last spring. The cure-all he promised was never meant to treat cancer, all human disease. Its benefits were self-serving. He reversed Scully's infertility for the same reasons he reversed Cassandra's paralysis -- to save his own miserable sorry ass. 

And now, the black-lunged son-of-a-bitch plans to exploit me and Doggett. He has us strapped to twin operating tables while his henchmen sharpen their scalpels. Doggett's already out cold -- they injected him with something back in the conference room after he flew at CGB and landed a hard left on Old Smokey's jaw. Way to go, Dog Man! Put an end to Spender's speechmaking for a while.

I threw a few punches myself, and shouted obscenities until the aliens got tired of listening to me rant. The drugs they shot into my neck are just now beginning to take effect. The fat lady'll be singing Brahms' lullaby any minute.

An alien dressed like a doctor shaves my head. Moves on to shave Doggett. Someone paints antiseptic across my bare scalp. It's cold. Drips on the floor. 

Can't believe my life's come down to this. Donating gray matter to CGB's cause. Shit. Why didn't I kill the bastard years ago? Biggest mistake...walking out of his apartment...not pulling the damn trigger.

They're...I feel them...crawling into my head. Rooting around like a plumber's snake. Searching for...

Scully. Oooh, she's...beautiful. She holds open the door, inviting me into her apartment to-- 

The faceless doctors pick at my brain, snipping and slicing. Snips...and snails...and puppy dogs' tails. 

Holy flying flukeman -- they gave me some great shit. 

Sugar and spice...

Scully's neck smells like fresh-baked ginger cookies, did you know that? 

Everything nice...

Her skin-- 

The aliens prick me again. Drill more holes in my head. I can see the faceless sons-of-bitches when I open my eyes. Masked. Rubber-gloved. Aprons smeared with my blood. 

Do they read my mind as they steal it? Do the bits and pieces they collect for their microscopes and their test tubes and their endless, endless experiments contain my memories? 

Am I losing my past...losing Scully? Please...don't take...

Scully...

Scully's skin is as soft as cottonwood seed sliding across the hood of our car. We drive home together from Quantico, our windows rolled down because it's warm and the fresh air smells brand new. A strand of Scully's hair catches in her lipstick, her one concession to vanity. Her tongue teases the strand loose; the act is unconscious. Her eyes are on the seed-filled sky. She doesn't see the spiraling dervishes we create in our wake. She doesn't see the whirlwind that blows around my heart when I'm beside her.

I sleep with Scully for the first time around Easter. A couple of weeks after her field trip with Cancer Man. I was soooooo damn angry with her for trusting him. And not trusting me. 

**Mulder, I looked into his eyes. I swear what he told me was true.**

No, no, no. He told you what you needed to hear in order to make you believe. He used you, Scully. He's still using you.

After CGB, but before I sleep with Scully, I go to Bethany, Vermont, where I cool off. Maybe I see my own rage in Ellen Adderly's face, a face no longer human but distorted by jealousy and hate. I return from the case and I watch Scully finish her report on Mark Scott Egbert, sheep in wolf's clothing. I pretend to be writing my own report, but I'm actually working up the nerve to tell her how much I want to make love to her.

The elevator. Going up. My hands cold. My pulse pounds so damn loud in my ears I can't hear my own words, can't hear my heart's desire spilling out into the stuffy air of the elevator car. If Scully hadn't smiled, I would have killed myself.

She says, come over at eight.

Eight's great, don't be late. It's a date. I don't say that, of course. It just runs through my head for the next couple of hours until I get to her place. Like row, row, row your boat. Round and round--

The aliens stir...something...in my skull. 

Scully holds open the door, inviting me into her apartment. My intention is to go slow. My intention is lost when I step across her threshold and bend close enough to smell her. Scully's skin smells like fresh-baked ginger cookies.

I grab her arm. It's both solid and soft at the same time. Substantial for such a small woman. Her skin is...hot. I'm probably hurting her, squeezing too hard. I can't loosen my grip. I want her so badly, I haul her toward her bedroom, but I get confused on the way so I shove her against a wall. Press her. Press. Her. She's a little afraid, I think. Me, too. I kiss her and she lets me. Put my tongue. Into her mouth. Taste her. Taste her.

Scully holds open the door, inviting me in. Her breasts flatten beneath my palms...her breasts... 

Heat pours from between her thighs. My finger slides into her wetness and I'm scalded by her trust.

I don't know...does she want this? Want me? When she sees how much I want her, she murmurs against my lips, **beats gratuitous virtual mayhem for getting your ya-yas, don't you think, Mulder?** Scully, you do keep me guessing. You keep me guessing. 

She helps me...into her. I've wanted to be there for years. Wanted her. It's... 

Days after, I'm happy. I love Dana Katherine Scully. I plan an impromptu trip -- someplace she'd enjoy this time. England. Cambridge. To visit crop circles and make love. I picture us naked in the middle of a Mandelbrot Set. Is that beautiful or what? Maybe I can convince her to marry me. It turns out to be more complicated than that.

She doesn't go. She's not angry, I don't think. I think she's disappointed. Maybe she prefers poetry and flowers to my testosterone frenzy. Wouldn't be the first time I misread her. Or looked past her needs to take care of my own first. I pack and go without her.

Terrible time. Two days of self-recrimination. What if, what if? 

Mother-fucking aliens can take that memory and shove it up their goddamn extraterrestrial asses! I don't...

I come home early because I miss her so much. I want to make it right and apologize and start over and she's...she's changed. 

**What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong?** she asks me. 

What if?  

*I'm* her choice. 

I'm her one and only choice.

We make love again. That night...after she spoke to Buddha or Buddha spoke to her or Fate stepped in and saved my sorry ass. Other nights follow. Once during the day. Not too many times, all things considered. I count them on my fingers...I don't count the one time I came in my hand because I couldn't get her damn pantyhose off her fast enough... Embarrass myself. Like a kid who pees the bed, years after potty training. She...she kisses me and makes it better.

Five billion people on this planet. I'm her only one choice. Damn, those are some odds.

Early November. Tuesday. After Kansas. After Betty Templeton and Lulu Pfeiffer. My jaw is healed. Scully's stitches are removed.

**...balance in the universe, the attraction of opposites and the repulsion of equivalents...** 

Maybe everything does happen for a reason...whether we see it or not.

Scully. She's...beautiful. She holds open the door, inviting me in.

It's easy to wish for the jinniyah's freedom instead of something for myself because I already have everything I want. Beneath me. Scully wants me, too. Can you believe that? I want to believe it. I want to believe. All these years, I thought that meant something else. 

She invites me in.

The personal costs are too high, I tell her in Oregon. There's so much more you need to do with your life.

The leaves on the cottonwood trees are yellow. Their seeds are long gone, dispersed by the wind, planted in the ground. They wait for next year to start anew.

You're not going back out there, I warn her. I'm not going to let you go back out there. I'm not going to risk you...lose you. 

So I go. I go and lose her anyway.

I'll find you, Scully...I have to. 

She carries my child-- 

Don't you fuckers take that away.

^^^got|what|we|need^^^the|transfer|is^^^almost^^tie|off|the^^^do|it^^your|orders^^shorten|the|timetable|before|we^^i'm|fine^^^^six|ccs|of|phenytoin^^^sleep|scully^^^training|schedule^^^^anticipating^^control|the|remote|viewing^ahead|of|the|images^^^^stop|the|process^^^stop|it|now^^over^^agents^^^i|miss|him^^^

Scully?

^^^when|he|returns^^^worried|about^^^will|he|find^^^baby|is^^^

Scully?

^^^mulder|i|love|you^^^        

- - - - - - -

PART II

Yukon, Canada
Five Months Later

Summer in the arctic, the days are long -- even when you're not hiding from the world. Playing guard dog to Scully for the last five months has me itching to join the front lines. Don't get me wrong -- Scully's not to blame for my restlessness. She stopped protesting our disappearance the minute we left her apartment, despite the difficulty getting here. Three plane changes, two rental cars, the last fifty miles on snowmobiles. We followed a route that would confuse a homing pigeon. Scully took it all on the chin. She's more patient than I would have guessed. So, no, it's not her fault I feel ready to punch holes in the walls. It's just I've never been very good at sitting on the sidelines.  

Scully's grown as big as my father's Buick, yet for some reason, I'm the one who becomes clumsier with every pound she gains. I have trouble talking to a regular-sized woman, let alone a mother-to-be in her ninth month. Scully's new proportions leave me stammering. Calling her "agent" seemed ludicrous at this point. She thought so, too, so she asked me to call her Dana. That left me in the awkward position of suggesting she address me as Walter. Now we're both uncomfortable. 

The Gunmen's little hideout turned out to be unexpectedly comfortable. Their paranoia ensured a well-stocked pantry, plenty of firewood and a high-tech filtration system to hide the smoke and heat from prying eyes, and some of the best surveillance equipment I've ever seen. Unauthorized donations to our cause, they say. I try not to think about the source of their electronic stash. 

Tucked into the mountains of the Continental Divide, Nikpartok overlooks a steep eastern valley of fir trees and rocky outcroppings. The house was constructed like a garrison on a cliff as a means of protection. To the west, high peaks are snowcapped even in midsummer. Wildflowers blossom beside the front door and mosquitoes the size of Hueys gather in great, buzzing clouds in the yard. Scully spends hours sitting on the porch, staring east, waving off the bugs and her uncertainties.

Although she rarely talks about Mulder and Doggett, I know she thinks of little else.

We receive occasional reports of the Invasion. Encrypted digital messages from Frohike and week-old newspapers from an Indian named Aimerpok who hikes up from Bonnet Plume. The Eskimo has no idea who we are but he's clever enough to suppose we're hiding and discrete enough not to ask questions. Maybe he's got a checkered past of his own. We pretend we're Walt and Dana, husband and wife, expecting our first child while we escape the alien threat and enjoy the elbowroom of the Great White North. Pok -- nicknamed for the common Aleut suffix that ends his name -- plays along with our unconvincing charade. He's a shrewd man. Mid to late forties. Accomplished game hunter. He tells us his full name means "Visits Expecting to Receive Food" -- so we feed him. I clean whatever carcass he brings and Scully cooks us a meal. We talk in general terms about the changes taking place in the world, shaking our heads at the iniquity of the alien menace and the naivete of our earthbound brothers, all the while making believe our life is normal.

"The paper says Kafa-Yarn fell to the Aliens." Pok swats mosquitoes and eats fresh bearberry muffins. He and I keep Scully company on the porch. Scully's fingers, stained from picking the fruit, rub circles over her extended belly. She sports a rash of itchy welts from countless insect bites on the backs of her arms, but she refuses to be driven inside by the bugs. 

"That's the fifth attack on Gaza in as many days," Scully says. 

After decades of human conflict, Palestinians and Israelis no longer bicker over Middle East turf. Alien Invaders control the entire region. The first attacks came about six weeks ago when the Invaders targeted Tehran. Thanks to a successful campaign of misinformation, early raids were blamed on George W. The ruse bought the aliens a couple of days to establish themselves and corral the human population.   

"Terrible, terrible," Pok says, meaning the Invasion, not Scully's muffins. He tosses an angry pebble off the porch and it sails over the side of the cliff. We listen to the stone skitter and ping down the steep rock cliff until it evaporates somewhere in the valley below.

We don't parade the war's details. We know what it means for the occupied territories. Mandatory registration. Selective inoculation with the virus. Work camps or death.

Government leaders scramble for a solution as their numbers dwindle and they're held hostage by a threat of worldwide, uncontrolled viral contagion. They squabble with each other rather than join forces against the common enemy. They're all fools. And so fucking predictable.

Frohike's last message -- received two days ago -- hinted at a gathering of Rebel strength. Six UFOs, showing up in the data storage pulled from the JPL Topex Poseidon, are positioned above the American northwest coast. Specifics of the configuration indicate a variation from the Invader's normal pattern. Are these Rebel ships, playing possum? Or have the Aliens shifted their focus away from the Middle East? Tactically, that makes no sense. But my gut tells me these UFOs are buzzing our neighborhood for a reason. I can't help but think Mulder and Doggett must be on board one of the six ships.

Scully's baby is due at any time and Mulder promised he'd be home before his child came into the world. If he plans to make good on that promise, he'd better get his ass in gear. 

- - - - - - -

186 Miles Above the American Northwest Coast

"We're ready *now*!" Mulder insists, hammering a fist against the table that separates us. We sit across from each other in a small conference room, while a handful of aliens look on. They want us to practice our new skills one more time, proving to them that we're ready to return to Earth and fight. "We don't need to go through this again!"

More fidgety than usual, Mulder is impatient to end our psychic gymnastics and put our mental capabilities to a practical test. After five months of rigorous daily workouts -- both mental and physical -- he's a changed man. Gone are the black and blues, the oozing pockmarks, and the fatigue-filled eyes. His scars remain, but he's regained his physical strength. And his mental abilities have soared. As have mine, thanks to his little "donation."

God Almighty, what a difference a few months can make. Waking up from surgery five months ago, my head pounded like the entire 24th Marine Corps practiced marching drills inside my skull. I was shocked to hear voices. Lots of voices. The racket was so deafening, it made a Falcon's game at the Georgia Dome sound like a fucking Quaker meeting. 

Then the noise vanished. Just like that. I couldn't figure it out. Blamed it on the anesthesia.

Mulder slept like a baby on a table across the room. A turban of bandages swaddled his skull. I checked my own bean. Yep, packaged in a virtual cocoon of gauze. Tubes snaked in and outta my arms, my nose, my...I wasn't going anywhere soon.

I thought about the smoking man's claims. Would I really be able to read minds? Predict the future? Did I want to? I may not have been a superhero before the surgery, but I was pretty satisfied with life. Even as a kid, I never wished for x-ray vision, super strength or the ability to fly.

Okay, so I admit I was curious now. After going through the surgery, I wanted to know. No harm in attempting a little experiment. 

I concentrated on Mulder, tried to read his dreams. Nothing. I tried harder. Zip. Still a complete blank. 

I figured the smoker's ravings were nothing but bullshit. Dollars to donuts, surgery hadn't transformed me into the Amazing Kresgin. I wouldn't be saving the world after all.

"Soooo, whadja think of the Vulcan Mind Meld, Doggett?" Mulder asked, opening his eyes. 

"Vulcan...?"

"Oh, sorry...forgot. You're not a Star Trek fan."

"No, I...I get what that means now."

"You do?" He struggled to sit; a wave of pain flattened him.

I smiled -- not at his pain but at his desire to believe. "Mulder, how did a gullible guy like you get to be a federal agent?"

"You're an asshole, Doggett." 

"I knew you'd say that."

"Fuck you." Mulder says this now, not then, as we argue around the conference table. He's balking at my suggestion to cooperate with the Rebels. One more test. "We already know it works, Doggett. We're wasting time."

An alien doctor places two small boxes on the table in front of us. No bigger than a couple of inches square, these tiny containers pack a helluva payload. 

"Come on, Mulder. Pretend it's Christmas morning. Open your present."

"I haven't been a very good boy this year, Doggett. I'm afraid to see what Santa's dropped in my stocking." He snags one of the boxes anyway and lifts the lid. His action releases a chorus of voices. The individual thoughts of an entire planet blast through our brains.  

A talisman of sorts nestles inside Pandora's Box. The secret to our enhanced mental powers. It doesn't look like much -- a small shard of stone inscribed with a few ancient markings. Text older than mankind. Potent words. They stimulate the God Module, sparking to life our ability to read minds. Innumerable thoughts bombard us, challenge us to filter through the dross for gold nuggets.

Five months of training have helped us sort out the mess. 

^^hurry|mulder^^there|isn't|much|time^^ 

Ah ha! A personal best, Agent Mulder. He always seeks her voice first. She is his touchstone; his perception of her calms him, despite the urgency of her message. She gives him strength.

He focuses on her. Narrows the beam of his awareness to illuminate only her. Resting on a porch, perched on the side of a wind-worn cliff. I'm reminded of an eagle's nest. The fragrance of pine and cedar sifts into my nostrils, our lungs. Sun heats her skin, thaws his loneliness. I blink in the morning light. Her eyes are as tender and faultless as the sky overhead. Her hair, badgered by updrafts, floats like dandelion seed and glistens like copper. I hear her breath. Taste its rush across my own tongue. Feel it tear from my throat, emptying three chests in unison. A cataract of fiery blood surges beneath her skin, my skin, his, plunging like the Peel River toward the Rocky Mountain valley below. A second heartbeat taps inside her and Mulder smiles at the recognition of his child. Satisfaction steadies his hands. 

The talisman dangles from a thin chain and Mulder drapes it around his neck. Its power affects us both. For now, I leave my own amulet inside its protective box. 

"That stone is more than four billion years old, gentlemen." The smoking man joins us. His arrival is no surprise. Nothing surprises us anymore. "The oldest known solid on Earth. Born in a molten fury, not long after the formation of the planet itself. Its facets contain hints of oceans and continents...and the earliest life. The inscription was carved by the hands of God."

"You don't believe in God," Mulder challenges.

"I believe in His miracles."

It's true, our abilities are nothing short of miraculous. We hear thoughts hundreds, thousands of miles away. We glimpse beyond the physical limits of space and time. The future unrolls in front of our eyes and we discover its courses are infinite. We have to pick and choose the path, play our next move like a game of chess, always running several steps ahead of our opponents. The Invaders challenge us the same way we challenge them.

Mulder is more adept at this hocus-pocus than I am. Better control, quicker response. The time he spent in a padded cell in Georgetown Memorial gave him a head start and, without a doubt, he's more naturally inclined. He carries the mother lode in his head, dwarfing the tiny flake in mine.

Mulder's brain tissue didn't come with memories. No insight into his psyche. No "spooky" intuition. I didn't wake up knowing his past or understanding his passions. However, his thoughts reach me loud and clear now. It's like tuning into a radio station while standing right next to the broadcast tower. Other voices are scratchy, indistinct. But his brainwaves blast over me like a tsunami.    

We can't hear the aliens' voices unless they allow us to. They have some kind of inherent blocking device. Guess everybody likes privacy. They don't share their grand scheme and we're left guessing at their motives. I haven't yet figured out why the Rebels fight the Colonists. They don't strike me as the altruistic types, so their professed concern for Earth's environment rings like a cracked bell. Responsible stewardship is a convenient cover story, easy for us humans to swallow. In reality, I suspect a more selfish brush paints their big picture.

Another question nags me, too. Why do they need our help? 

"Tell me what you see today, gentlemen," the smoking man prods.

Mulder concentrates. A droning hum vibrates the room. Soft at first, constant. Electricity? Machinery? The buzz intensifies. Rattles my teeth while I wait for the images to surface. Insects. Bees, to be exact. Jigging through hives, communicating with each other by means of an instinctual dance. Their dance is a map. They give directions. Realization slices into us and Mulder retreats for a broader view. We fly upward in his mind. His withdrawal is so rapid, I almost lose my breakfast as I watch what he watches. Our new perspective reveals the locations of several enormous bee colonies. Tunisia. India. Western China. Mexico. Southern U.S. Manmade structures surrounded by acres and acres of corn. The facilities ring the planet at approximately 30 degrees north latitude. The Colonists are planning to release the bees and initiate the spread of the virus. But when?

Mulder's focus plummets downward, and I feel as if I'm trapped with him in a runaway elevator or the front car of a roller coaster. He's rushing toward a voice, picked out of five billion others -- a voice that holds the planet's stopwatch. A man named Conrad Strughold. The unsuspecting target speaks on the phone to a colleague half a world away. 

"I've got him," Mulder announces. "Washington. 1515 Massachusetts Avenue. North West. Tunisian Embassy." 

- - - - - - -

Washington, DC

"What did you say?" I miss Doggett's question over a squeal of subway breaks. Homebound commuters pack Union Station. Doggett and I stuff our faces with sausages, giant pretzels, and hotdogs. The guy who sold us our heart-plugging dinner must've thought we were trying to kill ourselves. Motive: starvation. Weapon: low-density lipoproteins. Time of Death: 5:35 p.m., but they died with smiles on their faces. There may be a war on, but this food tastes damn good after 152 days of nothing but alien Fruit Punch. I consider returning to the cart for thirds.   

"I said, are you sure you don't want me to take Strughold? Won't he recognize you?"

"By the time he sees me, it'll all be over but the celebration." Another chunk of footlong slides down my throat. "Besides, I thought you wanted the Hoover Building."

"I do. I'm looking forward to my little tête-a-tête with Kersh."

"Tell him I say 'hey.'" I swipe the catsup from my face and toss a wad of napkins into a nearby trash bin. "Meet you back at the ranch, pard."

I abandon Doggett and head for the train. It feels good to squeeze into the crush of humanity. The mix of sweat, garbage, and excrement is sweet perfume after Morleys and Eau d'Alien. The click of the turnstile is music to my ears.

The train lags on the platform, doors hissing shut. I shove my way forward and slither inside, ignoring the other passengers' irritated expressions. Standing room only. I grab a post, enjoying the lurch of the car and the hammer of wheels against the rails. The floor vibrates the soles of my pinching shoes. My hip presses pleasantly against the buttocks of a frowning woman; a lock of her blonde hair caresses my cheek. She's tall. Smells good, too. I can't resist -- excusing my boorish behavior with the feeble excuse that I need the practice, I peek into her mind.

^^get|home^^call|todd|before^^creep|feeling|up|my|ass^^

Oops. I pull back as much as possible -- mentally and physically -- and open a sliver of space between us. 

God must be watching. Here's my stop.

Climbing to the street, I use the talisman to locate Strughold. The embassy's nearby. I hear him at the same moment I spot the Tunisian flags hanging limp in the DC heat.

^^china|facility^^difficulties^^tests|at|the^^what?^^who?^^

Uh oh. A fly in my ointment. Someone's with Strughold and he's "seen" me. I can't...I can't read the accomplice. Which can only mean one thing...his partner-in-crime is alien. So much for the element of surprise. My cover's blown.

I slow my pace, try to figure out what to do. I'm nudged by a passerby.

"Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?" the stranger whispers in my ear. A gun prods my ribs. The stranger reeks of Eau d'Alien and, dammit, I've left my EBE-bustin' shiv in my other pants. Sometimes my luck stinks.  

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"It's Pok," Dana announces, binoculars aimed at the valley. With effort, she rises from her chair to stand at the edge of the porch and track Pok's progress up the hill. "Looks like he's in a hurry."

Even at a trot, it'll take him a few minutes to climb the steep path. Dana's free hand traces frantic circles over her protruding abdomen as she peers down the mountain.

"You okay?" I nod at her stomach.

She lowers the binoculars a fraction of an inch, exposing a small shadow of fear in her eyes. "I'm fine," she insists before raising her emotional shield along with the binoculars.

For the umpteenth time, I do the math in my head and calculate how long before her due date. 

"Ten days, Walter," she says, as if she can read my mind. 

Ten days. I'm pretty sure some women deliver earlier than expected and the possibility that Dana might go into labor ahead of schedule makes my palms sweat.

"Don't worry," she says, "Mulder will make it in time and you'll be off the hook." 

Pok negotiates the final leg of the trail. The path spirals around an upper cliff and boulders the size of train cars narrow the passage. He breaks into a full run when he sees us waiting on the porch. His haste doesn't bode well. 

"I'm not worried," I lie. 

Dana would hate to hear me say this but she'd be a helluva lot better off if the father of her baby had been anyone other than Fox Mulder. 

Last year, I watched Mulder read minds. I saw him predict future events with 100 percent accuracy. I heard him answer questions before they were asked, anticipate thoughts before they were formed. 

In a war, a gift like that would hedge all bets.

It's no wonder the Colonists want a piece of him. And now that they've lost him to the Rebels, it only makes sense they might target his unborn child, hoping to mine the baby's brain for the power it promises. 

Assuming they discover he has a child.

Pok arrives breathless. "A man..." -- he sucks air into his lungs and crosses the porch -- "a man came to Bonne Plume this morning. He asked...for Dana."

Hope blossoms on her face. She thinks it's Mulder, appearing in time to see his child born and bringing good news of the aliens' downfall. But Pok isn't smiling. 

"A man?" 

Pok's head bobs as he tries to catch his breath. "He...he wanted...directions. Showed me...Dana's picture."

I clutch his arm, squeezing more tightly than I intend. "You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No. No, of course not. But...he was determined."

"Did he give his name?"

"No, no name." 

Scully's hope refuses to dim. "What did this man look like?" she asks.

"Dark hair. Mid thirties, maybe." Pok mops sweat from his jaw with his sleeve. "He was missing one arm. Do you know him?"

- - - - - - -

FBI Headquarters

The parking garage is all but deserted. Quitting bell rang at five and all the good little government employees beat feet, leaving behind only a handful of kiss-asses, several over-worked agents, and the occasional alien conspirator or two. I cross to the underground entrance, my footsteps ricocheting through the vacant garage.

What are the chances my pass card still works? The talisman around my neck tells me I won't need it -- a fresh-faced Academy graduate named Michael T. Baxter is on his way out the door, allowing me to slip in as he exits. I must be living right.      

"Agent Doggett." Baxter nods at my ID on his way past.

"Agent Baxter," I reply and grab the door before it closes.

Walking along the corridor toward the elevator, I realize how much I've missed my old stomping grounds. Life seemed a helluva lot simpler when I was chasing metal men, bat creatures, and giant slugs. I tag the down button. The elevator dings and the door glides open. 

My first stop is my office. Dana's office. Mulder's office. Whatever. Mulder's files -- salvaged from an unexplained fire five years ago -- contain the last known addresses of fertility clinics, cloning labs, vaccine depositories, genetic information storehouses. Not to mention a long list of military installations associated with alien activity. I argued with Mulder about the value of this outdated information. It's my opinion the aliens, once discovered, would have vacated the premises and cleaned house. Mulder disagreed. He reminded me of The Purloined Letter by Edgar Allen Poe. 

"Sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight," he said. "Where would we be less likely to look than behind a door we'd already opened?"

Point taken. Men who collaborate with alien invaders have balls the size of melons -- gonads big enough to keep on cookin' even after the pot's been uncovered. 

The elevator deposits me on the ground floor, outside my basement office. Never did get a nameplate for the door. I let myself in. 

Hmm, someone's been rifling the files. At a glance, it doesn't look as if anything's been taken, just rearranged a little. Don't need the paper copies anyway. My laundry list exists in cyberspace -- and I have Mulder's password. I boot up a computer and begin my search. 

An hour later, I've compiled a list as long as my arm. Starting with Mulder and Dana's first case in Bellefleur in 1992 until Mulder disappeared from the same damn spot eight years later. The roll call of alien collaborators is impressive, unveiling an extended history of awareness and involvement. The Air Force. Navy. U.S. Coast Guard. Centers for Disease Control. I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that Dana discovered an alien fetus at Fort Marlene. 

Then there are the private partners. Lombard Research. Transgen Pharmaceuticals. *Strughold* Mining in West Virginia. That can't be a coincidence. Dana and Mulder found a shitload of medical files and human tissue collection cassettes in that facility, stored for safekeeping under a mountain of coal and Strughold's name. 

Medical doctors. Researchers. Scientists. FBI, CIA, United Nations. The scope of the conspiracy staggers the mind.

List ready, I dial Information -- Mulder's pals: Frohike, Langly, and Byers.

"Lone Gunman," a voice answers my call.

"Melvin?"

"Who wants to know?"

"John Doggett." Muffled conversation follows my announcement.

"Prove it."

"No time to dick around, Frohike. I'm at headquarters paging through the Department of Alien Affairs staff directory. I'm not talking about your standard immigration watchdogs here; this is a literal Who's Who of government complicity. You want the names or not?"

"We need proof you're who you say you are. The enemy is everywhere."

"Open your damn Sahasrara. And Frohike, if you were on the bus with Kesey in '64 as you claim, you know what the hell that means."

"Dog Man! You live and breathe! How's Mulder?"

"Living and breathing, too. We need your help and we don't have a lot of time."

"What can we do, amigo?"

"A little technical problem-solving."

"Sounds like you need some kick ass kung fu, Dog Dude!"

"That you, Richard?"

"Close enough. What's on your mind, DD?"

"More than usual, but that's another story. And don't call me DD. Doggett or John. I am *not* DD, got it? An electronic file is headed your way, routed through Mulder's secure addy. I need you to initiate a permanent digital shutdown of all parties listed in the file. Wipe their asses clean, boys."

"Message downloading. Wait a sec." More mumbling. "Uh, there are some big guns on this list. You realize what you're asking?"

"I've got a pretty clear picture of the situation, guys."

"This'll mean pulling the plug on tens of thousands of PCs, dumping major databases, cutting out miles of network."

"If it's too much for you, maybe I should call another subversive newspaper."

"No, no. Our kung fu is the best. And we learned a thing or two from the Y2K scare. It's just...you should know the consequences."

"I'm listening."

"Worst case scenario: power grid collapses, nuclear plants overheat, the country is left defenseless while the world plunges into chaos."

"The world is already in chaos. Start kung fu fighting."

As soon as I hang up, I head straight for Kersh's office. I can't wait to dish him a piece of my mind after all the shit he gave me during Mulder's manhunt. "Do the damn job, Doggett, do the damn job." Humph. That might have been possible if the Deputy Director hadn't set me up to fail from Day One. Skinner said I was a pawn in a rigged game. Said it was Kersh's plan all along to bring me down. He warned me that if I put anything about aliens or UFOs or alien bounty hunters in my reports, Kersh would ruin me. 

Takes no time at all to get upstairs. Elevator's as empty as the parking garage, which means no wait, no intrusions, and no awkward questions to answer. The minute I step out onto the sixth floor, I see a welcome mat of light spilling across the corridor outside Kersh's office. My nifty talisman tells me Kersh is inside, sitting at his desk, reviewing reports and putting his stamp of disapproval on some poor sap's request for a transfer.

He's all alone.

I open the door and Kersh just about jumps outta his skin.

"Instincts getting a bit rusty, sir?" I ask.

"Jesus, Doggett. Where the hell have you been for the past five months?"

"You put me in charge of a job, sir. I'm just doing my damn job."

"And what job would that be, agent?"

"Finding Mulder." 

^^does|he|know?^^

Kersh leans back in his chair, steely-eyed, mustache twitching. "Did you succeed?" 

"Did you expect I wouldn't?" I anchor my fists to his desk and lean in close. "You're part of this conspiracy, aren't you?"

"You're out of line, Agent Doggett."

"Am I? My gut says no."

^^lie^^deny^^

"Agent Doggett, may I remind you, you're talking to the Deputy Director of the FBI." 

"Then let me give you my report...*sir.* I found Agent Mulder five months ago, right here in the Hoover Building. I believe you had a meeting scheduled. A meeting to which I wasn't invited. Now why would that be, considering I was the man in charge of finding Mulder?"

^^turn|the|tables|on|him^^

"Tell me, Agent Doggett, why our MIA never made it to that meeting."

"Well here's where the story turns interesting. It seems he had a prior engagement -- on board an alien spacecraft."

"I've told you before, Doggett, I don't want to hear any bullshit about alien spaceships and planned invasions. My patience has worn thin!"

"So has mine, sir. By the way, I didn't mention anything about a planned invasion."

"You didn't have to -- I've heard it all before from Agent Mulder. The very idea is ludicrous. This is the FBI. We deal with what's real."

"Verifiable facts. Quantifiable evidence. Proof positive. Hmm. Maybe you need to keep a more open mind, sir." 

"And what does that mean, Agent Doggett?"

^^he|has|no|idea|what|we|know^^what|we|have^^

Ah ha! So it's true -- Kersh knows something, the slimy son-of-a-bitch. Let's lift a corner of his dirty little rug and see what's been swept underneath, shall we? 

Plowing my way through the bluster and panic of his brain, I see images of storage shelves, cartons containing evidence. Evidence of what, I'm not sure. Computer chips, photos, paper files and diskettes, a jar containing...an alien fetus? Where the hell is this shit? I pull back, try to get a broader view. Wish I had Mulder's talent for this. I trace corridors, pick my way through the maze. The place is huge. An enormous repository of culpability. Finally, a directional diagram and a sign, posted at the exit. A big red star marks "you are here:"

"In Case Of Fire Or Emergency
Know Your Exits
PENTAGON
Evacuation Procedure"

I draw my gun and point it at Kersh.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Agent Doggett?"

"Smellin' the V.C. rice pots, sir."

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

"Inside, Agent Mulder." The alien's gun drills into my ribs. Keeping the weapon hidden between us, he prods me off the sidewalk and up the embassy's marble steps. A row of red, spangled Tunisian flags hangs overhead. Blood and stars. Can you say "irony"? Or maybe I'm projecting. Vat doo yoo see und zee inkblot, Herr Mulder?

The minute we step over the threshold, my companion morphs into Arnold Schwarzenegger's twin brother. And I'm not talkin' Danny DeVito here. Picture the Terminator. 

The chill in the lobby sends a wave of goosebumps crawling up my arms. I listen to the voices in my head for clues about the building's occupants. His Excellency Khelil, Tunisian Ambassador to the U.S. is not on the premises. A Secretary, a Counselor, a couple of service personnel, and two security guards go about their business in various rooms of the house. Conrad Strughold waits upstairs -- kept company by his inscrutable friend.

Arnold and I take the elevator to the third floor. My reflection scowls at me from the car's brass doors. I look damned pissed. In contrast, Arnold could take the house at the Mirage poker tables. 

With or without a gun, these alien assholes can easily overpower a man. I know from personal experience. Beaufort Sea. U.S.S. Allegiance. Spaceman vs. G-Man. I took quite a beating.

The elevator announces our floor with a cheerful ping.

What the heck -- it's worth a shot.

I ram my elbow into the alien's gut with as much force as I can muster. Arnold's gun spirals to the floor and I lunge for it. He responds by bulldozing me out through the open doors. We somersault into the corridor where my back hits the mahogany floor with a spine-jolting thud. Alien Boy lands on my chest, expelling the last micron of oxygen from my lungs. 

I do what any red-blooded Earthman would do -- fight dirty and knee him in the groin. My ball-busting move doesn't seem to affect him the way it would affect me, but the impact is enough to jar him off balance and gives me the leverage I need to roll us over. 

Now I'm king of the hill. I clap the heels of my hands into his ears. Whammo! 

Nothing works quite the way they show in the movies. Instead of writhing in agony from my boxing, he thrusts out his arms and catapults me into the air.

My ass takes the brunt when I land and skid across the polished floor. Spinning to a stop, I find I'm just outside the open elevator car. The gun teases me from the car's back corner, beyond my reach. Up on my knees, more or less, I scramble toward the weapon -- an instinctual move after all my years with the FBI. However, an utterly useless move in this case. I can't shoot the guy. Exposure to his blood is a definite no-no. That fact doesn't stop my desperate run for the gun.

Arnold's fist around my ankle, however, pulls me up short. My knees disappear out from under me. Yanking on my foot, Conan the Barbarian hauls me away from the elevator. I grab for the doorframe. Hang on by my fingertips. Holy fuck -- my leg feels like it's going to be torn off. My fingers pop loose and I slide into Arnold's crouching shadow. 

The alien stands and hauls me up with him. I dangle from his upraised fist. Oh, shit. He's gonna --       

I hit the wall hard. Broken plaster rains all around me. By the time I clear my foggy head, I'm on the floor again and Arnold's bending over me. He catches my shirtfront, punches me one, two, owww-goddammit-three times in the jaw, spraying us both with my blood. Starry Tunisian flags wave like flags of surrender behind my eyelids as Arnold drags me with him to the elevator to retrieve his gun. Shoving the barrel up my bleeding nose, he whispers in my ear, "We're going to be late."

"For what?"

"The end of your world." 

Oh. Hate to miss that. 

Once again, I'm jerked to a standing position. Arnold steers me down the corridor. If he's reading my mind, he doesn't give any sign of it. A string of expletives courses through my brain, but Old Stone Face remains unmoved. 

Standing outside Strughold's door and desperate for any kind of advantage, I peek at the future. Possible outcomes materialize like rabbits from a magician's hat. The trick is to choose the best one. The outcomes' outcomes multiply in a geometric progression and a long-range choice is little more than luck of the draw. Pick a card, Spooky, any card. Anticipating random computer images is one thing; figuring out life's infinite possibilities is a damn Rubik's Cube. It takes time -- time I don't have.

Strughold's silent buddy opens the door and ushers us in. Even at close range, I can't read him. 

"Come in, Agent Mulder," Strughold invites. ^^mexico^^india^^all|facilities^^ready^^ "I've been expecting you."

"So I gathered. Thanks for the personal escort." The room is full of computer equipment. At least two dozen monitors display exterior views of bee colonies. "We gonna watch a little TV? What's on?"

"A lesson in apiculture." ^^final|phase^^begin|countdown^^

"Ahh, Beakman's World. Goodie. Mind if I hold the remote?" Arnold elbows me for being a smart-ass. 

"Do you know anything about bees, Agent Mulder?"

"I know they sting when they get angry." I glare at Arnold and rub the ache from my ribs.

"Bees fight to protect the hive, Agent Mulder, defend the colony." Strughold's eyes flicker to the monitors and back to me. ^^thirteen|minutes^^ "That is what we do, too." 

"You're confused, Strughold. You crawled into a wasp's nest by mistake. You wage war against your own kind."

On the monitors, the bee colonies appear abandoned, yet I sense activity. I focus on one of the facilities. The colony in southern Georgia. East of Valdosta. Small town called Fruitland. 

"You don't understand our cause, Agent Mulder. You have never understood it."

Six enormous bee domes, like the ones Scully and I saw in Texas appear in my head as if on a movie screen. I see them from above. Look down into them, through them. Curving white roofs. Louvered ceilings. Grids of hives, waiting to open and release the bees. And below the enormous hives...

"Explain it to me, Strughold."

"Everything is lost if we do not side with the victors, Agent Mulder. The Colonists have already won." ^^twelve|minutes^^

Tunnels twist for miles beneath the domes. Narrow. Dark. Crammed with machinery. Men and women. Aliens. 

"They win, Strughold, because men like you help them. If the aliens didn't need you, they wouldn't allow you to play their game."

"We begged to join them. They promised amnesty in exchange for our cooperation."

Cryopods! Empty cryopods wait for victims of the virus. Workers attend the units like honeybees preparing the comb for larvae. Row upon row -- hundreds of thousands of chambers. And this is only one facility of dozens. 

"You believe them?" I ask Strughold. 

"Choices are few." ^^eleven|minutes^^ "Serve or die, Agent Mulder."

"I'd rather die."

"Then you're a lucky man."

"How's that?"

"You're about to get your wish." ^^ten|minutes^^kill|him^^ 

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"Inside," I order Dana. "Now!" I bully her off the porch and into the house. Slamming the door behind us, I realize what an inadequate barrier it is. I cross the room and pluck two rifles from our arsenal -- one for Pok and one for me.

Dana's eyes dart from me to the closed door. Her inability to help, to watch my back, irritates the hell out of her. 

"Pok's a hunter, a good marksman," I remind her.

"He's never faced an animal like Krycek." She grabs my arm when I brush past on my way to the door. "Walter, please, be careful." 

"Krycek'll be dead before he makes it to the top of the hill," I try to assure us both. "Bolt the door and don't unlock it until I--" A spasm of pain rockets through my left arm and contracts the muscles in my hand. I fight to hang onto the rifle. Shit! Krycek must be closer than I'd thought and he's brought his damn remote control. Nanites begin to replicate like bunnies in my arteries. The familiar ache makes me queasy. Another throbbing wave washes beneath the surface of my skin and I wanna puke.

"Sir!" Dana's eyes bug at me, then flood with tears. "Walter..."

My fingers sizzle. I look at my hand and see it's roped with purple-black veins, distended by the technology that thickens my blood. Krycek has turned up the juice; he's destroying my blood cells and plugging my veins in record time. 

"Walter!" Pok shouts from the porch, "He's here!"

A gunshot slices the air. Dana rushes past me, hurrying toward the door.

"Dana, don't!"

"Pok may need help." 

"I'll go. You stay-- Ahhh!" Fire zigzags through my legs. From toes to thighs, my skin boils and the excruciating heat drops me to my knees. One of the rifles bounces to the floor. Pressure snakes across my shoulders, up my neck, and across my scalp.

Dana struggles to retrieve the fallen weapon. Made clumsy by her pregnancy, she's unable to bend down far enough to grab it. She snatches the one I still hold in my hand and aims it at the closed door. 

Then we wait, hearing nothing but her labored breath and my own hissing moan.

Until...

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in," Krycek calls in a singsong voice from outside our door, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blooooow your house in."

The door slaps open, crashing against the wall. Dana fires the rifle, seeing too late that Krycek uses Pok's body to shield himself. Two rounds at point blank range blast Pok's chest away. Krycek lets the Indian's corpse tumble to the porch, exposing his Kevlar vest and a .357 Magnum aimed at Dana's abdomen.

"Think, Agent Scully. Think real hard. Wouldn't want to endanger little Fox, Jr., would you?"

"He's bluffing." I squeeze the words through clenched teeth. "He won't...hurt...the baby. H-he needs-- ahhhh!" Jesus fucking Christ, I double over as pain steamrolls through my gut. Tears blur my vision and I blink to keep Krycek and Dana in focus.

"Stop it, Krycek!" Dana spits the words. "Turn it off!"

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh." 

One step brings him inside the house, another puts him toe-to-toe with Dana. He leans over her, drags the barrel of his gun up and across her stomach, tracing the outline of a heart around her distended belly. "Toss the gun," he whispers into her ear.

She hesitates for just a second. Then the rifle clatters into a far corner. 

"That's a good girl." He chuckles, lips brushing against her temple. A satisfied grin splits his face.

"How did you find us?" She ignores his unwelcome caress.

"That handy-dandy homing device implanted in your neck." 

"Who sent you?" The words grind from my throat. 

"An interested third party...with a taste for fetal brain tissue." 

"Fuck you, Kry-- aaahhh!" Pain sears my nerves. My brain feels ready to explode. 

Krycek's eyes never leave Dana. "I'd say you're the one who's fucked. Now go pack your toothbrush, Scully, because we're taking a little trip. Just you and me," -- his lips graze hers -- "and baby makes three." 

"I'm not going anywhere." Dana's defiant words skid from colorless lips. Trickling down her leg, amniotic fluid puddles at the toe of her left shoe.

- - - - - - -

Pentagon

Kersh gnashes his teeth, angry as an ankle-biting rat-dog. We stand in an underground corridor in one of the Pentagon's lowest levels. The sign I glimpsed in the back of Kersh's devious mind reads loud and clear in person.

"Open it." I indicate the door, letting my gun point the way.

He does as he's told -- grudgingly. A string of cuss words that would make a sailor blush bounce around inside his skull. Dragging his pass card through the reader, he unlocks the door. 

"Okay, Kersh, show me what you've been squirreling away down here."

We step into the room and I'm flabbergasted. The scale of the place is shocking, even after my sneak preview. We're dwarfed by row upon row of sky-high shelving units, jam-packed from floor to ceiling. Overflowing with evidence.

"Let's explore." I choose an aisle at random and prod Kersh along. My gun rides his back while I nose through a carton or two. Most of the stuff makes no sense to me. Technology I can't begin to explain. Neatly organized. Catalogued. 

We turn a corner, follow another long canyon. Then another and another, until we're nearly lost in the government's secret stash. Long John Silver's buried treasure meets the Dewey Decimal System. Mulder would love this. I smile at the thought of delivering the entire shitload to his office.

"Make a call." I tap Kersh on his breast pocket with my gun.

"To who? For what?"

"To send all this," -- I indicate the room full of evidence -- "to Mulder's office."

"That'll get me killed."

"You'll do it or you'll be singing like a choirboy for the rest of your sorry-ass life." I let my gun dip an inch or two until the barrel points at his groin. "You know I'm serious."

Livid, he digs his cell phone from his jacket and dials.

"Send it," he says, once the call rings through. "Hoover Building. Basement." A pause. "Yes, I'm sure. All of it." He returns the phone to his pocket.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I'm a dead man, Agent Doggett. You've killed me as surely as if you'd pulled the trigger yourself."

"Awww. You're making me all misty-eyed. Life's a bitch, sir. Suck it up."

We move on and I scrounge through a few more cartons. Cassette tapes. Wiretap transcripts. Little metal vials.

"What are in these?" I lift one of the tiny cylinders.

"I have no idea."

I open the cap. Sniff it. It has no smell, so I put it back.

"Is there something specific you're looking for, Agent Doggett?" 

"No, just browsing. Next aisle." I waggle the gun.

We're about to turn yet another corner when the sound of approaching footsteps halts us in mid stride. High heels. I concentrate on the wearer as she weaves her way deeper into the room, tracking us like a mouse after cheese. Her picture solidifies in my mind. Blonde. Beautiful. Cold as ice. I don't recognize her but her name floats to the surface: Marita Covarrubias. Her thoughts are anything but friendly.

"Agent Doggett," she calls, before she steps into view. 

Now how the hell does she know me? And how did she know I'd be here? 

Three more clacking paces and she turns our corner. 

Sssshhhhheeeeoooo. Ms. Covarrubias is the walking definition of blonde bombshell. Stacked like a brick shit house. Knockout figure. Legs that won't quit. She holds a gun fitted with a silencer, aimed in my general direction. 

For a man sandwiched between two loaded guns, Kersh is looking mighty relaxed all of a sudden. It's clear he knows who she is and I'm beginning to wonder if she was the one he called a few minute ago. He grins from ear to ear.

Then I see it. A glimpse of the future before it happens. I raise my arm to protect my face.

"Marita--"

Before he can finish his thought, a bullet punches a hole through Kersh's forehead. It bursts out the back of his skull in a geyser of bone and brain. I duck while shattered eyeglasses twist through the air and Kersh goes boneless. He collapses onto the cement floor, oozing pinkish-gray blood from the yawning hole in the back of his head. 

"No mind games, Agent Doggett," Covarrubias warns as I'm about to dive into her head, try to figure out what's going on, "and drop the gun, or I'll put the next one through *your* brain."

I back away from her thoughts and lower my gun to the floor. 

"Kick it away," she orders.

I do.

"Now, Agent Doggett, you're coming with me."

"Where to?"

"The Tunisian Embassy."

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

"Kill him." Strughold turns away, focuses on his monitors, on the bee colonies.  

"Oh, come on, Strughold," I wheedle, "Can't I stay up past my bedtime just this once?"

^^mulder^^it's|me ^^

My heart climbs into my throat at the sound of Scully's voice in my head. She's coming in so clear, she could be standing right next to me. I try to keep my internal ears on her and my external ones on Strughold.

"Agent Mulder, if it had been up to me, you would have been dead years ago. Other members of our group didn't share my opinion. But they are all gone now, the project is mine, and there is no one left to protect you." His fingers type instructions into the computer. He double-checks the time. "I'm tired of your continual interference. Get him out of here," he orders his silent alien bodyguard. 

Silent Type eyeballs Arnold. Guess they need to draw straws to see who gets to do me. 

"It's only ten more minutes," I say. "I should think you'd want me to see it all go to hell. What kind of a sadistic megalomaniac are you?"

"An impatient one, Mr. Mulder!" he snaps, turning to scowl at the aliens.

^^krycek|found|us^^

Fuck. 

^^krycek|wants|the|baby^^

Fuck, fuck. 

"Kill him. Then deliver his body to the Colonists," Strughold says, returning to his work. 

Arnold volunteers for the job by grabbing my arm and crushing off the circulation to my hand. I'm thinking this would be a good time for Doggett to put in an appearance.

~~Um, Doggett? Doggett, I could reeeally use your help.~~

When the phone rings, for a split second I think it might actually be Doggett. Arnold wrenches me toward the door. Only eight minutes remain in Strughold's countdown.

"Wait," Strughold demands, the phone pressed to his ear and me halfway out the door.

"The Governor grant my pardon?" I ask.

^^mulder|our|baby's|coming^^

Oh, shit. Sorry, Scully. I really meant to make it home in time.

"They want you alive," Strughold says to me. He sounds very disappointed. 

^^mulder^^i|miss|you^^ 

"Restrain ^^can|you^^ and gag ^^hear|me^^ him. ^^mulder?^^" 

"Yes!" Oops, did I say that out loud? "I mean, no. No, I'll be quiet as a church mouse. You don't--"

"Shut him up!"

Crap. Krycek's got Scully. I've got seven minutes before killer bees spread an alien plague that'll kill every man, woman, and child on the planet. Man oh man, I'd love to be saying "I told you so" to the ADs on the OPR Committee. My pie-in-the-sky report about global domination by vicious, long-clawed spacelings doesn't seem quite so far-fetched now, does it?

Arnold removes his necktie and produces a handkerchief for a makeshift gag. Six minutes until Armageddon.

"I hope that's clean," I say when he balls up the hanky, preparing to plug my mouth.

A soft knock on the door momentarily diverts his attention. I take a mental peek at our guests.

Marita? 

And Doggett? 

If this is the Cavalry, I'm fucked. 

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"M-my water broke?" Dana announces, although it sounds almost like a question.

Krycek howls, gleeful over the news. "Pass out the cigars, Uncle Walt! Our goddamn golden goose is about to hatch. Saves me the effort of hauling your ass all the way down the mountain, Scully. Nice of you to cooperate."

"She needs a doctor," I moan, nanites crawling through my veins, anchoring me to the floor. 

"Unh, unh. No dice."

"Krycek..." All the blood has drained from Scully's face. "Please?" Her legs quake and her hands grope for support. She's going to fall.

Realizing he mustn't let anything happen to the baby, Krycek extends his gun-hand in order to steady Dana. I'm praying she has the strength to grab the Magnum. When her fingers slowly curl over the weapon, I take my opportunity and launch myself at the goddamn son-of-a-bitch.

Keeping low, I missile into him, grab his knees, ram my skull into his back. A yowl explodes from his throat when my head hammers his kidneys. I upend him and propel us both across the room, crash-landing several feet beyond Dana. Since I don't hear the thud of Krycek's gun hitting the floorboards, I assume Dana nabbed it and is now trying to maneuver a clear shot. Too bad I'm wrapped around Krycek like a homesick recruit on a Saigon whore.

Krycek struggles to free his legs from my bear hug by throwing a tantrum and kicking at my head. He targets my face and the heel of his boot catches me dead center. Dark blood erupts from my nose; nanites stain the floor black. A second blow splits my lip and loosens a front tooth. I wasn't very pretty to begin with, but Krycek's nailed the coffin on my winning any beauty contests. His third kick dislodges my grip and he rolls away.

Freed from my embrace, Krycek turns on me. He stands, regains his balance. A smile slithers across his face; the son-of-a-bitch is enjoying the sight of my mangled nose. He positions himself like a batter at home plate and with a twist of his body, he clubs me in the side of the neck with his prosthetic arm. His Louisville Slugger smashes my jaw, shattering the bone. Now it's my turn to howl. 

Pressing his advantage, Krycek lunges, knocking me onto my back. His body slams on top of mine and we both grunt from the impact. Pinned beneath him, I'm trapped, my strength circling the drain. The blows, the nanites -- I'm going down for the count.

The goddamn bastard knows it. Lying on top of me, he laughs and his chuckle vibrates my aching ribs. We're nose to nose. Despite the blood, I can smell his breath, his sweat, his exultation. His eyes fall to half-mast and he studies my broken jaw, my bloodied face, my hate. God, I want to kill this fucking bastard. When his expression softens, he looks more like my lover than my adversary. I realize he's getting off on my pain.

"Say goodbye, Skinner," he whispers, his smile flashing brilliant white. He withdraws the nanite control unit from his vest and taunts me with it, waggles it in front of my eyes. 

"Drop it!" Dana is suddenly beside him, the barrel of the Magnum denting his temple. It trembles in her hand. Her face glistens with cold sweat as she tries to steady the gun. 

"Tut, tut, Agent Scu--"

"Drop it now!" Her finger tugs at the trigger.

Krycek concedes, shrugs, sets the remote on the floor next to us. Scully kicks it into a corner, out of reach.

"Get up," she orders him.

"Whatever you say--" 

He twists, rolling off me and lashing at her; his wallop knocks her feet out from under her. I see her falling before I hear the crack of his prosthetic arm against the bone of her knee. The gun cartwheels from her hand and is lost somewhere across the room. Dana clutches her swollen abdomen as she falls. The crash of her body against the floor brings bile to the back of my throat. For the first time in my life I hear her scream. Curling into a ball, she hugs her unborn baby and moans.

I see red. 

I dig down for every ounce of hate in me. Scraping together all my remaining strength, I rise from the dead and charge full bore at Krycek. My fists hammer him. Bone into muscle, I bully him away from Dana. I throw my entire two-hundred-plus pounds at his scrawny, goddamned, sorry ass. Nothing, *nothing* is going to stop me until this fucker is dead. 

I push and push and push, maneuvering him out the door, onto the porch. He fumbles for a hold on the doorframe but I blast him backward, connecting every punch, relishing the surprised look on his bugged-eyed face. Deer in the headlights. 

I land three more hard hits. Now *I'm* getting off.

I've cornered him on the outermost edge of the porch. He has nowhere to go. Taking a miserable peek over his shoulder, he sees he's lost this battle. The Continental Divide opens up below him.

"Say goodbye, Krycek," I say and give him a shove. 

He teeters for a moment, balanced between me and the sky, and then gravity grabs him and he's sucked over the cliff.

His fading screams are music to my ears. I'd break into a dance if I had the strength. Scanning the rocks below for proof of his death, I want to see his body smashed to smithereens.  

From inside the house, Dana groans. She needs me more than I need to verify Krycek's tumble into hell, so I lurch my way back to her, every muscle protesting. 

I find her still on the floor. With difficulty, I kneel and try to help her sit.

"Are you all right?" I ask, each word grinding painfully from my cracked jaw. 

Straining to appear calm, she nods. I see she cradles Krycek's gun in her lap. Retrieving it must have cost her. She's drenched in sweat. Blood soaks her leg where Krycek struck her knee.

"The remote..." She targets the device with her eyes. "Turn it off." Labor pains slice through her again and she doubles over in agony.

"Aren't we a pair?" I chuckle without humor, rising to collect the unit. When I get it, no obvious on/off switch glows on the device. "I-I don't know how it works," I admit.

"Bring it to me," she says. 

A few stumbling steps and I hand her the device. She studies it. Turns it over in her hands, her face a mask of concentration. 

"I think..." she says and sets the device gently on the floor beside her. My ears ring when she shoots a bullet into the mechanism and its components fly through the room like confetti at a ticker tape parade.  

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

FIVE MINUTES, 30 SECONDS... A computerized voice ticks off our final moments. By "our," I don't just mean Doggett and me. The fate of all mankind hangs in the balance. 

"Bad company you're keeping, Doggett. Ms. Covarrubias sleeps with the enemy," I warn when he walks in with Marita's gun glued to his back. "Who shares your bed this week, Marita?"

She fastens her cool stare on me. Her baby blues could freeze Satan himself. 

"You two know each other?" Doggett asks and all parties seem interested in my answer.

"Marita fed me crumbs at one time, back when I was more trusting. Information about agricultural research, animal husbandry. In those days, she straddled the fence. Now, she's not so particular."

My nasty revelation sparks an eruption of mind-bending chatter. Marita, Strughold, Doggett -- their thoughts bombard me, making me feel as if I'm back in my padded cell in George Washington Memorial. 

^^fuck|you|agent|mulder^^marita^^loyalties|not|always|with|the|project^^what|did|she|tell|them^^^^crops|identified|in|Canada^^hybridization^^what|did|she|say^^^spaceship|in|bellefleur^^^part|of|the|project^^damn|krycek^the|oil^the|virus^^jeopardize|our|success^^kazakhstan^^all|burned|beyond|recognition^^^pay|phone^^skodal|road^^^terrible|tests^^^^how|much|information^^^

FIVE MINUTES... The computer's announcement brings a blissful moment of silence.

Strughold aims an accusing scowl at Marita. "I'm disappointed," he says. "I thought your loyalties were with the Colonists."

"I've brought Agent Doggett, haven't I? Mulder and Doggett should keep them entertained for a while."

"It's not a matter of entertainment!" Strughold spits. "The Colonists expect us to do as they ask! There is no room in their universe for disloyalty. You risk us all!"

Marita's glacial stare falls away. Melancholy seeps into her eyes. Fear, despair, uncertainty shimmer across her perfect, smooth face. For an instant, her brows peak like a scolded child. When she lifts her eyes again, the insecurity is gone.

"My loyalties *are* with the Colonists," she says. "Against the wall, Agent Doggett. You, too, Mulder." A nudge of her gun persuades Doggett to do as he's told.

FOUR MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

Doggett and I stand with our backs to the wall. Marita joins Strughold and bends over his shoulder while he sits at his keyboard, typing coordinates and instructions. Her derriere is a tad difficult to ignore from this vantage. A length of thigh captures our attention and Doggett throws me a telepathic question.

^^you|sleep|with|her|mulder?^^

^^no|idiot|i|didn't|sleep|with|her^^

"...the final sequence," Strughold tells Marita. Huh? Did we miss something important?

"China?" she asks.

"Southern U.S.A. Georgia." Strughold's fingers fly across the keys. His eyes never leave the screen. On the monitor, ceiling vents slide open at the Georgia facility. "The others will follow at ten second intervals, east to--" 

Shots explode. Holy Christ! Silent Type holds a smoking gun. He's fired three rounds into Strughold's back.

FOUR MINUTES...   

Strughold slithers to the floor, mouth hanging open, fingers typing nothing but air. His eyelids flutter. With blood rolling from his tongue, spilling over his lower lip, his head bobs as he hangs onto consciousness. Silent Type crouches next to him, focusing his mind on Strughold's brainwaves, watching for him to flatline. 

Doggett and I hear confusion in Strughold's mind. We feel his thoughts fading. It's as if we walk with him into a thickening fog. 

"Rebel spy," Marita accuses. Is she talking about Strughold? Madness dances in her eyes. She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a weapon -- THE weapon. The only thing that will kill them. A silver handled spike.

It happens fast. She drives the shiv into the back of Silent Type's neck as he bends over Strughold. Focused on Strughold's dying mind, the alien misses Marita's intent...until it's too late. What the hell good is this damn mind-reading crap when you can't see a shiv-wielding madwoman coming at you? 

Speared, Silent Type rocks forward and collapses on the floor next to Strughold's body. A tiny bubble of green fizzes around the ice pick lodged in his neck.

The alien's body liquefies and it hits me. Marita called *him* a rebel spy. Not Strughold. Shit! The fucking silent alien was on our side! No wonder he shot Strughold in the back. 

With the alien now dead, Doggett and I become the Rebels' "Plan B."   

Arnold -- who is definitely not on our side -- retrieves the Rebel's gun and turns it on us. "Finish the sequence," he orders Marita. "I'll take care of these two."

Two unarmed humans against one alien packing heat -- what are the odds the home team will score and win? 

"Just shoot them," Marita says. She gives Strughold's body a shove with her foot and sits in his chair. 

THREE MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

"Our orders are to bring them back alive."

"Fuck orders," Marita says. Doggett and I both nod in mental agreement.

Alien Colonists are not known for their expressiveness, but I swear Arnold's eyes are gleaming with anticipated pleasure as he approaches me and Doggett. He raises his gun, preparing to backhand me with it. With the wall behind me, I've got nowhere to go. I ready myself for the blow.

The concussion hurts like hell when the gun connects with my jaw. The impact unbalances me and I feel my shoulder blades bounce against the plaster. Doggett's arm shoots out as he grabs for Arnold's fist and the gun. The alien stops him cold with an uppercut. Doggett grunts when the alien's knuckles crack against his chin, but he manages to stay on his feet. He swings a return punch, hits hard, but with no effect. Arnold retaliates by snagging a handful of Doggett's shirt and lifting him up off the ground.

"Fuck orders," the alien repeats, tossing Doggett across the room. Oooooo. Doggett hurtles through the air and crash-lands in a far corner, legs and arms in a tangle and a dazed expression fogging his eyes.

My turn. I stand on wobbly legs and face Arnold, ready for revenge. This guy has reeeeally ticked me off. While Doggett is shaking the stars from his head, Arnold comes for me. Shit, this guy is big. We're David and Goliath -- only I seem to have left my slingshot at home today. 

No sense wasting time -- I lunge at Arnold. His chest is a brick wall and stops me short when I ram into him. He swats me off him like a fly. I buzz back for more and Arnold wallops me in the solar plexis, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me back to the floor. Sprawled at his feet, I latch onto his ankles before he can head back for Doggett. One well-placed kick and he's loosened my hold, split my lip. Blood bursts from my mouth. Son-of-a-bitch. I grab him again, causing him to stumble a bit, but he quickly regains his balance and draws back for another kick. This one hits me so hard, I roll three times before I smack into Silent Type's dissolving corpse and come to a standstill. 

TWO MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

Already? What happened to three minutes?

Arnold is on Doggett, fingers tightening around his throat. Doggett's face turns purple. He struggles for air, arms flailing in an impossible attempt to dislodge the alien. Oh, shit -- in my mind I can see Doggett's windpipe snapping. My lungs strain from his lack of oxygen. I hear his slowing pulse in my ears. I feel him slipping away, fog settling around his mind the same way it did with Strughold.

Doggett's legs scissor, his fingers tear at Arnold's face, and I realize the picture in my mind is the future. One possible scenario, still moments away.

I won't let it happen. Not on my watch. 

Turning to Silent Type, I yank the shiv from his melting neck. With my feet under me again, I start running. I scream like a banshee when I drive the oversized hypodermic into Arnold's neck. Perfect placement, right at the base of his fucking skull.

His back stiffens and his hands fall away from Doggett's throat. I inhale with Doggett; simultaneously we fill our aching lungs. Arnold swipes at the shiv in his neck, trying to remove it. He misses and tumbles sideways, eyes glazing over. A green, foul steam rises from his flesh. His skin boils, fizzes, falls away from his collapsing bones. He disintegrates into an oozing puddle of greenish-black sludge.

TWO MINUTES... 

Over at the computer, Marita stares back at us in shock, her eyes fastened on the alien's dissolving corpse. My own eyes are locked on the countdown -- red numbers flashing in descending order on the screen beyond her shoulder.

"Stop the countdown, Marita," I say.

Her head wags once, otherwise she sits motionless, not typing, not watching the monitors. Bee colonies in China, India, and elsewhere, wait to release billions of virus-laden bees. Life as we know it is set to end in less than two minutes.

"I can't," she says, still frozen.

She's afraid. Afraid of retribution from the Colonists. She imagines the atrocities they'll inflict on her if she fails her mission. I wade through her mind, past her terror of failure, her certainty of punishment. Hidden beneath her fears, I glimpse a solution. A code that can halt the countdown. A kill switch lies buried in her panic. A blessed sequence of numbers. A password to peace.

With horror, she realizes I'm rooting through her mind. I've discovered her secret and her icy-blue eyes widen in dread.

"No!" she shouts. She draws her gun, points it at my chest. The motion is nothing but a blur, but in that moment, I see her bullet spiral toward my heart. Although she hasn't yet pulled the trigger, the future unfolds with a blast of pain through my chest. The Earth explodes in orange-yellow flames at the same moment her bullet missiles through my heart. The Colonists are victorious. Doggett's dead. Skinner's dead. Scully's dead. My unborn child is never given the opportunity to breathe air.

^^mulder!^^ Scully screams my name from someplace that blows away like wood ash in a hurricane.

ONE MINUTE...

Marita's finger squeezes the trigger, determines my destiny and sets all mankind's future into motion. I close my eyes and try to locate Scully in my mind; I want to hold her. If I'm going to die, I want to feel her love one last time. I want to join her in my thoughts. Embrace her, kiss her, tell her I love her.

But I can't...I can't find her. I see only darkness.

Opening my eyes, I watch John Doggett lunge between me and Marita. In that instant, in that tiny microsecond, another future unveils itself. Another outcome unfurls. 

Marita's bullet pierces Doggett just above the heart. He is ripped open and we burn from the blast. His agony is mine. He is surprised at how much the impact hurts; he's pleased the bullet found him and not me.

"The password..." he grunts, forcing me off my ass and I see this is real. This isn't a vision of the future. He's been hit and I have to get to the computer, shut down the system, stop the countdown. 

Marita fires again, hoping to kill me, too, and complete her assignment for the Colonists. But her clip is empty. Scully was right, there is a God.

TEN, NINE, EIGHT...

On my feet, I knock Marita aside and punch the first numbers of the sequence into the computer. 

SEVEN, SIX, FIVE...

The password is too damn long! I can't type fast enough. There won't be time--

FOUR, THREE...

Last set of numbers. My fingers tap in the final digits; God, I hope I'm remembering the correct sequence. No time to double-check Marita's mind. Come on photographic memory, don't fail me now.

TWO...

I hold my breath.

Another second passes; the computer is silent. On the monitors, the bees remain trapped in their colonies.

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN. PROGRAM ENDED.
      
Yes! I turn to Doggett, forgetting he's been shot and expecting a high five. Oh, God. His blood is everywhere. Saturating his shirt. Pooling on the floor. He clutches his chest as if he could stop the emptying of his heart.

"Doggett?" 

He doesn't travel any path in the future. He doesn't exist there.

Refusing to accept my vision of what does and doesn't lie ahead, I hurry to Doggett's side, prop him up against me and press my palm to his chest, trying to staunch the awful flow of his blood. 

"It's all going to hell," Marita murmurs behind me. I'm only dimly aware she leaves the room, escapes down the hall. I don't care. The only thing that matters is helping Doggett.

"I'll call 911," I tell him. "Hang on. Help'll be here soon." 
     
"Mulder..." He grips my arm, strong for a dying man. "I, uh, I shipped a package...to your office," he says.

"W-what are you talking about?"

"A little Christmas present." He coughs; blood tints his lower lip. "You've...you've been...a very good boy." His mind shows me a room, a room in the basement of the Pentagon, an enormous room filled with-- "Evidence..." The word hisses from Doggett's lungs. There's a fog drifting into his mind. I'm losing him.

I try to hide my fear, but can tell he already knows the truth.

"I-I knew you'd say that, Doggett."

"Mulder...you're...an asshole." 

The familiar conversation brings tears to my eyes. "I knew you'd say that, too," I whisper.

"Fuck you." He smiles and blood trickles from his mouth. 

Then nothing. There are no more words, no more thoughts.

Doggett has left, gone...wherever. He no longer inhabits the body I hold in my arms. 

I'm furious. This isn't how it's supposed to end. I can't...I won't...

He is nowhere in the future.

I release him, let him go. 

My hands... 

His blood. 

I think about our first meeting in Skinner's office. The day Doggett threw in with me and shook my hand to seal the deal. My blood on his palm.

"I'm in, if you'll have me," he said at the time. 

Scully and Skinner had merely blinked at us, unable to believe we were heading back to the war together. Scully had cried and Skinner looked downright envious. 

"Any partner of Scully's is welcome to tag along with me." That's what I told him then. I repeat it now, although I know he can't hear me.

Then I pray his decision was worth the cost. 

- - - - - - -

EPILOGUE
Scully's Apartment

My son. Nine pounds, seven ounces. He snoozes in my lap while I sit on Scully's couch, my feet propped shoeless on her coffee table. Cradled on my thighs with his head aimed at my knees and his tiny bootied feet resting in my lap, he's positioned so we can both study each other when he wakes up. 

Although Scully insists our son is big for a newborn, his weight is so slight, I hardly know he's there except for the oval of heat beneath his seemingly boneless body. He sleeps the sleep of angels while I scrutinize his features for any resemblance to me...or Scully. I harbor fears about green blood and a facility for shape-shifting.

His hair is dark like mine. And long enough to comb with the tip of my finger. I smooth it to the left, then back to the right, amazed by its softness. Brushing it straight down over his forehead, I make him look a bit like Moe Howard. Hey Moe, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. I brush back Moe's hairdo before Scully notices what I'm doing. 

Beneath his closed lids, the baby's eyes are blue. For now. Scully tells me blue eyes are common in newborns and often temporary. I hope not. He has Scully's rosy mouth, so he might as well have her eyes, too. As for his nose, it's too soon to tell. I pray big nose genes skip a generation.

Naming him was easy. "John" was a no-brainer. As for a middle name, Fox was out. William was out. Walter, Melvin and Ringo -- all out. I liked Elvis, but Scully nixed the idea. I suggested John "Arthur Dales" Mulder. Nope. John "George Hale" Mulder? No, but... Scully hesitated on this one.

"Is that a maybe, Scully?"

"No, it's not a maybe. I was just thinking..."

"Yyyyyes?"

"Your elf-inspired astronomer -- what was his middle name? Ellery?"

"George Ellery Hale, yes."

"I like that. John Ellery Mulder. Any arguments?"

"No arguments." It fits. Our son looks like an elf who might inspire great things. 

"Want me to take him?" Scully asks, tilting her head toward the baby. She wears a bathrobe even though it's late afternoon. Beneath the robe, her leg is bandaged -- not broken, but badly bruised from Krycek's beating -- and she limps a bit. I shake my head no, so she shuffles to the kitchen, still too sore from John Ellery's birth to sit. "I'm going to make tea," she tells me. "You want some?" She removes two mugs from the cupboard without waiting for my answer.

The baby inhales with a shudder. He makes little sucking noises in his sleep. His eyes swing beneath paper-thin lids and I'm thinking he must be dreaming about Scully's humungo breasts. Just like his ol' man.

That would be me.

Big kudos to Skinner for helping the little guy into the world. Uncle Walter deserves a helluva lot of credit and he'd tell you so himself if his jaws weren't wired shut while his broken bones heal. 

God, I wanted to be there with Scully. I can't believe I missed our baby's grand entrance. 

For a while, it didn't look as though I was going to meet my son at all. If it hadn't been for Doggett...

Agent John Doggett was buried in Arlington National Cemetery yesterday afternoon. Marine Corps Color Guard. The whole nine yards. The 24th Marine Amphibious stood at attention to bid final farewell to their comrade in arms. It's not easy to watch grown men in uniform cry without getting a little teary-eyed yourself. 

Doggett's family flew up from Atlanta. His mom accepted the American flag, stripped from his coffin and folded into a neat triangle. 

A large NYPD contingent drove down to pay their last respects. And the Hoover Building stood practically empty after agents and secretaries, cleaning crews and top brass abandoned their posts to stand beside John Doggett's grave and say goodbye. A brother was lost in the line of duty, going above and beyond the call. 

Scully missed the service, much to her disappointment -- concerned doctors held her and the baby at Georgetown Memorial for observation. Mrs. Scully kept her daughter and new grandbaby company while I gave John's eulogy.

John Doggett's bravery saved countless lives. Without a second thought, he traded his own life for mine. He knew what he was doing -- the talisman he wore allowed him to see the consequences of his actions. The knowledge of his own death didn't sway him from doing what he thought was right. Brave or foolhardy, he was a damn hero. More of a man than I ever imagined when I first met him. As much of a man as I ever hope to be.

Too bad Doggett hadn't lived long enough to see the results of his sacrifice.

"The aliens have pulled back," I tell Scully. "For now."

"So I heard. What happened?" She rattles through cupboards, removes a couple of teabags.

"Project Y2K."

"Project...? What the hell is that?"

"While Doggett and I pulled the plug on Strughold's bee colonies, the Gunmen were closing down clinics, labs, storage facilities. They terminated the computer communication systems of Doggett's entire list of evil-doers."

"Your list," she reminds me.

"Lot of good those names ever did me."

"What about the virus?"

"When the bees weren't released on schedule, the Rebels swooped in and burned the facilities. They torched the underground cryopods, too. Did you ever notice how much those guys like to play with fire?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. The burnt ghosts of Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Damn billow into the room like chimney smoke at Birkenau. I plow through them before Scully has time to remember how close she came to dying that night on the bridge. "The corn crops were all destroyed," I tell her.

"Strughold's dead. Kersh is dead. Marita's vanished." Steam squeals from the kettle and John Ellery flinches. He brandishes a tiny fist at me, scowling in his sleep -- a dead ringer for Scully. Scully lifts the pot from the stove and the noise evaporates. "Krycek...is probably dead," she says.

"Probably?"

"We never found his body." 
 
I don't like the sound of that. The frown fades from the baby's face and I try to relax with him. 

"With the Invaders in retreat, who's left to fight, Mulder? Can we rest now? Finally?"

I haven't told Scully about CGB. She views John Ellery's conception as nothing short of a miraculous blessing. She's oblivious to Cancer Man's self-motivating role and for now, I intend to keep it that way. I tuck the information about Old Smokey into a dark corner of my brain -- somewhere between the memories of my short-lived miserable marriage and my theft of Scully's frozen ova. My personal vault of lies and deceit. 

"Sorry I missed his birth," I say, instead of answering her question. 

The baby's compact chest rises and falls in a comfortable rhythm. He is a miraculous blessing. 

"Hey, you were busy saving the world. It'll be a great story to tell him one day." She brings my cup of tea. Deciding it's too hot and dangerous for me to drink around the baby, she sets it on the coffee table to cool. She can't quite bring herself to sit yet, so she sips her tea while leaning against the wall.

"Thanks to Doggett, a shitload of evidence has been delivered to my office from the Pentagon. That'll keep me busy for a decade or two."

"The evidence we always wanted but could never hold in our hands. It's hard to believe, Mulder." She smiles at John Ellery. "It's all hard to believe."

"You have to want to believe, Scully. I've been telling you that for years."

"The truth is out there -- yeah, yeah, I know."

"Well, now it's in our office. And not all of our questions have been answered. We still don't know why the Rebels wanted to stop the Colonists. Or if the Invaders plan to return. And we don't know why my talisman doesn't seem to work anymore." I fish the inscribed stone from beneath my shirt. It dangles impotently from its chain around my neck.

My talisman, Scully's chip -- devices controlled across great distances. But by whom or by what? 

Spender's still alive. Maybe Krycek, too. Nothing is certain.

My son is only four days old and I love him thoroughly and intensely. I worry about his future. For the first time in years, I don't feel like making a wisecrack.

"Do you miss reading minds, Mulder?" 

"Not really. It didn't always work very well."          

"I have something for you." Scully circles the room and retrieves a slender package from her desk drawer. Smiling like the cat who ate the canary, she brings it to me. "Happy Father's Day, Mulder." 

"I don't need any more ties, Scully." I take the gift and turn it over a couple of times. Give it a shake. Little green alien faces speckle the silvery wrapping paper. "Besides, it's not Father's Day."

"Maybe not in any widely understood definition of the term. But it *is* your first day on the job." She hovers over me and gives John's cheek a gentle stroke. "Open it."

I shrug and tear into the package. 

Mmm. Not a necktie after all. 

It's the nameplate missing from my basement office desk. I run my thumb over the letters. FOX MULDER.

Scully eases very, very carefully onto the couch. She keeps her eyes on the baby as she speaks to me. 

"Mulder, the day after you disappeared, I found men in your office. Going through your things, your files. They claimed to be collecting everything pertinent to your manhunt. They'd already removed the nameplate from your door. Over the next couple of weeks, other things disappeared, too. I thought...I felt as if I were losing you all over again, one little piece at a time. So I hid your nameplate...temporarily in the desk drawer. Later, I took it home. I...I wanted to save it for you."

Now she gives *my* cheek a gentle stroke. Her eyes are full of tenderness and tears. 

"Welcome back, Mulder," she says, "Welcome home." 
    

THE END 


Author's notes: I like Doggett and it was with great reluctance I killed him off in this story. His demise was not based on any deeply rooted desire to see him axed from the show. His death made for a more impactful ending, so he had to go. My husband disagrees. He wanted the aliens to rush in and heal Doggett the same way they healed CGB and Scully. He likes those "they all lived happily ever after" endings.

Thank you to all who asked for a follow-up to "So This Is Agent Mulder." Your requests honor and humble me. Special thanks to dlynn for her "pointy stick." Will you release the hostages now? And extra special thanks to Marybeth for virtual hugs when I needed them most, AND for telling me in no uncertain terms that my writing does not sound goofy.