Title: All Dreams of the Soul: Genesis 1/4 

Author: Tiger Lilly 

E-Mail address: Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com 

Rating: 17+ 

Category: XA 

Keyword: RAPE. Mulder/Scully. Scully/Krycek. Scully Angst. UST 

Spoilers: 5th season 

Summary: Scully experiences some unusual dreams. However, their effects on her 
are very real. And mysterious. 

Disclaimer: Okay, we all know the words. So sing along. The characters Mulder, 
Scully, Skinner and the gang are all property of Chris Carter, 1013 productions, 
Fox and probably several other huge corporations. I know that I am taking my 
life into my own hands by borrowing these characters for my romp into mind 
candy. Please, don't sue! 

Warning: This story is 17+ for language, adult situations, sexual content and 
RAPE. It's not pretty, but it drives this section of the story. I'm sorry if I 
offended anyone by including it, but I felt it was necessary. 

Author's note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction. And I feel a little 
strange about coming out of the closet about my X-files obsession. This is the 
first of four installments. By the way, this really isn't a smutty romance, 
except in Scully's subconscious, so don't let the first scene of the story 
discourage you from continuing on. 

Please send me your feedback at Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com. Be gentle on me. It's my 
first time out. And yes, I know Krycek has only one arm. You'll find out the 
reason why I did it in later installments. Okay to archive anywhere. Just please 
send me an e-mail so I'll know. 

Genesis 

She was floating. A pool of crystalline water surrounded her. She could feel its 
darkness engulfing her, her body totally relaxed and rocking on gentle ripples. 
Slowly she was becoming aware of lips tenderly kissing her. His lips. Warm and 
wet like the water around her. She felt his body against hers, his hands in her 
hair. She sighed his name. 

"Oh, Mulder." 

His hazel eyes were coming into focus now, looking at her tenderly, lovingly. He 
caressed her cheek gently, water dripping down her face from his long, wet 
fingers. He bent his head forward to plant slow, soft kisses on her neck. 

"Oh, Mulder." 

She was becoming aware of his skin against hers. She realized they were naked, 
floating together on a sea of darkness. 

"Oh, Mulder." 

Her hand felt every muscle in his back. She could feel his wet hair against her 
face. Smell his aftershave and shampoo. His hand reached down and caressed her 
breast. Tendrils of water snaked from her nipple to her stomach, causing her to 
quiver. 

"Oh, Mulder." 

Gradually, she became aware that the gentle ripples had taken on a new, subtle 
rhythm. He was making love to her. Slowly, gently. She felt him moving inside 
her. Her hands ran through his hair and down his back. She ached for him to go 
faster, harder. And he did. 

"Oh, Mulder!" 

His name became a chant as the ripples became crashing waves. They washed over 
her, warm and liquid. They were rocking, rocking, rocking... 

"OH, MUL..." 

Dana sat straight up in bed. Her eyes darted around her dark, empty bedroom. She 
was alone. 

"Jesus," she said, half-whispering in the dark. 

She slowly lowered herself back down to her pillow. Hesitantly, she glanced over 
at the alarm clock beside her bed. 3:15 am. She started to panic a little and 
closed her eyes to try and focus. 

This was the 12th night it had happen. The dreams, so unbelievably real. She 
could remember every detail, every sensation. For a moment she almost thought 
she could taste his lips, smell his scent. She licked her lips and sadly 
realized the taste was gone. Evaporated into the darkness with her dream. 
It had been like this every night for over a week and a half. And always she 
woke up at 3:15. 

Coincidence. Purely coincidence, she had told herself after the first few 
nights. But even then she didn't really believe it. After all that she had 
experienced, she was believing less and less in coincidence every day. 
Now she was searching her memory for any sort of medical reason or psychological 
condition that would cause her to have such vivid dreams and wake up again and 
again at the exact same time. 

It wasn't like she hadn't dreamed about Mulder before. Any time they were 
working on a stressful case, she dreamed about him making love to her. It was a 
natural release, she rationalized to herself. Her mind's unconscious way of 
dealing with stress. But these dreams were different, so unnerving. No case, no 
stress. Just piles and piles of tedious paperwork and expense reports. 
And these dreams were so real. 

She felt herself shudder in the darkness. She knew that she wouldn't be able to 
go back to sleep. Only lay there and stare at the ceiling. Suddenly, she was 
surprised to feel a hot, wet tear slide down her cheek. Jesus, she was crying. 
She hadn't even been aware of it. Why was she crying? she asked herself. She 
searched her feelings, slowly becoming aware of the pain that was building up in 
her chest. The lump that was rising in her throat. 

It was because it was only a dream. 

Dana sighed a deep breath and looked at her watch. 4:45. Only a few more minutes 
to go. She lowered her glasses down her nose and rubbed her eyes. 

"You look tired." 

Mulder's voice almost startled her. All day, she had attacked the files around 
her, never even looking up at him. She told herself that it was because she 
wanted to get everything under control before the weekend, so she could relax. 
Deep down she knew it was because she couldn't look at him without replaying one 
of her many vivid dreams in her head. 

"Hot date last night, Scully?" 

She realized he was waiting for her to answer. To come back with some remark 
full of the innuendo and humor that had become their standard means of 
communication. But today, Dana didn't feel like being witty. 

She glanced up and caught a glimpse of his eyes. The same hazel eyes in her 
dreams. Suddenly, the latest image of him making love to her flashed through her 
mind. She quickly looked down at the file she was reading, trying to keep her 
face as blank as possible. 

"No, Mulder, only a long day here." She had tried to say it dryly. She thought 
she had pulled it off. 

"Are you okay? Are you sleeping okay?" 

He had said it with genuine concern, but she felt a little angry at the 
question. How many months had she sat here in this office, dying of cancer, 
waiting for him to ask if she was okay and really want the answer? She heard his 
voice in her memory casually disregard her fears. "...But you're okay, aren't 
you, Scully?" She felt her face redden. She reread the same line for the 5th 
time. 

"Yes, Mulder. I'm fine. Just a little tired." 

She heard him shift in his chair. She didn't have to look up to know that he was 
leaning back, studying her intently with his eyes. 

Read the damn file, Dana, she told herself. 

"Scully, why can't you look at me?" 

Her heart stopped. Mulder usually wasn't so astute. Why did he have to pick now 
to suddenly become less self-absorbed? She felt the terror and emotion from last 
night rising in her throat again. She had to get control. Find that wall that 
she kept up against him most of the time, keeping herself from feeling anything 
more than she could handle. Why the hell was she so worried about it anyway? 
They were only dreams. A piece of her unconsciousness that she had no control 
over. 

She knew she had to answer him, and she better make it convincing this time. 
"I don't know what you're talking about." She had tried to make it sound like 
she was preoccupied, totally focused on the file in front of her. Instead it had 
come out a little angry. And guilty. 

She heard him stand up from behind his desk and walk towards her. His footsteps 
echoed through the office. Damn basement. Nothing to absorb sound. Only hard 
walls and cold tile floors. 

She was aware that he was standing over her. She could hear him breathing. Her 
heart raced. Get control, Dana. He was standing above her, and all she could do 
was think about redecorating the basement. 

He reached down under her chin and lifted her face up. She desperately tried to 
resist the urge to jerk her face away. She needed to find that wall. Badly. 
Once again she saw his eyes. They were filled with concern, studying her face. 
She looked around his face, searching for a place to rest her eyes that was 
safe. She found herself gazing at his chin. 

"You're not telling me the truth, Scully." 

He sounded concerned and a little pissed. She knew that was the one thing that 
really made him angry with her, hiding the truth when something scared the hell 
out of her. 

She had to think of something to tell him. Some version of the truth. Something 
that he wouldn't pry about. The lie came to her quickly. She would tell him she 
was having nightmares. About dying of cancer again. She knew he would retreat at 
the mere mention of it. 

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak. Then it hit her. 
His smell. The aftershave, the shampoo. Suddenly, her senses overloaded, and she 
felt herself getting lightheaded. She grabbed hold of the table with both hands. 

"No!" She jerked her head away to look at the filing cabinets. She was on 
autopilot now. Not in control as she pushed herself away from the table, grabbed 
her jacket, and headed towards the door. She was sweating. She couldn't breathe. 
She had to get out of there. 

His hand grabbing her arm brought her slightly back to reality. She jerked her 
arm away, never letting her gaze leave the door. She swallowed hard to get the 
words out. Her throat was so dry it was sore. 

"I don't feel well, Mulder. I'm going home." She said it as she walked towards 
the door, trying hard to sound calm, trying hard not to let her heart pound out 
of her chest. She slung open the office door and felt the cold air of the hall 
hit her face. She concentrated on taking determined steps, not letting herself 
completely lose it until she was safely in her car. 

Leaning forward on the steering wheel, with her head in her arms, tears 
threatening to stream down her cheeks, she could picture him standing behind her 
in the office, watching her walk out, looking shocked and frightened. She was 
glad she hadn't looked back. 

She was lying face down on her bed, drifting in the nowhere place that exist 
between asleep and awake. Her brother Bill had called it dizzy- dosing. And that 
was exactly how it felt. 

She was falling, falling, sinking deeper into her mattress, unable to move or 
think about anything other than the air swirling around her. 

She suddenly knew she wasn't alone. She felt his breath on her neck, his body 
lowering down on her. He stretched out over her, his hands following the path of 
her arms, interlocking his fingers around her own. 

She arched her back up against him, felt his lips kissing the back of her neck. 
She didn't have to open her eyes to know who it was. It was Mulder. There was no 
one else but Mulder. 

Funny, she expected him to feel heavy on top of her. Instead he only felt warm 
and protective. She was dreaming again, wasn't she? 

She smiled to herself, and his hands moved down her sides, over her hips and 
thighs. He gently lifted her nightshirt up around her waist, allowing his hands 
to caress her buttocks and back. 

She muffled a moan in the back of her throat. For some unexplained reason, she 
knew she couldn't make a sound or the spell would be broken. 
He pushed himself in her, slowly thrusting. His hot breath was still on her 
neck, his hands on her hips, pulling her to him. She felt him fill her, and she 
tried desperately not to speak his name. Make a sound and the dream is over. 
Again and again, he rocked into her. She instinctively followed his rhythm, 
trying to make the feeling last forever. She felt her body moving, her back 
arching, her wet crotch starting to spasm around him. 

His face nuzzled beside her ear. One hand reached under her and grabbed her 
breast, massaging it gently. And he said it. 

"I love you, Scully." 

Dana gasped and pushed her torso off the bed. She was lying there, just like her 
dream, stomach down, her nightshirt up around her waist, her crotch wet. She was 
panting. Her heart was racing. 

Outside rain was pounding against the window. The wind howled and thunder 
crashed in the distance. 

She didn't want to look at the clock, but couldn't stop herself from confirming 
what she already knew. 

3:15. 

She flipped over on her back, trying to concentrate on slowing her breathing. 
Trying to calm down. What the hell was going on? 

She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. The last thing she needed to do was 
lay there, where he had just fucked her in her dream. 

She walked into the dark living room. In the corner of the room, she saw the 
answering machine blinking. She closed her eyes and remembered the worried 
messages he had left on her machine that evening. 

"Scully, please. Call me." 

She had just sat there, listening to the phone ring, listening to the sound of 
his voice. Wishing she could tell him, but also knowing she couldn't. 

Thank God she didn't have to look at him until Monday morning. 

She slowly eased herself onto the couch and grabbed the remote. She flipped on 
the television, turning her head and squinting until her eyes adjusted to the 
light. She laid back and flipped. Channel after channel. Watching nothing. 
Wanting only to forget the dreams. 

Suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing. Laying on the sofa in the 
middle of the night, flipping through the channels rather than sleeping. Haunted 
by her dreams. 

God, Dana, she thought, half laughing at the irony of it. You've become just 
like Mulder. 

Saturday's were always lonely, but this one was the worst. Dana wandered wearily 
around her apartment, trying to find things to occupy her mind. She knew she 
needed to rest, but she couldn't bring herself to lay back down on her bed. The 
dreams were still that real to her. 

She cleaned out drawers, closets, vacuumed. Thinking about anything other than 
the inevitable. She knew she would have to sleep, eventually. She was just too 
tired to deal with it right away. 

After an unnecessary trip to the market to get groceries she didn't really need, 
Dana decided that the fatigue was more than she could take. 

This is ridiculous, her tired mind thought. Just go in there and take a nap. 
She looked at the bed, so inviting, so comfortable. It had betrayed her the 
night before. But she had to erase that from her mind. Besides, the longer she 
stayed up, the more the dreams invaded her thoughts. 

She looked at her watch. 6:30 pm. She could play it safe. Lay down now, go to 
sleep, and wake up in plenty of time to miss 3:15. She had to admit to herself, 
she was letting this get to her. Besides, it wouldn't help her to be exhausted 
on Monday morning when she had to explain her sudden and uncharacteristic 
departure to Mulder. 

She trudged into the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and laid down on the bed. 
Dana closed her eyes and waited for sleep to overtake her. Behind the darkness 
of her eyelids, she let herself relax. Her mind wander. And it wandered to 
Mulder, the way his hands touched her in her dreams. The wonderful way it all 
felt. 

Her eyes flew open. She felt panicked again. She could not let this unconscious 
fantasy enter her consciousness, too. 

She stood up and walked into the bathroom. Somewhere, she had some sleeping 
pills stashed. A prescription she had written herself to help her sleep after 
Emily's death. God, she hoped she hadn't throw them away in her cleaning frenzy 
earlier. 

They were there, in the medicine cabinet over the sink. She took two pills in 
her hand, filled a glass with water, and swallowed them down. 

When she closed the medicine cabinet, she took a good look at her face in the 
mirror. She did look tired. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. The skin on her 
face actually seemed to droop. Every thing about her looked tired, even the 
smile she tried to give herself. 

On Monday, she would make an appointment to see a psychologist. Not one of those 
mumbo- jumbo hypnotists that Mulder seemed so crazy about. Someone respectable, 
maybe someone who specialized in sleep disorders. 

Am I losing my mind? She took relief in asking herself the question. Just the 
fact that she thought of it probably meant that she wasn't. Dana wanted to get 
this under control before she lost the ability to ask. 

She was running. She was outside, on some nameless street, in her nightshirt and 
bare feet, running. She was trying to get away from someone, but she didn't know 
who. 

Am I dreaming again? she asked herself. She seemed positive of it, but the 
terror building within her told her that she had to get away. 

She ran, hearing footsteps behind her. A man was chasing her, coming after her. 
The terror in her heart told her that it wasn't Mulder. It was someone she was 
horribly afraid of, someone who was going to hurt her. 

She tripped and fell, her head and body crashing into the pavement. She felt 
blood running down her cheek. She tried to get up, but he was already upon her. 
The man behind her jumped on top of her and held her to the ground. Her hands 
were clawing at the pavement, her legs kicking, trying to free herself. 
Wake up, she told herself. Just wake up. 

She could feel his hands grab her arms and pin them behind her back. She raised 
up her head to scream, to call for Mulder to help her, but he took one of his 
hands free and pushed her face hard back into the ground. Dana's heart was 
racing. 

Wake up. Wake up now. 

She felt the blood on her face, the terror in her throat. Her knees were 
throbbing and bloody from her efforts to push away. She tried to twist around to 
see who was overpowering her. 

Then she froze. He was lifting up her nightshirt and tugging down the waistband 
of her underwear. She suddenly realized what he was trying to do. 

She tried to free her hands, to roll over and defend herself, to run, but he was 
stronger and bigger. He was holding both her hands behind her back with one of 
his, plus applying enough pressure on her back to make it impossible for her to 
move. His grip was maniacal. She felt the hard pavement underneath her, the 
painful way it was digging into her skin. His other hand grabbed hold of her 
shoulder and roughly held her while he pushed himself into her. 

Dana managed to turn her head sideways and scream the most blood-curling scream 
imaginable. She knew no one heard. 

The pain was excruciating. She felt herself ripping, her legs scrapping against 
the rough road. Hot tears streamed down her face. She was still screaming. 
Why can't I wake up? Oh God, please let me wake up! 

She felt him grab her shoulder hard and ejaculate into her. She could hear him 
panting. For a moment, his hold on her lessened. 

Dana took her chance. She broke loose of him, put her feet underneath her, and 
started to run. She hadn't gone more than a few feet when he grabbed her around 
her arms and waist, tackling her with all his weight. She crashed once again 
into the pavement. She felt her shoulder crack, her mouth bleed. Her breath was 
gone. 

"We're not done." 

That voice. She vaguely knew that voice. He grabbed her shoulders and roughly 
turned her over. The pain from her shoulder made her scream out again. 
In the darkness, she couldn't recognize the face immediately. She was still 
struggling, scraping her back against the street. He had his hands on her 
shoulders, holding her down. He sat down on top of her, hard, making it 
impossible to breathe. His knees held her hands down. Her legs were still 
kicking. 

"I said, we're not done!" 

He leaned his face in closer, and she got a good look at him. And she gasped as 
her mind put the face with a name. Krycek! Alex Krycek! He was leaning in, 
trying to roughly force his lips on hers. Dana bit his bottom lips as hard as 
she could. She tasted his blood in her mouth. 

"God damn, bitch!" he yelled. His face was full of rage. He reached up and 
touched the blood oozing from his bottom lip. Then he leapt to his feet and 
began kicking her. 

Dana curled up into a ball, her arms covering her head. He was kicking her full 
force in the ribs. She felt herself gasping for air. She felt her face contort 
with pain. 

Wake up! 

Suddenly, she realized she was lying in her bed. She was still gasping, trying 
to breathe, curled up in a ball, tears streaming down her face. 

What the hell is going on? she asked herself in panic. She swore she could still 
feel the blood on her face as it was in the dream. 

Slowly, through her terror, she began to become aware of something else. Pain. 
She was in horrible pain. It was increasing every second, becoming more and more 
unbearable. 

She moved to lift herself off the bed and let out a scream. Just moving made the 
pain increase tenfold. She now could feel her swollen lip, her bloody knees and 
back. The pain in her shoulder, between her legs. 

She felt unconsciousness trying to overtake her. She knew she was going into 
shock and had to stay alert long enough to get help. Her hand reached out for 
the phone beside the bed, knocked the receiver off, and hit the redial button. 
She didn't know who she had called last from this phone. She didn't really care. 
She heard the phone dialing and began to ring. She tried to count the rings to 
keep her mind off the pain. It was becoming harder and harder to stay conscious. 

It seem to ring for an eternity. And then she heard his sleepy, irritated voice 
answer the phone. She realized she had called Mulder's cell phone. 

"Do you know what time it is? This better be good." 

And she screamed his name, at the same time being pulled into the long, dark 
tunnel of unconsciousness. 

Dana was becoming slowly aware of stripes of alternating light and dark. The 
pattern slowly focused into venetian blinds, letting bits of light through the 
window. Her eyes blinked. She wasn't sure where she was. 

She slowly tried to turn her head. It hurt to move. She sucked in air at the 
wave of pain. That hurt, too. 

Her mother's concerned face came into her view above her. 

"Dana, does it hurt? Are you in pain?" 

Dana slowly tried to nod. She saw her mother reach across her. 

"I'm calling the nurse. Try not to move." 

She closed her eyes tight and obeyed. Her mind was racing. Nurse? Was she in a 
hospital? Her heart jumped until she remembered her cancer was in remission. 
Then what had happened? Dana searched her memory for the events that brought her 
here. She drew a blank. 

She heard a female voice ask if they needed anything. She realized from the 
sound that it was coming from the call speaker. Her mother answered. 
"Dana's awake, and she seems to be in a lot of pain." 

A lot was an understatement. Every breath hurt, and her head throbbed. 
"Someone will be right there," the nurse answered calmly. She sounded as if she 
was speaking through a tin can. 

She felt her mother pat her hand gently. "Someone will be right here," she 
repeated. 

Dana opened her eyes. She had to know. Had she been shot? Had this happened on a 
case? 

"Mom," she whispered. "What..." Her voiced trailed off with a whimper. It hurt 
to talk. 

"You're in North Georgetown University Hospital, baby. An ambulance brought you 
here early this morning, after..." Dana saw her mother pause, searching for the 
right words. Her face was full of as much emotional pain as Dana felt. "...After 
you were beaten. You..." 

Her mother stopped speaking abruptly as Dana heard the door swish open. She saw 
a nurse's face move in beside her mother's. 

"The doctor ordered morphine before he left," the nurse said dryly. "Let me know 
if this doesn't help." 

The nurse leaned down beside her. Dana could tell that she was injecting the 
pain killer into an IV in her hand. How many CCs she wondered? The nurse 
disappeared from her line of vision, only to return with a blood pressure cuff. 
"Just need to check your vitals while I'm here." 

Dana felt the cuff slip around her arm and heard the inflation of the automatic 
gauge. She looked over at her mother, searching her face for the answers she 
needed. The only thing she could read in her mom's face was discomfort and 
tension. 

Slowly, she felt the warmth of the morphine envelope her. The pain when she 
breathed slipped into the background, still there, but bearable. She could at 
least think more clearly. 

Dana heard the door swish close as the nurse left. Her mother looked down at her 
and touched her forehead. She was searching for the right words. Dana could read 
every bit of indecision on her face. 

"Fox Mulder found you," she said after a long pause. 

Made sense. He was her partner after all. But what case had they been working 
on? Who had beaten her? She could only hazily remember lying on the ground being 
kicked. 

"Mom, I don't remember." It wasn't the first time she had found herself in this 
hospital, saying those words to her mother. "Where did he find me?" 

"In your apartment, Dana. In your bedroom." 

There was something her mother was hiding from her. She could tell, but she 
didn't feel like pressing her. She just wanted to close her eyes. The morphine 
was making her head spin. 

"You have a bad concussion." Her mother was trying to make her understand why 
she didn't remember. She didn't really care, she just wanted to close her eyes 
and go to sleep. Instinctively, without thinking, she started to roll over on 
her side, to curl up in her usual sleeping position. She had barely moved 
sideways when she felt the pain. It cut into her like a hot knife, throbbing and 
sharp all at one time. She cried out, immediately coming back down from her 
morphine high. 

"Baby, you can't roll over." Her mother was grabbing her arm and gently rolling 
her back onto her back. "You have a dislocated shoulder and 5 broken ribs on 
that side." 

Jesus, Dana thought. Who in the hell did this to me? She closed her eyes again 
and waited for the pain to move away, as it had before. As she lay there, 
something her mother said struck her as strange. She opened her eyes and 
gathered enough strength to ask. 

"Mom...why did Mulder find me in my apartment?" She knew now she had been laying 
on the ground outside, on hard pavement, her body screaming in pain as the 
phantom foot slammed up against her over and over. 

Her mother didn't answer. She was looking away, staring at something on the wall 
above the bed. Dana asked another way. 

"What case were we working on...when I was attacked in my apartment?" 
Her mother looked back down at her daughter tenderly. Dana could see the pools 
of tear in her eyes. She knew something about this was very bad. Really bad. 
"The FBI is trying to determine if this had anything to do with any of the cases 
you've worked on." Her mother's voice sounded strained. 

Any of the cases she'd worked on? This made no sense. Come on mom, she thought. 
Give me more credit than this. Whatever it is, you know I can take it. "Mom, I 
need to know." 

Her mother took a deep, slow breath. She looked down at Dana, and started to 
quietly speak. 

"Fox found you alone in your apartment around 4 this morning. He said he came 
over because you had called him, screaming for his help." 

Dana nodded slightly. She suddenly regained a glimpse of the memory of calling 
Mulder. She heard herself screaming out his name. None of this makes any sense, 
she thought. I was attacked outside, I'm sure of it. 

Her mother must have read the confusion on her face, because she took another 
deep breath and continued. "Dana, do you remember anything that happened. 
Anything at all?" 

Dana closed her eyes and tried to remember. The image of her running in terror 
popped into her mind. 

"I was running. I was running away." Her mother nodded, listening to her words. 
She was stroking her hand lightly. "I was running and..." Her voice trailed off 
as the image of her laying pinned on the ground flashed in her mind. She 
remembered the pain of the pavement digging into her face. "I was outside. I'm 
sure of it." 

Her mother looked confused. "No, sweetheart, Fox said the FBI is sure that 
whoever did this to you did it while you were in bed. They came in while you 
slept." 

While I slept, while I slept. She turned the words over and over in her mind. 
Had she been asleep? She closed her eyes and tried to remember again. 
It hit her like a freight train. The dreams. She was having another dream. The 
whole dream flooded back to her. She felt herself falling on the ground, the man 
pinning her down, her hands held behind her back, him... 

"Oh God." Dana eyes shot open. The tears streaming down her mother's cheeks was 
all the confirmation she needed. Hot tears began streaming down her own face, a 
lump rose in her throat. She needed to scream. 

"Oh God," was all Dana could say, over and over. 

The nurse had given her something to help her sleep, to sedate her. If it hadn't 
been for that, she didn't think she would have made it through the night. But 
here it was, the next morning. She open her eyes, still feeling drugged, and 
found Mulder sitting in a chair beside her bed. 

"Rise and shine sleepy-head. I was beginning to think you were going to sleep 
all day." She could tell he was trying to his best to sound upbeat. 

She rubbed her eyes with a hand covered by IV tubes. She had expected to see him 
here sometime today. Mulder never stayed away too long when she was 
hospitalized. The last time they had seen each other, her sudden and emotional 
departure, seemed like a distant memory. She was confident that he wouldn't ask 
her about it. 

"I thought you might like a little company. That is, if I meet your approval." 
He smiled a boyish grin at her. 

She opened her mouth to speak and found she could only whisper. Her throat was 
so dry it hurt. 

"Mulder, can you get me some water?" She had barely managed to whisper it, but 
he jumped up and started pouring her a glass from the pitcher on the bedside 
table. He slipped his cool hand gently behind her neck and raised her head up. 
He put the cup to her lips and supported her head while she drank. The water 
felt cool and soothing on her throat. She closed her eyes and savored it. 
"Enough?" he asked. She opened her eyes to find his face hovering over her. Once 
again he was just a little too close to her. It unnerved her a little, but she 
knew Mulder had a bad habit of invading her personal space. 

"Yes." She pushed the feeling of him being too close into the back of her mind. 
He popped the cup back on the table and sat back down, leisurely stretching his 
long legs out in front of him. 

She looked at him, sitting in the chair beside her bed, looking back at her. 
He's wearing jeans, she thought. Why would he be wearing jeans? She knew it was 
Monday. Wasn't he going to work today? 

She sighed at the thought of him spending the day sitting beside her bed, 
talking endlessly about animal mutilations or whatever else interested him from 
this week's National Enquirer. Inside, one part of her shuddered at the prospect 
of it, another part of her felt a strange delight in it. 

"So, Scully. What's new?" 

Dana turned her head a little and squinted at him suspiciously. He was sitting 
back in the chair, looking very casual. What the hell did he mean what was new? 
He had to know what had happen to her. Did he want all the details too? 
"Oh, Mulder, I don't know. What's new with you?" She could play the game back 
just as well. She knew time had taught him that. 

"Well..." she watched Mulder's face darken a little. "Not much except I found 
you in your apartment yesterday morning with the shit beaten out of you." She 
was startled. He had gone right in for the kill. She hadn't expected it. 

He leaned in towards her, touched her arm, and gently said, "Skinner wanted to 
send some other bozo down here to take a statement from you. I told him I was 
the bozo for the job." 

She knew that it hadn't been that easy. He probably had a shouting match with 
Skinner over it. He had done it because he thought she'd be more comfortable 
telling him the details. She was sure of it. But she wasn't sure that she really 
could be comfortable telling him anything. 

She looked away from him and noticed the other two agents in dark suits standing 
in the doorway. 

"Don't worry about them, Scully. There just here to write anything you say down. 
You know I never take notes." She felt his hand pull her face back towards him, 
and she found herself looking directly into his eyes. 

Those hazel eyes. 

Dana squinted her eyes shut, but she was too late. A tear streamed down her 
cheek. 

"I can come back later if you want me to." His voice sounded more than a little 
bit uneasy. She wondered if it was because she looked like she was going to cry. 

"No, Mulder." She took a deep breath and regained control. " I want to get this 
over with." 

Where should she begin? How much did they need to know for their investigation? 
She decided to tell them everything about the night of her attack. Nothing more. 
Nothing about the other dreams. She took a deep breath. 

"I was outside, Mulder. On a street. Running in only my pajamas." 

She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't buying it. 

"Scully, I found you in your apartment in bed. You had used the phone beside the 
bed to call me. There was blood all over it, and the receiver was still off the 
hook. No evidence has been found that suggests a crime was committed anywhere 
else in or around your apartment." 

God, Dana thought, he sounded just like her. 

"No, Mulder, you don't understand. I was in bed. But I was also outside. I had 
to be." 

He looked at her puzzled. She could hear the other agents in the background 
scribbling notes. She knew it was too late to make up another story. She had 
already gone too far into this one. They'll think I'm crazy, she thought. She 
could hear herself saying it to Mulder on case after case,"Typical case of 
post-traumatic stress disorder...Obviously delusional." She knew it sounded 
crazy, but she also knew that she wasn't. Suddenly, she was glad that Mulder was 
there. He was the only one who would understand. 

Here it goes, she thought. 

"Mulder, I've been having some abnormal dreams." The way she said it, it sounded 
so clinical, so completely different from how she really felt about it. She was 
hoping she would be able to continue to separate herself from the reality of it. 

"What kind of dreams?" He was leaning back in his chair, smiling. Jesus, Mulder, 
she thought glancing at the agents in the doorway. Not everybody understands the 
sexual innuendo that enters our private conversations. 

Then she pushed the thought floating through the back of her mind further back. 
There was no way he could suspect what she had been dreaming about. 
"No, Mulder, I'm serious. These dreams, they're unusual." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, they seem real. Really real. I'm dreaming, but I'm not." She looked at 
him. She still wasn't making him understand. "I was outside. I was running. I 
knew I was in my bed and dreaming, but I was also outside running. I was both." 
Mulder squinted his eyes a little. She could tell he was thinking about what she 
had said. 

"Go on, Scully." 

"I was running down the street, and I knew immediately that I was being chased." 
She was pleased at how detached she was seeming, how she was able to call up the 
events without actually feeling anything about them. "I fell and the perpetrator 
attacked me from behind. I knew I was asleep, and I tried to wake up, but I 
couldn't." 

She expected him to make some comment about the significance of dreams. About 
how Native American believe that dreams are only another level of reality. Or 
some other outlandish theory incorporating everything she was telling him into 
one huge assumption that would border on the absurd. 

Instead, all he said was "What happened next?" 

She didn't know how she was going to tell the rest and remain so completely 
detached. But she had to give it a try. 

"The perpetrator forcibly held me to the ground. My attempts to defend myself 
and escape were..." Her voice trailed off. 

Oh, Mulder, she thought, how am I going to say this? 

She started again, quietly. She was talking just to him this time. "He held me 
down, Mulder. He pinned my arms behind my back. I couldn't scream or get away. 
And then he..." Her voice wavered on the last part. And she felt it again. The 
lump in her throat, the tears pooling in her eyes. 

"Scully, you have to tell us what happened next. We have to have it in your own 
words." He was leaning very close to her, almost whispering in her ear. For a 
brief moment, it reminded her of the dream where he confessed his love. "You can 
do this, Scully," he whispered. Somehow, she gathered the strength to clinch her 
teeth and say it. 

"He...raped me." She was biting her lip, holding back the tears. 

"Full penetration?" a voice said from the front of the room. 

She knew very well they knew the answer to that question. She closed her eyes. 
She didn't want to see Mulder's face when she answered. 

"Yes." 

"Were you penetrated anywhere else but vaginally?" another voice asked. 

Another question she knew they knew the answer to. 

"No." She felt Mulder's hand rubbing her arm. And the tear streaming down her 
cheeks anyway. 

"And the beating came before or after he violated you?" 

Violated, violated. The word sounded so innocent for what he had done. 

"After," Dana said through her tears. Her voice was shaking. She was about to 
lose all control. 

"Agent Scully, did you recognize your attacker?" one of the voices asked. 
Dana couldn't answer. She felt herself let out a huge wail and break into 
uncontrollable sobbing. She tried to put her hands up to her face to cover her 
closed eyes. She felt Mulder arms wrap around her, hugging her. She lifted her 
head off the pillow to rest it on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his 
neck. Regardless of the pain it took to do it, she had to have someone to hold 
on to while she cried. She knew she was only going to let herself cry about this 
one more time, and she was going to make it good. 

She heard the other two agents leave the room, shutting the door behind them. 
And she held on to Mulder and sobbed uncontrollably. 

Dana laid on the floor in front of the fireplace in her apartment looking up at 
the ceiling. She had been home from the hospital for exactly 57 minutes. And she 
just laid there, looking up at the ceiling, her face expressionless, her arms 
stretched out from her sides. 

She had already tried to get comfortable in every chair, on the sofa, sitting 
up, laying back. Nothing seemed to work. The floor had been her last option, and 
now she laid there, staring hard at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to feel 
nothing. 

She was still in a good deal of pain, she admitted to herself. Nothing like when 
she first woke up at the hospital, but it still hurt to move. She could feel how 
cold the floor was through her shirt. 

"Dana," her mother called out from the bedroom. "I'm going to take your laundry 
home with me." 

"Okay, Mom." Whatever. Just don't make me think about anything else. 
She hadn't gone into the bedroom yet. She hoped to ease herself into it, waiting 
until she was alone. She knew her mother had come here yesterday, to remove the 
rest of the reminders of what happened. She imagined her scrubbing away the 
black smears where the crime lab had dusted for fingerprints, throwing away 
anything that she couldn't clean. 

She could hear her mother making the bed. She would have needed to go out and 
buy a new comforter and pillows, Dana thought. She knew that if the bed was as 
blood-stained as Mulder had implied to her, all the linens and pillows would 
have been confiscated as evidence. And the nightshirt and panties she had worn 
probably were now in evidence as well. 

Her hand reached up and lightly touched the stitches in the middle of her 
forehead. Four stitches. From where she had fallen in the dream. Last night was 
the first time she had seen her face in a mirror, and it had shocked her. She 
hadn't expected the swelling and bruises to be so bad on her face. But one whole 
side of her head was black, purple and yellow. She knew from looking that she 
was lucky to only have suffered a concussion . 

"Dana," her mother's concerned face suddenly blocked the view of the ceiling. 
"Are you sure you don't want to come home with me?" 

"Yes, Mom." She said it blankly, her face like a statue. She was lying, she knew 
that. But she had also insisted that her mother bring her here rather than take 
her to her house. And she wasn't backing down now. 

"Well, at least let me stay with you. I can sleep on the sofa." 

"No, I'll be fine." Dana let her eyes met her mother's. "Really." If I don't 
stay here alone tonight, she added to herself, I probably never will. 
Her mother retreated back into the bedroom to finish unpacking Dana's things 
from the hospital. 

Dana systematically went back over the discharge instructions the nurse had 
given her before her release. She had tried to tell her that it wasn't 
necessary, that she was a physician and was aware of her limitations, but the 
nurse had kept on talking. She heard her words, "No lifting or exertion for 3 
weeks. You need to spend as much of your time as possible flat on your back." 
Dana almost laughed in her face at that one. She knew that as soon as she could 
move around without a great amount of pain, she would be back at work. 
She had only this morning gotten her hands on her chart. The nurse had left it 
lying on the bedside table while she went to get her pen. Dana knew that they 
were trying to keep whatever was in that chart hidden from her. But she told 
herself she could handle it and read as much of it as she could while the nurse 
was gone. 

She hadn't realized how bad her condition was when she arrived in the ER. 
Dangerously low blood pressure, labored breathing, unresponsive, a classic case 
of advanced shock. She read the description of the procedures they had performed 
on her, the dry way the ER record noted that she had "vaginally tearing and 
bruising consistent with forcible penetration." They had removed asphalt from 
her knees and back and under her nails. 

No evidence of a crime committed anywhere other than her bedroom? she thought to 
herself. Mulder, you are so full of shit. She smiled a little at that thought. 
For a moment, she tried to image what he had seen the night he burst in, 
responding to her scream on the phone. She imagined him with his gun drawn, 
calling her name. She could see his hand searching for the light switch beside 
the door, calling her again when she didn't answer. She tried to picture herself 
laying in a ball on the bed, unconscious, covered in her own blood. And she 
cringed a little when she realized her panties were probably around her ankles 
and her nightshirt was probably pulled up her back. He had to know immediately 
what had happen. 

The ER had gone through the usual procedures, the rape kit, the x-rays. She had 
required 2 sutures to close the tearing the rape had caused. The discharge nurse 
had needlessly informed her that those would dissolve in a few weeks, but the 
ones on her forehead would need to be removed by her regular physician in a 
week. 

She noted from her chart that all the usually tests for venereal disease had 
been run, coming back negative, but a round of precautionary antibiotics had 
been given to her anyway. She knew in a few months she would have to submit 
herself to another HIV-test. She pushed that thought from her mind. 
"You'll need to make an appointment with your gynecologist in a few weeks, to 
make sure you've healed completely," she heard the discharge nurse say in her 
mind. "We strongly recommend that you also have a pregnancy test at that time." 
Dana didn't have the heart to tell her that a pregnancy test was a waste of 
time, that she couldn't get pregnant even if she wanted to. But she just nodded 
compliantly. 

She pulled away from this thought, thankful that her mother was talking to her 
again. 

"I'm putting your pain medicine on the sink in the bathroom." 
"That's fine," she called back. She wasn't planning on taking any of it anyway. 
She wondered what would happen when she went to sleep tonight. Would she dream 
as she had those 14 nights in a row? And would it be the Mulder dreams or 
another attacker? Somehow, she had come to accept the dreams as real. And almost 
feel they were some inevitable force that she had no resistance to. The dreams 
of Mulder that had upset her so much that last afternoon at work had suddenly 
become a quiet sanctuary for her. They eased her mind, gave her some relief. Not 
having anything but normal dreams in the hospital had also helped, giving her 
some perspective. 

She hadn't told anyone about the Mulder dreams. She knew she would ask him about 
them someday, if he had remembered dreaming the same things. But not now. Their 
relationship was too awkward and uncomfortable. And she knew he would just try 
to read alot more into it than she was ready to admit. She didn't need that 
right now. 

"Dana," her mother was back in the room with her. "I don't know if I should 
leave you here." 

Dana realized how she must look, lying there on the floor, with an almost 
catatonic stare on her face. Snap out of it, she thought. You're scaring her. 
"Mom," she said forcing a little smile. "I don't need you scurrying around here 
all week, treating me like a 5-year-old. I'll be fine." Besides, she thought, 
Mulder will be right outside. Even though she had refused Skinner's offer of a 
guard, she knew Mulder would be sitting across the street from her apartment in 
his parked car. She could almost picture him popping sunflower seeds and 
listening to late-night talk radio. 

"If you are sure this is what you want." Her mother seemed to be satisfied. That 
was way too easy, she thought. Apparently Mulder had let her in on his plan. "Do 
you want me to help you to the bed before I go?" 

"No, I'm actually quite comfortable here." Dana knew that her mother probably 
wouldn't buy that one. 

"Dana," she said, entering her line of vision again. "Dana, call me if you need 
me." She was very serious. Dana noticed she looked very concerned, very worried 
and tired. 

"Mom, go home and get some rest." Her mother leaned down and kissed her on the 
cheek and silently walked towards the door. She quietly shut the door behind 
her, leaving Dana alone with her thoughts. 


Title: All Dreams of the Soul: Exodus 2/4

Author: Tiger Lilly

E-Mail address: Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Category: XA

Keyword: Scully Angst. X-file. UST

Spoilers: 5th season

Summary: Scully's back to work, but her strange
dreams continue to effect her. Continuation of All
Dreams of the Soul: Genesis.



Disclaimer: Once again with feeling. The
characters of Mulder and Scully belong to the
surfer dude and 1013 productions. I am making
no money from the reading of this ditty, so it
would be a waste of time for surfer dude to sue.
However, Dr. Lipton, nurse Sarah, and Agent
Beaubrun are mine, and they better not show up
in any television episodes!



Warning: This story is rated R for language and
adult situations. This isn't as violent as the first
installment, but it is still pretty gory. If you have a
problem with blood or vomit, turn back now!



Author's note: This is the second of four
installments. If you haven't read All Dreams of the
Soul: Genesis, then Exodus is not going to make
much sense to you. My suggestion-go back and
read it.



Please send me your feedback at
Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com. Be gentle on me. It my
first time out. Okay to archive anywhere. Just
please send me an e-mail so I'll know.





Exodus



     Dana was throwing up in Mulder's trash can.
She was on her hands and knees, on the floor,
losing her lunch and breakfast and maybe even
some dinner from the night before...in Mulder's
trash can.

     With every heave she felt the soreness still left
in her ribs. Her mind was trying to figure out what
had come over her. Had she pushed herself too
much? It had only been a little over three weeks
since she left the hospital, but work had actually
helped get her mind off...things.

     One moment she had been standing there
beside his desk, listening to him go on and on
about some mysterious voodoo-related
disappearances in Florida. She was thumbing
through the case file he had tossed down in front
of her. The next moment, she was overcome by
such intense waves of nausea that she thought
her knees would buckle. She looked down at the
trash can and knew she was going to vomit. And
she fell over and started to do just that.

     She was done now. She was just kneeling
there over the trash can and catching her breath.
That had hurt her still healing ribs too much.

     "Geez, Scully. If you don't want to go to
Florida, you just had to say so."

     She realized he had knelt down behind her
and had an arm around her shoulders for
support.

     "I didn't know I felt so strongly about it." She
said it between deep breaths, trying to sound like
she was okay.

     She leaned back on her knees and felt Mulder
behind her, still supporting her. She had her eyes
closed, still trying to find a normal rhythm for her
breathing.

     She heard Mulder's free hand open a desk
drawer above him and rummaged through it,
feeling for something. He waved a fast-food
restaurant napkin in front of her.

     "Here."

     Dana reached out, took it, and wiped her
mouth with it. It smelled like greasy cheese steak.
She thought she might be sick again.

     They both sat there on the floor for a minute,
saying nothing. The sound of Dana's breathing
echoed in the basement. She waited until she felt
sure she could stand up before even trying.

     She stood and smoothed out her suit, moving
away from Mulder while she did it. Mulder stood
and began kicking the foul-smelling trash can out
the door of the office, looking down at it from the
corner of his eye, his nose crumpled a little. "Boy,
the cleaning crew's going to love this," he said.

     "Sorry, Mulder."

     "Don't worry about it. I didn't need that trash
can anyway."

     Dana looked around at the office. It was true.
He was constantly working in clutter. She didn't
think he ever actually threw anything away. His
desk was full of files, old expense reports, 8x10
glossies from cases she'd long forgotten about,
articles from various questionable publications,
the latest Magic Bullet. The whole office was one
big pile.

     Somewhere in his piles she knew her new
case file was buried. Her third X-file. At least this
time he hadn't made a smart-ass comment about
how she was still the record-holder.

     Usually by now, she would have gone
searching for her new file. But the whole incident,
the attack, the dreams...she wasn't really up to
dealing with it. When she had first come home
from the hospital, it had taken all her mental
energy just to sleep in her bed. And lately, she
was so tired. She was wearing herself out just
trying to return to normal. Luckily, the dreams
hadn't returned.

     Almost immediately after her statement was
completed, it had become a nonspoken
understanding between them that unless it was
necessary to the investigation, Dana didn't want
to talk about her attack. She had given him all the
information he needed. And she was confident
Mulder was just uncomfortable enough with the
subject that he wouldn't push her for more. And
for the most part, he had taken care of the case
without consulting her.

     She knew that while she was on leave, he had
worked on her case full-time. Now he was
working on it after hours, after she left in the
evenings. Sometimes it was good that Mulder
didn't have a life.

     Mulder had returned to his desk and was
guiding Dana down by her shoulder into his
chair. This isn't helping to convince him that I can
still take care of myself, she thought, but let
herself sink into his chair anyway.

     "Maybe you should go home." He had knelt
down in front of her to talk to her face to face.
Once again, she felt like he was a little too close.

     "No, Mulder. We have a case."

     "I'll just call the Miami field office and let them
know we won't be investigating after all."

     "Mulder, that's..."

     "It doesn't really interest me." She rolled her
eyes almost instinctively. She wasn't buying it.
"Go with it, Scully. Besides, you know if I thought
there was really something here, I wouldn't give it
up. I can be relentless when I want to be." He
smiled.

     "That's an understatement." She raised an
eyebrow and studied his face. Maybe he really
wasn't interested. She had to admit, she really
didn't feel like spending a week in Florida
chasing zombies. "Okay." But just to make sure
he understood that she wasn't turning into some
delicate flower, she quickly added, "But I'll be
ready to go if you change your mind."

     She walked across the room to gather her coat
and stuff a few files into her briefcase. Catching
up on a little work would give her something to
concentrate on besides the way she felt, both
physically and mentally. She turned and opened
the office door.

     "See you tomorrow, Scully."

     He was already on the phone to Miami. She
just waved and walked out the door.





     She woke up from a deep sleep to hear the
phone ringing. Wearily, she reached out a hand
to pull the receiver to her ear without moving from
the pillow.

     "Hello." Her voice sounded as tired as she felt.

     "It wasn't Krycek."

     That was it. No hello. No hi, Scully, how you
doing? Sorry I woke you up. Only Mulder's voice
speaking that one sentence, sounding very
distressed.

     When she had told him in the hospital that she
was sure Alex Krycek was her attacker, her rapist,
he had practically exploded. All Mulder's hate for
Krycek had tumbled out in about ten seconds. He
had jumped up from the chair beside her bed,
yelling, "I should have killed that fucking bastard
when I had a chance," and threw her water
pitcher across the room before she had an
opportunity to stop him.

     His hate of Krycek and guilt for not protecting
her from him had driven him in this investigation,
she was sure of it. And now he sounded lost.

     "What do you mean, it wasn't him?" she finally
managed to say, pulling herself up in bed. Her
heart was pounding in her ears. "I saw him very
clearly, Mulder. I know it was him." By now, she
had reached over to flip on the light. Jesus, it was
only 9:45. What time had she fallen asleep?

     No answer. Okay, she was going to have to
ask, regardless of how the answer might affect
her.

     "Mulder, you have to tell me what you know."

     After a long pause, he finally spoke.

     "I've been going over your statement. The way
your attacker pinned you down and...uh...did
what he did. That would have taken two hands
and two arms."

     It took Dana a second to piece together exactly
what that meant. "Oh my God, he has a prosthetic
arm."

     "I know, Scully, but there's more...Are you sure
you want to hear this?"

     She took a deep breath. "Yes." If only she felt
as positive about it as that sounded.

     "The physical evidence collected at the scene
and from...uh...you. It doesn't match Krycek's
records in the federal database or CODIS."

     Physical evidence? Since when was Fox
Mulder concerned about physical evidence? And
Krycek was a one-armed man. Fate had to be
playing some kind of sick joke on her. The only
thing missing was a reference to Tommy Lee
Jones.

     "What do you mean doesn't match?" Was
science actually betraying her? How could it
when she had always been its ally? Besides she
was punishing herself, and she knew it. But she
had to know the facts.

     "The prints, blood type, DNA...everything,"
Mulder said. "None of it matches Krycek."

     She wanted to scream at him. Tell him that he
was wrong. That every shred of evidence
gathered was wrong. Krycek's face haunted her
all day and all night. Every time she closed her
eyes, she could see his face above her, just
inches away from her. She could hear his voice
in her ears-"I said, we're not done!"

     Oh, God, Dana thought. I think I'm going to be
sick again.

     "Scully...Scully...are you there?"

     She realized her thoughts had interrupted her
conversation with him. Her horrible, god damn,
thoughts.

     "Yes."

     "Did you hear me? I need more information
about these dreams you were having. I'm on my
way over."

     Her heart jumped up to her throat. "No, Mulder.
I'm...okay. I just want to go back to sleep." It
wasn't a lie. She did want to just go back to
sleep. She just didn't know if she could. "Good-
bye Mulder."

     "Dana...."

     "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I have a doctor's
appointment, so I'll be in late." And she hung up
on him.

     She laid back down in the bed without turning
off the lamp and curled up around her pillow.
Fuck, Dana thought, even the facts weren't real.
Had she been so traumatized by her attack that
she had somehow imagined Alex Krycek was the
one attacking her? After everything that had
happen to her... the abduction, Missy, the cancer,
Emily...was she finally losing her mind?

     Dana hugged the pillow and tried to find
something calming to think about. She found
herself reciting over and over in her mind the Hail
Marys and Our Father she had learned so long
ago in Catechism. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.





     "So, Dana. I understand you've refused to let
Sarah draw your blood for a pregnancy test? Do
you want to let me in on the reason?" Dr. Lipton
stood there waiting for her answer.

     "I don't think it's necessary."

     Dr. Lipton carried her chart across the small
exam room and sat down at the desk attached to
the wall. She flipped through page after page of
records, obviously from the latest hospital stay.
She stopped to read the information Dana had
just given to the nurse.

     "You told Sarah you couldn't remember the
date of your last menstrual period. Do you have
an approximate idea?"

     What did it matter? Dana thought. It was
something she had actually kept track of at one
time. But the cytotoxic drugs she received during
chemotherapy had pushed her body into
menopause. And although hormone therapy had
made her periods return, she didn't really see
any point in keeping track of them.

     "I shouldn't have to tell you, Dana, that one in
three women made infertile by chemo eventually
become fertile again once the treatments end."

     Yes, it was true, but she had never tried to go
off the hormones to see if her body had indeed
recovered. Since Mulder had told her the truth,
she didn't see any real point of it. In fact, the only
time she made any note of her body's futile
attempts at pretending she wasn't barren was
when she was in the field. Getting stuck in the
middle of nowhere totally unprepared was not
her idea of a good time. Besides, Mulder wasn't
exactly the type to go buy tampons for her.

     "I don't know. A month ago. Maybe more."

     Dana racked her brain trying to remember. It
had been before her attack. Had it also been
before the dreams started? She wasn't sure.

     "Dana," Dr. Lipton was speaking slowly and
softly to her. "I know you realize as a physician
that a pregnancy test is a routine procedure in
cases like yours. And since you haven't had a
menstrual period since the attack, that makes it
even more important."

     How had they gotten on this subject? Dana
thought. Enough already. Let's end this once and
for all. Lay it all on the line. Besides, she realized
looking at her watch, she really needed to get to
work. She looked Dr. Lipton right in the eye.

     "Dr. Lipton, I understand your concern. But I
have discovered since my chemo that I am
absolutely unable to ovulate. There isn't even the
remotest possibility that I'm pregnant."

     Dr. Lipton looked confused and began looking
through her records again. She didn't even raise
her head from them to ask the next question, but
simply asked it while she was writing down the
new information Dana had given her.

     "Since this obviously occurred since your last
visit here, can I have the name of the doctor who
diagnosed your infertility?"

     Oh great. What was she going to say now?
Well, you see Dr. Lipton, this wasn't exactly
diagnosed by a doctor. My partner, who doesn't
know a hell of alot about the female reproductive
system, told me that all my ova were removed.
Not a doctor. Not even an exam. Just complete
trust that he was telling me the truth. Oh, and
don't forget the fact my ova where removed by
the evil forces in the government, who also
kidnapped me, put an implant in my neck, and
gave me cancer.

     The rantings of an insane woman.

     She was sure Dr. Lipton would call security to
haul her off if she told her the truth. But she was
waiting for her to answer.

     "No."

     "No?" Dr. Lipton looked up surprised.

     "No," Dana repeated firmly. "If you don't mind, I
would like to just proceed with the exam. I'm late
for work." She laid back on the examination table,
thus ending the conversation.

     Dr. Lipton visibly swallowed her angry. "Well,
since it has been over a year since you were
here, I'd like to do a full exam and PAP smear."
She opened the door to summon the nurse
without even waiting for Dana's consent.

     Why did I agree to this? She pulled the flimsy
paper gown together in front where it was
beginning to gap open. She had actually
intended to skip this horror and use a mirror to
examine herself and make sure the sutures had
healed properly. But her mother had insisted.
And she was just too tired to argue.

     Dr. Lipton was now standing beside the table,
while Sarah, the same nurse Dana had locked
horns with only 10 minutes before, was setting up
all the various medical instruments and tools of
torture. Dana found herself studying the clock on
the wall while Dr. Lipton began her check-up in
complete silence. And tried not to wince while
she examined her breasts.

     "Any tenderness?"

     "No," she lied. But how the hell could she tell,
when she was still healing from 5 broken ribs?
Every inch of her bruised body ached when she
moved the wrong way.

     Dr. Lipton proceeded to move down the table
and guided Dana's feet into the stirrups. Sarah
snapped a latex glove over the doctor's right
hand.

     Dana braced herself for the examination and
closed her eyes. Okay, it's true, she thought.
Doctors do make the worst patients. And she
began to list everything she needed to
accomplish at work, assuming she ever got there.

     "Hmmm." Dr. Lipton's concerned voice caught
Dana's attention and caused her to open her
eyes. She was using her ungloved left hand to
push down on Dana's abdomen. "Hmmm," she
repeated. She moved away from the table and
said, "You can sit up now." And the exam was
over.

     Dr. Lipton turned her back to her and flung the
used glove into the red medical waste container.
She quietly walked back over to the desk and
began looking over Dana's latest medical
information again. Dana struggled to an upright
position, feeling horribly slimy and anxiously
awaiting the opportunity to get dressed.

     "Well, you have healed nicely," Dr. Lipton
began with her head still buried in Dana's chart.
"I see here that your cancer is still in remission.
When was your last check-up with your
oncologist?"

     What exactly was she getting at? Dana
thought. "Two months ago." MRIs, blood work,
everything had been normal.

     "Hmmm."

     Dana was starting to get more than a little
apprehensive with the latest line of questioning.
What exactly did the doctor suspect? After a long
wait, Dana finally had her answer.

     "I think I may have found the cause of your
missed menstrual period. Your uterus seems to
be unusually large. I suspect you may have a
mass growing inside of it. Possibly a fibroid tumor
or..."

     "Or a malignancy." Dana finished the sentence
for her. She unconsciously reached a hand
behind her neck and began to feel the scar
above her implant. The implant that was suppose
to keep anything like this from happening. The
implant that Mulder had brought her to save her
life.

     Dr. Lipton must have seen the distress on her
face because she quickly continued. "Dana, we
can't jump to any conclusions. I'm going to send
you downstairs for an ultrasound. After that, we'll
have a better idea of what we're dealing with. Go
ahead and get dressed. Sarah will call
downstairs and set everything up for you."

     Dr. Lipton turned to leave, but turned back
around once she had reached the door. "Oh, and
Dana. You may want to call your work and tell
them that you're probably not going to make it in
today." With that, she shut the door behind her.





     She hadn't called Mulder. Or Skinner. Or her
mother. She had just come home after the
ultrasound, took her phone off the hook, and laid
down on the sofa, pulling her white throw over
her and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.

     She had laid there the rest of the afternoon,
watching the shadows on the wall as the sun set.
She had occasionally dosed off, sleeping a
restless, dreamless sleep. But mostly she had
stared at the armchair across the room. She
thought about her father's appearance in that
armchair after his death. She had come to accept
that vision as real. But what the ultrasound had
revealed...was it a vision? A miracle? A figment of
her imagination? She felt so confused, almost
hoping that maybe once again Ahab would
appear in that same chair, giving her the answers
she sought.

     When is it going to end? she thought as she
absentmindedly thumbed the gold cross hanging
from her neck. When exactly had it been decided
that Dana Scully was no longer a human being,
but the lab rat for the cosmos? Was it something
they had conceived from the start, or had each
piece slowly fallen into place as they
contemplated ways to make her life a living hell?
Were they now testing her loyalty to Mulder once
again? Or just seeing how much she could take?
Or was this something more?

     Any first year med student would have
recognized what the ultrasound had revealed.
The technician didn't even have to say anything.
Obviously the look on Dana's face told her that
Dana knew exactly what she was looking at. And
the rest of the test had been conducted in total
silence, with only the quiet rhythm of the fetus'
rapid heartbeat filling the room.

     Dana had immediately thought of Emily.
Sweet, little Emily. Her sad, blue eyes looking up
at her face as she laid dying in her hospital bed.
Her green blood oozing through her veins.

     Stop it. STOP IT. It was an hallucination. An
horrible, extremely cruel hallucination. After all,
the technician didn't actually say a word. And she
hadn't returned to Dr. Lipton's office after the
ultrasound to discuss the results. She had left in
such a rush of emotions. One minute, she was
sure she had another tumor. The next...what? A
miracle? A miraculous conception? That had only
happened once before, and even the Virgin Mary
had ova to work with.

     Now it was dusk. By now, she expected
Mulder would be leaving the basement and
heading home, wondering where she was.

     Mulder. Oh, god, what was she going to tell
Mulder? More importantly, how was she going to
tell Mulder something that she couldn't believe
herself even after she had seen it with her own
two eyes? She had watched in wide-eyed horror
as the technician measured the length of her
uterus' intruder as well as her uterus' size. The
screen displayed the same calculation over and
over: 9 weeks gestational age. The relief she felt
knowing conception had taken place before the
rape disappeared when she calculated that it
would have taken place approximately when the
dreams started.

     The dreams.

     Now she probably was going to have to tell
Mulder about the dreams. All the dreams and
what they had been about. She couldn't decide
how he would react to them. Or even if she
should tell him at all.

     And if she told him about her...hallucination,
what would he say? After all, he never believed
any of the miracles she felt sure she had
witnessed. Would he rather believe she was
once again invaded by cancer? She didn't know.

     At that moment, there was a knock at her door.
She didn't move. She knew who it was. Maybe if
she was very quiet...

     "Scully, open up. It's me."

     Dana closed her eyes and listened to her
ragged breathing. She wasn't ready to face him.
She hadn't rehearsed what she was going to tell
him yet. Or even decided if she would tell him
anything. She still needed to straighten it out in
her own mind.

     "Scully, I know you're home."

     Damn, Dana thought. There goes hoping he'd
just leave. Oh, well, it was worth one last futile
attempt. "Go away, Mulder."

     She wasn't surprised to hear his key turning in
the lock. She was surprised he had actually
knocked in the first place.

     She heard him come in and lock the door
behind him. She could imagine him pausing,
looking around the apartment for her.

     "Scully, why are you sitting in the dark?"

     "I must have fallen asleep," she lied. She said
it quietly, without bothering to move. She wished
she could just sink into the sofa and disappear.
However, it was already too late for that. He had
rounded the corner of the sofa in a few long
strides and was already kneeling on the floor in
front of her, staring right into her face.

     "Why didn't you come in today?"

     "Mulder, I..."

     "I was worried. I called your mother. She said
you had a doctor's appointment this morning. Are
you okay?" He seemed a little uncomfortable with
the subject. Dana guessed her mother had also
told him what kind of doctor's appointment she
had.

     "Yes, Mulder. I told you about my appointment
last night."

     "Oh." There was a long pause before he said,
"Everything okay?" He had said it with a smile,
trying to sound casual, to break the somber mood
in the apartment. But when she didn't answer, he
became visibly anxious.

     "Scully...everything is okay... isn't it?"

     "Mulder...I..." What, what? A tumor? Alien
baby? Elvis' return from the dead? Complete
psychosis? She ran both the rational and
irrational options over in her mind, trying to
decided which to start with. She impulsively
decided to go with her old stand-by, as meek as it
was. "...I'm fine."

     He just sat there, looking at her skeptically.
The silence in the apartment was deafening. After
what seemed like several minutes, but was
probably only a few seconds, she decided she
was going to need to continue, if only to come up
with a better explanation of her absence.

     "There was initially some concern that I might
have an uterine tumor."

     He visibly gulped in a breath. "Scully, how..."

     She cut him off. "But, tests revealed that it was
nothing more than a benign mass." Okay, that
was a lie. She knew it. This was definitely
something more than that. Maybe she should
have had the damn thing biopsied. As soon as
she thought it, she winced. Biopsied was a polite
word for what she was thinking.

     He was still looking at her. She realized she
was still laying on the sofa with the throw
wrapped around her shoulders. I guess I don't
look like a women who has just avoided another
death sentence, she thought. She pushed herself
up into a sitting position.

     "Look, it's been a very emotional day. If you
don't mind..."

     "There's another reason I came over here.
They found a body in Florida that matches the
description of one of the missing women. Skinner
assigned us the case this morning. I was on my
way to the airport."

     She looked at him startled.

     "I tried to call," he said, "but I couldn't get
through. I thought maybe you had taken the
phone off the hook."

     "Oh, yeah. I was trying to sleep." Feeble, she
thought. Really feeble.

     After staring at her for several more eternal
seconds, he started to rise.

     "Look, I've booked us on a flight in an hour.
You don't have to..."

     "No, I'm ready to go. I packed yesterday. I'll
just get my..."

     "You really don't..."

     "No, Mulder. I do." And she was off the sofa
and heading towards her bedroom before he
could say another word. Delicate flower, my ass,
Dana thought as she grabbed her suitcase.

     Besides, nothing like a case to get her mind off
her own...problems. She needed time and
something to put her back up against. This might
be just the thing.





     She leaned her head back against the seat
and closed her eyes. DC to Miami. Two and a
half hours. Plenty of time to...

     The sensation of a manila folder landing in her
lap broke her train of thought. She opened her
eyes and looked down. The case file. It had
grown considerable since yesterday.

     "I thought we could use this opportunity to
discuss some of the more interesting aspects of
this case," Mulder said from the seat beside her.

     "Sure. Fine. Whatever." she sighed. Forget
about relaxing. Or thinking. She was in Mulder's
world again.

     "Look, Scully, you can blow this off if you want.
But we need to go over some background
information. I want you up on the facts when we
get to Miami."

     "Facts, Mulder? Or speculations?"

     "Facts, Scully. Besides," he said as a little
smirk crossed his face, "you missed my slide
show this morning. This won't be nearly as
impressive, but I still think you'll find this
information essential to understanding the
nuances of this case."

     She spent the next 2 hours listening to Mulder
talk about some of the more bizarre aspects of
voodoo. From his fixation on zombification, secret
societies, and black magic, she wondered if he
knew that voodoo was a syncretic religion
created from the merging of Catholicism with
West African tribal deities. She thought she had
reminded him of that when they were at the
Haitian resettlement camp, but as always, he
chose to ignore the more mundane aspects. His
next chosen topic confirmed her suspicions.

     "It's possible that the latest disappearances
have to do with a spirit know as tonton macoute."

     Her raised eyebrow was all the urging he
needed to go on. "It loosely translates to mean...
the bogeyman."

     "The bogeyman?" She had to bite her lip hard
on the inside to keep from laughing. And she
knew he could tell that she was trying not to
laugh. "You mean to tell me you are dragging me
all the way to Miami to hunt for the bogeyman?"
She said it incredulously, but she knew that he
had led her on wilder hunts before.

     "I didn't drag you, Scully. You insisted."

     Oh, yeah. She had temporarily forgotten. She
let a couple of beats skip before she started
again.

     "Mulder... the bogeyman?"

     "Look, I know it's not very original, Scully. But
it's a spirit that repeatedly is blamed for all kinds
of vile acts by black magic practitioners. It
supposedly invades worshipers, causing them to
commit acts ranging from cannibalism to human
sacrifices."

     "And you think we may be looking at some sort
of human sacrifice."

     "Either that or zombification. These women
could be missing because of a spell placed on
them by a black magician, called a bokors."

     "Oh, come on, Mulder, you know that
zombification is the results of brain damage
caused by ingesting a variety of toxic substances.
Remember the tetrodotoxin we found in that
soldier in North Carolina? Subjects either
knowingly or unknowingly swallow a powerful
combination of intoxicating drugs that slow the
body's functions to the point of comatose. When a
powerful antidote is administered to the
apparently dead victim, he or she appears to be
raised from the dead. Brain damaged and very
controllable. But still very much alive."

     He looked surprised, but pleased that she had
done some of her homework. And ready to give
her his standard speech again about opening
herself up to extreme possibilities. She cut him off
before he had a chance.

     "I promise to keep my mouth shut for an
acceptable amount of time when we get to Miami.
Just let me review the file before we discuss any
more of your...uh..facts." If only he knew how
extreme some of the possibilities she was
considering in her own life were.

     He didn't say another word until they were
safely on the ground in Miami.





     Miami was humid. Incredibly humid, Dana
thought as she turned up the air conditioner in
her motel room. Plus the whole city reeked of
sulfur. And she hated it.

     She had been up for over 36 hours. From the
moment the plane touched down at Miami
International, she had chased Mulder from the
Miami field office, to the location where the local
authorities had recovered what had positively
been identified as one of the missing women, to
the Dade County morgue. From there, he had left
her alone to conduct her autopsy, running off to
interview various voodoo priests and priestesses
who claimed to have information about the case.
And she had welcomed the solitude.

     The autopsy. Not since med school had her
stomach literally threaten to heave with every
move she made. She wanted to blame it on lack
of sleep, and the fact that she hadn't eaten since
breakfast the day before. Woofing down some
vending machine peanut butter and cheese
crackers had helped. To a point. But other than
the expected signs of decay, and the fact that the
body was covered in a crystallized white
substance, nothing was unusually gruesome
about this particular death. Certainly nothing to
cause her to continually pause to get her gag
reflex under control.

     Nothing like a few symptoms to really make an
hysterical pregnancy convincing, she told herself.

     The woman had been missing for close to 7
months, but Dana estimated that death occurred
no more than 72 hours earlier. The woman was
in her early thirties, a recent immigrant from Haiti,
and the white crystals covering her body
contrasted eerily to her dark skin. Dana had
scrapped the white substance into a specimen
vile and sent it to the lab for analysis.

     She had died from severe trauma to the head,
probably caused by being hit with a rock or other
blunt instrument. In fact, nothing had been
remarkable about this woman's death at all.
Except for when it had occurred.

     The woman had given birth within minutes of
her death.

     That had been the discovery that sent her
standing over the sink, eyes closed, arms bracing
her for the inevitable release that surely would
come with such an intense wave of nausea. But it
didn't happen, and slowly she had regained the
composure to return to the task at hand. The case
file had made no mention of the woman being
pregnant at the time of her disappearance. But
the evidence was undeniable that she had
delivered at full-term.

     Now it was late afternoon, and she was finally
at the motel and determined to rest before she
completed her autopsy report. Let Mulder chase
away the bogeyman, she thought. She'd had
enough for one day.

     Dana laid down on top of motel bedspread,
not even bothering to undress. God, she was
exhausted. And in a matter of minutes, she was
deep asleep.



     She was laying on the motel bed, still in her
clothes. Around her, an army of tow-headed
children in sailor suits vaporously filled the room.

       I'm dreaming, Dana thought. Sort of a von
Trappe family meets children of the corn kind of
dream, but nevertheless, a pretty intense dream.

     She turned to look at the face of the child
standing closest to her. A boy of about six,
bearing a striking resemblance to Emily. She
held out her hand, and the boy took it while
stepping in closer to the bed.

     Sadly she studied his face, knowing that it was
her own face she was looking into. He returned
her gaze, actually leaning forward until their
noses were only inches apart.

     And in the sticky slowness that could only
accompany a dream, the realization came to her
that something was unexpectedly wrong with the
face she was looking into. Instead of the intense
blue pools that Emily had, the eyes that she
expected, she gasped at the face before her.

     Hazel eyes.



     Thump. Thump. Thump.

     "Scully! Open up!"

     Dana rubbed her eyes and stumbled in the
darkness towards the door. She vaguely knew
she had been having a bad dream, but Mulder's
knocking on the door had startled her awake, and
she had lost the dream immediately.

     She opened the motel door, and Mulder
pushed his way into the room. He was drenched
from head to toe, apparently trying to use the
Miami Herald as a shield against the torrential
downpour that had begun since she fell asleep.

     "Jesus, Mulder. Don't you ever carry an
umbrella?"

     "Nope. Don't you ever turn on some lights?"

     Mulder flipped on the motel lamp beside the
television. The sudden light made her squint and
shield her eyes with one hand. She knew Mulder
knew that she was sleeping and he had woke her
up. It just didn't matter to him. He was about to
burst with whatever he needed to tell her, and he
was almost visible shaking with the effort to
contain himself until her eyes adjusted to the light
and she was able to turn her full attention to him.

     "Let me guess. You found the bogeyman."

     "Yeah, and he's a nice guy with two kids and a
SUV, just a little misunderstood." Mulder waited a
beat. Sometimes she could almost hear the drum
rift he was playing in his head after he delivered
his standard dry one-liners. As usual, he was
smiling vainly at his own wit. "Seriously, Scully,
let me guess what the substance on the victim's
skin was."

     "Okay, Mulder. I'll humor you. What was it?"

     "Salt."

     She walked over to her PowerBook and
picked up the lab reports she had careless
thrown on the table in her fatigue. She hadn't
even looked at the results of the substance
analysis earlier. Now she scanned the page
quickly for it.

     Sodium chloride. Table salt. He was right. He
didn't even have to ask. He had already read her
face to know he was right and was off and
running on his explanation.

     "Voodoo followers believe salt to have a wide
variety of powerful properties. One of which is the
ability to turn the walking dead into simply the
dead."

     "De-zombification?" Her skeptical questioned
didn't even give him pause.

     "Well, not exactly. It doesn't return their souls. It
just allows them to return to their graves."

     She nodded. She wasn't sure where Mulder
was going with this, especially when it was
obvious to anyone who had viewed the body that
the woman had died of a blow to the head. The
bashed-in skull was a dead giveaway.

     "There's a problem though."

     Only one, Mulder? She hadn't said it aloud,
but she wished she had.

     "In order to work, the salt is suppose to be
eaten."

     Okay, that was a problem. This woman...
zombie...victim had not ingested any of the
sodium chloride on her skin. Nor had she inhaled
any. It was fairly obvious that the substance had
been applied shortly following her death. And
she told him so and also used the opportunity to
poke a little fun at his theory. "Maybe our victim
was on a low-sodium diet?"

     Mulder just glared at her. He apparently didn't
think she was funny. She continued anyway.

     "There's also another pretty significant finding
that doesn't substantiate your zombie theory."
Zombie theory. Only she and Mulder would be
having a conversation, again, about another case
that contained a seriously considered zombie
theory.

     "The woman had recently given birth," Mulder
confidently broke in. She could see the
scoreboard in his eyes: Agent Mulder 2, Agent
Scully 0.

     "How'd you..."

     "They found the baby 10 minutes ago about a
half-mile from where the woman was found."
Mulder paused for effect. "Also covered in salt."

     Dana turned without saying another word and
wearily walked to the closet and grabbed her
overcoat and umbrella. It was definitely going to
be a bumpy night, chasing zombies and the
bogeyman with the FBI boy wonder. She
sarcastically wondered what wonderful deed she
had done to deserve a partner like Mulder.





     Autopsy number two had definitely marked a
new low point in the case for Dana. This time,
besides constantly battling nausea...Besides
reminding her of the last time she had examined
a newborn during that horrible case in Home,
Pennsylvania...Besides the grotesque fact that
the baby's death occurred so close to its birth that
the umbilical cord and placenta were still
attached...Besides the frustration she felt
because she couldn't determine a cause of
death...Besides being dead on her feet and
famished from not having a meal in two
days...Besides the emotional implications of the
death of a life that was just beginning...Besides
the fact that she was slowly coming out of her
shock from the doctor's office...Besides having
the realization in the middle of the autopsy that
she might carry a life inside of her closely
resembling the one she was
examining....Besides all that, Mulder spent the
entire autopsy standing less than two feet behind
her, scrutinizing her every move.

     She had never been so glad to change out of
her scrubs. Mulder was waiting in the hall for her,
popping sunflower seeds.

     "So, Scully. You hungry?"

     Unbelievable, she thought. Un-fucking-
believable.





     It was another one of Mulder's brilliant ideas.
When he found out that the next Saturday was a
traditional Vodun ritual day, he had located an
agent from the Miami field office that could take
them to a ritual site and explain the ceremony.
Agent Beaubrun explained to them that his
parents had come to Miami from Haiti before he
was born. And although he had been exposed to
Voodoo growing up in Miami, he had never
actually practiced it, much to Mulder's
disappointment . He seemed willing enough to
accompany them, though, even if it was his day
off.

     Now she knew that Mulder's constant
questions were throwing the Miami agent a little
off guard. Beaubrun kept glancing back at her,
where she had leaned back against the low wall
in the back of the shed, her arms crossed. Mulder
and Beaubrun were standing at a respectable
distance from the ritual, a fact that was probably
driving Mulder crazy. Dana had purposely chose
to stand even farther back, where she could
remain a skeptical observer, and check her watch
frequently, without offending any of the believers
which filled the covered area in front of her.
Besides, she needed to get away from Mulder,
even if it was only by a few feet. He was driving
her crazy, not only because of his insistence to
continue investigating the voodoo link to the
case, but also because almost everything he had
done since their arrival in Miami had grated at
her already raw nerves.

     She still wasn't sure what Mulder's real
objective in all of this was. Other than the fact that
all of the missing women had been Mambos, or
voodoo priestesses, and all had arrived in the
Miami area from Haiti in the last two years, there
still was no hard evidence to relate the
disappearances and deaths to voodoo. And after
his zombie theory, which she had made fun of, he
hadn't discussed any of the other possibilities
that she knew where floating around in that head
of his. On the bright said, she thought, at least he
hasn't tried the old alien abduction theory again.

      Honestly, she was as baffled by their first set
of recovered victims as he was. The salt, the
timing of the death, the baby that died of no
apparent cause, none of it made any sense. But
unlike Mulder, she wasn't jumping to any
conclusions yet. And she felt rather sure that they
weren't going to find any answers here.

     She couldn't hear what Beaubrun was
explaining to Mulder, but she could see the
Vodun priest in the middle of the shed pouring
flour on the ground in a design around a rainbow
painted center post. A fire blazed nearby, even
though it was at least 90 degrees. The priest
finished his design and blew a hand full of flour in
each direction. Almost immediately, the crowd of
believers erupted in something Dana vaguely
recognized as prayer.

     She listened carefully to the strange French
dialect and realized what they were saying. The
Our Father. But as soon as she recognized it, it
was over. And a section of the crowd dressed in
ceremonial African costumes began a strange,
hypnotic chant.

     The priest began violently striking the floured-
covered ground with a staff topped by a large
rattle. The priest's face contorted in rage, and he
shouted unrecognizable words at the crowd.
Dana found herself instinctively flinching with
each earthen thud of the staff.

     Chanting men and women came forward and
placed what appeared to be offering jars on the
concrete footing of the center post. A man lead a
terrified white sheep into the floured area and
tied it to the post, where it bleated and tugged
against its short restraint to no avail. Nearby her,
a group of women who she thought were only
watching the ritual began to wail and chant as
well, causing the sheep to attempt a futile bolt to
the other side of the post.

     Throughout the crowd, celebrants were yelling
and falling forward, staggering towards the center
of the shed. Slowly a group of seven men and
women became the focus of the ritual, each
struggling and flailing their arms against some
unforeseen attacker. Their bodies shook,
muscles flexed and spasmed, as if they no longer
had control. Each of the seven was accompanied
by a lucid celebrant, who guarded them from the
crowd and removed their shoes. The chanting of
the crowd became accented by the terrified
screams and yells of the seven and the ever
increasing cries of the sheep. The panicked
animal was visibly shaking, its legs wobbling
unsteadily. Dana's own knees threatened to
buckle, and she leaned back hard against the
wall for support. She watched the sheep in rapt
horror as it darted first in one direction and then
the other, looking for an escape.

     At that moment, Mulder turned his head
around and looked at her. He had the biggest,
goofiest smile on his face she had ever seen.

     The priest continued striking the ground with
his staff, and although the sound was drowned
out by the intonations of the crowd, Dana's
heartbeat reverberated through her body in sync
with each strike.

     Suddenly, the seven stopped struggling all at
once. Each began to dance wildly, yelling in
strange gibberish. They began taunting the
crowd, yelling and pushing nearby observers.
One of the men turned and walked through the
blazing fire without flinching.

     The bleating of the sheep had reached a point
that if it didn't stop soon, Dana thought she would
scream. At that moment, the priest picked up a
sword and in one swoop cut the throat of the
sheep still tied to the center post, its last cry
ending in a gurgle as it slumped to the ground.
Dana winced and turned away from the scene.
Slowly she began to sink down the wall to the
ground, hoping that maybe Mulder would get the
message that she had seen enough and he
needed to get her out of there.

     She looked up just in time to see the priest fill
a gourd full of the sheep's blood and begin to
drink. The blood dripped down the sides of his
mouth and stained the front of his ceremonial
robe and shirt. Other followers quickly gathered
around to partake in the macabre libation,
devouring it as greedily as he did. Dana's hand
flew to her mouth, and her eyes clamped tight,
trying to shut out the image that she was sure
was going to make her stomach empty its merger
contents once again.

     When she opened her eyes, she expected to
see Mulder standing over her. Instead she slowly
became aware of a perceptible change in the
crowd. Where celebrants and observers had
stood in front of her before, now she had a very
clear view of the center post and the dancing
seven, which were now slumped to the ground.
The still chanting crowd had parted in front of her,
although their tone had changed from manic to
reverent. Dana became increasingly
uncomfortable as she realized every eye was
now focused on her. Had she done something to
offend them? Had her sitting on the ground
caused all this attention?

     She barely had time to consider the question
before becoming transfixed. The priest was
staring her down with hypnotic force. She locked
on his eyes as he neared closer and closer to
her. She barely noticed the chanters closing in
behind him, also inching their way toward her.

     The priest stopped directly in front of her, still
capturing her with his gaze. Dana was fascinated
by his eyes, yet terrified by his presence. Blood
seemed to be everywhere, pulsing through her
body, pounding in her ears, spread across the
priest's robes, smeared on his face and dripping
from the gourd he still held in his hands. She
forced herself to pull away from the priest's gaze.
The chanters were deafening, and between the
chorus and the crowd which had filled in behind
them, she was completely trapped. Only the
space of a small half circle separated her from
the excited mass. All she saw were unfamiliar
sweat-glisten faces, blood-smeared mouths, and
intent eyes. She scanned the crowd for Mulder.

     Where the hell was Mulder?

     She wanted to scream. To cover her ears from
the chants. To jump up and run. She felt tethered
like the sheep. But the FBI agent in her told her to
ignore her urges. To sit and wait. If they were
going to attack her, which she wasn't sure they
were, then she was already completely
outnumbered. And reaching for her gun tucked
between her jeans and the back of her shirt
would definitely start a riot. She pushed the
scream down in her throat. But she noticed that
she was outwardly betraying the calm demeanor
she was trying to project. She was shaking from
head to toe, her lungs forcing air through her
constricting throat.

     Suddenly, the priest thrust his staff into the air,
immediately silencing the crowd. He began
yelling something in French, but still his gaze did
not leave Dana's face. The crowd seemed to
respond to his proclamation. Several were
nodding their heads. She could even hear a few
sobs from somewhere. But mostly there was
silence, contrasting completely to only seconds
before. Her ears were filled by her ragged
breathing and her heart pounding in her ears.

     Alot of good all that college German is doing
me, Dana thought. I should have stayed next to
Mulder and his interpreter.

     The priest took another step toward her and
bent down. Dana forced herself to remain steady.
His dark hand reached out and touched her face.
She could feel the still warm blood on his hand
smear her cheek. For a moment, their eyes
locked again and she saw...compassion?

     "Erzulie!" he yelled, straightening up and
turning towards the crowd. The blood-curling
scream made Dana jump. In response, the crowd
began its deafening chant with renewed frenzy.

     The priest took the bloody gourd, still in his
hand, and poured its contents on the ground in
front of Dana. The warm blood splattered up on
her. She could feel it hitting her bare arms and
face.

     Then the drums began. They seemed to beat a
violent, menacing rhythm. The crowd around her
began clapping.

     That's it, she thought. Enough of the dramatics.
If she didn't get out of here now, she was
definitely going to shoot someone. Dana jumped
to her feet and began looking for a way out of the
crowd. But the sea of dark faces around her
seemed to be endless in every direction.

     Damn it, I'll fight my way out if I have to, she
thought, preparing herself for a battle.

     At that moment, a hand grabbed her arm. Her
first instinct was to pull away, but it had a firm
grasp on her forearm and was pulling her. She
turned ready to belt whoever it was and was
surprised to find Mulder.

     "Scully, come on!"

     He had yelled it as loud as he could, but she
couldn't hear him above the drums, chanting, and
clapping. Instead, she read his lips and the fear
in his eyes. He pulled her in front of him and
attempted to push both of them through the
crowd. All Dana could see was a sea of dark
hands reaching out to touch her as she passed.
Each touch startled her, and she jumped away
from the sensations. Mulder's chest was right up
against her back, and she could feel his heart
pounding as hard as hers. His left arm was trying
to shield her from the eager crowd, which was
quickly turning into a mob. Mulder's pace through
the crowd was deliberately slow and calm.

     Dana's panic was becoming monumental and
threatened to completely take over. She started
to bolt, but Mulder keep a firm grasp on her arm.

     "Easy, Scully," he said right next to her ear. It
sounded like a whisper, but he yelled it so she
could hear him above the noise.

     The crowd was moving with them. Suddenly
they opened up, revealing Agent Beaubrun's car
sitting at the edge of the shed, with him in the
driver's seat, waiting for them with the engine
running. Mulder steered her to the car, opened
the back door, and pushed her inside. He
followed on her heels. She heard the door locks
click.

     The crowd was now completely surrounding
the car. Still clapping, still chanting. Faces
peered into the back windows and hands banged
against the car. Beaubrun slowly accelerated and
the crowd parted, following only to the edge of
the courtyard.

     Only then did Mulder's hand finally let go of
her arm. She didn't realize how tightly he was
holding on to her, until his hand released, and
she felt the blood flowing back into her lower arm.

     Mulder let out a deep breath and slumped
back against the seat. "You okay?"

     "Yeah, I think so." The image of the sacrifice
popped into her head, and she closed her eyes
and shivered.

     Dana instinctively flinched away as something
brushed her face. She opened her eyes to find
Mulder offering her a handkerchief.

     "You, uh, have some blood..."

     Oh, God, the blood! Dana snatched the
handkerchief and began wiping the sheep's
blood off her face, arms, and hands. She hoped
her actions didn't appear as frantic as they felt.
When she thought she had removed all the blood
she could, she wadded the stained cloth in a ball
and dropped it on the floorboard of the car.

     After a long pause, Mulder said, "Scully, you're
safe. You can stop shaking now."

     She looked down at her hands. They were
indeed shaking. As was her whole body. She
took a deep breath with a gulp and found her
voice. "What the hell was that?" she said softly.

     "Damniest thing I've ever seen," Beaubrun
replied. "For some reason, they seem to think
you're Erzulie."

     Dana looked at Mulder, and he looked back at
her. Nope, he didn't have a clue either.

     "What's erzulie?" Mulder said.

     "Not what, who," Beaubrun corrected. "She's
the Vodun loa of love, kind of like the perfect
female. The closest approximation in Western
religion would probably be the Virgin Mary."

     With that, Mulder let out a big snicker. Dana
shot him a look, but his only response was to
lean over and whisper, "I guess they were a little
off on that one, huh?"

     Dana chose to ignore him. "Where they'd get
an idea like that?" The crazy answer that ran
through her mind was never spoken.

     "I have no idea. I've never seen anything like
it. And what I can't get is that they weren't even
invoking Erzulie."

     "Well," Mulder began with a big grin on his
face, "it wouldn't be the first time someone
thought you were possessed."

     Great, Mulder was having a good laugh at her
expense. All she could do was lean into the
corner of the back seat and sulk. The idea of
shocking him with what she was coming to
believe was sounding better and better.

     "No, Agent Mulder, you don't understand."
Beaubrun was very seriously looking back at
them in the rear view mirror. "They didn't think
Agent Scully was possessed by Erzulie. They
thought she was Erzulie. The actual living
embodiment of her."

     That shut Mulder up for the rest of the trip back
to the motel.





     Ten days on the case from hell, Dana thought.
Hot, humid hell. And they were no closer to
solving the case than when they had arrived in
Miami.

     She laid on the motel bed surrounded by
pieces of the case file. The first few frantic days of
the case had melted into long, slow days of little
progress and no new leads. She and Mulder had
spent the last two evenings reviewing every
piece of evidence, every detail of the autopsy
reports, every black and white glossy of the
locations where the bodies where found, every
statement from possible witnesses and even
those of some freaks. And still they had nothing.
Nothing that is except Mulder's zombie and
bogeyman theories. And even he had
abandoned them.

     So now she sat on the bed in an oversized t-
shirt and panties staring blankly at the papers
and photos surrounding her. Normally, she would
have put on her silk pajamas after her shower,
but it was just so damn hot. Even with the air
conditioner on full-blast, the room still wasn't
sufficiently cool. She felt the t-shirt sticking to her
skin in all the wrong places. She just wasn't
comfortable.

     Mulder had said good night over an hour ago
and retreated frustrated to the adjoining room.
She could hear him flipping television channels
through the half-open door between them.

     She had finally given up on trying to shut the
door that separated their rooms. Every time she
tried, Mulder seemed to open it again. The fact
that he had left it open when he had first left her
room was odd, but after she got up to close it the
first time, he had knocked and asked to look for
his favorite pen. She had let him look, although
how anyone could become so attached to a Bic
disposable was beyond her. Once again he left
the door half-open, and once again she had
made a special trip across the room to shut it. The
next time he knocked to ask if she had any ice.
Then he knocked again to see if she wanted any
of the ice he had just gotten. Then he checked to
see if she had a television listing. Then if channel
33 had as much static on her set as it did on his.
Each time she had deliberately shut the door.
The final time he knocked on her door, he
pointedly opened it to its current position before
she could make it across the room, mumbled
something like "never mind" and retreated to his
bed to began flipping channels yet again. After
six annoying trips across the room to answer his
knock, Dana had decided she had had enough
and just left it open. He hadn't returned since.

     Her room was in semi-darkness, except for the
light illuminating from the lamp beside the bed
and the television in front of her. The Curse of the
Mummy, or some other B-movie like it, was on.
But she wasn't really paying attention to it either.
She had lowered the volume almost to mute.

     Dana was taking another inventory in her mind
of her physical symptoms. She had done it at
least 4 times a day over the past few days. And
every day, her diagnosis was the same.

     Amenorrhea for over 2 months. She was pretty
sure of that, although she still couldn't remember
exactly when her last menstrual cycle had begun.

     Nausea all day and night. Especially when
she hadn't eaten recently. Whoever decided to
call it morning sickness was totally mislead.
Although it was worse very first thing in the
morning. This morning she had jumped out of
bed, awakened by Mulder when a call came in
that the body of another young women had been
found. And she was soon paying for her
enthusiasm by sitting on the bathroom floor in
front of the toilet, waiting to throw up once again.
Unfortunately, she hadn't. Instead she had felt
horribly sick the rest of the morning. Luckily, the
body turned out not to be one of their missing
women.

     Frequent urination. Oh, yeah. Mulder was
getting a little peeved about that one. Especially
the last couple of days, when they had been
together pretty much constantly. It was becoming
pretty obvious that her frequent trips to the
bathroom were getting on his nerves. He had
even made a comment about her cutting back on
liquids.

     Tender, swollen breast. Definitely. Not that her
ribs weren't still bothering her a little, but she was
distinctly aware of both breasts feeling very
uncomfortable. And her bras were getting more
than a little snug. In fact, if they didn't get back to
DC soon, she might have to go shopping. Boy,
Mulder was going to love that one.

     Darkening of areola. Maybe a little. That one
she couldn't be sure about.

     Food cravings. Not that craving chocolate was
that unusually for her. Although the three candy
bars she had downed in front of Mulder two
nights ago had even left his mouth gaping. But
tonight's dinner of Cuban black beans and
chicken, that was something she wouldn't have
wanted everyday. But she had to have something
spicy, and Mulder had been happy to comply.
And he marveled at her zeal in eating it.

     Enlarging uterus and abdomen. Dr. Lipton had
told her that her uterus was enlarged, and she
had no reason to question her diagnosis. And
now, she could press down on her abdomen and
feel its hardness inside of her. Already her
usually flat abdomen bulged out ever so slightly
over the hard area when she laid on her back. It
would only be a matter of time.

     Even without the ultrasound's results, which
she wasn't totally ready to believe, she would be
coming to the same diagnosis. In fact, if any other
female under the age of fifty had come to her with
her symptoms, it would have been her first
conclusion.

     But she wasn't any other female.

     Dana laid in the semi-dark room replaying in
her mind Mulder's explanation of how her ova
were taken. And tried to imagine under what
circumstances he could have been wrong.

     She replayed the dreams, one at a time in
chronological order. Even the last, most painful
one. And tried to figure out exactly what could
have happened to cause the physical
manifestations of the final dream. She believed
she was attacked and raped, the evidence
proved that, although now she wasn't sure by
who. But she was sure that her pregnancy, if it
was real, wasn't a result of her rape. The timing
wasn't right.

     Wasn't it possible that the other dreams also
had elements of consciousness to them? Wasn't
it possible that someone had come in the night
and impregnated her? Or at least made love to
her? It wasn't like she had resisted her phantom
lover.

     With all these thoughts running through her
mind, Dana's eyes became heavy and she feel
asleep.



     She slowly became aware of lying in a sterile
examination room, bathed in white light. But this
was different than the other nightmares she had
about this place. This was not a memory. This
was something new.

     Squinting away from the light, she could see a
tray of sterile instruments on gauze. And a hand
gloved in latex reaching for and removing a
syringe from the tray.

     Her eyes followed the hand down her body, to
a person hidden by her draped legs, which she
suddenly realized were strapped to stirrups. She
became aware of the pressure of the speculum.

     She felt the prick of the syringe as it came in
contact with her cervix, causing her body to
quiver. She began to struggle, only to discover
she was also strapped to the table. The hand
once again reached for an instrument off the
table, this time picking up a curette.

     Terror rose in her throat with the sudden
realization of what was happening. No! she
thought. This is not what she wanted! She had
wanted a child for so long that she would never
willingly let go. She wanted to scream, to jump off
the table, and run far away from this horrible
place. But she couldn't move or make a sound.
Only lay there and listen to her pounding heart.

     Her eyes followed the hand once again to the
instruments. But this time, instead of the gleam of
stainless, she realized it had picked up a small
box.

     A box of Morley's.



     Dana sat straight up in bed, gasping for air.
The lamp was still on beside the bed. The
television was still glaring quietly, although the
movie had given way to an infomercial for a food
dehydrator.

     It had been nothing more than a nightmare,
but it had hit very close to home. And sitting up
suddenly had done nothing for her stomach.

     She felt herself gagging even as she leaped
out of bed and ran for the toilet with one hand
covering her mouth. She barely made it, and as
she threw up, she thought about how she was
never going to eat Cuban black beans again. The
sound of her heaving filled the small bathroom
and echoed off the tiles.

     Finally, it was over, and she wearily reached
up to flush the toilet. She was just about to lay her
head down on the edge of the seat when a
familiar voice startled her.

     "Do you what to tell me just what in the hell is
going on?"

     She looked up to see Mulder, in his boxers
and a new gray Georgetown t-shirt. She absently
wondered what had happened to his old one. He
was leaning against the door frame, his hair was
sticking up, his arms were crossed, and he
looked concerned. And pissed.

     "How long have you been standing there?"

     "Long enough to watch you puke up most of
the dinner I bought you. What's up with you,
Scully?"

     "I'm sick, Mulder. Get a clue." She went ahead
and laid her head down on the edge of the toilet
seat anyway. It felt wonderfully cool. She closed
her eyes and tried to steady her still nauseated
stomach.

     She heard the water running and could sense
Mulder moving around next to her. The sensation
of cool, wet cloth on the back of her neck startled
her again.

     "Here."

     She pulled the wet washcloth around to her
face and opened her eyes. Mulder was lowering
himself onto the bathroom floor to sit cross-
legged next to her. He still looked pissed.

     "Scully, you never just get sick. You eat fried
chicken while looking at corpses. You casually
examine things that send other agents running
from the room retching. You have a stomach of
steel."

     "Even I get sick, Mulder. I am human, you
know." With that, she hastily rose to a standing
position and pushed past him and out of the
room.

     Dana sat down on the bed with her head in
her hands. Please, Mulder, she thought, don't
push the issue.

     But of course, he came striding into the room
after her saying, "No, Scully. I think there's more.
In the last two weeks, I've personally witnessed
you tossing your cookies twice..."

     "Tossing my cookies, Mulder?" She looked up
at him from her hands incredulously. Had he
really said tossing your cookies?

     But he ignored her interruption. "...and I've
seen you turn alabaster more times than I can
count." He was now right in front of her, and he
took her hands and lowered them from her face.
"So, what the hell is going on?"

     She looked up and met his eyes, but only for a
moment. And she took a deep breath.

     "I don't know."

     Mulder dropped her hands and walked over to
the dresser and leaned against it. She could feel
his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.

     "Do you normally keep things from me, Agent
Scully?"

     She turned to look at him. She wasn't exactly
sure what he was implying, but he was definitely
in his interrogation mode. "No, I don't." She met
his eyes again and this time held the stare.

     "And you consider yourself pretty open about
your personal life?"

     "What personal life, Mulder? I really don't have
one anymore." It was true, but she hadn't meant it
to sound as bitter as it came out.

     "And you would confide in me if you were
having any problems with any...uh...substances?"

     It only took her a second for Mulder's question
to hit her in the face. And she was up and yelling.
"What the hell are you saying? That I have a drug
problem? Where the hell did you get a idea like
that?"

     "Maybe because you're doing a shitty job on
this case," Mulder yelled back at her. "Maybe
because you've been doing a shitty job on
everything for a couple of months now. You're a
fucking thousand miles away, Scully. And now
you're puking or about to all the time and running
to the bathroom every time I turn around. What
the hell am I suppose to believe?"

     "Maybe that I'm sick, Mulder. That I have an
ulcer or gastroenteritis. Wouldn't that be easier to
believe?" She paused and looked at Mulder
hard. Was that how he really felt? That she had
been doing a shitty job? His face was totally void
of expression, but she could read the rage in his
eyes. "Besides, when was I suppose to be doing
these illicit substances? You're never more than
2 feet away from me. I can't even turn around
without running into you."

     "I don't know what to believe anymore, Scully,"
he said bitingly. "You've been doing alot of things
out of character lately."

     What did that mean? Weren't they just
discussing about why she was sick? And her job
performance? And now she wasn't sure what
they were talking about. She sat down hard on
the bed.

     "What are you implying?"

     Mulder casually leaned back against the
dresser and stared her down. "I know, Scully."

     "Know what?" This game was getting old.

     "About your nocturnal activities."

     Obviously, the puzzled look on her face told
Mulder he needed to continue.

     "You're...uh...male friend."

     "What male friend?" She put her head in her
hand. Now she was getting a headache.

     "The one you've been entertaining in your
bedroom."

     "What?!" Dana looked at him, shocked. She
didn't know exactly what he knew. Or if somehow
he had crawled inside her head and read her
dreams. But he definitely knew some version of
the truth.

     As if to answer her thoughts, he continued.
"Your sheets, Dr. Scully. The lab found physical
evidence of sperm from two different individuals."

     "Mulder, I was raped!" She was on her feet
again, pacing.

     Mulder angrily grabbed her arm and stopped
her. "By one man. Or do you wish to revise your
statement?"

     For a moment, they just stared at each other.
So, Mulder thought she had been with another
man. And he was jealous. It was written all over
him. Dana smugly felt the balance of power shift
to her favor. And a suddenly realization seemed
like the way to go.

     "And neither sample matched Krycek?" she
said without breaking their stare.

     "No." Mulder let go of her arm.

     "And they didn't find any match?"

     Mulder dropped his eyes from her. "The
tests...one of the samples...was obviously
contaminated at the crime scene. It's possible I
may have..."

     "You're the match." She had barely whispered
it, but he heard her anyway.

     "Look, Scully. I was upset. I wasn't thinking
about destroying evidence. I just didn't want you
to...die." He had actually sounded almost tender
and remorseful. But then he caught himself. "But
only one of the samples was contaminated. And
regardless, it doesn't disguised the fact..."

     "No, I mean, you're the match. You came up in
the database as the match for one of the
samples."

     "Yes, but like..." Mulder stopped and looked at
her puzzled. "Scully, you're not implying what I
think you're implying?"

     "No, I'm telling you. I know you're the match!"
She had yelled it, almost relieved.

     "That's impossible."

     "Is it?"

     Mulder's mouth dropped. It was very obvious
he didn't know what to make of her sudden
revelation. So Dana continued.

     "I experienced it."

     "Experienced what?"

     "You, Mulder. You and I. I think it happened in
a dream, thirteen dreams, only they weren't
dreams. Like my rape, only it wasn't Krycek, and
it wasn't rape. It was you." God, she wasn't
making any sense.

     Mulder paused. Was that shock she saw
register on his face for a split second? Then he
abruptly turned away from her. "It couldn't have,
Scully."

     "Why? Aren't you open to extreme
possibilities, Agent Mulder?" She meant it to
sound as sarcastically as she said it.

     He whirled around at her. "No! Yes!" His angry
was growing. "Look, don't you think that I'd
remember it?" She had to admit, she didn't have
a answer for that. And he knew it. "What you're
telling me, it's crazy."

     "Oh, so now I'm crazy, is that it?"

     "No, Scully. It's just...." She could tell Mulder
was trying to find the right words. He took a deep
breath. "Maybe this attack has affected you more
than you realized. Maybe you should consider
taking sometime off."

     "Post-traumatic stress, Mulder? And what were
the dreams before my attack...pre-traumatic
stress?"

     "No. I don't know. Maybe. Look, Dana. I know it
didn't happen. You know I'm right. You just need
to take some time..."

     "Damn it, Mulder, it did happen. And I don't
need any time. I don't want any time."

     She sat back down on the bed and waited.
She could tell that he wasn't about to believe her.
It was more like he was sizing up exactly how
crazy he thought she was. Finally, he spoke.

     "I want you to go back to DC. Tomorrow."

     She was shocked. "No, I won't...."

     "I'm pulling you off this case, Agent Scully." He
began walking towards the bedside table.

     "NO!" She jumped up and followed him
around the bed.

     "Look," Mulder turned towards her, "don't
make me call Skinner. You know that he will take
this much more seriously."

     "Take what more seriously?" He wasn't paying
any attention to her. He had picked up the phone
and was dialing. "What, Mulder, that I've lost my
mind?"

     "Maybe." He quickly began to talk into the
phone. "Yes, I'd like to make a reservation for
tomorrow morning."

     "Damn it, Mulder. Listen to me!" Her cries were
in vain. He wasn't listening.

     "Yes, one.... Miami to DC....National."

     "Listen to me!" She had to think of something
quick.

     "Dana Katherine Scully....Visa." And he recited
the number from heart.

     Her next sentence just slipped out, before she
had time to stop it.

     "Mulder, I'm pregnant."

     He turned and looked at her incredulously, the
receiver still to his ear. For the first time ever, Fox
Mulder was actually speechless. The voice on
the other end brought him back to reality.
"Ah...yes...I'm still here." He turned and picked up
the pencil on the table and began writing down
her flight information on a napkin. "Okay, thanks."
Mulder put the receiver down, finished writing,
and turned to walk back to the adjoining door to
his room.

     "Your flight information is on the napkin," he
said without looking at her. "Wake me up, and I'll
drive you to the airport."

     "Mulder, did you hear me?"

     "Yes." He turned to look at her from the
doorway to his room. "And we both know that's
not possible." He turned and went into his room
and began to shut the door, then stopped leaving
it partially open. "Get some rest, Scully."

     She just stood in the middle of her motel room,
feeling angry and confused.





     Dana reread the e-mail on her PowerBook to
check once again for typos. She had to be extra
careful. It had been a long, sleepless night after
Mulder had left her. And her fatigue always
seemed to cause her to be especially prone to
dumb mistakes.


To: AD Walter Skinner

From: Dana Scully

Re: leave of absence

CC: Fox Mulder



Due to recent personal developments, I find it
impossible at this time to concentrated fully on my
work as a FBI special agent. It is because of this
that I am requesting a leave of absence, effective
immediately. I have surrendered my badge and
firearm to my partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder.



I know you will understand, sir, when I tell you
that I am unable to put a time constraint on my
return to duty. I hope that you will respect my
request for privacy regarding this matter and
allow me to resolve it on my own.



Sincerely,

Dana K. Scully



     Dana hit the send button, logged out,
unhooked the computer from the airphone in the
back of the seat's headrest, and ended her call.
She then shut the computer down, closed its top,
and leaned back.

     The previous evening's argument had taken a
great toll on her. She wasn't sure how she
expected Mulder to react, but she never expected
him to accuse her of being mentally ill. After he
left her, she had spent the rest of the night
packing her things in a rage and formulating a
plan. She wasn't about to leave without letting
him know that he was wrong.

     Shortly before dawn, she had left the motel
and traveled to an all-night pharmacy. There she
had made her purchases, returned to the motel,
and put her plan in motion. She left in her rental
car without waking Mulder.

     She looked at her watch. In an hour or so,
Agent Beaubrun would be knocking on Mulder's
motel door with the manila envelope she had left
with him. Beaubrun had very nicely agreed to
delivery the contents to Mulder without asking
about the specifics of her sudden departure. He
had only seemed genuinely disappointed that
she was leaving and surprised that she couldn't
give Mulder the envelope herself.

     She had thought about including a note in the
envelope, but decided that her rage would only
make things between them worse. Instead, she
had simply enclosed its contents and decided to
let Mulder come to his own conclusions.

     She imagined his face as he opened the
envelope, knowing that it was her handwriting on
the outside-Special Agent Fox Mulder the only
thing she had written. By now, he would have
realized that she had left for the airport without
waking him. She wasn't going to give him the
satisfaction of a good-bye or even a chance to
apologize for his anger the night before. Plus,
she seriously doubted he thought an apology
was in order.

     She smiled smugly as she tried to image him
emptying the contents of the envelope, probably
onto the bed. What was he thinking as each
piece dropped out of it, and he processed the
implications of what he was looking at? She
pictured his face as he looked down on them.

     Her badge, her gun, and the pink stick with the
unmistakable plus sign on one end.

     She wondered how long it would take him to
admit he was wrong.


Title: All Dreams of the Soul: Numbers 3/4

Author: Tiger Lilly

E-Mail address: Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Category: XA

Keyword: Mulder Angst. X-file. UST

Spoilers: 5th season

Summary: So, what does Mulder think?
Continuation of All Dreams of the Soul: Exodus.



Disclaimer: Okay, I am stealing! I admit it! I have
taken your wonderful characters and used them
for my whim and fancy. (Well, I did make up a
couple of my own. And the plot line is sort of
original.) But, I'm not charging for this little story.
Nosiree. Everyone can read it for free. And I'm
not making any money from advertisers, etc., etc.
In fact, I'm quite poor. Really poor. So, suing me
would merely be a futile attempt. Right?



Warning: This story is rated R for language and
adult situations.



Author's note: This is the third of four installments.
If you haven't read All Dreams of the Soul:
Genesis or Exodus, then Numbers is not going to
make much sense to you. My suggestion-go
back and read them.



Please send me your feedback at
Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com. Be gentle on me. It my
first time out. Okay to archive anywhere. Just
please send me an e-mail so I'll know.





Numbers



     Mulder slumped in the motel chair with his
long legs stretched out before him to their full
extent. He was watching Scully pack, her
suitcase lying open on his bed. He tried once
more to get her to acknowledge him.

     "Scully, I said I was sorry."

     Her only response was to raise her chin a little
higher. She strode between her room and his in
icy silence. With each trip she would bring a
single item with her-a blouse, a t-shirt, a
bra-then fold and pack it with a fastidiousness
that was only betrayed by an occasional quiver of
her lower lip and chin.

     "Scully, talk to me."

     For the first time, she turned and faced him.
"Why can't you see this?"  Her tone was sheer
frustration, but her eyes held a look of absolute
terror.



     "Agent Mulder, would you please tell me just
what in the hell is going on down there?"

     Mulder looked around the room for Scully.
There was no sign of her or her suitcase. It took
him a few seconds to orient himself. Oh, Jesus,
he thought, another one of those dreams. He
vaguely wondered how long he had been
asleep. The light around the edge of the drapes
indicated morning. He suddenly realized he was
holding his cell phone, and Skinner's angry voice
was on the other end.

     "Sir?"

     "Why am I sitting here looking at an e-mail
from Agent Scully requesting a leave of absence
for an indeterminant amount of time with no
explanation as to why, other than undisclosed
personal reasons?"

     The words were slowly sinking in....Leave of
absence...Scully....But Scully was right next door.
He looked at the adjoining door. The closed
adjoining door. The fuzz cleared from his mind
instantly as he bolted from the bed to the door
between their rooms and knocked. At some point
last night she must have shut it...again. He
muffled his cell phone against his chest and
called out "Scully!" in an angry, slightly frantic,
whisper. No answer.

     Not that he was really expecting one because
he somehow knew that at that moment she was
sitting on a flight back to D.C. She must have
changed to an earlier flight as well, after she shut
the door. He knew it with a certainty that he
couldn't explain but had been experiencing for
several weeks. He felt that he could stand
blindfolded in a dark room and point her out like
some twisted game of pin the tail on the donkey.
It was if she had crawled under his skin and was
currently residing at the base of his skull, and it
was driving him nuts. They were obviously
spending way too much time together.

     "Mulder!"

     Mulder stopped knocking and uncovered the
phone at the sound of Skinner's voice. He
assumed his best agent-on-the-job persona.

     "Sir, it is my belief that Agent Scully returned to
a full schedule too soon after her recent ordeal.
Her work has been suffering as a result, and last
night I suggested she return to Washington and
take some more time to recuperate."

     "Agent Mulder, are you telling me that one of
my best agents has all but resigned because of a
suggestion that she take some time off?"

     Mulder ran his hand over his face and through
his hair. He could tell Skinner wasn't buying it. "I
actually removed her from the case."

     "You what? On who's authority did you remove
her?"

     "We had an argument last night, and I may
have overreacted."  He could almost hear
Skinner's jaw muscle tensing.  "But I still believe
she needs some more time to recover."  Mulder
cringed in preparation for the reaction he knew
was coming.

     Skinner's voice was controlled rage. "Agent
Mulder, I strongly suggest that you return to Agent
Scully the gun and badge that she relinquished
to you, start acting like adults, and work out these
petty differences. If Agent Scully needs some
more time off, fine. And I will consider any
recommendations you may be inclined to
provide. But any action will be at her discretion or
mine, not yours. Do you understand, Agent?"

     Mulder took a breath. "Yes, sir".

     He pushed end on his cell phone and threw it
on the bed, then flopped down beside it in a sort
of depressed Nestea plunge.

     "Fuck."

     Skinner wanted to know what the hell was
going on, and he had no idea himself. Things
had been happening to him over the past couple
of months that he couldn't explain. That he wasn't
really consciously aware of unless he
concentrated on them, like a bug buzzing just on
the edge of his peripheral vision.

     First, there had been the dreams. Strange,
hazy dreams that had started out with no form. He
had to be somewhere, but he didn't know where,
and he had to save someone, but he didn't know
who. He knew this person needed help, but he
didn't know why. He would wake from them
exhausted and confused.

     Lately, they had become more distinct,
extremely life-like, yet all the more disorienting.
Waking dreams was the best way to describe
them. He would swear he was awake, watching
events unfold, even speaking to the cohabitants
of the dream. Like the one he had been having
when Skinner called. When he woke from these
dreams, he was always startled to find he had
been asleep.

     Scully had been a major player in these latest
dreams and always exhibited an unsettling
combination of impatience and fright. It was as if
he were failing her, again. He wasn't sure which
were worse-the dark, amorphous dreams that
left him with a feeling of dread or the life-like
accusatory ones that left him with a feeling of
guilt.

     It seemed he lived his life in a constant state of
guilt. It had started with his sister, worked its way
through his father's death, Scully's abduction, her
cancer, and most recently, her rape. Her rape,
God, that was still a raw wound. Even though
there had been no warning, he couldn't shake
the feeling that he had known she was in danger
and not responded.

     The night of her attack, he had just awakened
from the first of the distinct dreams and his skin
was prickling all over. In the dream, Scully had
been yelling at him for not paying attention to the
evidence before him, but all he was looking at
was an empty table. It was then that his cell
phone rang. In his disorientation, it had taken him
several rings to find it. He finally found it in the
inside pocket of his suit jacket. He answered it,
and he heard her agonizing scream.

     All-encompassing panic had set in at that point
as memories of the pleading "Mulder, I need your
help!" on his answering machine the night of her
abduction crashed into his dream-befuddled
brain. The drive to her house had been a
nightmarish deja vu, right down to the sinking
feeling in his stomach that he was too late. This
time when he arrived, it was eerily silent.

     He remembered how normal her living room
had seemed when he entered her apartment,
gun drawn, alert for an intruder that might still be
there. The streetlight cast shadowy stripes
through the venetian blinds and across the floor.
He didn't even have to call her name, although
he did out of habit, because he knew she was in
her bedroom. He had entered her dark room and
softly called her name. The only answer had
been a muffled sob from the direction of the bed.
He had slid his hand along the wall next to the
doorjamb until he found the light switch. The click
of the switch echoed through his entire body as
he scanned the scene before him. Scully lay
curled into a ball, sobbing into a pillow, her
shoulder blade sticking out in a sickening angle.
The sheets were soaked in blood- mainly from
her legs and hands that looked like someone had
taken a cheese grater to them-and her face was
already bloody, swollen and bruised from the
beating. But what may have been the worst was
when he saw that her panties were down around
her knees, and the absolute realization of what
had happened caught in his throat, so that for a
moment he couldn't breath, couldn't speak,
couldn't scream.

     She had fought him when he tried to touch her
and began ranting incoherently about not being
able to wake up and the time of 3:15. By the time
the paramedics arrived and sedated her so they
could transport her, he was covered in as much
blood as she was. He had thrown out his favorite
Georgetown t-shirt because the stains wouldn't
come out.

     The investigation had been an act of
frustration. No sign of forced entry. Her door had
been locked from the inside; he had broken the
chain himself when he came in. All the windows
were also shut and locked.

     The physical evidence was just as fruitless. No
fingerprints had been found, no hair and fibers,
no witnesses except Scully and her account was
suspect at best-an attack outside by Krycek.
Although her wounds were consistent with her
story-asphalt and dirt in her knees, backs, and
nails-there was no blood anywhere else in the
apartment. A sure indication that the attack had
taken place in her bedroom.

     The only other evidence was the semen
samples-one fresh from the attack, which had
no matches, the other found dried on the sheets
from a previous encounter. That sample had
turned up a match. Him. He couldn't quite figure
out how he had contaminated that sample with
his DNA, especially since Skinner wouldn't let
him work the crime scene. It must have been
when he was on the bed trying to help her or
some laboratory error. Given the evidence before
him, he was beginning to rethink his stand on the
O.J. Simpson verdict.

     It was just as well that Skinner banned him
from the apartment. He felt he had to be at the
hospital with her. In fact, he hadn't been able to
concentrate on half the questions he had been
asked by the investigating officers because of his
absolute need to go to the hospital.

     She was still in the ER when he arrived at the
hospital, and he offered what little comfort he
could to her mother as they sat in the waiting
room. Well, she sat while he paced the floor and
interrogated almost every passing nurse and a
few orderlies as to Scully's condition. Skinner
had arranged for some jeans and an t-shirt to
replace the scrubs he had begged off an intern-
Mrs. Scully had turned ashen after one look at his
blood-soaked clothing.

     It was after dawn when she was finally moved
to her hospital room. While Scully had spent
almost the entire first day of her hospital stay
drifting in and out of a morhpine-induced sleep,
he had answered more questions for
investigators and sat in the hallway. He was
almost fearful to enter her room, the images of
her after the return from her abduction had kept
playing though his mind. Yet, he could not bring
himself to leave site of the door to her room.

     Finally, at dusk, her mother had asked him to
watch over her while she went to call Scully's
brothers. Reluctantly, he had agreed and entered
the darkening room to the quite mechanical whirl
of the medical monitors. He noticed that the
swelling and bruising on her face was even more
pronounced once the blood had been cleaned
away. But just seeing that she was no longer
bleeding, that she was breathing softly in sleep,
that she was alive, had relieved his looming
anxieties to such an extent that he had collapsed
into the chair next to her bed. He had stayed in
that chair, even after her mother had returned,
until she awoke the next morning.

     Since then, he had rarely spent an evening at
home. He was either camped outside her
hospital room or parked outside her apartment.
He had gone through so many bags of sunflower
seeds, he was thinking of buying them in bulk
from a feed store. He would have sworn he
hadn't slept either, except that he awoke each
morning from one of the dreams.

     He had tried to stay away one night and was
so fidgety and restless that he had gone to rent a
porn film just to have something to do. But he
ended up outside her apartment, the unwatched
video on the seat beside him. He had felt
protective of Scully before. After her return from
her abduction, he had staked out her apartment
for about a week, then things returned to normal.
But now, over a month later, he was still
uncomfortable with the thought that she was
alone.

     And during all that time, he had never seen Mr.
Dry-Sperm-Sample. During those nights outside
her building, he found himself thinking about who
this guy was. He hadn't even shown up at the
hospital with flowers or anything. He could have
been a one night stand, but that wasn't like
Scully. Although there had been the tattoo
incident. An old lover come back into town?
Maybe. A new lover that hadn't worked out?
Probably. That would explain why she had been
so secretive those few weeks before the attack,
why she couldn't look him in the eye, and why
she kept leaving early because she wasn't
sleeping.

     What really ticked him off was how great he
had felt those two weeks before her attack.
Despite his dreams, he had actually slept well for
the first time since his childhood. He would wake
up feeling refreshed-satisfied was the word that
popped to mind. When he came in the office,
there was Scully-eyes averted, head down,
responding in monosyllables.

     Couldn't sleep! She wasn't sleeping well
because she was screwing some asshole that
didn't even come see her in the hospital. He
probably sucked in bed, too. He was probably
such a crappy lover that she dumped him.
Although, he really couldn't imagine Scully
sleeping in sheets with the spooge of an ex-
boyfriend smeared all over them. So maybe they
didn't breakup, and she's on her way back to
D.C. to see him again.

     The thought of that just irritated him. It seemed
that a lot of things she did lately irritated him. Like
last night. She kept
closing-correction-slamming the door between
their rooms every time he accidentally left it open.
It wasn't like anything improper was going to
happen.

     Except that she seemed to think that it already
had. In a dream! She may have been dreaming
of him while she was boffing that jerk she was
dating, but it sure wasn't his sperm on those
sheet.

     Although, when she had mentioned the
dreams, for a split second, he had the most
bizarre sensation of water and her fingers
running down his back. The sensation had been
so overpowering that he had actually gotten a
hard-on standing right there in front of her and
had to turn away. It didn't help that she was only
wearing a t-shirt that was clinging in all the right
places and her nipples were as erect as his
penis. And now she thought she was pregnant,
by him as a dream lover. Granted she hadn't
come right out and said that's what she believed.
But she had certainly implied it. Telling him that
they had sex in her dreams, then her next
statement.

     "Mulder, I'm pregnant."

     It didn't take a giant leap to put two and two
together and have a paternity suit. After the
interrogation he had gone through when the FBI
realized the sperm sample matched his DNA, the
last thing he wanted was for Scully to be
insinuating their relationship was anything but
strictly platonic. He had sat through two grueling
hours of questions about his relationship with his
partner. Through the entire ordeal, he had
adamantly denied any sort of relationship
between the two of them other than professional.

     What he had really wanted to say was, you
spend as much time with Special Agent Dana
Scully as I have and then tell me that the thought
of dressing her in leather and whipped cream
doesn't cross your mind a time or two. It was only
natural to think something like that. Scully was
smart, attractive, sexy, and the closest friend he
had. The majority of the agents in the Bureau
were closer to their partner than their own family.
It was part of the job. You couldn't truly trust
someone to watch your back if that sort of bond
wasn't there. Granted most agents were men,
leaving relatively few coed partnerships and the
potential problems that could arise. Those few
partners that did become lovers were almost
instantly reassigned.

     And that was the reason he had never crossed
the line with Scully. If they had been on any
standard tap, trace, and tail assignment, he
wouldn't have wasted any time making his move.
Before the X-files, he had done it on numerous
occasions. But his work on the X-files held its
own passion, and Scully was an integral part of
his search for the truth. He wouldn't dare risk
loosing her as a partner because of some raging
hormones. Now, Scully was jeopardizing
everything because of her ridiculous dream-
induced pregnancy.

     These dreams she had involving him were
obviously the ones she had told him about in her
statement at the hospital. Although, obviously not
in the detail she should have. After she had
broken down and named Krycek as her attacker,
she had told him a little more about her dreams.
She had had a total of 14 of them on consecutive
nights. All of them being extremely realistic, and
all ending at precisely 3:15 a.m. The only one
that had been violent was the last one-her rape.
She sidestepped all of his questions about the
other dreams, telling him only that they were
pleasant in a disturbing sort of way. Now he knew
why she wouldn't tell him any more about them.
He was actually kind of flattered that she had
been dreaming of him in that way, even if she did
describe it as disturbing. And to make the leap
from dreams to reality was not like Scully.

     Granted, he had reports in his files of women
being impregnated by spectral visitors or during
dream-like alien abductions. But these
manifestations were typically related to
psychokinetic sending, and most abductees
never thought they were pregnant until they
underwent regressional hypnosis or regained
some latent memories of the abduction. Scully
was convinced she was pregnant, even though
they both knew that was impossible. Like some
Non-Virginal Mary.

     He knew where she got that crap; her return to
the fold of the Catholic Church. Another thing that
annoyed the hell out of him. She was so closed-
minded when it came to anything remotely
extraordinary unless it was something she
learned in Catechism. She had believed she was
the appointed holy guardian of the kid with
supposed stigmata. And, although she wouldn't
talk about it with him, she had hinted at the
possibility that she had seen angels while
investigating a case as a favor for her priest.

     As far as he was concerned, the Catholic
Church was the biggest bunch of charlatans on
the planet and had been since the beginning.
Convincing people they were celebrating
Catholic holidays by sneaking them in the same
time as the pagan holidays. Non-Christian
religions tended to celebrate natural phenomena
and celestial events, Catholics celebrated dead
guys.

     So now Scully had convinced herself that God
had blessed her for her devotion by giving her
what she could never have, a child. It was
obvious she was suffering from post-traumatic
stress disorder brought about by the rape and
was seeking some sort of mental sanctuary in the
teaching of the Church. To the point that she was
puking up perfectly good meals as a result of
delusional morning sickness.

     Well, no matter what Skinner might say, he
was glad he had taken her off this case. The
down time would do her good, and he might
actually be able to get some work done without
her throwing up and distracting him all the time. It
would be nice not knowing exactly where she
was for a change.

     A knock at his door brought him out of his
thoughts. Agent Beaubrun stood outside holding
a large manila envelope.

     "Agent Scully asked that I give this to you. She
left so suddenly, is everything all right?"

     Mulder took the package and hefted it in his
hand. Her gun and badge, no doubt.  "Agent
Scully had some personal business to attend to
and won't be returning to the case."

     Beaubrun gave Mulder a sympathetic look.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is she returning to
Washington?"

     Mulder tossed the package on the bed. "Yeah,
she's claiming her bags right now."





     The next woman and child were found later
that morning. Only, instead of Miami, they were
found in Provo, Utah. Mulder had to check his
reflexes and stop dialing Scully's number on his
cell phone. He would have to decipher this
autopsy report on his own. He waited impatiently
at the Miami field office for the case file and
autopsy report to be sent from the Salt Lake
office. He had bided his time questioning
Beaubrun about some of the more intricate
details of Vodun religion, particularly the
superstitions regarding death and the nine night
ritual.

     Beaubrun had been patient at first. However,
after more than an hour, the agent had found an
excuse to extricate himself from the inquisition.
And Mulder was left with nothing to do other than
reread the file on the woman found in Miami,
identified as Genevieve Baptiste. He had studied
the file so many times that now he was only
halfheartedly reading as he flipped the pages. He
stopped when he came to the autopsy report.
Although written in a standard format, he could
almost hear Scully's voice reciting the weight and
size of all the major organs as she hefted them
into the hanging scale.

     The report on the child was next in the file. To
anyone reading the report, it would appear to be
written with an emotional detachment, but Mulder
knew the opposite was true. He knew how much
she hated autopsying children, and this was the
first child she had examined since Emily's death.
And because of that, he refused to leave her
alone in the examining room. Although she
hadn't said anything, he felt certain she
appreciated his moral support.

     He could use some moral support himself
about now. He hated waiting. Scully was much
better at handling downtime, patiently
rereviewing case files when he wanted to
question, investigate, discover the hidden truths
of a case. He really wished she were in Miami
instead of sitting in the waiting room of her
doctor's office.

     Good, he thought, maybe she will get over this
pregnancy fantasy once and for all.

     By the time the report arrived from Utah, it was
late afternoon. A medical examiner from the
coroner's office in Provo performed the autopsy
and provided a report almost identical to the one
Scully had on the first pair. The mother killed by
blunt trauma to the head soon after delivery, and
the child dead for no apparent reason. Although
neither of the new victims were covered in salt,
the woman had been found carefully wrapped in
a white bed sheet that was so new it still had fold
creases in it, and the child had been found less
than a mile away in the matching pillow case.
The Utah woman, an active member of the
Mormon church, had been reported missing
exactly four weeks after Genevieve Baptiste.

     Mulder sat at a desk in the Miami field office
looking over the case files of the two women that
had been found. Apparently both of them had
been pregnant before they had gone missing, but
there was no mention of their condition in either
report. Both were single, no interview with even a
boyfriend, both active in their respective religions,
both reported missing by their families. With no
signs of forced entry or struggle, it was originally
assumed that they had left on their own accord.
However, both had left jobs without any notice,
and they had given no indication to friends or
families that they were leaving. The same was
true of the other six women missing in Miami,
except that none of them had turned up dead with
a crushed skull and an apparently still-borne
child. At least not yet.

     Two unrelated cases, two women killed and
found in disturbingly similar manners, thousands
of miles apart. The only differences were the time
frame they were taken, four week apart, and the
additional six women taken in Miami. Were there
more Mormon women missing as well?

     Agent Beaubrun came in and stood over
Mulder with a cup of coffee. Mulder didn't look up
from the files. "I need a data search of all the
single women between the ages of 25 and 45
that went missing within a week of the woman in
Utah."

     Agent Beaubrun nodded his head. "Do you
think we're dealing with a serial killer?"

     "I'm not sure what we're dealing with, but I'd
like some more information about the victims.
Who identified Genevieve Baptiste's body?"

     "Her mother, Marrigot Baptiste."

     Mulder looked up from his file. "Do you think I
could speak with her?"

     Beaubrun looked at his watch. "We can try
tomorrow. Its awfully late now, and the ritual has
already begun for the evening. But we'll go to her
house in the morning."

     Great, Mulder thought, more downtime.





     "Thank God for remotes."

     Mulder lay sprawled across his bed flipping
through the channels on the motel television.
There was nothing on. He had been intrigued a
few channels back by a Hispanic talk show on
Telemundo that featured three women in tight
spandex dresses. Although he couldn't
understand what they were saying, he got the gist
of it. It had something to do with one of the
women's boyfriend and the other's dog. The third
woman just seemed to smile alot. When it
became obvious that they weren't going to end
up wrestling on the floor in a Jerry Springer-like
event, he began flipping channels again. Late
night television in Miami sucked.

     The motel phone on the night stand rang, and
he reached out and answered it.

     "Mulder?" Scully's questioning voice asked on
the other end.

     Well, he thought smugly, she finally decided to
call. "Yeah, Scully, it's me. Who did you think
would be answering my phone?"

     "Mulder, what the hell are you still doing in
Miami?"

     He hadn't expected such an angry response.
"I'm working on the case..."

     Scully cut him off sharply. "Are you ready to
admit you were wrong?"

     "Wrong?!?"  She had gone too far this time.
"I'm not the one who's wrong."

     Scully didn't respond. He waited a few
seconds but nothing. "Scully?" His only answer
was silence. "Scully, are you there?"

     Her answer was soft, almost loving. "Mulder,
please come home."



     Mulder sat up in bed. The television was off,
and the phone was on the hook. The clock read
6:20 am. Evidently distance didn't lessen the
effect of the dreams. He realized then that the
ringing of his cell phone had awakened him. He
answered it in a groggy voice.

     "Agent Mulder." It was Beaubrun. "They're
back!"

     "Who?" What was he talking about?

     "The missing women. Three of them were
found last night, two more this morning, and
Miami P.D. has an unidentified woman in custody
that they think is the sixth."

     "They're alive?" He had never expected to find
these women alive, not after the death of
Genevieve Baptiste.

     "Yes, and they seem to be pretty much
unharmed, except that they can't remember
anything. Where they've been, what happened,
even who they are. From what I understand, the
only one who is saying anything about the
disappearance is the last one, and she seems to
be delusional."

     "Where were they found?"

     "All over the place. None of them were within
twenty miles of each other. One was almost run
over by a semi while she was walking down the
middle of the freeway. Another wandered into a
bar on the outskirts of Homestead. Another into
an all night dinner. The police picked the last one
up at a bus stop after someone reported her
acting strangely."

     Mulder couldn't believe what he was hearing.
He needed to speak to these women, as soon as
possible. "Where are they now?"

     He could hear Beaubrun shuffling through
some papers. "Uh, it looks like most of them are
in various hospitals around the area. The last one
is still in custody."

     Mulder jumped out of bed and began grabbing
his clothes. "I'll leave here in ten minutes and
meet you at your office."

     He clicked off the phone and pulled on his
slacks. Finally, the waiting was over.





     The woman being held by the police had been
identified as Hellene Bonnelle, although she
refused to answer to that name. The officers had
placed her in an interrogation room to await
transport to a regional psychiatric hospital.
Mulder and Beaubrun found her sitting at the
table, her hand folded in front of her. Mulder was
surprised at how calm she seemed, a serene
smile upon her face. It was as if she were sitting
on a park bench instead of in a police station.

     Mulder pulled out his badge. "Hellene
Bonnelle? I'm Special Agent..."

     The woman shook her head and cut him off
with her soft, almost soothing voice. "I am not
known by that name anymore."

     Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down. "What
is your name then?"

     Her face radiated devotion as she said, "I am
called by his name."

     "Who is he?" Beaubrun asked from behind
Mulder.

     Hellene turned her loving gaze upon the
Miami agent. "He is the one who has cleansed
me, has cleansed us all."

     "The other six women?" Mulder prompted.

     Her smile broadened, and she nodded her
head. "They are my sisters, and we are all his,
together."

     "What about Genevieve Baptiste?"

     "He came to her last. She was the chosen
amongst us because she carried the child."

     Mulder leaned in toward her. "Then why was
she murdered?"

     For the first time, Hellene's face took on a
sadness. "You don't understand. Death is
sometimes necessary for life. The number will be
completed in the proper order at the proper
times."

     Mulder ignored her answer. "Who killed her,
Hellene?"

     "A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free."

     Mulder stood up and motioned for Beaubrun to
follow him out the door. He then began walking
down the hallway, leaving Beaubrun to catch up
with his long strides.

     "Aren't you going to question her some more
about where she's been?"

     Mulder kept walking. "She won't tell us
anything else. She believes she's part of a
biblical prophecy." Beaubrun gave him a
quizzical look, and Mulder stopped walking.  "The
seven sisters married to one man and cleansed
of their sins, that's a reference to the book of
Isaiah and the daughters of Zion. The women of
Zion were egotistical and held themselves above
others, so God punished them by taking away
their finery and cursing them to a life of hardship
and poverty. To remove the shame attached to
the people of Zion, seven women married one
man and took his name so that they wouldn't be
associated with the sins of their ancestors. It's a
prophecy related to the coming of the Messiah
and is often used by religious cults, particularly
doomsday cults, to justify the leader's polygamy.
It's a self-fulfilling prophecy of the cult's belief in
the pending judgment day."

     "So, she was a member of a cult?"

     Mulder shook his head. "No, I don't think so.
These women were all active practitioners of
voodoo up until the time of their disappearance."
Mulder thought for a moment. He needed more
information about how the other victim fit into this.
"Did we get the data search results on the women
reported missing at the same time as the Utah
victim?"

     Beaubrun looked at his watch. "It should be at
the office now. It was supposed to be ready by
9:00 am."





     Mulder poured over the list of missing women
that had been faxed to him. Thirty-three women
had been reported missing within a week of the
Utah victim. Of these, fourteen had been located,
alive or dead, including the victim. It left nineteen
women unaccounted for. The women in Miami
had all gone missing within a three-day span, so
he narrowed his search down to two days before
or after the victim's disappearance. That
narrowed it down to nine women. Three had
gone missing from various parts of Utah, one in
New York, two in Nevada, one in Arizona, one in
Michigan, and one in Oregon.

     Utah and Nevada were both large Mormon
population centers, so he pulled up the case file
summaries for those five women on the
computer. Scanning them quickly, he found them
all to be members of the Mormon church. He then
pulled up the file on the woman in Arizona. She
worked as a bartender. And the woman in
Oregon was a lesbian, probably not Mormon. The
woman in Michigan was a school teacher and
had no religious affiliation listed in her case file.
The woman in New York, however, was a
graduate student at SUNY studying English
Literature. She had obtained her undergraduate
degree at Brigham Young University. Mormon
number seven had been discovered.

     Two groups of seven women, each group a
specific religion. Six women returned from one
group, and hopefully six would be returned from
the other. Each group taken within a three-day
span exactly four weeks apart.

     What was the relevance of the timing? He
pulled the calendar off the wall and flipped to the
dates the women went missing. A little black
circle in the date square indicated the new moon.

     Something Hellene Bonnelle had said was
tugging at his memory. Something about the
numbers being completed at the proper time. But
she said they will be completed. Did she mean
that there were more to come? More women
going missing or already missing but destined to
turn up dead? He flipped through the calendar
and began jotting down the dates of the new
moons for the year on a post-it note.

     Beaubrun stepped into the cubical Mulder was
using. "Are you ready to go see Marrigot
Baptiste?"

     Mulder continued flipping and writing. "Yeah,
but before we go, I need another data search."
He pulled the post-it off the pad.

     Beaubrun looked at the dates. "What are these
for?"

     Mulder pulled his jacket off the back of his
chair and headed toward the door. "We'll know
when I get the results."





     Marrigot Baptiste lived in a small house in a
Haitian neighborhood outside of Miami. Mulder
and Beaubrun entered the front door into a
houseful of people. Beaubrun asked a question
in French of a woman standing nearby.

     Beaubrun turned to Mulder. "I'll ask if she will
see us." The agent followed the woman he had
just spoken to towards the back of the house.

     Mulder looked around the room. Tables had
been set up for food on one side of the room
which the people milled around. He was struck
by how uniform they looked, all in their white
clothing. They spoke with one another, and
watched, but did not speak to him. On the other
side of the room sat two smaller tables. A plate
overflowing with food, an open bottle of rum, and
a poured glass of rum sat untouched on a table
draped in purple and black cloth. Burning
candles surrounded the libations, which Mulder
recognized as an offering to Baron Samedi, the
death loa. It was an offering for the loa's
protection of Genevieve's soul from forces that
may try to use it for evil. The second table was
covered in white. A photograph of Genevieve
stood in the center next to a clay jar, both
surrounded by candles. Fresh flowers had been
strewn around the items on the table. According
to Beaubrun's explanation, this was the shrine for
Genevieve, and the jar containing her soul. Upon
death, she had joined the loa and basically
become a goddess. This worship would keep her
from tormenting her family from beyond the
grave.

     Mulder tried to look as inconspicuous as
possible, although he knew he was failing
miserably. A few moments later, Beaubrun came
back and led him into a back bedroom were
Marrigot, dressed in white, sat staring out a
window into her backyard. A small child swung
on a tire hanging from a rope tied to a tree
branch. She seemed almost hypnotized by the
smooth back and forth flow of the swing.

     Mulder stood for a moment, waiting for her to
notice him, then cleared his throat. "Mrs.
Baptiste...."

     Marrigot Baptiste never looked from the
window. "You came to ask about my daughter."
Her voice was thick with sorrow and the lilting
French-Caribbean accent of her homeland.
Mulder opened his mouth to ask his questions,
but she continued. "She had a baby before she
died?"

     She had hit on the very subject Mulder wanted
to question her about. He dropped to a squat
before her chair. "Yes, she was evidently
pregnant before she went missing. Were you
aware of her condition?"

     Marrigot Baptiste smiled ever so slightly. "My
Genevieve was a good girl. She did not even
have a boyfriend. That is why the angels chose
her. She was blessed. She was the luckiest of all
women. They chose her, chose her companions
to protect her."

     Mulder leaned in a little closer to her. "Chose
her for what? Why did she need protection?"

     She continued to look out the window. The
child had stopped swinging and was skipping
around the tree. "There is evil in the world.  It is in
all of us, and when we die, the evil cannot be
controlled. It threatens us all, and only the child
can stand against it. But the child must be
protected as well."

     Mulder licked his lips with an apprehension
that he somehow knew the answer to his next
question. "Mrs. Baptiste, how did they choose
your daughter?"

     For the first time, Marrigot turned from the
window and looked him straight in the eyes. Hers
were dark and red rimmed from tears, yet they
were hard and filled with conviction. "In her
dreams. Just as they chose you."



     "Agent Mulder, are you okay?"

     Mulder suddenly became aware of Beaubrun
standing next to him. They were standing in the
Baptiste living room, the people were staring at
them from small groups and mumbling in French.
The room seemed to be tilted slightly and
rotating.

     "She doesn't want to talk to anyone right now,"
Beaubrun continued. "Besides, she's so upset, I
don't think she would give us any information we
could use."

     "What?"  Mulder asked. He felt off balance,
disoriented, like when he awoke from his anxiety
nightmares.

     "Marrigot Baptiste. I asked if she would talk to
us, but she refused..."

     Mulder mumbled a quick apology and spun on
his heels. The air was suddenly incredibly thick,
and he was having trouble breathing. He pushed
his way through the crowded room and out onto
the front porch. He placed his hands on his hips
and drew in a couple of heavy breaths. It had
been a dream?!? These were happening way to
often to be ignored.

     Mulder felt as if he wanted to jump out of his
skin. Dreams, pregnancy, and chosen by God.
These were all becoming reoccurring themes.
Somehow the Utah and Miami cases were
related, and he had a sickening suspicion those
cases also involved Scully, but he didn't know
how.

     He and Scully had worked on cases in the
past that had somehow drawn them into the
complexities of event they were investigating. But
never had he had a case that paralleled event in
his and Scully's life so completely. Events that
had been happening before their involvement
with the case. Both of them with unexplainable
dreams and now this.

     He tried to think about anything else he knew
that tied these events together. What else had
Scully said? Something she said about her
dreams. 3:15. The dreams took place at 3:15, just
like the night of her attack. What was the
significance of 3:15? His mind seemed to be
spinning, searching, trying to place the memory
or reference that would answer his question. He
pulled a note pad and pen from his breast pocket
and wrote the numbers on the pad. Sometimes
seeing it written down triggered something. He
studied the numbers, retracing them with his pen.
Then suddenly it came.

     "It's not a time," he mumbled, "it's a verse."

     Beaubrun came out the front door and gave
him a puzzled look. "Agent Mulder?"

     Mulder grabbed Beaubrun by the arm and
almost dragged him off the porch. "I need to get
back to my motel room, now."





     Mulder went straight for the night table and
opened the drawer to pull out the Gideon's Bible.
The manila envelope with Scully's handwriting
rested on top of the Bible. He had definitely
screwed things up the night of their fight. He
couldn't believe some of the things he had said,
especially that crack about the drug use. But he
had never expected her to leave like she had or
take a leave of absence. That night, he had been
convinced she was delusional, driven over the
edge by trauma and desperation for what she
couldn't have, what even her faith in science
couldn't give. Instead of considering the
possibility of a fantastic explanation, he had cast
it aside as wishful thinking and believed she had
turned to her faith in God. And now? Now, he
wasn't sure what he believed.

     He picked up the folder. Maybe Scully had
written him a note that might give him some more
insight into what was going on. He ripped the top
off the envelope and dumped the contents onto
the bed. The holstered gun and her badge
bounced once and landed in a small pile on the
multicolored motel bedspread, but no paper
came out. He looked inside the envelope to make
sure it hadn't stuck in the bottom. Still no note. He
let out a frustrated sigh. This was extremely un-
Scully. Normally, she couldn't have resisted
leaving some biting commentary about their fight.
That was one of the reasons he hadn't opened
the package earlier. And now, nothing.

     Frustrated, he picked up the Bible and turned
to Genesis 3:15.

     "I will put enmity between you and the woman,
and between your seed and her seed; he shall
bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel."

     The verse concerned Adam's and Eve's
dismissal from Eden, the first Biblical hint that evil
existed in the world. God pitting woman against
Satan. No, it was the offspring of woman against
the offspring of Satan. The classic good versus
evil standoff many thought would happen at the
Armageddon, and others believed had happened
multiple times throughout history. Maybe these
women were being taken and killed because
someone thought they carried one of these
children.

     Had Scully come to the same conclusion he
had about the meaning of 3:15, read this
passage, and convinced herself she was
pregnant? But that still didn't explain why Scully,
a woman made barren by a government
conspiracy, had been dreaming at 3:15 every
night for two weeks. Why her dreams changed
from erotic to violent manifestations of rape. Or
why he was having the dreams he was.
Genevieve Baptiste had been chosen by the
angels in her dreams, and Hellene Bonnelle
believed she and Genevieve and the others were
fulfilling prophecy. Was this some sort of sign, a
divine insight that he and Scully had been
chosen to partake in a manifest destiny of Biblical
proportions? What Scully was claiming would
definitely qualify as miraculous; but miracles, he
was convinced were a matter of believing is
seeing.

     This was beginning to piss him off. He was
recognizing patterns but couldn't get them fit
correctly. Usually by now, he had pieced together
enough to have at least some wild ass theory.
Now he didn't even have that, or even a partner
to bounce them off of if he did.

     He picked up Scully's gun and shoved it back
in the envelope. There, under the nylon holster,
shining pink against the brown and gold stripes
of the bedspread, was a little stick. Hesitantly, he
reached out and picked it up. He turned it over
and found a little pink plus-sign glaring him in the
face.

     "Holy shit."

     Scully had left her little commentary after all,
and the subject was miracles.





     He had called Scully twice, and both times
there was no answer. He knew she was home,
but she evidently wasn't taking calls and had
turned off her answering machine and cell.

     After each attempt at calling Scully, he had
actually called and booked a flight back to D.C.,
then half an hour later called and canceled it. His
urge to go home was instinctive, almost primal,
but his belief that the answers were in Miami was
enough to cull any feral outburst that he had.

     He tried her number again. Still no answer.

     He really wasn't sure what he was going to
say if she answered. Apologize, grovel, beg for
forgiveness? Not until he got desperate. Joke
and pretend nothing happened? No, the fight had
been too serious for that. Maybe he should just
let her fume for a few days, then call. By then she
would probably have come to her senses a little,
and he could finish up this case.

     He opened his cell phone and punched in the
now familiar number. "Yes, I would like to book a
ticket on your next flight from Miami to
Washington National."





     It seemed he had been driving down the once
dirt, now mud, road forever. The rain hadn't let up
and had actually intensified since Beaubrun had
arrived at his motel.

     Beaubrun had been standing in the rain
outside Mulder's door holding a hot pink
umbrella. Mulder had winced at the color. He was
never going to be able to look at pink quite the
same way. The sun had set a several hours
before, and Mulder had just finished canceling
his fifth flight of the day. He was afraid the airlines
were going to issue a restraining order soon, and
Scully still wouldn't answer her phone.

     "Who wants to see me?" Mulder had asked
over the pounding rain.

     Beaubrun's visit had been two-fold. First, to
deliver the results of Mulder's latest data request;
and second, to deliver a summons.

     "Danjou, the hougan, the Vodun priest from
the ceremony," Beaubrun replied. "The one with
the sheep and the blood. You remember?"

     How could he forget. Beaubrun had to take his
gun away from him when Mulder had seen the
zealots closing in on Scully. He had felt that she
was behind him from the beginning, and he had
been trying to block out that sensation in order to
watch the ceremony, a macabre celebration
complete with animal sacrifice and ingestion of
blood. Without turning around he had sensed her
slump to the ground and was actually kind of
annoyed that she was getting weak stomached
yet again.

     He had then become aware that the attention
in the peristyle, the ceremonial building, had
shifted from the sheep to Scully, and the hougan
was focusing his energy on her. He had been
ready to start shooting his way through the crowd
to get to her when Beaubrun grabbed his arm.

     "No! They will not harm her, but you must
remain calm, both of you. Get to her, walk her out
slowly, and I will be waiting in the car. Whatever
you do, don't panic. Just keep her moving toward
the door."

     Mulder had followed his instructions, walking
pressed against her so that he could feel her
shaking vibrate through his entire chest cavity,
fighting every impulse in his body to bolt for the
door.

     Then just when he thought everything was
under control, discovering that they believed she
was the living embodiment of Erzulie. That was
something you don't easily forget.

     "Why does he want to see me?"

     Beaubrun shrugged. "He didn't say. He saw
you at the Baptiste house and recognized you.
He said only that you should come at the magic
hour between 11:30 and 12:30 tonight. His place
is quite a ways away. If you leave now, you will
make it."

     "Aren't you coming?" Mulder was taken aback
by the use of you and not we.

     Beaubrun shook his head. "Agent Mulder,
Danjou is not like the hougans and mambos you
have been interviewing. He is a very powerful
man in Miami's Haitian community, perhaps the
most powerful hougan here. He does not give
interviews unless he request them, and even
then, you may be the one interviewed. He asked
to see you, not me."

     So, here he was traveling through a flood to
visit a hougan at the magic hour. Normally, he
would have been thrilled. Instead, a feeling of
dread had settled in the pit of his stomach, and
he was itching to book yet another flight back to
D.C.

     He slowed the car to a halt, flipped on the
dome light, and read over Beaubrun's directions.
He should be coming up on the meeting place
soon. Scully was a much better navigator than he
was. But instead of helping him find the place,
she was sleeping in her bed while he traveled
the back road to hell.

     He rounded a corner and saw a small wooden
shack sitting back amongst a throng of moss-
covered trees. A kerosene lantern hung on a peg
on the porch, and a young woman, a girl really,
stood beside it with her arms crossed. He parked
the car a respectable distance away and turned
off the lights.

     Mulder stepped out of the car into the muddy
yard and pulled the jacket of his suit up in a futile
attempt to cover his head. Scully was right, he
needed an umbrella. He trotted across the yard
until he was in front of the girl. She simply stared
at him for a moment, looked up into the sky, then
back at him. Water was beginning to run down
his back in a most uncomfortable way.

     "Come," she finally said, "it is time."

     She removed the lantern and lead him into the
shack. The building was dark except against the
back wall where a small table sat with a single
candle on it. Seated at the table was the hougan,
Danjou. He was dressed simply in a white shirt
and trousers. Mulder was somewhat surprised
and rather disappointed by his mundane
appearance.

     Behind Danjou were a series of shelves
intermixed with jars and lit candles. Mulder was
almost fearful to know what was in the containers.
Hesitantly, he looked directly at one. Peaches,
canned peaches. He grinned slightly, but his
snicker caught in his throat when he saw the jar
of animal eyes sitting next to it.

     The girl brought another straight back, wooden
chair, and he sat down, the legs screeking as
they rubbed against the wooden floor when he
inched it closer to the table.

     Danjou looked across the table at him,
studying him, but did not speak. Mulder looked
over at the girl for some guidance, but she only
stood staring, holding the lantern. Danjou
nodded, and the girl went back to her sentinel on
the porch.

     "You are strong of spirit, as is she," Danjou
finally said. "That is good. It will be necessary in
the time to come." His accent was similar to
Marrigot Baptiste, only stronger, more
authoritative.

     Mulder stared back at the hougan. He tried to
maintain a composure that wouldn't be betrayed
by the sweat that was threatening to soak through
his jacket. "Why did you want to see me?"

     Danjou looked upward, as if he could read the
pattern of the moon and stars through the roof
and storm-clouded sky. "Now is the time of good
in the magic hour. The time for evil comes after."
He returned his gaze to Mulder. "It is time for you
to follow yourself. To trust your heart."

     Mulder gave him a puzzled look. Danjou
continued. "She is gone from here, and yet you
stay even though your heart wants to follow. The
new moon is upon us. You cannot delay, or all
will be lost."

     Mulder tried to keep the shock from his voice.
Every nerve in his body was tingling as he asked,
"Is this another dream?"

     Danjou spoke to him in a tone usually
reserved for children. "Do you see my
granddaughter through the doorway?" Mulder
twisted in his chair. The lantern illuminated her
face in a warm glow, and the girl leaned against
the post tapping her bare feet in the puddles
forming on the porch. "Is she really there?"

     "Yes, of course," Mulder answered.

     "How do you know?"

     "Because I can see her. She spoke to me."
Mulder was beginning to think the old man was
crazy.

     "You see in your dreams, speak in your
dreams, and yet you still doubt them. It does not
matter if this is a dream or wakefulness.  She is
really there, and if I shut the door, she will still be
there, still be real. Such is the way with dreams
as it is with doorways.

     So many people never open the door. Never
see everything that is there to be seen, to be
heard, to be felt, to be known. But the door has
been opened for you and for her, and you must
see everything, or you will fail." The hougan's
eyes hardened, as did his tone, "You must not
fail."

     "Scully's dreams?" It was more of a verbalized
thought than a question.

     Danjou nodded his head. "She has been
chosen, as have you."

     Chosen, just as Marrigot Baptiste had said
about her daughter, Genevieve, but chosen for
what? Death by blunt trauma to the head?

     Mulder's heart was pounding so hard, he
could feel the blood in his jugular. The hougan
did not let his gaze wander from Mulder's eyes.
"She carries the child." The hougan's lips curled
at Mulder's indrawn breath. "Evil is at work. You
have seen the work here and elsewhere, and
more will be seen. The seven sevens will be
revealed. The forces of evil have been searching,
and they search still. But now is the time of good,
and evil is not as powerful, so I can tell you this.
There is magic in numbers-seven, twelve, but
three is the strongest of all."

     Mulder's mind was racing as fast as his heart.
Seven sevens. Seven Vodun women missing
then found. Seven Mormon women...

     "The women..." There were obviously more,
like he thought. Five sets more. Thing were
starting to become frightingly clear.

     Danjou nodded his head. "During the time of
evil, I will cast against the power to gain time. I
will use the spirits of the chosen women who are
to come before, although their number is not yet
complete, to protect the one who is to remain.
They must not find her."

     Mulder could feel himself shaking and didn't
doubt that the hougan could see it. "She is
strong." The hougan continued. "They have
attacked her once, in spirit, but she survived. I
could still feel the taint when I touched her with
the blood of the lamb. They knew she had
conceived, but the number was not complete.
Seven sevens have now been taken, and the
time is right. They will try again, this time in the
flesh, and she may not be strong enough for that."

     Mulder's mouth silently formed the name
"Scully" as he let himself accept what the hougan
was saying.

     Danjou answered him by saying, "The others
were one among seven, but she is unique,
alone."

     Mulder's body was screaming to run, but he
was held tight by the hougans gaze. His skin was
fire and ice all at the same time, and he felt that
electricity was running through him.

     Danjou leaned forward ever so slightly, "She
needs your help" was all he said in little more
than a whisper, but all Mulder heard was Scully's
voice on his answering machine, her scream in
his phone, her pleas in his dreams.

     His body was finally able to respond, and he
jumped back so that his chair slammed to the
floor. He ran out the door into the storm without
even acknowledging the hougan or girl.





     "Damn it, Scully, answer your phone."

     It was after 1:00 am, and she still wasn't
picking up. He had been in constant redial mode
since leaving the hougan's shack, stopping only
to book a flight on the red-eye that was leaving in
20 minutes for Baltimore.

     He didn't even have time to return to the motel,
having only his briefcase with him, and would
have to leave his suitcase behind. He was
completely unconcerned if he ever saw it again.

     He was on autopilot now. That was the closest
he could come to describing it. Danjou had said
to trust himself, and that was what he was doing.
He hit redial again and still no answer.

     He was trying to simultaneously hold onto his
cell phone, airline ticket, and briefcase and look
for Gate E, while he half jogged through the
Miami International Airport. This is the most
fucked up airport in the world, he thought, then
noticed the arrow pointing out the direction of his
gate. He followed the arrow until it came to a line
at the security checkpoint. Even at 1:00 in the
morning, the airport was a madhouse.

     All right, Mulder, time to think. Her mother. No,
she would never believe him. Skinner? Best not
to involve him. Then the answer came.  He said
there was strength in three.

     A deep, electronically altered voice answered
the phone. "Frohike, it's Mulder, turn off the
distorter."

     A small click was followed by Frohike's
irritated, yet clear voice. "Mulder? Do you know
what time it is?"

     "Yeah, it's 1:15 in the morning, and I'm about
to get on a plane. I need your help."

     "Geez, Mulder, can't it wait until morning?"

     "No, it's Scully. She's in danger, and I can't get
in touch with her."

     At the mention of Scully, Frohike was all
attention. "What sort of danger?"

     "Hold on a second."

     He had not realized he had reached the metal
detector until it started beeping wildly. Still
holding the cell phone, briefcase, and ticket, he
managed to reach into this breast pocket and pull
out his badge. The stone-faced security guard
examined his credentials and motioned him
through with an irritated wave.

     In the background of his cell phone, he heard
Langly ask "Who's in danger?" Frohike answered
"Scully" as the metallic echo of the speaker
setting came on.

     "What sort of danger?" Frohike asked again.

     Mulder scanned the gate numbers for E-7 and
hoped his laugh didn't sound too deranged. "I
honestly don't know, but you have to go to her
apartment and make her come with you. Where
the hell is E-7?"

     "Mulder?" He thought it was Langly's voice
trying to regain his attention.

     He was standing in the middle of the hall
spinning around looking for his gate.
"Nothing....Hog tie her if you have to, just get her
out of her apartment." A sudden thought popped
in his head, and he let autopilot take over again.
"And find a priest. Have him come with you, too."

     "A priest?" Byers let out a little laugh of his
own, which said, Fox Mulder, you're insane.
"Mulder, where are we going to find a priest at
this hour?"

     "I'm sure you'll think of something." Finally, he
thought, E-7. They were announcing the final
boarding call.

     "Where should we take her?" Byers asked.

     "Anywhere you think is safe. I'll find you
wherever it is."

     He handed the gate agent his ticket who gave
him a tired smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to
turn that off now. Safety concerns."  Mulder held
up his index finger in a request for more time.

     "Mulder," Frohike asked, "what's going on?"

     Mulder cut him off. The gate agent was giving
him and his cell phone a very disapproving glare.
"I can't explain now. I have to catch my flight. I'll
see you in about four hours."

     He hung up and ran down the boarding
tunnel.

     Four hours. He didn't know if he could last that
long without ripping his hair out. At least he had
his list of missing women to review.

     God, he thought, what if I don't make it?

     That thought was so terrifying that he did
something he hadn't done since he was a kid. He
began praying. He prayed that the hougan had
bought him some time. He prayed that the guys
could convince Scully to leave with them. And he
prayed that this time, he wasn't too late.

Title: All Dreams of the Soul: The Revelation 4/4

Author: Tiger Lilly

E-Mail address: Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Category: XA

Keyword: Scully Angst. Mulder Angst. X-file. UST

Spoilers: 5th season and movie

Summary: Scully and Mulder live through three
nights of terror. Continuation of All Dreams of the
Soul: The Numbers



Disclaimer: Okay Chris, this one is for you. I don't
own them, I just borrowed them. Thank you for
your generosity.



Warning: This story is rated R for language, adult
situations, sexual content, and violence.



Author's note: This is the fourth of four
installments. If you haven't read All Dreams of the
Soul: Genesis, Exodus, or The Numbers, then
The Revelation is not going to make much sense
to you. My suggestion-go back and read them.



Please send me your feedback at
Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com. Be gentle on me. It's
my first time out. Okay to archive anywhere. Just
please send me an e-mail so I'll know.




The Revelation



     A strange buzzing noise was slowly
awakening her out of a deep sleep. Somewhere
in her drowsy mind, she thought that she
shouldn't be hearing odd buzzes in the middle of
the night. But it wasn't until she felt the gloved
hand cover her mouth that she jolted herself
awake.

     Her first reaction was panic. Someone was in
her apartment. In her bedroom. And they were
covering her mouth so she would be unable to
scream. Her heart jumped into her throat.
Instincts kicked in almost immediately, and she
tried to force the hand away.

     "Shhh, Agent Scully," a familiar voice
whispered. "It's Frohike."

     Her eyes focused in the dark on a face
partially concealed by glowing night vision
goggles. Whoever it was looked like a giant
electronic fly. Another hand came up and pulled
the goggles on top of his head. Sure enough, it
was Frohike.

     Her relief was quickly replaced by another
shocked thought. What the hell was Frohike
doing in her bedroom? In the middle of the night?
And how did he get in? But she couldn't ask him
because he still had his hand over her mouth.

     "I didn't want to scare you," he continued, "but
we can't risk letting anyone know we're here." He
looked around the room nervously. "We need to
get you out of here quietly."

     By now, she had managed to push his hand
off her mouth. What did he mean, WE?

     "What the hell..." she angrily started.

     "Shhh, keep it down," another familiar voice
scolded from somewhere to her right. "Are you
trying to get us killed?"

     Dana sat up in the bed and scanned her dark
bedroom. The streetlight outside glowed just
brightly enough for her to make out the form of
Langly, also with his night vision goggles on his
head, nervously looking out the window, carefully
keeping out of sight from anyone that might be
looking in.

     "How in the hell did you get in here?" She was
pissed, but she managed to get it out in a
controlled whisper.

     "First, we need to get you out of here."
Frohike's hushed voice made her swing back
around and look at him. It was only after he licked
his lips and silently mouthed the word "Damn"
that she realized his eyes were almost popping
out of his head. She looked down and realized
what he was lusting at. She only had a silk
nightshirt on, unbuttoned just a little too low in the
front to be entertaining mixed company. But she
hadn't been planning to encounter the Lone
Gunmen when she had thrown it on and
collapsed into bed. And when she had sat up and
looked around the room, the covers had fallen
into her lap, giving Frohike quite an eyeful. She
quickly grabbed the sheet and pulled it up in front
of her.

     "Not until you tell me what's going on." She
wasn't going anywhere with this trio without an
explanation. So, exactly where was Byers?
Probably eating all the leftovers in her
refrigerator.

     "No time," Frohike answered. "We'll explain on
the way." Frohike was handing her her bathrobe.
"We've got to go now."

     Something about the urgency in his voice
made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
So she obediently got out of bed and pulled the
bathrobe on, even with Frohike standing there
ogling. And she almost started to follow him out of
the bedroom, but then her common sense
stopped her. This was 2/3 of the Lone Gunmen.
And where the Gunmen were, Mulder was never
far behind. Suddenly, her mind clicked. Was this
Mulder's way of getting back at her for the
argument two nights ago? Or his way of forcing a
confrontation between them?

     She had expected Mulder to call by now. She
had actually gotten a few hours of sleep on the
flight home, and she had calmed down
considerably. By the time she spent an hour in
the waiting room in order to be worked into Dr.
Lipton's schedule, she had replayed their last few
days together in her head several times, and she
was ready to put it all behind her. She was still
hurt by his accusations, but she needed to talk to
him again. When she got home, she was
disappointed not to find a message from him on
her machine apologizing for his behavior, or at
least admitting that she could have been telling
the truth. But she figured that he had gotten tied
up in Miami and would call her whenever he had
a chance.

     She knew that for Mulder to admit he was
wrong was probably too much to hope for, even
with the evidence of the truth staring him in the
face. All this time looking for the truth, and he still
couldn't see it even when it was right in front of
his nose. And her pride kept her from calling him,
even when she desperately wanted to hear his
voice. Besides, she had left him her package,
and the ball was now in his court.

     When the day turned into the next morning
and she still hadn't heard from him, she tried to
squelch the returning angry she felt. But by the
time that evening arrived and still no call, she
was furious once again.

     Fuck him, she thought. He was alot of trouble
anyway. She would be better off without him.

     And now, Langly and Frohike were trying to
lure her to some undisclosed location for some
unknown reason? Mulder had to be behind it.

     Dana widen her stance for stability. She
wasn't going anywhere.

     "Scully?" Langly, now with the goggles
lowered over his eyes, was looking at her
curiously. He had stopped in front of her on his
way out of the bedroom. He was obviously
puzzled at why she wasn't following Frohike. And
why she looked so determined all of the sudden.

     "No," she answered, raising her chin up.

     "No, what?" Frohike said, reentering the
bedroom.

     "No, I'm not going anywhere. You go tell
Mulder to go fuck himself."

     Frohike and Langly looked at each other,
shocked by her anger and language. Obviously
Mulder didn't tell them everything that had
transpired between them.

     "Okay," Frohike finally managed to say with a
gulp. "Have it your way."

     At that moment, Dana felt a sharp prick at the
base of her neck. She spun around to see Byers
holding the syringe he had just injected into her
spine.

     "What the..." Dana managed to say, as the
room started to tilt. Everything around her was
swimming. She lost her train of thought as time
suddenly slowed. She watched herself fall to the
ground in slow motion, realizing that although her
body was still in front of Byers, her consciousness
was now across the room. She was fascinated by
the way her body left a trail of color hanging in
the darkness.

     She watched Frohike and Langly approach
her motionless body cautiously and lean over to
look at her.

     "Boy," Langly commented in slow motion, "she
was sure pissed at Mulder."

     "Yeah, well," Byers replied looking knowingly
to his two accomplices, also at the slow pace,
"wait 'til she wakes up."

     Then her world went black.





     Her first realization was that her head was
pounding. Not just a little headache, but an all out
Indian war dance right on her left brow bone. The
pain made the dim light tunneling towards her
excruciating. She tried to push the tunnel away
by squinting her eyes shut. Then she realized
that wasn't working, so she tried to roll to one
side to get away from it.

     That was when she had her second
realization. Something firmly held her right hand
bent next to her ear. The sensation of cold steel
surrounding her wrist was a shock. She tried to
pull her arm towards her, only to discover she
could only move it about 2 inches in any
direction. The steel rattled against something.
Okay, she was going to have to open her eyes
and glance at her wrist, only to confirm what her
confused mind was already telling her. Here it
goes, she thought.

     She opened her eyes and looked over at her
hand. "Oh." The little gasp was all she could
manage. Sure enough, one end of a pair of
handcuffs was locked around her right hand. She
raised her eyes and found the other end attached
to a rusty, dirty pipe. Her gaze followed the pipe
up to where it disappeared into the bottom of a
crumbling sink directly above her head. Only then
did it occur to her that she was in an old
bathroom.

     She quickly shut her eyes again. Even through
her closed eyelids, she could still see the dim
light. And her head wouldn't clear enough to help
her remember how she had gotten into this
situation.

     She tried to concentrate on the other
sensations she was feeling, trying to block out the
throbbing in her head. She could feel her terry
cloth bathrobe and silk nightshirt, their soft,
nubbiness and contrasting smoothness
surrounding her. Something told her this was
strange, but she couldn't remember why it was
strange. And the throbbing in her head wasn't
helping either.

     Dana threw her left arm across her eyes. The
darkness and pressure helped her head slightly.
She just wanted to go back to sleep, or whatever
she had been doing before she woke up.
Besides, she realized that she wasn't thinking too
clearly.

     Her mind drifted back to the wild dream she
was having. She was floating in mid-air, looking
down on the Lone Gunmen. Except it wasn't the
Lone Gunmen. It was three giant flies with
glowing green eyes who talked like the Lone
Gunmen. And they were leading her body down
the hall of her apartment building. Only her body
wasn't walking. Instead, it seemed to be lurching
forward. And she was watching the whole thing
while she floated on the ceiling.

     It was a strange, strange dream. She never
dreamed about the Lone Gunmen. She could
barely stand to think about them when she was
awake. Jesus, they must have used a whopper of
a sedative on her.

     Her last thought sunk in and shocked her into
opening her eyes despite of her headache. The
Lone Gunmen. The fucking Lone Gunmen had
been in her bedroom, trying to trick her into going
to see Mulder. And they had knocked her out with
some unknown substance when she wouldn't go
with them willingly. And now, she was handcuffed
to a sink in some old building's bathroom, lying
on-she looked down to check-an old army cot,
and higher than, well, than she had been in a
long time.

     Violence. Pure violence was all she could
think about for a moment. The satisfaction she
would derive from kicking the three fly-boys
asses. She imagined grabbing Frohike by the
throat and strangling him as he gasped for air.
The thought of him with his eyes bugging out and
face turning blue actually made her giggle.
Funny, her headache suddenly felt alot better.

     She could shoot the three of them before they
would even know what was happening. That is, if
Mulder didn't have her gun.

     "Mulder." She spoke his name out loud with a
contempt that almost caused a bad taste in her
mouth. That bastard was behind this. Which
meant that he probably wasn't too far away. He
probably had been in here while she was out,
shaking his head and feeling sorry for his poor,
crazy ex-partner. Well, he was going to pay for
this. The time she had shot him in the shoulder?
That was nothing. If she could get her gun back,
her aim was going to be much, much lower.

     A noise caught her attention. She followed it
through the dim light and noticed the closed door
at her feet for the first time. She squinted her eyes
and listened.

     The noise became voices when she
concentrated. They were muffled, but they were
definitely voices. Male voices. And although she
couldn't make out enough to recognize who they
were, she was sure that one of them must be
Mulder's. And the longer she listened, the more
she convinced herself that it was him.

     Oh, well, she thought. Here goes nothing.

     "Mulder!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.
She patiently waited for him to open the door.
After a minute passed, she realized there would
be no reply, that Mulder would not be coming in
to unhandcuff her. But she was certain he had
heard her because the voices in the other room
were now silent.

     "Mulder, get me out of here." Still no reply.
What was he waiting for? Her to beg? There was
no way she was going to give him that
satisfaction.

     "Get me the fuck out of here! Mulder! Mulder! I
swear I'm going to kill you!" She realized that she
was now ranting out of control at the top of her
lungs, but she couldn't stop herself.





     "Federal Agent! On the floor! Hands on your
head! Move!"

     Mulder's heart was racing as he burst into the
room, sweeping the area with his drawn gun as
he had been taught so long ago at the academy.
Based on the muffled conversation he could hear
through the door, he had guessed there were at
least three people inside the room. Three people,
probably armed. He had also been taught not to
enter a potentially deadly situation like this one
without backup, without his partner. But it was his
partner he was trying to save.

     He had panicked when, less than ninety
minutes into his flight from Miami, he had
suddenly become aware that Scully was no
longer asleep in her own bed, but was
handcuffed to an old hot water pipe in a
condemned tenement building a few blocks from
the Mall. Terror had seized him when the
Gunmen didn't answer the phone when he called
from the plane. They were too late, he had
thought. Or worse yet, they were dead attempting
to save her. There was no time to worry about
them now. Scully needed help. He scanned the
room and saw four figures dressed in black
laying on the floor before him. Three of them
looked very familiar.

     A head with long blond hair hesitantly raised
up to reveal a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses.
"Mulder, its us. Don't shoot."

     "Langly?" This didn't make sense. Why were
the Gunmen sitting here chatting while Scully
was being held in the next room?

     A pair of hands wearing biking gloves lifted
above the balding head of the figure next to
Langly on the floor. "Mulder, just put down your
gun." Frohike spoke very, very slowly.

     Mulder lowered his gun. "What's going on
here?" God, he was confused. Had he been
wrong about Scully's predicament. "Scully?" he
asked uncertainly.

     Byers was lifting himself from the floor. "In the
next room. She's fine."

     "Handcuffed?" Mulder couldn't seem to get
more than one word to come out of his confused
brain at a time.

     Frohike was speaking in a very calm tone. "We
did if for her own good. She was resistant to the
idea of coming with us."

     Langly snorted as he sat on a dilapidated sofa
in the corner of the room. "To say the least."

     Frohike shot Langly a look as if he were
taunting a wild animal, then continued speaking
to Mulder in his overly calm tone. "So, we
handcuffed her while she was out."

     Events were beginning to become clear to
Mulder. "Out?" A little too clear.

     This time Byers spoke. "We had to sedate her.
She refused to leave, and she had a few choice
words for you."

     "You sedated her?" Mulder reached out and
grabbed Frohike, who was the closest to him, by
the lapels of his leather jacket. "I trusted you, and
you sedated her?!?"

     Frohike stood like a trapped animal. "Geez,
Mulder, it was just a little Diprivan, nothing to get
worked up about."

     "You idiot!" Mulder yelled as he pushed him
away. "She's pregnant!" For a few seconds, the
only sound was Mulder panting where he stood,
a look of cold fury on his face. If anything
happened to the baby because of what these
guys had done, he would...well, he didn't know
what he would do, but it wouldn't be something
they liked.

     It was Langly who broke the silence. "All right,
Mulder. Way to work those all night stake outs."

     Mulder and Frohike both gave him looks.
Mulder one of dumbfound shock, and Frohike
one that could have sliced right through him.
Byers made a mad dash across the room.

     Frohike turned back toward Mulder, threw
back his shoulders, and puffed out his chest.
"Now, look here, Mulder." Mulder couldn't believe
it, he was actually angry...at him! "If you've been
boffing Scully and gone and knocked her up,
we're going to have a little talk. Mano y Mano."

     Mulder didn't think his mouth could drop open
anymore than it already had. "Not me. I'm not the
father." At least he didn't think so. What Scully
thought might be a different story.

     Frohike seemed relieved and angrier all at the
same time. "Well, then who the hell is? Is he
going to live up to his responsibilities, or was he
just in it for a good time?"

     Mulder was starting to get a headache. This
was not going the way he had planned it when
he had called them for their help. If the three
stooges had been paranoid of the government,
big business, and anything related to the military,
he would have swore they were standing in this
room with him. Only Langly had more hair than
all of the stooges combined. "I don't know who
the father is, and right now, I don't care. All I want
to know is if the drugs you gave her are harmful
to the fetus."

     "Way ahead of you, Mulder." Byers was
triumphantly holding up a CD that he had been
frantically digging out of a bag. "Physicians Desk
Reference," he explained as he popped it into the
laptop Langly had just opened. Mulder went and
looked over Byers' shoulder as he brought up the
drug they had used. "Says here that it's use-in-
pregnancy rating is B. There is no evidence of
risk in humans. That is, if you can trust the FDA."

     Mulder let out a relieved sigh.

     "For someone who isn't the father, you sure
are concerned about the mother and child."

     Mulder looked up to see who spoke and
suddenly remembered the fourth figure on the
floor. The man before him was tall and thin, about
40, with shoulder-length brown hair and a three-
day growth of beard. He looked like he hadn't
showered in that amount of time, either. He wore
a black suit of the clergy that had seen better
days, complete with the white collar of a priest.
Mulder gave Byers a questioning look.

     "Mulder, this is Father Michaels." Byers said in
way of introduction. "The priest you requested."

     Mulder shook hands with the priest. "No
offense, but you're not what I expected."

     Father Michaels indicated his clothing and
smiled a slight, bitter smile. "I minister to my
fellow homeless."

     "You've taken a vow of poverty?" Mulder
questioned.

     This time the bitterness was in the laugh. "Not
by choice."

     Byers answered Mulder's questioning glance.
"Father Michaels was cast out of the Catholic
Church."

     Mulder couldn't believe what he was hearing.
All he had asked was that they get Scully out of
her apartment and find a priest. What they had
done was commit felonious kidnaping and
assault with the assistance of an
excommunicated priest. "So, you're no longer a
member of the Church?"

     The priest's answer was defensive. "I no
longer serve the corruption of the Catholic
hierarchy. I now work for God directly."

     Frohike stepped in. "Father Michaels learned a
few secrets about the Catholic Church that the
higher-ups didn't want to get out. Ends up that the
holy brotherhood has been used by various
world governments to carry out some of their
alternate agendas."

     Langly took up the narrative. "Who better to
undertake a secret objective than the Catholic
Church, with their churches and missions in even
the most remote area of the world? Ever think
about what could be done under the guise of a
childhood vaccination program in some third
world country? With no one there to question it
except Sally Struthers?"

     Frohike continued. "When he threatened to go
public, they trumped up some charges against
the good Padre. Claimed he liked to spend a little
too much 'quality time' with other men of the
cloth, if you get my drift." Frohike nudged Mulder
with his elbow. "We met up with him last year,
featured him in our Christmas issue of the Magic
Bullet. When you said you needed a priest,
naturally Father Michaels came to mind."

     The priest's eyes blazed. "The rumors they
spread were all lies. And I'm not the only one
they've tried to silence. But I made my vows to
God, and even though they have cast me out, I
uphold my vows to serve Him."

     Mulder almost laughed. Substitute the
Catholic Church and questionable third-world
practices for a world wide conspiracy and alien
abduction and this could be his religiously devote
twin. Something about the priest, his confidence
and pride, even beneath the dirty facade,
convinced Mulder that he truly was a man of
conviction. Hopefully Scully would feel the same.
Although he could take the arrogance down a
notch or two.

     Scully! He turned quickly towards the room
were she was held. He had so much to tell her
about what he had discovered on the plane ride
back.

     Frohike stopped him before he reached the
door. "Uh, Mulder, just a warning. She's really
pissed off with you. She was angry before we hit
her with the goods, and it's even worse now."

     Mulder grinned, "I think I can handle it," and
opened the door. Then again, he thought after
one look at Scully's livid face, maybe he couldn't.





     The sound of yelling from a distance slowly
entered her consciousness. It sounded like it was
coming from down a long tunnel.

     "Federal Agent! On the floor! Hands on your
head! Move!"

     She was exhausted. She had yelled for almost
an hour, using every conceivable four-letter word
she could think of. And growing up on naval
bases, she had learned alot of four-letter words.
And she had used all of them in reference to
Mulder.

     And all it had gotten her was a sore, dry throat
and another pounding headache. And she was
still suffering the effects of whatever they had
used to knock her out.

     She didn't know exactly when the thought had
occurred to her that she was hallucinating.
Maybe it was when she had panicked, believing
millions of tiny electric-green flies were crawling
all over her. Or that the small fluorescent lantern
in the corner was transforming itself into two
disembodied glowing eyes, that were still staring
at her even now. But once she realized that was
what was happening, she took any thought or
belief that she had as no more than a reaction to
the drug. That at least had keep the fear from
welling up in her.

     A moment ago, she had felt like she was rising
off the mattress. And now, she was imaging a raid
in the other room.

     She forced herself to listen to the yelling, if
only to figure out who it was so she could tell
them to shut up. They were making her headache
return to its original intensity.

     "You sedated her? I trusted you, and you
sedated her?!?"

     Good, Mulder was the one yelling. Maybe he
was in pain. The thought made her laugh
hysterically.

     "You idiot! She's pregnant!"

     Her laughing ceased immediately. Until that
moment, she had forgotten about her pregnancy.
She was pregnant, wasn't she? She hadn't
imaged that. Was this her mind's way of
reminding her that she should be concerned
about whatever substance the Gunmen had used
on her? That her medical knowledge needed to
kick in, analyze the symptoms, deduce the likely
substances, and take whatever action
necessary? Like she could take any action
handcuffed to a sink in the dark, she thought
sarcastically.

     Nevertheless, it was a cruel, auditory
hallucinating. The memory of  Mulder eluding that
she was losing her grip on reality returned. His
statement that she was suffering from some
delusion caused by post-traumatic stress.
Although she had confided in him in a moment of
rage, it didn't diminish the pain she felt when he
had casually brushed aside her desperate pleas
for him to believe her. That pain once again
swept over her. Suddenly, Dana felt very sad,
alone, and afraid. She looked over at the eyes in
the corner.

     "Leave me alone," she whispered.

     But then, as if to save her from her own
thoughts, her mind turned over the other
possibility. In some version of reality, had Mulder
just admitted that he believed she was pregnant?
It doesn't explain the Gunmen's actions, she
thought, or why I am still handcuffed to this damn
sink.

     She hadn't had time to fully consider this new
possibility when the door opened. She looked up
and saw Mulder's face. And her fury returned full
force.

     If I am hallucinating now, she thought, let me
hallucinate a gun. Because I want to hallucinate
causing him to have a slow, painful death
involving massive blood loss and genital trauma.
And she did her best to convey that thought to the
figment of her imagination staring at her from the
doorway.

     She locked her eyes on Mulder's eyes and
watched his face transform from a look of concern
to uneasiness. Inside, she felt a great wave of
satisfaction at his transformation. She wanted to
make this imaginary Mulder squirm, if only to
make herself feel better. And pass the time in this
little room. She glanced over at the disembodied
eyes. Yup, they were still there. Her imagination
was definitely still in overdrive. She was at least
going to have some fun with this new
hallucination.

     "Scully?" the imaginary Mulder said timidly.
"You okay?"

     She didn't answer. She wanted him to feel the
same frustration and helplessness she had felt
earlier when she had fruitlessly been calling his
name. Okay, so she had called him several other
things as well, but that was beside the point.

     Mulder entered the room and looked down at
her. She watched him swallow, his adam's apple
bobbing in his throat. Oh, this was a very realistic
hallucination. The best one so far. Except for
those damn eyes over in the corner. She took a
deep breath to steady herself and push the fear
back down. She could even smell Mulder.

     "Look, Scully," Mulder continued after a
moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to
happen. I just told..." he trailed off when his eyes
caught the uncomfortable way her arms was
raised next to her body, courtesy of the handcuffs.
"I should get the key."

     "Yeah, do that," she finally spoke through
clenched teeth, the hoarseness of her voice
surprising her. "Why don't you unlock these...so I
can fucking kill you!" She punctuated the last part
of her cresendoing sentence by half-raising her
torso off the cot. At least as far as she could raise
up towards him with the handcuffs rubbing her
wrist raw.

     He gulped and didn't move. The look on his
face reminded her of a deer caught in headlights.
She could hear her ragged breathing as she
glared up at him some more. And then, he slowly
turned and went into the other room, leaving the
door open behind him.

     Dana glanced over at the glowing eyes. Well,
she thought to the eyes that weren't really there, I
guess we showed him who's in charge. Too bad
he wasn't really here, either.

     And she laid back down and threw her left arm
over her eyes again.




     It had to be a side effect of the sedative-at
least that's what he kept telling himself. He had
seen her angry before. She had even yelled at
him before. Their fight a few nights ago had been
a prime example. But never, ever, had he seen
her like this.

     He turned and left the room and tried not to
shiver, anxious to leave those murderous eyes
behind. This wasn't going to be as easy as he
had originally thought. Of course, what he had
originally thought had been a work of fantasy he
had concocted to avoid his actual fears. In his
fantasy, Scully began apologizing before he had
a chance to and stopped him as he tried to
apologize to her. They laughed it off, and she
listened attentively as he explained his theory
about the seven sevens of missing women.
Granted, he knew that scenario would never play
itself out. But even in his worst fears, she hadn't
threatened to kill him. And even if she had, she
never would have looked like she meant it

     The Gunmen were standing a few feet behind
him, peering into the bathroom, as though they
were afraid to get any closer. The priest was
sitting on the sofa, watching events unfold with a
curious scowl on his face

     Mulder held out his hand to Frohike. "Give me
the keys," he demanded.

     Langly and Byers exchanged uncertain
glances. Frohike shifted his weight from one foot
to the other. "Are you sure that's a good idea,
Mulder? She seems kind of....violent."

     Evidently Scully had heard him because
sadistic laughter erupted from the bathroom. "Just
you wait, little man. Your time will come."

     The three of them actually took a step back.
Frohike cocked his head towards the bathroom
and gave Mulder a look that seemed to say, I rest
my case.

     "Give me the keys," he said in a very calm, yet
forceful voice. He hoped the same tone would
work with Scully. Frohike reluctantly nodded his
head, and Byers fished the keys out of his pocket
and handed them to Mulder. Mulder tossed them
lightly in the air, as though he were weighing his
options, but he had already made up his mind. It
was time to set things right between them. He
had decided that while he was still in Miami, as
soon as he had seen that damn pink stick. It
never should have gone this far. He still felt
Scully was in danger from some unknown
enemy, and the sooner they made friends again,
the sooner they could get down to business. He
had made some interesting discoveries on his
flight back, and out of habit, he couldn't wait to
share them with Scully. If he could get her to
listen to him. Besides, he thought, even if she
seemed capable of killing him with her bare
hands, she would be too weak from the sedative.
Right?

     As he closed his hand tightly around the keys,
he leaned in close to the Gunmen. "If she bolts for
the door," he whispered, "stop her."

     The three nodded solemnly, but Mulder could
tell from their wide-eyed looks that they hoped it
wouldn't come to that. And so did he.

     When he reentered the bathroom, Scully was
laying on the cot, her left arm draped across her
eyes. The early morning light was shining
through the small, dirty window off to the left of
her prone body, illuminating dust fibers in the air.

     "Scully?" he said softly. She didn't respond.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "Scully?"

     "Go away," she mumbled from below her arm.
"I don't want to hallucinate right now."

     Obviously the drugs were still effecting her.
"Scully, this isn't a hallucination. I'm real. I'm
really here."

     She turned slightly and looked out from under
her arm toward the corner where a portable
fluorescent lantern stood. She let out a "hmpf" of
disbelief and recovered her eyes.

     Well, he thought, no turning back now. "I'm
going to take the handcuffs off now, Scully. But
first..."

     She raised her head and glared at him from
under her half-raised arm. Her look of
amazement made it clear that she expected no
conditions placed on her freedom.

     Mulder stood his ground and held up a
silencing hand. "First" he continued, "you have to
promise not to run away. Second..."

     Again she gave him a look of shock, her mouth
actually dropping open slightly at the addition of
a second ultimatum.

     "...promise that you will hear what I have to say
before you start yelling again." He finished
quickly, preparing himself for the inevitable
verbal onslaught.

     Instead, she let her head drop back down and
let out a frustrated sigh. "Okay, Mulder, I'll listen."

     "And you promise you won't try to run away?"
He hoped she didn't still think she was
hallucinating.

     "Yes, yes, yes, I promise." She said impatiently
as she tried to push herself up to a half-sitting
position. "Now just take this fucking thing off me."

     Well, that was the best he could hope for. He
knelt down and unlocked the handcuffs from the
pipe. He figured he could always slap it on his
own wrist if she tried to run, but she just sat up
and slung her bare legs over the side of the cot.
Mulder knelt before her now.

     The mattress smelled musty, like it had been
stored in a basement. But the smell was
underlain by the sweet fragrance of bath oils and
fabric softener that permeated Scully's bathrobe.
Only on rare occasions had he smelled the
fragrance-before on a case once when she had
just come out of the shower, and she answered
the door to her hotel room in her robe; when he
had been in her bathroom at her home; in her
bed? That didn't seem right, he thought.

     Occasionally, he caught a whiff when she
walked by him in the office, and it would make his
head spin for a moment. It was sexy and innocent
all at the same time, something forbidden yet
exclusively his, and at this moment it brought
back some forgotten erotic memory. He tried to
push it into the recesses of his mind, along with
some new thoughts he was suddenly having
about the handcuffs.

     Holding her handcuffed hand in one of his, he
turned her wrist and placed the key in the lock.
The cuff opened with a small click, and he
removed it while still holding onto her wrist,
letting the metal links fall beside her on the cot.
She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly and
began gently massaging the feeling back into her
hand. Her skin was soft to the touch, although her
wrist was beginning to show a red welt where the
cuffs had held her. He never looked up from their
hands as he began to speak.

     "Scully, I'm sorry. About this mess, the fight,
everything. You were right, and I should have
listened to you. And I shouldn't have removed
you from the case. You weren't doing a shitty job.
I just wasn't ready to accept what you had to say."
He still wasn't sure if he accepted all of it, but
Danjou had convinced him that at least
something about her dreams was real. He
continued to knead her wrist and hand. "But I'm
willing to listen now."

     She pulled her hand away, only without as
much violence as she had before. This time, he
let it go. He stayed squatted before her, moving
his hand to the cot on either side of her hips for
support. His fingers brushed the terry cloth of her
robe. For the first time, he looked up at her.

     She had her head lowered, mere inches from
his, watching her hand as she flexed it open and
closed. Her hair hung down and blocked half of
her face. She leaned in closer, and her breast
brushed against the inside of his upper arm. She
whispered, "Is that why you had me drugged and
kidnapped? So you could apologize?"

     He icy voice was in stark contrast to the
warmth of her breath on his ear. He closed his
eyes as he clenched his fists into the blanket on
the cot, willing the growing pressure in his groin
to go away. It wasn't working. She has no idea
what she's doing to me, he thought. Then he was
struck with the even more exhilarating thought
that maybe she did. He turned his head slightly
towards hers, trying not to whimper as his nose
and mouth brushed against her hair.

     "A fucking phone call would have worked just
as well." She practically spit the words at him as
she leaned back.

     Mulder's eyes shot open at the venom in her
voice. Oh, she had known exactly what she was
doing, all right. That was just cruel. He couldn't
believe that she actually said that, after all the
calls he had tried to make. "I must have called
you a hundred times yesterday, but you never
answered."

     She rolled her eyes at what she obviously felt
was a lie. He curbed his desire to raise his voice
and argue the point. He thought that he almost
had her calmed down. If he backtracked now, he
might never get her back. "Look, if I had known
they were going to sedate you, I never would
have called them. You know that I would never
do anything to intentionally endanger you or the
baby. Its just that you were in danger, still may be,
I think, and..."

     He trailed off as he realized Scully was
clutching her abdomen. The anger he had seen
in her eyes had been replaced with guilty panic.

     "Scully?" he asked. Then it dawned on him.
The baby. In her delirium, she must have
forgotten about the risk the drug posed to the
baby. "Scully, it's okay, the anesthetic they used
was harmless..."

     But it was obvious she wasn't listening. She
suddenly stood, but from his squatting position,
he was able to grab her around the waist and
hold her back tight against his chest. She started
to pull away, murder for the men in the next room
on her mind.

     "What the fuck did you morons give me? What
did you do to my baby?"

     "Scully, it's okay! We looked it up! It's a class
B! Diprivan!" Mulder hoped her medical training
would surface through the rage of maternal
hormones he was witnessing struggle in his
arms. Evidently it was working, because he felt
her struggle lessen, and she began repeating the
name of the drug herself. He could almost hear
the gears whirling in her head as she categorized
the drug and accessed the pharmacological
resources in her mind. She finally stopped
struggling all together.

     "Class B." She was mumbling more to herself
than him. "Studies must show it's safe." She took
a few deep breaths as Mulder continued to hold
her. Then she began shaking with silent sobs.
Mulder sat her down on the bed, and she
collapsed against his chest.

     "God,...I'm...I'm... go...going...to be...a
lou...lousy...mother." He could barely make our
her words as she gulped air.

     He placed an arm around her shoulder,
stunned by her sudden transformation. A few
minutes ago, she had been ready to rip out his
lungs through his chest cavity. Now, she was
wiping her nose on his shirt. One of the side
effects of the sedatives had to be wild mood
swings, and they didn't get much wilder than this.
He held her and patted her back until the sobs
began to subside.

     "You'll make a wonderful mother," he said in
an awkwardly cheerful voice.

     "No, I won't. I can't even protect myself from
those idiots. How am I supposed to keep my baby
safe in the real world?"

     Mulder stroked her hair in what he hoped was
a soothing manner. "I think" he said somewhat
hesitantly, "that's supposed to be my job."





     She was finding Mulder's
behavior...spooky...even for him. First, he
apologized. Apologized! Fox Mulder never, ever
admits he's wrong. Time had taught her that
lesson over and over again.

     She had done her best to keep her face from
revealing the shock she felt at his apology.
Although, he hadn't eliminated her anger, just
brought it down several notches. To a
more...appropriate level.

     Okay, let's face it, she thought. Nothing she
had done since waking up had been on an
appropriate level. She prided herself on her
control, her ability to remain distanced from her
emotions in even the most tense situation. Boy,
she had blown that facade tonight. Not that
Mulder necessarily believed that she was the Ice
Queen everyone at the Bureau thought she was,
but he rarely had seen her completely lose it in
the years they had worked together. Anesthetic or
no anesthetic, she would like to have kept it that
way. And now...

     Dana sat on the dilapidated sofa in the corner
of what she guessed could be called a living
room. If you could call the room she had been in
for the last few hours a bathroom, then this could
definitely be a living room. After she had
regained her composure, Mulder had led her by
the hand into the room, sat her on the sofa, and
ran out to his car to get his briefcase. He had
practically been bursting to tell her the latest
developments and his theory on the Miami
disappearances.

     Great, she thought, here he goes bouncing
ideas off of me like nothing has happened. It
made her a little angry at him for assuming that
she would still care about the case. And at herself
for letting him take advantage of her so quickly
after their reconciliation. If she had come to any
conclusions in the past two days, it was that there
were now more important things in her life than
being a workaholic. And she could almost kick
herself for slipping back into that mode the first
time Mulder tempted her with it.

     But another feeling was overwhelming her
even more. Now that she was quickly coming
down, she was terribly embarrassed by her
behavior, regardless of its causes. My God, she
thought, she was a medical doctor and a FBI
agent. She should be able to control herself
better, even if she was under the influence of a
hypnotic agent.

     When Mulder stood up to lead her out of the
bathroom, she had caught sight of the Lone
Gunmen jumping back from the doorway, where
they had been listening to the whole
conversation. Not to mention listening to her
ranting for the last few hours. Regardless of
whether or not they showed her any remorse for
their overzealousness in getting her out of her
apartment, she still felt embarrassed. Even now
they were busy trying to look nonchalant, like
they hadn't noticed that the always professional
Agent Scully had gone ballistic on them.

     And to top it all off, Mulder had introduced her
to Father Michaels right before running out the
door. A priest! She had been cursing literally like
a sailor, and there was a priest listening to
everything! She had immediately apologized for
her language, but Father Michaels didn't seem to
care one way or another.

     It wasn't like he hadn't heard those words
before, she kept telling herself. She just wished
he hadn't heard those particular expletives from
her mouth. But just because he was a priest
didn't mean he lived in a cave. She knew that. In
fact, she had known some pretty partying priests
in her life. And to look at Father Michaels...

     Not that she doubted he was a priest. Okay,
maybe she did have her doubts. After all, this was
Mulder and the Lone Gunmen she was dealing
with. Their idea of a priest was probably a cross
between Father Guido Sardoucci and the
Exorcist. At least she was relatively sure that was
the extent of Mulder's exposure to the Catholic
Church. And she never assumed anything with
Byers, Langly, and Frohike.

     The tension in the room was smothering her.
She sat on the sofa staring at her hands, waiting
for Mulder to get back. No one was talking to
anyone. And all eyes were on her.

     She raised her eyes when she heard the door
open. Mulder walked into the room, briefcase in
hand. She had to admit, she was curious. Hadn't
he said something about her being in danger?
And when had he returned from Miami? Not that
she was going to ask him these questions. She
knew he would answer her questions on his own,
in his own ostentatious way. She just had to wait
him out.

     Mulder sat down on the sofa next to her and
popped open his briefcase, pulling out what she
immediately recognized as the Miami case file. It
was nearly triple the size it had been when she
had left three days ago. Apparently, there really
had been some developments.

     The Lone Gunmen and Father Michaels were
congregating around them. She glanced at them
irritated, not necessarily wanting this
conversation to be shared. Like she had any
choice.

     As if on cue, Mulder turned to her and began.
"After you left Miami, the six remaining women
returned, completely unharmed, but unable to
remember anything about the seven months they
were missing."

     Dana raised an eyebrow and opened her
mouth slightly. This was not how she was
expecting him to start. In fact, this development
was not what she was expecting at all. When she
had left Miami, she was sure they would find the
other six women dead sooner or later.

     Frohike had brought a milk crate and piece of
plywood over from the corner of the room, sitting
it on the floor in front of the sofa to make a
makeshift table. Byers now placed a large brown
paper bag on the floor next to it and began to
unpack its contents. An assortment of muffins and
bagels, pint-sized milk cartons, and Styrofoam
cups of juice and coffee began to appear on the
table. Luckily, they appeared to all be pretty close
to the appropriate temperatures. She was hungry
and starting to get a little nauseous again. At
least they had planned on feeding her.

     Mulder continued while reaching for a bagel
and a napkin. "All except one, who local
authorities believed to be delusional. She was
identified as Hellene Bonnelle. Only when I
spoke with her, she claimed that was no longer
her name. She and her six 'sisters' had taken the
name of a single man, a man who had 'cleansed'
them."

     She listened, not realizing that Mulder had sat
the bagel on the napkin and placed it on the sofa
next to her, until he motioned for her to eat it. She
picked it up and took a bite just as Father
Michaels cut in.

     "That's a reference to Isaiah 4:1- the sisters
of Zion," the priest said. "And in that day seven
women shall take hold of one man, saying, 'We
will eat our own food and wear our own apparel;
only let us be called by your name, to take away
our reproach.'"

     "Yes, I'm familiar with the verse," Mulder
replied. He was now sticking a straw into a cup of
orange juice and handing it to Dana. "But she
also made reference to 'seven sevens'."

     "No, no, no," Father Michaels shot back. "In the
book of Isaiah, there are only one set of seven
sisters mentioned. This Hellene Bonnelle has her
scriptures confused."

     "No, I don't think so, Father. The same day the
six Miami women returned, the body of another
woman, Sarah James, a member of the Mormon
church, was found in Utah." Mulder turned to
Dana and handed her a carton of milk. "Scully,
she was killed by a blunt trauma to the head,
shortly after giving birth. Her baby was found a
few miles away, also dead by unknown means.
Sound familiar? Only this woman went missing
exactly one month after Genevieve Baptiste."
Langly handed her a cup of coffee, but Mulder
smoothly intercepted it and handed it back to
Langly with a disapproving shake of his head. "A
data search revealed that six other Mormon
women were reported missing in the two days
before James disappeared."

     "Sounds like some sort of out-of-control
Lamaze class to me," Frohike snickered. She and
Mulder both shot him a look.

     Mulder grabbed a muffin and began devouring
it, still talking between bites. "Another factor in
both of these disappearances is that both groups
of women disappeared on or directly before the
new moon." Bite. "That's two sets of seven
women from two different religions all missing on
the new moon. Another data search revealed
seven Hindu women went missing the following
new moon, seven Buddhist women the next
month, and finally seven Catholic women two
months ago."

     He had stopped, and she realized he was
waiting for her to make a comment. Honestly, she
had only been half-listening to him since he had
handed her the milk. It was a perfect example of
the second reason Mulder was acting spooky. He
was hovering over her like a mother hen.

     Ever since he had made that comment back in
the bathroom about the safety of the baby being
his job, she had been quietly simmering. She
had originally wonder what that comment was all
about. Face it, the last thing she needed was
Mulder taking care of her and the baby. My God,
the man couldn't even keep fish alive.

     About the time he had handed her the milk,
she had realized with raised eyebrows exactly
what he was doing. The bagel, the juice, the
denied coffee...he was taking care of her. Not a
partnerly kind of care, like looking out for each
others' backs, but a nurturing, protective kind of
care. And she was outraged by this. How dare he
even assume that she needed his care! Not to
mention, she had uncomfortably noticed Father
Michaels intently eying this exchange.

     She didn't know if Mulder even had a right to
feel this way. Yes, the conception had occurred
when she was having the dreams about Mulder,
but that didn't make Mulder the father, did it? This
was a question that had been spinning around in
her head since she left Miami. The whole thing
was so completely surreal. She really didn't know
how she felt about this possibility, or even if she
accepted it as a possibility.

     Her uncertainty had made her jump at Dr.
Lipton's advice to have an amniocentesis as
soon as possible. The doctor had recommended
it because of her age, but she had insisted it be
done immediately because she needed to know
exactly what she was dealing with. This was a
pregnancy that she had only very recently begun
to believe, but she still didn't assume that the
fetus was genetically hers, or hers and Mulder's,
or even naturally occurring. And after the
procedure, she had managed to take a sample of
the amniotic fluid herself. Dr. Lipton would send a
portion out for the normal tests, but Dana needed
a much more detailed genetic breakdown.
Besides, the doctor would have looked at her
incredulously if she had told her what she
wanted.

     She had taken the sample to a friend at
Georgetown School of Medicine, asking for a
complete DNA breakdown. Including the data
needed to compare genetic markers against the
anonymous RFLPs she had provided. Both a
maternity and a paternity test. Whether or not this
fetus turned out to be hers, she needed to at least
eliminate the one possibility she had for the
father. Luckily, her friend didn't ask where the
sample had come from. And Dana had led her
friend to believe it was for a case she was
working on.

     The results would be back later today. Another
advantage of having a geneticist for a friend. You
couldn't beat the turn around time. Meanwhile,
she had pushed the nervousness and uncertainty
down to a place where she didn't have to deal
with it. Yet.

     Dana pulled Mulder's last few sentences out of
the air and back into her head. Quickly, she
counted and realized she could easily debunk
this theory he was leading up to. "That's only six
groups of seven, Mulder," she told him point
blank.

     "Exactly." There was that scoreboard going off
in his eyes again. For a moment she was
relieved. The old Mulder had made a temporary
comeback. "So, I went back a month before the
women in Miami went missing. A coven of seven
Wiccan practitioners went missing in Northern
California that new moon." Another bite of muffin.
"No one in the area really thought much about it
because they were a reclusive group."

     "You know how outgoing those Wiccan covens
can be," Byers interjected.

     Mulder just kept going over top of him. "But last
month, seven months after their disappearance,
they all returned except one. She was never
found. However, three weeks ago the body of an
infant was found by some climbers in a
snowbank on Mount Shasta. I'll give you 10 to 1,
Scully, that when the snow finally thaws, the
mother will be found as well."

     "I don't like your odds, Mulder," she replied
dryly. Okay, she thought, maybe he did have
something.

     "And now," he continued without
acknowledging her comment, "the second set of
women have shown up in Miami complete with a
dead mother and child. Seven months after they
went missing." He popped the last bite of muffin
into his mouth.

     Oh, he was damn cocky all right. She looked
over at the Lone Gunmen and Father Michaels.
They were all eating, intently listening to their
conversation. All, that is, except Langly, who was
doodling on a napkin. Mulder with a captive
audience was almost unbearable.

     Mulder's bravado made the skeptic in her go
into overdrive. "But Mulder, surely someone
would have noticed this pattern before now."

     "That"s just it. The missing women have been
from increasingly-wide geographical areas. They
began with the coven in California. Then the
Vodun in Miami, which is a rather small
community. Then the Mormons, whose larger
populations are mainly limited to the western
United States. By the time we reach the seventh
group, the Catholic women, they are pretty much
spread out everywhere."

     "But why just the United States?" This
comment had come from Langly. Apparently, he
was paying attention.

     "A country that was founded on the principles
of religious freedom?" Mulder asked, grabbing a
cup of coffee. "What better place to choose?"

     "There's another flaw in your pattern." Scully
noticed that all the eyes were once again on her.
"The woman in Utah was only missing six
months, not seven."

     "I was just getting to that, Dr. Scully." Mulder
reached into the forgotten case file and pulled out
what she recognized to be an autopsy report. He
waved it in her face. "The autopsy report on the
newborn indicated a low birth weight and
incomplete development of the heart. Wouldn't
that suggest a premature birth? Maybe the baby
wasn't meant to born until next month."

     She took the report from him and began to
read over it. The Utah coroner didn't made any
conclusions based on those findings. "Four
weeks premature would be hard to identify,
Mulder."

     Mulder continued. "Look, if I'm right and if the
pattern holds, we'll be seeing these sets of
women resurfacing, with one from each group
dead, over the next five months."

     "So, do you think the same person is taking
these women?" She had asked this without
looking up from the report. "The MO doesn't
exactly suggest your run-of-the-mill serial killer."

      "That's just it, Scully. I don't think these
women were taken. I think they left on their own. I
think the six who returned originally left to protect
the one who was pregnant."

     She looked at him incredulously. "Well, they
obviously haven't done a very good job." It came
out in a rush of air, almost on an unbelieving
chuckle.

     "Maybe they have. At least they think so.
Hellene Bonnelle said something-that a soul
cannot be stolen if it is set free. I think these
women believe they are saving the soul of the
pregnant woman, or the child, by killing her
before the soul could be stolen." He took a gulp
of coffee.

     Oh, he was laying it on thick now. "Stolen by
whom?" She made a point of returning the
autopsy report to the folder, closing it, and
scooting it back towards him on the sofa.

     Mulder shrugged and shook his head. "Evil?"
That was all she needed to hear. She raised a
hand in front of him to let him know he'd taken
them far enough into the Twilight Zone, and she
wasn't going to follow him any farther. He just
scooted towards her and continued. "Look, I
know it sounds crazy, but Bonnelle said
something else. That death is sometimes
necessary for life. What if these women who have
already died, and the ones who are probably
going to die, believe they are doing so for a
greater good? Maybe they are some sort of
modern day martyrs."

     "Revelation." She and Mulder both startled at
Father Michaels' interruption. For a moment, she
had gotten so caught up in their exchange that
she had forgotten anyone else was listening. She
could tell by Mulder's reaction that he had
forgotten as well. When the priest had their full
attention, he continued. "What you're talking
about is a reference to the book of Revelation,
although you seem to be combining various
passages. The martyrs refer to the fifth seal.
'When He opened the fifth seal, I saw under the
altar the souls of those who had been slain for
the word of God and for the testimony which they
held.'"

     Mulder picked where Father Michaels left off.
"And they cried with a loud voice, saying "How
long, O Lord, holy and true, until You judge and
avenge our blood on those who dwell on the
earth?'" Where did he learn these things
anyway? Okay, she knew he had an incredible
memory. But she had a hard time imagining
Mulder sitting around reading Revelation for fun.
On second thought, maybe she could.

     Father Michaels was obviously surprised and
impressed with Mulder's ability to spout off
biblical text, as if in answer to a challenge. He
began where Mulder left off. "And a white robe
was given to each of them; and it was said to
them that they should rest a little while longer,
until both the number of their fellow servants and
their brethren, who would be killed as they were,
was complete." They reminded Dana of some
sort of biblical dueling banjos.

     Mulder was absorbed in thought for a half a
second. Then she could almost see the light bulb
go off in his eyes, and he got very excited. "White
robes...both dead women were found covered
with white - salt in Miami, a white bed sheet in
Utah."

     "The missing California woman is probably
covered in snow," Byers added. "Don't forget
her." He was excited, too. Great, they were all
wrapped up in Mulder's evangelical theory. Once
again, she was the only rational one in the room.

     "I don't know if you could necessarily call the
snow on Mount Shasta white." That had come
from who else but Frohike.

    "Oh, yeah, and what color would you call it?"
Langly seemed almost upset by this.

     "Acid rain gray?" Frohike offered.

     "The hougan and Bonnelle both spoke of
completing the number. Maybe that is what they
meant." Mulder was talking to himself under his
breath. Hougan? Where did that come from?

     "The seven different religions may refer to
Revelation 2 and 3," Father Michaels asserted to
shut the Gunmen up. "The book of Revelation is
written as a letter from the Apostle John to the
seven churches of Asia. Many modern scholars
argue that these seven churches actually
represent present-day global religious beliefs."

     "If I were going to pick seven major world
religions, I don't think Wicca and Voodoo would
top my list, Mulder." She was ready to put an end
to this fairy tale.

     "Why not, Scully?" He just smiled back at her.
Obviously, he didn't share her point of view.

     "Regardless, you're basing this whole theory
on a women who is probably suffering from some
sort of Jerusalem syndrome caused by post..."
She stopped herself. She had almost rubbed salt
into her own wounds with that one. She looked
up at Mulder and realized she had stopped too
late. He had silently finished her sentence
anyway and was staring at her with a "don't go
there" look on his face.

     "But what your talking about is absurd." Father
Michaels was shaking his head and seemed a
little upset by this. "This is about portents of the
Armageddon, the filling of Biblical prophecy. I
think someone is playing a joke on you."

     "Don't you think this is alot of trouble to go to
for a joke? Besides, this is the only explanation
that makes any sense." Mulder was taken aback
by the priest's dismissal of his theory. It was one
thing for her to debunk his theories. That was her
job. He had come to expect it from her. But she
knew that if anyone else questioned his beliefs,
no matter how crazy they sounded, he became
immediately defensive.

     "Look, I agreed to help you because I trusted
the Lone Gunmen." Father Michaels was rising
now and heading towards the door. "They have
been good to me and tried to help my cause. But
you don't need a priest, you need a psychiatrist. I
have more important things to do with my time."
Mulder was following the priest to the door,
determined not to let him leave. Father Michaels
opened the door and turned to Frohike. "Lock up
when you're done."

     "Have you had any strange dreams lately,
Father?" Mulder was standing about three feet
behind Father Michaels, who had stopped dead
in his tracks with Mulder's question. He shut the
door and turned around to look at Mulder with a
stricken look on his face.

     "Mulder," she asked, standing up and walking
over to his side, "what are you talking about?"
The only strange dreams she knew of were her
own, and Mulder knew next to nothing about
those. And she wasn't sure he even believed
what little she had told him.

     Mulder turned to her and said, "The dreams,
Scully. You've had them, and I've had them,
although they were not nearly as entertaining as
yours obviously were." For a moment she wasn't
sure if that was a jab or an acknowledgement.
Then her confusion gave way to open-mouth
shock as his revelation that he had also been
having strange dreams sunk in.

     Mulder turned back to the priest and said, "And
by the look on the good Padres face, I'd say he
has too. Dreams are an important aspect of every
religion. They are believed to be omens, provide
insight and understanding, reveal a glimpse into
the future. In the Bible alone, there are multiple
references to dreams providing the link directly to
the word of God." He turned back to her, put a
hand on her upper arm, and quietly continued. "I
met with the hougan from the Vodun ritual we
attended." He stopped for a moment and looked
at her as if to say you remember the hougan,
don't you? How could she forget? "He told me
how important our dreams were. How we can't
ignore them, or we'll fail. If I had paid attention to
mine, I might have been able to stop your rape."
A look of anguish washed over his face.

     "Mulder..." She wanted to reassure him that
she didn't hold him responsible for what had
happen to her. She knew he lived in a perpetual
state of guilt and didn't want this added to it.

     He interrupted her. "But I think that by
becoming aware of them now, I stopped
whatever might have happened to you last night.
And whatever might happen over the next couple
of night."

     Oh, yeah, we're back to that again. Sometime
his thoughts skipped around so quickly that it
took all her concentration to follow him. She had
wondered when he was going to get around to
why he believed she needed to be pulled out of
her apartment in the middle of the night. "And
exactly what do you think might have
happened?"

     "I don't know exactly. I just know that you are
the next woman in danger."

     "Are you implying that somehow I fit into all of
this?" Now she was really confused. "That
somehow this evil you're talking about is after
me?" For a moment, she had believed him. Now
she had to smile and shake her head. This "was"
absurd.

     She turned to walk away from him, but he
followed her saying, "The new moon is upon us,
Scully. The danger is still real."

     She turned around to tell him that he gone off
the deep end, but only got out an exasperated
"Mulder" before his attention was again focused
on Father Michaels.

     "The hougan also said there is strength in
three." Mulder's look was pleading with the priest
for some answers to all this. She thought for sure
that the father would just continue his departure,
but instead he seemed genuinely affected by
what Mulder was saying. She watched with wide,
unbelieving eyes as Father Michaels started back
towards the place where he had been sitting
around the table. On his way, he took Mulder's
arm and led him to the crate as well.

     The priest sat cross-legged on the floor with
Mulder squatting next to him. They were
speaking quietly to one another, and out of
curiosity she came up behind them. She
wondered if they were discussing their dreams,
but when she got close enough to hear what they
were saying, she realized that the topic was
again back to the "seven sevens." She stood
behind them and looked from them to Langly,
Byers, and Frohike. The Gunmen had listened
relatively quietly to the whole conversation, which
was completely uncharacteristic. And now they
were astutely listening to Mulder and Father
Michaels with the most serious looks on their
faces. Like they were discussing the Kennedy
assassination instead of the end of the world.

     Frohike looked up at her and smiled. She
smiled back and shook her head again. She
really was the only rational, sane person in this
room. The only one not swept away by Mulder's
enthusiasm for a good, spooky theory, no matter
how unreasonable it was.

     Mulder gestured for Byers to pull an item out of
his briefcase. It was a large Miami Beach
calendar, complete with color photos of scantily
clad women. If they had not been in the presence
of Father Michaels, she was sure the
conversation would have digressed to the
"assets" of each calendar model. Instead, Mulder
very seriously began flipping through the
calendar, pointing out the dates of the new moon
that he had marked with large red "Xs." The first
two months corresponded to the two groups of
seven women, six alive and one dead, that had
already returned. He then began flipping through
the next few months, each new moon date
marked with an identical red "X" and the name of
a religion.

     Father Michaels took the calendar out of
Mulder's hands and began looking through it
himself. "All right," he finally said, "there have
been seven months of women disappearing, and,
if you are right, there will be seven months of
women showing up dead. What comes next?"

     She watched as the priest flipped past the
seventh X and turned the page to the next month.
Despite the topless woman holding her breast
and staring at the camera seductively, Dana eyes
were immediately drawn to the date Mulder had
made an notation on in black ink pen: "Next new
moon. Does pattern repeat?" And the smirk on
her face disappeared, along momentarily with a
good bit of her skepticism. Even if Mulder's theory
was total insanity, the date marked sent chills
over her. Unconsciously, she gasped, and they
all turned to look at her questioningly. She
pointed down at the date on the calendar and
found herself answering the priest's question.

     "My due date."








     Living with denial is like building a house of
playing cards. As each card is piled on, the
house becomes larger and more and more
fragile. Take a card from the middle or bottom
and the house will crumble. Take a card from the
top, the house waivers but for the most part still
stands. Until the house becomes too big to
support itself, and it will fall regardless of how
careful the builder has been.

     Her life was that house of cards. Denial after
denial piled on top of themselves. Each new
denial had become necessary to support the
ones that were already in place. It had begun
before her assignment to the X-files, but the
house had increased in size tenfold since she
had met Mulder. Now it was a necessity to
continue building the house, for fear that it would
crumble around her if she didn't. She kept piling
the cards on, thinking that someday she would
start to peel them back off, cautiously, one card at
a time. When she had more time to deal with the
consequences of her building. But that someday
had never come.

     Through all the horrors she had witness,
through all the horrors that had been done to her,
she kept building. And the house had grown to
monstrous proportions. Sometimes she felt it
inside of her, quaking, ready to crumble at any
moment.

     She didn't realize that moment had arrived
until the cards laid at her feet, scattered in every
direction.



     Mulder was staring out the windshield, quietly
tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song
playing on the radio. They had driven in complete
silence since leaving the tenement. In fact, they
had hardly said one word to each other since she
had made her discover about her due date. And
now, he was doing his best not to look at her. His
face totally expressionless.

     She watched him in uncomfortable silence,
wondering how she was going to bring this up.
She was relatively sure he didn't think she
believed him, but she wanted to make absolutely
sure that her shock at the coincidence of her due
date and the eighth new moon wasn't perceived
the wrong way. She still thought this theory of his
was totally out in left field.

     Well, he was obviously waiting for her to say
something. She took a deep breath.

     "You know, Mulder, I think you're
overreacting."

     "Oh, how's that, Scully?" He said it as
unreadable as his face, his eyes never leaving
the road.

     "Well..." She took another deep breath. "I think
you're upset, and this whole story about the new
moon and the missing women somehow being
related to my pregnancy is..." She stopped,
searching for the right word. "...Is lunacy, pardon
the pun."

     He just kept staring at the road, slowly
absorbing her words. They drove again in
silence.

     She had just resigned herself to the fact that
he wasn't going to respond when he said, "Just
what is it that I am upset about?"

     "I don't know Mulder. Feeling guilty about my
attack? Our fight? These dreams you claim to be
having? You tell me."

     "You don't think I'm telling the truth about my
dreams?" He was now looking at her, only
glancing at the road. It made her nervous when
he drove like this.

     "No, I do believe you have been
experiencing...something. I just don't think that
you're receiving some kind of omen from God."

     "Oh." That was all he said, and he turned all of
his attention back to the road.

     After another long, uncomfortable silence, she
asked, "So, are you going to tell me?"

     "What?"

     "About your dreams. What they were about?"

     "Why? According to you, they're some sort of
psychological manifestation cause by guilt. A
guilt so overwhelming that I'm probably on the
verge of some kind of breakdown. Where I
believe myself to be Joseph, you the Virgin Mary,
and Byers, Langly, and Frohike the three magi.
And any moment now, I'm going to start walking
up and down Pennsylvania Avenue with a sign
proclaiming the apocalypse is upon us. A claim I
can only substantiate with statements from
various delusional members of the Vodun
community, the totally unexplainable coincidence
of seven sets of missing women, and the fact that
my partner, who is barren, now claims to be
carrying my child even though I haven't laid a
hand on her. Like you said, Scully. It's fucking
lunacy." The only thing that had betrayed his
emotionless demeanor was his voice. It was
controlled fury.

     Well, that certainly explained how he felt. But
he didn't have to say it in such a smart ass way.
His venom had cause her to scoot as far over
towards her door as she could without
unbuckling her seat belt.

     She knew she shouldn't. She should just keep
her mouth shut, get out at her apartment, and let
the whole matter resolve itself. But she just
couldn't let it slide.

     "What do you mean, I claim to be carrying your
child? I never said I thought it was your baby."

     "Didn't you?" This was punctuated with a
sideways glance at her.

     Had she led him to believe that? Maybe. Did
she believe that? She didn't know. Nor did she
even want to tackle that question, especially
when the results from the amino would be back
later today. So, she just pushed it out of her mind.

     Luckily, they arrived at her apartment a few
minutes later. He pulled up in front, and she
started to hop out. Then she realized he had
turned off the engine. For a moment, she couldn't
believe he intended to go inside with her. She
got out, slammed the door, and put both hands
on the top of the car, waiting for his head to
emerge.

     "Look, Mulder," she began slowly when he
rose out of the car, "I know you think that I am in
some sort of danger..." He started to interrupt her,
but she held a hand up and stopped him. "...BUT,
I assure you that I can make it the 50 feet to my
apartment in broad daylight without getting
attacked by the forces of evil." My God, how many
times had he dropped her off here in the middle
of the night without even offering to walk her to
the door?

     "Like it or not, Scully, I don't intend to let you
out of my sight for the next two days." He said it
with a smug look and something else she wasn't
sure of. Was it fear?

     She smiled at her first thought in spite of
herself. "That should make going to the bathroom
interesting." Luckily, it broke the tension.

     He smiled back. "Ooo, I love it when you talk
dirty to me, Scully."

     She rolled her eyes and began to walk to her
building, with Mulder about 2 steps behind her. At
the front door, he stepped in front of her to open it
and led her through with his hand on the small of
her back.

     When she had insisted that she needed to
return home, Mulder had hesitated. Finally, she
had told him that she couldn't walk around in her
pajamas all day and at least would like to put on
some clothes. But it was really just an excuse to
get out of there.

     She had hoped that once back at her
apartment, he would leave her to go back and
play the Biblical prophesy guessing game with
Father Michaels and the three techno-apostles.
She had had enough of listening to their half-
baked theories, complete with theological
debates on the role of evil in the twentieth
century. Somehow, Frohike had managed to
wrap both World Wars, the assassinations of the
Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr., the rise
and fall of communism, and Hanson and the
Spice Girls into an apocalyptic package that was
fueled by the Jewish mafia and several Fortune-
500 corporations. She still didn't completely
follow his logic, if you could call it that, even after
standing there listening to him. The scary part
was, everyone but her nodded in agreement with
his observations.

     She knew Byers, Frohike, Langly, and Father
Michaels were only a few minutes behind them
driving what they referred to as the decoy vehicle.
She called it a white service van. Not exactly an
inconspicuous choice. With a sigh, she realized
they'd probably invite themselves in, too.

     As she approached the door to her apartment,
she became a little apprehensive. Her front door
was slightly ajar. If the Lone Gunmen had
forgotten to close the door and anything had
been stolen, she was going to kill them.

     She was just about the push the door open
when Mulder's arm came down in front of her. He
silently motioned for her to stand behind him and
pulled his gun out of his jacket. Almost as an
afterthought, he reached back into his jacket,
pulled out her gun as well, and handed to her.
She looked down at it hesitantly; after all, she
wasn't officially a FBI agent right now. But she
took it anyway and put her back to the wall with
her gun ready as Mulder kicked the door open.

     Mulder cautiously walked through the door,
sweeping the room in front of him with his gun.
She waited outside quietly until his hand came
back out, motioning her to follow.

     Dana rounded the corner of her front door and
stopped in her tracks. She didn't even hear the
sound of her gun falling to the floor beside her.

     Her house of cards had crumbled.






     Mulder looked back and saw Scully stopped
short in the doorway. Her apartment was beyond
chaos. Furniture was not only toppled, but was
mangled and torn. The remnants of drawers and
shelves, papers, and books covered the floor.
Cushions had been slit open by what he at first
believed was a large knife. But when he looked
again, he noticed that the slits were in parallel
sets, as if clawed by an animal-a very large
animal.

     He couldn't help but fell a little satisfaction that
he had been vindicated, and Scully had been in
danger. The only things that kept the smug grin
from his face were the thought of what would
have happened if Danjou hadn't warned him and
the look on Scully's face. It was the look of a
person who had experienced one shock too
many. He walked over to her and put his hands
on her shoulders, intent on leading her to....to
where? There wasn't a piece of furniture left to sit
on.

     "Scully?" he asked because he really didn't
know what else to say.

     She seemed to snap out of her initial shock at
the sound of her name. She shrugged gently out
of his hands. "I"m okay," she said in a monotone
while surveying the destruction around her.

     He knew what she was doing, looking for
anything that might have survived while mentally
preparing for the undeniable fact that everything
was lost. He had done the same thing when he
had entered the basement office to find the X-files
charred and water soaked. He watched her as
she moved wraith-like toward a toppled
bookshelf. She almost tripped over an unnoticed
table leg, but she did little more than looked
down and kept walking.

     "Holy moly!"

     Frohike's words from the doorway reminded
him that the guys and the priest had been in the
car behind them. They began a sort of sweep of
the room. Looking under debris for some clue to
who or what did this.

     "Do you smell that?" Langly asked while
wrinkling his nose. "It smells like wet dog."

     Byers held up the phone, tracing the end of the
cable to the wall. "The phone is dead, even
though it is still plugged in. Must be cut outside.
I'll go check it out."

     Mulder heard all of this only peripherally.
Some part of his mind registered that the cut
phone line would explain why he couldn't reach
Scully the day before. Most of his attention,
however, was focused solely on his partner. He
didn't take his eyes off her as she squatted and
dug through the pile that had once been books.
She picked up half of a hardback book, the front
binding hanging limply from the pages. With an
almost frantic motion, she rummaged until she
found the other half. She carefully placed the two
halves together and began dusting off the cover.

     Hold it together, Scully, he thought, and for a
moment he thought she would. Then her
shoulders slumped, and she clutched the book to
her chest. He made his way over to her and knelt
in front of her, placing a reassuring hand on her
arm. She never looked up, but he could detect
the slightest quiver of her chin. She lowered the
mangled book to her lap again, and he read the
cover.

     Moby Dick.

     He searched for something to say, but no
words came.

     "Agent Mulder." Father Michaels was calling
him from the kitchen.

     "In a minute," he said, not knowing what to do,
but not wanting to leave Scully alone.

     "I think you should see this. Now." The priest's
words left no room for argument.

     He lifted Scully's face to look at his own.
Although she was obviously still upset, she
seemed to be in control once again. He raised
his eyebrows, and she nodded a positive
response to his silent inquiry. Convinced that she
was okay, he stood and went into the kitchen.

     He almost didn't see what the priest was
pointing to among the broken dishes and
glasses. But then, the five-pointed shape became
clear.

     "A pentagram," he said somewhat happily
surprised.

     "Does this mean demons did this?" The
priest's question was more of a plea for Mulder to
deny what he himself was obviously having
trouble denying.

     "Not necessarily,." Mulder said as he squatted
down for a closer look. "Pentagrams are used in
several non-Christian religions. The Wiccan
believe it represents the elements and spirit.
They enclose it in a circle to represent the
protection of the Goddess. Satanist, however,
invert the pentagram, just as they invert the cross.
But even then it isn't always used to summon
demons. It's used as a form of protection against
evil in general."

     Father Michaels leaned over Mulder's
shoulder and studied the pattern. "Is this one
inverted?"

     Mulder had been trying to determine the same
thing. "I can't tell; its been broken. Though given
the destruction here, I wouldn't be surprised if it
was. But it also means we might have a fighting
chance." Through all the destruction, he was
finally seeing a ray of hope.

     "I don't see how an inverted pentagram can be
viewed as good news."  The priest was staring
down at him, arms crossed.

     For some reason, the priest's stance annoyed
Mulder. "The only reason a pentagram would be
here is to protect the summoner from the demons,
evil, whatever."

     "And that's good how?" The tilt of the priest's
head was almost arrogant as he asked his
question.

     Mulder had to check himself and not respond
in a like manner. He answered him in a
controlled voice. "Only a human would need
protection from the supernatural-and the phone
line was cut, by a human. I'm beginning to think
that our supernatural opponent is more natural
than super. Still, we should get out of here, and
soon." The tingling sensation of warning he had
experience with the hougan was slowly returning.

     Father Michaels uncrossed his arms and
shook his head. "Agent Mulder, in case you have
forgotten, we are humans. And just like this
summoner, we are going to need protection from
any demons, or whatever, that is running
around."

     That's it, Mulder thought. He was tired. He
hadn't slept in over thirty hours, and even before
that, he had slept very little. He had also been
wearing the same suit for the entire time he had
been awake and was in desperate need of a
shower, shave, and change of clothes. His
emotions were raw, and he knew it wouldn't take
much more to push him over the edge. He had
spent most of the time awake worrying about
Scully and when he was finally able to see she
was all right, she had wanted to kill him. Even
now he wanted to get her out of here, instead of
dealing with a pompous excommunicated priest.
Well, fine, if he wanted sarcasm, he could deal it
out as easily as he could take it.

     Mulder placed his hand on his waist, his
fingers resting lightly at his belt line. He shifted
his weight, tilted his head, and gave the priest his
cockiest grin. "Well, Father, I guess that's why we
have you, now, isn't it?"

     Father Michaels opened his mouth to protest,
but he was cut off by laughter from the other
room. It was Scully's laughter, and it was
bordering on the demented.

     Mulder pushed by the priest and strode back
into the living room. Scully was nowhere to be
seen, but the Gunmen were staring toward her
bedroom where the laughter was coming from.
Mulder walked past them and into the bedroom.

     The scene there was much like the one in the
rest of the apartment. Everything was in
shambles. Scully turned and faced Mulder as he
entered the room. She was clenching what
appeared to be a few pieces of silk and shear
lingerie. She held them out towards Mulder as if
she were proving a point.

     "Everything," she said, still laughing.
"Everything destroyed except these." She
continued to laugh. "When I first found them, all I
could think was Frohike must have planned this
so all I have left to wear is a see-through nightie."

     Mulder took her by the elbow and started
leading her out of the room. Maybe all this was
more than she could take. Besides, he was
getting goose bumps from his growing
apprehension. "We can get you some more
clothes. I think we should leave now."

     She stopped laughing and angrily pulled
away from him. "Leave? We're not leaving. We're
calling the police."

     He turned back to face her. "The police won't
be able to help. We just have to walk away."

     "Walk away?" She asked incredulously.
"Mulder, this is everything I own. Everything I
have worked for. This is my life."

     "Yes, it is your life, and that's why we have to
leave. Now." He had realized that the summoner
didn't know where Scully had been last night,
and he wasn't going to risk revealing themselves
by hanging around this apartment.

     She studied him for a moment and obviously
read his anxiety to leave. "What's wrong?  What
did you find?"

     He hadn't wanted to tell her, at least not now.
But it was obvious that she wasn't going
anywhere until he did. "A pentagram, on the
kitchen floor," he said reluctantly.

     She laughed in his face. "A pentagram.
Mulder, you're not suggesting that demons did
this? By comparison, my theory about Frohike
almost sound reasonable."

     Now was not the time for her skepticism to kick
in. "The pentagram.." he started, but she cut him
off.

     "The pentagram only proves that someone
who believes in demonology was in my
apartment, not that demons are lurking in the
closet."

     He moved closer to her until he was right in
her face. "Then how do you explain the
destruction? Unless, of course, you have been
keeping a very large and angry mountain lion as
a pet. And why didn't any of your neighbors hear
it? If they had, surely they would have reported it
to the police. I didn't see any crime scene tape,
Scully. Did you?" He knew he was being hard on
her, but his urge to leave was taking over.

     Scully had crossed her arms and was biting
the inside of her cheek. He knew that look all too
well. It meant she didn't have a valid argument,
but she wasn't yet ready to admit he was right,
either. He had to keep going before she came up
with something.

     "This wouldn't be the first supernatural
occurrence that either one of us has experienced
during this whole ordeal, and I don't think its
going to be the last. The dreams, your pregnancy,
the missing women, this, all of it is tied together.
And no matter how skeptical you are or how hard
you try to deny it, it won't just go away. The
hougan in Miami knew everything, Scully. He
knew about the dreams, the baby, your rape. He
told me your rape was a spiritual attack, but
physical attacks would follow. Look around. I
think he was right."

     He could tell she was giving ground, but
knowing her, she would come up with at least
one more argument, even if it was a weak one.
"Okay, let's say that he was right. Then the attack
is over."

     Mulder shook his head. "The new moon,
Scully. The missing women all disappeared over
a three day period leading up to the night of the
new moon. Last night was the first night. We still
have two more to go, and I have a feeling things
are only going to get worse."

     Instead of giving in, Scully got a wild look in
her eyes. He could tell she was desperately
looking for some excuse, some explanation. This
wasn't like her. Usually she eventually accepted
his explanations, even if she didn't completely
believe them. But for some reason, she refused to
buy into this one.

     "I said we aren't going anywhere," she said as
she began to pick up the wreckage that used to
be her bedroom.

     Again he tried to take her by the arm, but she
pulled away violently and screamed, "No!" at the
top of her lungs. Mulder instantly let loose his grip
and backed away a step.

     Scully continued to pick up the debris.
"Demons did not do this to my apartment
because demons do not exist. Do you
understand me, Mulder? This was nothing more
than a break-in, probably by a bunch of kids in
some stupid cult initiation."

     "Scully," Mulder said softly, "what about your
pregnancy?"

     Scully didn't stop her futile cleaning.
"Pregnancy? How can I be pregnant? I haven't
been with a man in God knows how long. And
even if I had, I'm barren. So, obviously I'm not
pregnant." She turned and faced him now. "Do
you understand? I cannot be pregnant, it is a
scientific impossibility." She slumped slowly to
the floor still holding the tattered clothing in her
hands and softly began to cry. "I'm not pregnant, I
can't be."

     Mulder approached her slowly and knelt down
beside her. "Scully, we both know that's not true."
He found it ironic that just days before he had
said almost the same thing when she originally
claimed to be pregnant.

     As if she could no longer deny the evidence
before her, she buried her head in her hands and
began to cry. "Oh God, Mulder! How can this be
happening? It goes against everything I know to
be true. I can't explain this. I don't know what to
do. What am I supposed to do?"

     Mulder sat on the floor beside her and took her
in his arms. Welcome to my world, he thought.
"What I always do, we'll make it up as we go
along."

     She clung to him, crying. Her fears pouring out
with each tear, flooding over the wall of
skepticism and disbelief she had built against the
unexplainable events she had witnessed in their
time together. He held her in silence until the
sobs had abated. When she finished, she pushed
away and wiped her nose on the torn clothing
she still held. Her eyes were swollen and red, but
he could also see a new conviction in them.

     "Are you ready?" he asked as he brushed a
tear off her cheek. His entire body was screaming
to leave this apartment, but he would have sat
and held her crying with one arm and his gun
drawn with the other if she had wanted to stay.

     Scully took a deep breath before she spoke as
though to build her resolve. "So, where do we
go?"

     Mulder did his best to suppress a victory smile
as he stood and helped her to her feet.
"Eventually, we will go back to the tenement. It
seemed safe enough last night. First though we'll
go to my place, shower, grab a few things. Then
we'll find you some clothes." She rolled her eyes
in a mock thank you, but Mulder ignored it. At
least it was a sign that she was returning to
normal. "I'll send the Gunmen out to get us some
supplies and food. Is there anything you need?"

     He had meant anything special that was
pregnancy-related, but he knew it had come out
wrong as soon as he said it. "Yeah," she said as
she indicated the chaos around her, "one of
everything."

     He really needed some sleep. If anyone
deserved to have an attitude at this moment, it
was Scully, but one more smart ass comment
and he was going to have to hurt someone. Not
that he wanted to, but his psyche needed some
sort of release and violence seemed the most
fulfilling way at the moment. As if on cue, Father
Michaels walked in. The memory of their last
conversation ticked him off even more, but he
knew the three of them shouldn't be separated.

     "Let's get out of here," he said over his
shoulder to Scully. Out of the corner of his eye,
he could see her picking up the torn copy of
Moby Dick as she took one last look around the
room. Mulder started out the door, knowing
Scully was following behind. As he passed the
priest, he slapped him on the shoulder a little
rougher than was really necessary. "Well, Padre,
time to go to work."

     Yes, a shower was going to be a dream come
true.





     He had to admit that he felt better now than he
had that morning. The shower and change into
jeans and a t-shirt had calmed his irritability. And
even though his sleep had been limited to the
short time it had taken Scully and the priest to
take their respective showers, he had felt
somewhat revitalized throughout most of the day.
Now, as evening was descending and the
fluorescent lanterns lit, his fatigue was returning.

     He, Scully, and Father Michaels had gone to
his apartment, showered, and packed a few of
items. Father Michaels had refused his offer of a
change of clothes, although he had requested a
donation of a couple of pairs of socks and
underwear. Mulder had reluctantly complied with
his request. He tried not to think of that as he
looked up from his poker hand and glanced over
to the sofa where Scully and the priest sat talking
quietly.

     A pair of his sweatpants and a t-shirt, although
several sizes too large for her, had worked well
enough to gain access to a department store and
buy her some new clothes. He and the priest had
shuffled through the aisles as she had picked out
bras and panties to go with the jeans and shirts
he had purchased for her on the floor below.
They hadn't taken the time to find her briefcase
and wallet in her apartment, and given the level
of destruction, a search would have probably
been fruitless. Father Michaels had struggled in
vain to find a place for his eyes to rest without
embarrassment. Mulder, on the other hand, had
tried to pretend it was business as usual. And he
had actually succeeded until he had to break out
his credit card to pay for the undergarments. The
implied intimacy of that purchase had turned him
into a babbling fool who was all thumbs when the
clerk asked for his identification. That was
something else that he tried not to think about as
he watched the two of them across the room.

     Scully smiled and brushed her hair back
behind her ear in response to something Father
Michaels said. Jesus, was she flirting with him?
Brushing back of hair was a definite flirtation
maneuver, wasn't it? She was wearing a bra and
panties that he had bought for her and flirting with
a priest who was wearing his underwear. He tried
to hide his grimace by popping one of the
sunflower seeds from the ever-growing pile in
front of him.

     "Mulder, are you going to bet or just eat your
winnings?" Frohike was tapping his cards
impatiently on the table. Mulder's cell phone sat
on the table next to Frohike's small pile of seeds.
He had confiscated it after Mulder had received a
call from Agent Beaubrun in Miami. Beaubrun
had only called out of concern for Mulder when
he had not come into the field office that morning
and was not at his hotel room. But Frohike had
gone into a near rage at his use of the phone,
claiming that by using an easily traced mode of
communication, he might as well place a neon
sign with a big glowing arrow directing the bad
guys right to them.

     "Huh?" Mulder realized he hadn't even looked
at his cards. "I fold," he said, ignoring the
exchanged glance that passed between his
fellow card players. He went to the cooler to get
something to drink.

     "I'm out, too." Byers stood and followed him to
the cooler. "Getting a little nervous about
tonight?"

     Mulder shrugged his shoulders
noncommittally. His growing concerns about the
evening were yet another in the series of
thoughts he was trying to block out. "So, how
much do you guys actually know about Father
Michaels?"

     Byers took a drink from his can of soda. "Not
much more than we already told you. But I think
you can trust him."

     And there was the problem. As much as he
was starting to dislike the priest, he felt confident
that he was critical to their survival. And that
feeling of dependency was even more annoying
than the sarcasm and attitude.

     Scully was still smiling at the priest.

     "Since he's no longer an official priest, do you
think he still honors his vow of celibacy?" Mulder
realized too late that he had actually asked the
question out loud.

     Luckily, Byers had taken it as a joke and
chuckled. "Geez, Mulder. Are you looking for a
date or something?"

     Mulder went along with the joke and laughed,
too. Just then Scully stood, said good night to the
room in general, and went into the bathroom to
the cot she had been held captive on the night
before.

     Mulder grabbed the sleeping bag he had
brought from his apartment and followed her into
the bathroom. He began unrolling the bag
without saying anything to Scully. Fortunately, the
toilet and bathtub had been ripped out of the
small room, or he would never have fit.
Unfortunately, that meant the only thing
separating him from the bathroom a floor below
was an inch-thick piece of plywood where the
bathtub had once been. Scully watched him for a
moment as he tested the plywood. Convinced of
its strength, he stretched out as best he could in
the cramped quarters.

     "Mulder, I'm a big girl. You don't need to sleep
in here for my benefit."

     Mulder wiggled on his bag, trying to figure out
what was digging into his upper back. "Actually
its for my benefit,' he said as he sat up and pulled
back the sleeping bag to reveal a 3/8th inch bolt.
How had he missed that when he lay down?

     Scully sat on the cot giving him an all too
familiar skeptical look.

     "I'm serious," he said as he situated himself
back into the bag. "Whatever this is that's
happening here has made it very clear that I am
not to sleep unless I know you are safe."

     He expected her to argue the point, but
instead she asked in a quiet voice. "What is going
on here? I mean, do you really believe all this?"

     He didn't have to ask what "this" she was
referring to because everything was beginning to
lump itself into one big "this." He rolled onto his
side and propped his head up with his hand.

     All right, he had known this conversation had
to take place eventually. And it was obvious
Scully had known it as well and had dreaded it
as much as he did. Now, he had to ask the
question he didn't want to because no matter
what her answer was, it wouldn't be good.

     "Scully, your dreams...with me... you were
having them at the time of your conception,
right?"

     Although the light was dim in the small room,
he thought she was actually blushing. She
lowered her head. "Mulder, like I told you, I never
said that you were the..."

     He cut her off before she could say the last
word. "You never said it, but you didn't have to
with the implications of our last conversation in
Miami." She didn't say anything so he continued.
"Was there anyone else? In your dreams or...in
your bed...." God, this was awkward.

     She licked her lips and shook her head. "No,"
was all she said.

     Well, there you have it, he thought. They sat in
silence for a moment, neither knowing what to
say. Then Mulder retreated into his old sanctuary.

     "Scully, no matter what happens, I'll be here
with you. But I have to tell you...I failed wood shop
in Junior High. And I don't think the Gunmen are
the frankincense and myrrh sort of guys."

     She raised her head slightly and looked out at
him with an amused glance.

     "I'm not sure how this happened, but I am sure
this child is important," he continued. Almost
every culture has myths associated with a hero-
savior. A person who appears in a time of chaos
to stand against evil and better the world. Jesus,
Buddha, even King Arthur and Hercules, fall into
this category with literally hundreds of others.
And one of the most common threads in these
stories is the mysticism associated with the
conception and birth of the hero."

     "And you think my baby is one of these hero-
saviors who is going to save the world?" Scully
asked in disbelief.

     "I know it sounds crazy, Scully, but evil is
running rampant. We see it everyday in the cases
we investigate, on the news, even driving down
the street. And nothing seems to stop it. Maybe
it's only going to get worse, and it's time for a
hero to save us from ourselves." Scully sat in
silent contemplation, so Mulder continued. "Too
many things have been made clear for me to
deny that we have a major role in something that
I cannot come close to explaining. With each
answer, a new question arises. And the hows of
your pregnancy become more and more of a
mystery as I come closer to understanding the
whys."

     "My grandmother used to say, 'Count your
blessing, don't question them.'"

     "So you think you've been blessed?"

     "It's not a question of if, but of how. That's the
biggest difference between us, Mulder, you want
to know the whys, but the hows are
inconsequential. As a scientist, I want to know-I
need to know-the answer to how this happened.
But for the first time in my life, I'm afraid to search
for those answers."

     He could tell that she was genuinely
frightened and tried to alleviate her fears. "Scully,
whatever the answer is, we can...."

     She cut him off with a shake of her head. "I'm
not afraid of the answer, but the risk associated
with actually asking the question. It seems I've
spent most of my life trying to coalesce my
spiritual and scientific beliefs. For many years, I
just ignored it. Which meant, as a scientist, I
ignored my faith. But more recently, I've found
myself in the precarious position of trying to
balance the two. Now, I feel I'm being force to
choose."

     Until that moment, Mulder had never
comprehended how difficult her return to the
church had been for her.

     Scully's smile was a little sad. "I was almost
thrown out of Catechism for questioning the
Virgin Birth."

     Mulder returned the smile. "A skeptic from the
beginning, huh?"

     "It was when we were just starting to learn
about genetics and DNA in fifth-grade biology.
Remember those little boxes they would teach
you to draw to determine all the possible blood
types you could have had based on dominant
and recessive genes? Well, we had just
discussed chromosomes and how a person's sex
is dependent on the combination of
chromosomes received from the parents,
particularly the father, who is the only one who
can supply the y-chromosome for a male.

     I had always assumed that God had just
started Jesus growing in Mary's womb. But the
science lesson had just shown me for a fact that
male DNA had to be involved somewhere in the
process. If it hadn't, there was no physical way
that Jesus could have been born a male. So I
asked Sister Agnes if God had sperm."

     Sully began to laugh. "She drug me out of
class by my ear and sent me to confession. The
priest told me all things are possible with God,
but I needed something more. So I decided that
God must have taken Joseph's sperm and
implanted them in Mary, and I never mentioned
my theory again. Until now."

     They both laughed softly, the implications of
her childish idea hovering between them.

     "So, you think that's what has happened
here?" Mulder asked.

     Scully smiled weakly. "I'm saying that maybe
some questions shouldn't be asked."

     He gave her a confused look, so she
continued. "The scientific method teaches us to
logically question what we don't understand.
Faith, by definition, is acceptance of the
unexplainable, even though it defies logic. The
two are mutually exclusive ideals. What if by
questioning these events too closely, I'm
destroying the faith that is actually sustaining
them?"

     "But questioning the world around you is
human nature. Most religions evolved from the
simple questions of why and how the world
functions. Even Father Michaels questioned his
religion."

     Scully shook her head. "No, he questioned the
church, the political hierarchy. But his faith in the
power of God has never wavered. Besides,
Father Michaels isn't your typical priest."

     Her defense of the priest raised his shackles,
especially since she was right. "Do you think he's
the right person for the job?" She had spent most
of the day talking with him, maybe she could
shed some light on why he had concerns.

     "Mulder, I don't even know what his job is
supposed to be, and neither does he. Why? Do
think he's wrong?"

     He felt that she really wanted to know his
opinion, and it boosted his ego.

     "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "There's
just something about him that irritates me."

     She half-laughed at him. "Are you sure you
don't mean he scares you?"

     Oh, that was just ridiculous. "Scared? Why
would he scare me?"

     She looked at him full in the face for the first
time. "Maybe because you see yourself when you
look at him, and what the relentless pursuit of the
truth can cost you. Or maybe you're afraid that
you aren't dedicated enough to give up
everything for your beliefs."

     Okay, she was hitting a little too close to home.
Time to back her off a bit. "So tell me, Scully, if
you were to have dream sex with Father
Michaels, would it be as hot as the dream sex
you had with me?"

     She opened her mouth to protest the idea,
then shook her head and smiled. It was the first
genuine smile she had given him in a very long
time. He suddenly realized how much he had
missed it.

     She curled up on the cot and closed her eyes,
all the while continuing to smile.

     "Good night, Mulder," she said in a tone meant
to end the conversation.

     "But, Scully," he said in exaggerated
innocence, "you didn't answer my question."

     "In your dreams, Mulder."

     "No, Scully, I believe that took place in yours."
She had walked right into that one and by the
smile on her face, he could tell she had known it
all along.

     "Yes," she said mysteriously, "it certainly did."'

     He found himself drifting off to sleep
wondering exactly what she had meant by that.





     In the darkness, she became aware of the
sound of sea gulls, followed seconds later by the
roar of the surf. She could feel cool dampness
underneath her, and the smell of saltwater and
fresh air overwhelmed her senses. Lazily, she
opened her eyes and looked around.

     She was lying curled up on one side, on the
wet sand, looking out into the vast expanse of
ocean. She lifted herself up, rubbed her eyes,
and looked around. The beach was deserted in
both directions, but she immediately recognized
the landscape. The way the sand rose up to
become a grassy hill. The black jetty of rock only
about 50 feet off shore. The green, cool water that
was now washing around her, soaking her knit
shirt and jeans. The pier far into the distance on
the right. It was the beach in San Diego that her
parents had often taken her and her brothers and
sister to as children. She half-expected the smell
of hot dogs and pretzels to come wafting from the
concession stand that had always been near
where she sat now. But the concession stand
was gone. Only deserted beach as far as she
could see.

     But she couldn't really be on the beach in San
Diego, could she? She had fallen asleep on the
cot in the tenement. Mulder was only a few feet
away.

     But regardless, here she was on this beach.
She felt it was completely real. It is happening, a
voice in her head told her.

     "Starbuck, the tide is coming in! You need to
get up."

     Her father's familiar voice made her spin
around. She was overcome by a sense of deja
vu. How many times had she heard him say
those words, or something similar to them, on this
very beach? But this wasn't a memory. He was
really there.

     He was walking towards her, looking down at
her like she was a still a child. He positively
glowed from the glare of the sun on his dress-
whites, complete with the medals and insignias
she had admired so lovingly as a girl. His white
captain's cap sat perfectly on top of his head. The
only thing missing from his uniform were his
socks and shoes. Instead, he was barefoot and
had the pants rolled up above his ankles. She
would have thought he looked ridiculous if she
hadn't been so shocked to see him.

     Dana closed her eyes and opened them
again, thinking that maybe he would disappear.
But he was still there, now walking into the inch-
deep surf that was surrounding her.

     "Ahab?" she whispered. This is impossible,
she kept telling herself. You must be dreaming.

     "Baby girl," he was now standing over her,
holding out a hand, "you're getting soaked. Don't
let your mother see you in those wet clothes."

     "I can't..." Her thought trailed off. She didn't
know what to say. I can't believe it's you? Of
course it was him. She could even smell the Old
Spice that he had obligatorily worn during her
childhood because she and her siblings had
given it to him every year for Father's Day. He
hadn't worn it since she was a teenager, when
the gift had finally changed to something more
original. But he definitely had it on today. Or was
it tonight?

     Confused, she took his hand and stood up.
Now closer to his face, she could see every
wrinkle and freckle. This was the face she
remembered seeing the last time she saw him
alive. But he continued talking like she was still a
little girl.

     "You were day dreaming again, weren't you
Dana?" He wrapped a protective arm around her
and began leading her up the beach. "Let's get
you home and in some dry clothes. The boys and
Missy are waiting in the car."

     She was dripping wet, and her jeans and shirt
stuck to her skin uncomfortably. For a moment
she let herself enjoy the sensation of her father's
warm arm around her, talking to her like she was
seven again. His presence was something she
had longed for desperately. She closed her eyes
and leaned into him.

     "Oh, Daddy," she sighed. "I've missed you so
much."

     "I know you have, baby. And I've missed you,
too." He suddenly stopped and stepped in front of
her, intently looking at her. He looked very
serious and sad. "You know that I would be with
you if I could." His hand tenderly swept a lock of
hair back off her forehead, and then it moved to
caress her cheek. "I know you need me right
now."

     She nodded silently, feeling her chin quiver.
She lowered her head to hide the tears that were
filling her eyes and threatening to stream down
her checks.

     "Oh, Daddy. I'm so scared."

     "I know, Starbuck." He gently surrounded her
with a big bear hug.

     She felt so small, just like a child swept up in
his massive arms. She allowed the tears to fall as
she buried the side of her face into his chest. She
could feel the cool brass buttons digging into her
cheek and could smell the starch on his uniform.

     "It's okay. It's okay," he whispered as he
rubbed her back. "We all make mistakes."

     She looked up at him, confused for a moment.
She wasn't sure what he had meant.

     "We all make mistakes, baby girl," he repeated
in answer to her look. "The important thing is
knowing how to rectify them."

     She pushed away from him. Vaguely, she
remembered an identical conversation they had
had when she was a teenager about a
particularly nasty argument between her and her
mother. He had convinced her to go and
apologize, even though she felt she was right.
She hadn't liked the disappointed tone he had
taken with her then, and she didn't like the one
that was seeping from his voice now.

     "Ahab," she said straightening up and wiping
her eyes, "I'm not a little girl anymore."

     "I know you're not, Dana." He said it gently, but
his frown and sad eyes let her know that he was
unhappy with her. "That's why I'm trusting you to
fix this." With the word "this," he looked down at
her abdomen.

     Her hand flew to her stomach, realizing what
he must be referring to.

     He continued, taking her firmly by the upper
arms. "Your mother and I have tried so hard to
instill good moral values in you and Missy and
the boys." His voice was getting louder as his
anger became more apparent. "I know you
understand what we expected of you, of all of
you. I thought you had more common sense,
Dana."

     "Daddy, it's not what you think..." She was
desperately trying to shrug off his hands, but his
hold only tightened.

     "It's an abomination of God!" he said furiously.
He began to shake her. "This child was never met
to be. Can never be born. Do you understand?"

     "Daddy, you're hurting me!" She was scared.
He had never talked to her like this, never treated
her so roughly.

     He continued to shake her. His voice was
booming. "I said, do you understand! Answer me,
Dana!"

     "Yes! Yes! I understand!" She frantically yelled
back at him.

     He let go of her arms, and for a moment they
both stood looking at each other, panting. His
face slowly softened, and he reached out to touch
her cheek again. "I knew you wouldn't let me
down," he purred at her.

     She jerked away from his touch and slowly
backed away from him. Warily, she eyed him, as
the blood rushed through her ears, drowning out
the noise of the surf.

     "You are not my father," she said somberly
without breaking her gaze. This creature looked
just like him, talked like him, even smelled like
him. But it was not him. He would never treat her
so manipulatively.

     She took a few more steps backwards, then
turned and began running down the beach
towards the pier. She didn't know what she was
going to do, but she had to get away from this
creature. She felt her feet sinking into the wet
sand, impeding her progress.

     "You can't run away, Dana!" he yelled after
her. "You know what you have to do! It's the only
way! Anything else will destroy you!"



     Dana half-sat up on the cot and gasped for air.
Her mind slowly comprehended that the small
room was just as it was when she had fallen
asleep. In the dim light, she could make out the
crumbling sink next to her, the desolate tile walls,
the lonely shower head sticking out from
decaying plaster. Nothing had changed except
that Mulder's sleeping bag was now empty.

     She pushed her legs over the side of the cot
and sat up, resting her elbows on her knees and
her head in her hands. Her mind was jumping all
over the place. This was the first time she had
dreamed like that since her attack. Where the hell
was Mulder? It had been so real, but so unreal.
Why her father? And why so violent and angry?
Yuck, she felt disgustingly sticky all over.

     She flexed her sock covered feet, and that's
when it hit her.

     She was soaking wet.





     Mulder sat on the wide marble steps, his back
to the mammoth image of Lincoln seated above
him. It was well past midnight, and only the
glowing interiors of the monument provided
illumination against the darkness of the moonless
night. He often came here in search of solace.
The stony silence of the great men who
surrounded him was usually a comfort when his
mind and soul were troubled. But tonight the
statues reminded him of ghosts, like the ghost of
his earlier dream. The ghost that had driven him
out of the tenement where Scully still slept to his
office where he retrieved the photograph he
carefully studied.

     He had never expected to see his father in his
dreams. Although he had dreamed of him often
since his death, his latest dreams had been
almost exclusive to the events currently
unfolding. But what was even more unexpected
than his appearance were his words that still
echoed in his mind.

     "Walk away, Fox. Walk away while you can. It's
the only way. Anything else will destroy you."

     Mulder shook his head as if to dislodge the
memory. Instead the words flooded back in stark
detail.

     "I know you want to help her, your partner, but
it won't work. You have good intentions, you
always have. You think you can raise a child that
isn't your blood, cannot possibly be your blood.
But you can't. Try as you might, you won't be able
to deny the fact that although the eyes or the hair
look like the mother, the chin or the smile belong
to someone else, another man. Eventually, you
won't be able to concentrate on any other
features. And soon you will come to feel the smile
that belongs to someone else is taunting you,
challenging you."

     Mulder closed his eyes, blocking the image of
the photograph as his father's words continued to
play in his mind.

     "You are lucky, Fox. You know now, before the
child is born, that you are not the father. Walk
away now, before the child steals you heart and
eats it away like she did mine. All I could do was
make the necessary arrangements to remove that
taunting smile from my life."

     Mulder swallowed hard against the wave of
nausea that again threatened to overtake him
when he thought about the arrangements his
father had made. He opened his eyes and began
scanning the photograph of Samantha again. He
searched for any sign of his father in the smiling
face. The nose? Something in her eyes? Maybe
he was trying too hard to see it. His body tensed
as he replayed his father's final words as he lay
dying in his arms.

     "Forgive me."

     Was this what he had begged forgiveness for?
That he had taken Samantha from them and, in
the process, had shattered their family?

     Mulder let out a sigh and looked at his watch.
He should be getting back to Scully. His
apprehension was beginning to overcome the
queasiness he felt.

     "I'm surprised, Mr. Mulder. I would have
figured you for a Jefferson man. He was such an
idealist."

     The sound of the all too familiar voice made
the hair raise on the back of his neck. He placed
the photo in his back pocket and looked down to
see a figure standing on the bottom step, just on
the edge of the light.  A shadowed hand lifted a lit
cigarette to thin lips. Mulder couldn't help but
mentally compare those lips to Samantha's.
Blocking the thought, his mind instantly went into
defense mode.

     "I wouldn't expect you to understand the
idealism of a man who believed in equality for
all." Best to play the game, at least for a while.

     The man shrugged. "Lincoln was an ordinary
man who was remembered for his extraordinary
times. Given the same situation, anyone could
earn a monument, even you."

     Mulder's skin was beginning to tingle, and
although he couldn't be sure, he felt it had more
to do with Scully than with his visitor. Time to
move things along.

     "Did you have a reason for this visit, or do you
have a poli-sci final tomorrow?"

     "Very well, I'll get right to the point. Your
partner has something that my associates want,
only they can't seem to find her."

     Mulder's face turned to stone, instinctively
knowing it was critical he betray nothing.

     With a flick of his cigarette, the man continued
in a conversational tone. "It's a pity she found out
about her condition. The plan was to harvest the
fetus before she suspected a pregnancy. Now,
I'm afraid the plans have changed."

     Mulder willed his voice to remain level.
"Pregnancy? I don't know what you're talking
about."

     "Come now, Mr. Mulder, you obviously do
know, and you know where she is."

     Mulder's mind was racing. How the hell did he
know about Scully's pregnancy? "Why would you
think Scully is pregnant? After all, your tests left
her infertile."

     The shadowed face moved forward into the
light. Mulder could tell he was losing his
patience. "Enough with the games..."

     "But I was hoping for a round of hopscotch
after this." He couldn't resist one more jab.
Besides, when he was angry he often revealed
more.

     The voice had lost all patience. "I'm offering
you a chance to save her life. My associates only
want the fetus, and they care nothing about how
they retrieve it."

     "And you?" He couldn't believe his intentions
were anything but self-serving.

     "I went to a great deal of trouble to return her to
the program. I would hate to see her participation
terminated now."

     The words floated in the air like the smoke-
laden breath that spoke them. Mulder could
almost see their shape, the meaning becoming
clearer even as the smoke dissipated. His heart
was beginning to pound louder and faster as he
said, "The chip," without intending to say it aloud.

     The man shrugged noncommittally. "It played
its part."

     If that were true, if the chip that Mulder had
given to Scully to replant into her neck had been
involved, then he had played as big a role in this
ordeal as this walking malignancy had.

     Mulder took a few steps down the marble
stairs. "You son of a bitch, you told me that chip
would save her life."

     "It did and will continue to do so as long as it
remains in place." His tone was one of an
innocent man wrongfully accused. "But is also
serves other purposes."

     "What else?" Mulder asked between clenched
teeth. "What else have you done to her? What
else do you plan to do? And why always her?
Why don't you just take a shot at me?"

     "Mr. Mulder, you're taking this all too
personally." Mulder really wanted to slap the
cigarette he was casually lighting. " It's not like
she's the only one. There are many other sets of
women in the program, as you have seen."

     His first thoughts were of Betsy Haggopian
and the other women who had died of the same
cancer that had almost claimed Scully. But the
phrase "sets of women" was ringing in his ears.
He might as well have said seven sets of women.

     Mulder felt trapped by the implications. Did all
the missing women also have an implant? Was
this all just another experiment using
unsuspecting human specimens? But the
dreams? Surely they had to mean something. But
then, he had seen others brainwashed through
hypnotherapy to believe whatever lie this bastard
and his fucking associates wanted them to
believe. And if they had access to Scully, they
had almost as much access to him. They had
done it before with the water supply in his
apartment.

     Scully had the chip and to remove it meant
almost certain death. He had traveled that road
once before, and he never again wanted to
experience the slow growth of death's shadow.
But to leave the chip meant she was little more
than a human lab rat, completely unaware of the
cage she resided in. The thought of that infuriated
him as much as his helplessness had during her
cancer ordeal.

     "How were they planning to take the baby?"
He was shaking with anger.

     The man shrugged and took another drag from
his cigarette. "The same way they impregnated
her."

     "Her rape?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know
the answer but couldn't help asking.

     "An unfortunate reaction to one of her
sessions. She awakened unexpectedly and tried
to escape. Her subconscience remembered the
subsequent recapture as a rape."

     Mulder's nausea was returning with renewed
vengeance. He fought down bile that was rising
in his throat.  Maybe this was another of his
dreams. If it was, now would be the perfect time to
wake up.

     "Who is the father?" His knees were
weakening, and soon he would have to sit down.

     "That's of no consequence."

     "Who is the father?" Mulder spit the question at
the man.

     "A numbered specimen who's designation
would mean nothing to you."

     Mulder looked around helplessly. How the hell
was he ever going to tell Scully? What was he
going to tell Scully? That her baby wasn't a
blessing after all. That he didn't even know if it
was human? That he didn't even know if it was
hers? After all, they could have just as easily
implanted a fetus in her as actually impregnated
her. As if he could read his thoughts, the smoking
man spoke.

     "I can help you, Mr. Mulder. Help you to help
her."

     Mulder said nothing, trying to control his rage
and yet disgustingly desperate to hear how this
man might help him.

     "I can provide a drug that will cause a
miscarriage. Put it in her food, make a 9-1-1 call
that will be intercepted, and the ordeal will be
over. Agent Scully will know nothing more than
she lost a child. A child that she was never meant
to have. In return for this service, I will provide
you with some information you have been
seeking-your sister's married name, her
address, and phone number."

     Bribery, he had actually sunk to bribery. And
the worst part was that if this son of a bitch could
provide the information he promised, he would
provide it. But at the cost of Scully's child. A child
that was just as much a specimen as Scully. The
thought made his stomach clench.

     "And if I don't," Mulder asked.

     The man took another drag and then studied
the cigarette. "My associates will find her and kill
her."

     The hell they will, Mulder thought. They would
never find her. He would take her into hiding if
necessary and deal with the ramifications when
the time came. He and his associates could just
go fuck themselves.

     "You go to hell," he spat as he walked past the
man.

     A voice called after him. "Even if you elude
them, and she manages to carry the child to term,
it won't live."

     Mulder stopped in his tracks but didn't turn
around. It was as if he knew his thoughts even
before he did. Mulder listened as he continued.

     "Two, three years at the most. Like the girl,
Emily."

     Emily. Scully had only known the child a
matter of days before she died, but she still
carried the loss with her. The voice behind him
continued in a sympathetic tone that sickened
him.

     "Wouldn't it be more humane for her to suffer a
miscarriage at this stage than to watch a child
slowly die. The helplessness is insufferable.
Losing a child is often more than a parent can
stand."

     Mulder suddenly thought of his mother. The
way she had withdrawn into the pain of losing
Samantha. It was something he would never
wish on anyone, especially Scully, who had lost
so much already.

     "You have 24 hours to think about the offer, Mr.
Mulder."

     He never looked back, but he heard the
footsteps retreating. The apprehension he felt
was growing, and he knew he needed to get
back to Scully. They were no longer safe at the
tenement, and it was time to move. It was also
time to come up with a new plan.





     The last hour had been pure misery.

     After waking up in soaked clothing that
overwhelming smelled like stale seawater, Dana
was almost immediately overcome by intense
nausea. At first, she had told herself that she was
only experiencing another round of the morning
sickness that had plagued her over the last few
weeks. And she spent quite a while curled up on
the cot in the dark bathroom quietly praying that
Mulder wouldn't return from wherever he had
disappeared to to find her in her current state.

     She thought of how pathetic she must looked
laying in a ball, holding her stomach, in drenched
clothing. And it would be just like Mulder, in his
current state of mind, to overreact to the situation.
Although it wouldn't hurt if he could just not fuss
over her and maybe bring her some crackers.

     She wanted to be able to objectively look at
her latest dream and try to analyze exactly what it
meant. To apply basic Freudian principles to
understanding it. But she couldn't do it. It was
more than a dream, she told herself. Somehow, it
had happen. The wet clothes and coating of sand
on her socks was more physical proof than she
and Mulder had on most of their cases. And
although she usually required more proof in
order to remotely accept extraordinary events,
this time was different. This time, it was
happening to her. Again.

     She was only half-way examining these
feelings, mainly because the attack of nausea
was so intense and demanding so much of her
concentration. She was so tired, she thought.
She only wanting her stomach to give her a
break so she could go back to sleep.

     The thought had barely crossed her mind,
when her stomach seemed to comply with her
wish. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the
nausea subsided, and for a moment, Dana
thought she could just roll over and drift back off.

     Then the cramping started. Her whole
abdomen seemed to spasm, as if some unseen
force was squeezing her middle from the inside.
She immediately drew her legs up on the cot and
let out a moan.

     Jesus, she thought. This is not normal. She
was suddenly very frightened. As a doctor, she
knew that she couldn't jump to any conclusions. It
could just be a reaction to the questionable, but
elaborate, dinner Frohike had prepared for them
on Father Michaels' two kerosene burners. He
had called it camp-out surprise. The real surprise
for her had been that it actually tasted great. At
the time, she had jokingly accused him of
contributing to botulism. Now, she reminded
herself, maybe he had.

     But the other, more prominent thought in her
mind was that she could possibly be having a
miscarriage. It was unusual late in the first
trimester, but it was still quite possible.

     Regardless, she needed some help. It was
pretty obvious to her by now that Mulder was not
coming back any time soon. She wasn't sure how
long she had already spent lying in the darkness
since she woke up, but considerable time had
passed. Regardless of his insistence that he was
meant to protect her, he had once again ditched
her to run off on some unknown quest without
even a note or explanation. And she was
beginning to think that she needed medical
attention.

     Dana pushed herself over the side of the cot
and began to crawl through the darkness out of
the bathroom. She managed to push the cracked
door open with her body and made it half-way
through the doorway before she could crawl no
further.

     She collapsed to the floor in the darkness and
called out, "Father Michaels? Anyone? I need
help."

     She raised her head and was blinded by a
flashlight.

     "Are you okay?" Langly's shocked voice
floated out of the darkness from behind the beam
of light.

     "No, I'm....Ohhh!" She wasn't able to finish as
an intense spasm overtook her. She put her
forehead down against the cool but dirty wooden
floor.

     "Wake up!" Langly yelled as she heard him
struggling out of his sleeping bag. "We have a
situation!"

     The sound of activity and sleeping bags
unzipping came from four directions at once. The
creak of the lantern being turned up proceeded
light suddenly flooding the room. Byers was the
first to reach her side.

     "Agent Scully, can you tell us what's wrong?"
Byers was kneeling next to her with a hand on
her back.

     "I'm having abdominal cramps...spasms...I
need medical..." Again she trailed off as the next
wave overtook her.

     "Jesus, she's drenched," Byers exclaimed.

     "Call 9-1-1," Father Michaels voice came from
somewhere nearby and above.

     "No way," she heard Frohike say. "No way we
are calling..."

     "For God sakes, look at her!" Father Michaels
sounded panicked and exasperated. "She needs
a doctor!"

     "Frohike's right," Langly piped in. "You saw her
apartment. Calling 9-1-1 could lead whoever is
after her straight to our location."

     There was an uncomfortable silence, only
broken by Dana's whimpering as she fought
wave after wave of pain. She could sense each
of them looking at one another, trying to figure out
what to do.

     "When will Mulder be back?" she heard
Frohike ask quietly.

     "I don't know," Byers answered back. "He's
been gone over an hour. Maybe someone should
go find him."

     "This is insane!" Father Michaels cut in. "I'm
going to call an ambulance!"

     "Grab him!" Frohike yelled.

     Dana heard the sound of multiple footsteps
hastily retreating, followed by a scuffle. She
heard Frohike let out an "Ow!" followed by
several undistinguishable "Umpf!" The only
person she knew wasn't involved was Byers, who
was still kneeling beside her with his hand on her
back.

     "Do you think you can walk to the sofa?" Byers
leaned down and whispered to her.

     She could only shake her head since the
spasms were increasing in intensity. Besides,
she really didn't want a front row seat to whatever
was still happening on the other side of the room.

     Suddenly, the room was pierced by an
irritating high-pitched electric buzz. The sounds
of the struggle ceased as Frohike calmly said,
"We've got company."

     "Maybe it's Mulder." Langly sounded hopeful.

     "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't," Frohike answered
in a loud whisper. "Regardless, I don't want to be
a sitting duck. Kill the light."

     The lantern creaked again as the room was
bathed in darkness. Dana managed to raise her
head to see Father Michaels stumbling towards
her and Byers. He was sporting a very fresh
bloody lip and a black eye.

     "What do we do?" he whispered to Byers.

     "Help me move her," Byers whispered back.

     Byers and the priest grabbed her under the
arms and awkwardly lifted her, turned her
around, and drug her back into the bathroom. In
the darkness, they found the cot by running her
into it, and she used her remaining strength to
crawl onto it. Byers then quietly walked back to
the door and pulled it almost to. Father Michaels
sat down on the floor beside her and took her
hand.

     "Is there anything I can do, Dana?" It was the
first time he had called her by her first name.

     "Pray," she barely chocked out through her
pain. She was wishing that maybe he could
manage to ask God to magically transported her
to a state-of-the-art medical facility who could at
least give her whatever pain killer cocktail was on
tap. It was obvious the Gunmen weren't going to
take her.

     Instead he quietly begin, "I will love You, O
Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my
fortress and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in
whom I will trust; My shield and the horn of my
salvation, my stronghold. I will call upon the Lord,
who is worthy to be praised; So shall I be saved
from my enemies."

     Dana realized that he was praying that
whoever was out there didn't harm her or him.
For the first time, she recognized the look of fear
that resided on his face.

     Father Michaels leaned over her and tenderly
brushed a lock of hair off her forehead with his
free hand. It was the same action her father had
performed in her dream. Dana sucked in a deep
breath at the realization and closed her eyes. The
priest then rested his hand on her stomach.

     "Shh," he whispered as he continued. "The
pangs of death encompassed me, And the floods
of ungodliness made me afraid. The sorrows of
Sheol surrounded me; The snares of death
confronted me. In my distress I called upon the
Lord, And cried out to God; He heard my voice
from His temple, And my cry came before Him,
even to His ears..."

     Dana suddenly felt at ease. She seemed to
enter a trance, where nothing existed except
Father Michaels' voice. The pain was still there,
but it was pushed into the background. She let
herself float away on the sound of his prayers.

     "...He sent from above, He took me; He drew
me out of many waters. He delivered me from my
strong enemy, From those who hated me; For
they were too strong for me. They confronted me
in the day of my calamity, But the Lord was my
support. He also brought me out into a broad
place; He delivered me because He delighted in
me. The Lord rewarded me according to my
righteousness; According to the cleanness of my
hands He has recompensed me. For I have kept
the ways of the Lord, And have not wickedly..."

     "Scully?"

     The sound of Mulder's voice calling her
brought her back to reality. She opened her eyes
to see the bathroom flooded with light from the
next room. Mulder stood in the doorway with
Frohike and Langly right behind him. Byers had
moved away from the door and was now
standing on top of Mulder's empty sleeping bag.
In her trance, she had not even heard him come
in. And now they were all looking at her and
Father Michaels with a mixture of concern
and...shock?

     "Scully?" Mulder repeated. "Are you..."

     "I'm okay." She didn't even let him finish. Dana
propped herself up on the cot with one elbow.
"I'm actually..." she searched herself for signs of
the spasms that had given her so much pain.
They were gone. "...feeling much better."

     "The guys said that you were practically
incapacitated. Maybe we should get you checked
out by a doctor."

     "No, Mulder, I'm..." she looked over at Father
Michaels. He was now resting back against the
wall with his eyes closed, still holding her hand.
His face was covered in a thin sheet of sweat, but
she was overcome by how peaceful he looked.
"...I'm fine."

     Father Michaels opened his eyes and looked
at her. His face erupted in a contagious grin, and
she couldn't help but smile back.

     "Ah, yeah," she heard Mulder say. He
obviously didn't know what to make of this.

     Mulder walked over and conspicuously sat
down on the end of the cot. She and Father
Michaels broke their gaze to look at him. He
looked confused.

     "Do you want to fill me in on what's going on
here?" he asked.

     "Well, Mulder," she said as she sat up, "for
some reason, I think Father Michaels..."

     "Managed to cast off the demons," Father
Michaels interrupted her.

     Both she and Mulder looked at him shocked.
No, that was not what she started to say. In fact,
the thought hadn't even entered her mind.
Helped her to relax. Comforted her. Yes. But,
demons?

     But the thought that maybe the dream, the
spasm, all had been some sort of...attack...filled
her brain. What was it Mulder had told her that
afternoon? That the hougan said that physical
attacks would follow? And that she was a target
for the next two nights? And she unexpectedly
found herself nodding at Father Michaels'
interpretation of events.

     Mulder looked at her, then looked at Father
Michaels, then looked back at her again. He
pulled her up by the arm and began leading her
out of the room. Reluctantly, she let go of Father
Michaels' hand and let Mulder half-drag her into
the living room, all the while looking back at the
priest over her shoulder.

     "Scully," he said turning her around in front of
him without letting go of her arm, "you don't really
believe him? About the demons?"

     She looked up at him incredulously. Only
earlier that day, he had insisted that she was in
danger from some unknown evil force. Now he
was questioning her belief in it? Why couldn't she
and Mulder ever seem to get on the same page?

     She shook her arm free. His seemingly
disbelief suddenly made her feel extremely
unsure of the evening's events, and she said,
"No. I don't know. Maybe. Look. Something
happened in there. I don't know exactly what
Mulder, but only a few minutes ago I was
dysphoric. Now I'm standing here talking to you
without even a trace of discomfort. Regardless of
whatever caused the pain to dissipate, Father
Michaels seemed to be instrumental in...."

     "You think he prayed the pain away? Like he
waved his hands over you and, woo-woo, you're
all better." He completed the effect by
demonstrating with his own hands.

     "No, Mulder. He did not wave his hands over
me. But, I think he definitely did something. It was
like..." she paused not knowing how to make him
understand. "Like he pushed me out of my body
and then back into it."

     Mulder opened his mouth, as if to make a
snide sexual comment, but Frohike interrupted
him by walking up and saying, "We'll be ready to
go in about ten minutes. If you're going to move
on, I'd suggest we all leave together."

     "Move on? What do you mean," she looked
from Frohike to Mulder, "move on?"

     "We're not safe here," Mulder replied sternly.
Frohike backed away and quietly snuck over to
the other side of the room and tried to look busy.
Byers and Langly did the same.

     "How do you know we're not safe?" Could you
be a little more vague, Mulder?

     He started to say something else. She could
tell by the way he opened his mouth and closed it
again. Instead, he replied, "I just know." He
paused for a moment, his look challenging her to
question him. Then he abruptly turned and
walked back into the bathroom.

     She couldn't believe this. Mulder's complete
flip-flop in the last 24 hours had her reeling.
Since the last time she had seen him, he had
gone from thinking that they were part of some
sort of vague Biblical prophesy come to fruition to
making that sarcastic woo-woo joke about her
and Father Michaels. She was stunned.

     "Get you're stuff, Scully," Mulder called to her
as he exited from the other room with his rolled
sleeping bag under his arm. "As soon as I help
Frohike unhook the alarm system, we're out of
here." He walked over to where Frohike was
desperately trying to touch a wire running across
the ceiling. Mulder casually reached up and
grabbed it.

     Dana slowly walked over to the sofa and
picked up the department store shopping bag
sitting next to it. Okay, she thought. I have my
stuff. I have all the stuff I own in the world. My two
changes of clothes, my shredded copy of Moby
Dick, my gun, and my useless FBI identification.
Oh, and I have a car sitting across town with four
slashed tires. And suddenly, I have no choice but
to follow my partner blindly wherever he decides
to take us because I have nowhere else to go.

     She thought about her mother. She could
always go there. Her mom would welcome her,
no questions asked. At least, not many at first.
Plus, she knew she needed to fill her mom in on
the last few weeks events. She hadn't even
spoken to her since before she and Mulder left for
Miami. She needed to tell her that she had lost
everything. Left her job. Was expecting her
grandchild. Oh, boy, she thought. That should go
over well.

     She clutched the shopping bag and sat down
on the sofa. Maybe going to her mom wasn't the
best alternative right now. Mostly, she didn't want
to deal with Bill and his reaction when her mom
called him on the phone and told him that his
sensible baby sister was expecting a child and
didn't know who the father was. And wasn't going
to find out, even though she had the results
waiting for her at Georgetown.

     After all, she had a little money in the bank.
And she could cash out her IRA. It wasn't enough
to replace everything, but it would be a start. And
maybe if she went and met with Skinner, he
could get her reassigned to Quantico. Another
teaching position, something that wouldn't
require her to spend too much time in the field.
And with her accumulated sick leave, vacation
time, and the Family Leave Act, she knew that the
FBI's maternity leave would be more than
sufficient. Then she could reevaluate what she
wanted to do after the baby was born.

     Father Michaels walked out of the bathroom
and began to gather a few belonging from
around the room. Dana realized that he planned
to accompany them wherever they were going.
She knew that Mulder probably didn't have a
clue where that was, that he was flying by the
seat of his pants. That was just the way he
worked.

     She was still lost in her thoughts about what
she could do to get back in control of her life, and
possibly changing her still damp and smelly
clothes, when it happened. For a moment the air
in the room seemed to still. Dana detected a
slight shimmering in front of her, and then it was
gone almost as soon as she became aware of it.
She thought maybe she had imagined it. Like her
eyes had ceased to focus for a second and then
began to work again. It was probably just fatigue.
Or stress.

     But something was different. She moved the
shopping bag out of her lap and looked around
the room. Everyone else was still absorbed in
packing up. And no one seemed to notice the
noise she was hearing.

     She could hear a buzzing in the room and feel
a slight tingling around her body. It was like the
unseen oxygen molecules floating around her
were becoming electrically charged as they
made contact with her skin. The vague taste of
strawberries filled the back of her mouth.

     The buzzing entered her ears and increased
in volume, blocking out all other sounds in the
room. And she found herself completely focused
on the sensation in her forehead. It started out as
a slight pressure, but was rapidly becoming a
vice gripping her head. At the same moment her
hand grabbed her forehead, she remember
where she had felt this pain before.

     In the last months of her cancer. The
headaches were excruciating. The same pain,
only it didn't build so rapidly. But she hadn't felt
that pain in a long time, and now it seemed
almost unfamiliar.

     She stood and was only able to take a few
steps, then found herself immediately sinking to
her knees onto the floor. A moan escaped her
mouth, not loud, but loud enough to capture
Father Michaels' and Mulder's attention. Both
rushed across the room towards her.

     She was vaguely aware of Mulder kneeling
behind her, saying her name. His hands softly
held her shoulders. But the pain was all-
encompassing, making it impossible for her to
concentrate on anything. She bent over the floor,
one arm supporting her, and squeezed her eyes
shut. It was too much. Her whole head vibrated
with the buzz, and it was agonizingly loud.

     She realized it was going to happen only
milliseconds before. The pressure building inside
her head seemed to pop, and then the gush of
blood from her nose started. Not the slow
dripping that she had experienced before, but a
torrential spewing.

     She opened her eyes and watched it pool on
the floor, still holding her head in her hand.
Slowly, she became aware that she was
chanting.

     "No no no no no no no no no no no."

     She could feel it. She knew it was impossible
to be aware of it, but she could feel it. Filling her
sinus, poking into her brain, growing every
second. She could feel the life draining out of her
with the blood that was puddling on the floor
below her.

     An arm wrapped around her shoulder and a
hand grabbed her forehead, forcefully knocking
her backwards. She toppled off balance against
Mulder, the room whizzing by in a blur. The only
thing her mind wrapped around was Frohike's
face, his eyes wide with shock. Mulder was trying
to lean her back against him, forcing her face up
towards the ceiling . She realized she was
panting, her mind only able to focus on one
sensation at a time.

     Then she couldn't breathe. Blood rushed
down her throat, drowning her. She realized that
she needed to push away from Mulder right
before she began to choke. Blood spewed out of
her mouth. Her whole body shook with each
cough. She was gasping, hoping to find the air
that was lost. The room was spinning, and her
vision was quickly filtering down to just a tunnel
in front of her.

     The blood from her nose was now pouring
down her face, down the front of her chest, this
time soaking her clothes deep red. She closed
her eyes to block everything out. She was afraid
that the last image she would see on this earth
was her body's life force covering her and
everything around her.

     She didn't want to die this way.

     She was spent. Tired of fighting whatever was
happening. All the fight in her had just drained on
the floor. She didn't realized that she had
slumped sideways down to floor. She was laying
on her side, in a pool of blood. Not that it
mattered. She was covered in it anyway.

     The hand on her head was a cold shock. It felt
like ice. The buzzing in her ears was being
replaced by the sounds in the room. Father
Michaels was calmly praying over her:

     "I will lift up my eyes to the hills-From whence
comes my help? My help comes from the Lord,
Who made heaven and earth....The Lord is your
keeper; The Lord is your shade at your right
hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, Nor the
moon by night. The Lord shall preserve you from
all evil; He shall preserve your soul. The Lord
shall preserve your going out and your coming in
From this time forth, and even forevermore."

     Over top of it, she could hear Mulder hoarsely
yelling, "Frohike, give me the fucking cell phone. I
don't care if the goddamn National Guard
descends on this place, call 9-1-1."

     "No way, Mulder," Frohike was replying,
forcing his voice to remain steady. "You're going
to thank me for this later."

     "Then we need to get her out of here," Mulder
was pleading. "Help me get her out of here."

     Her eyes opened wearily. The pool of blood
that she had been lying in only moments before
had mysteriously disappeared. She gasped and
sat up quickly, practically knocking Father
Michaels and Mulder out of the way. She looked
down at her clothes and watched as the blood
seemed to vanish into the garments, leaving only
dark damp blotches where it had been.

     "The blood..." she gasped.

     Mulder wasn't listening. Instead he was
apparently running on some kind of autopilot,
sensory overload. He grabbed her around the
waist, stood up and threw her over his shoulder.
She was knocked off-balance as the world went
topsy-turvey, and the next thing she realized was
that she was looking at Mulder's back. She
grabbed hold of him to steady herself.

     "Mulder!" she yelled to no avail. "Put me down.
I'm okay. Put me down."

     "No way, Scully!" he yelled back as he used
his free hand-the other was wrapped tightly
over her upper thighs-to throw the door open.
"We're leaving now."

     She raised her head the best she could to see
Father Michaels grabbing a dirty duffel bag, her
shopping bag, and trying to pick up Mulder's
sleeping bag. She lost sight of him as they
rounded the corner into the hall.

     "Mulder, I can walk. I need my clothes.
Mulder!"

     Mulder kept walking at a frantic pace. Scully
watched as Father Michaels came running out of
the door, his arms full with all of their
possessions. He practically sprinted to catch up
with them.

     "Father," she pleaded as she turned her head
to the side to catch a glimpse of his face. "Would
you please tell Mulder to put me down?"

     "Not a chance, Dana," the priest replied. "If he
so much as stops to catch his breath, I'm picking
you up and carrying you myself."

     Dana let her head drop.

     The last hour had been pure misery.

     Well, she thought, I might as well relax and
enjoy the ride.







     The gold cross was slightly scratched from
years of wear, and she couldn't remember when
she had knocked it against something and taken
a small chip out of the back. Over time, she had
replaced the chain twice. For years, she had
wore it out of habit, not really thinking about its
significance around her neck. Only in recent
years, she consciously had been aware of
wearing the cross for protection and to signify her
returning faith in God.

     Now, she sat in the corner of the old Catholic
church's alter holding the cross in front of her and
intently staring at it. When was the last time she
had taken it off? She had definitely worn it
everyday since the first chip in her neck had been
found. Had she unconsciously hoped even then
that it could ward off the frightening forces that
had invaded her life? She didn't know.

     Dana looked from Mulder-who was lying on
his sleeping bag studiously reading the Miami
case file-to Father Michaels. The priest was
sitting on the floor nearby, his legs crossed, his
eyes closed, totally absorbed in his thoughts. In
fact, all evening the three of them had hardly
spoken to each other. Each only speaking
whenever absolutely necessary. All three
completely focused on whatever was going on
inside each of their own heads.

     It had been a long day. They had arrived at the
church right at dawn. As they drove up, the
sunrise illuminated the abandon steeple in a
breathtakingly beautiful way. The church had
been deserted for close to five years, Father
Michaels had explained to them when he
suggested it. This was his former parish, and he
felt confident that no one would think to look for
her here.

     It was more than a little off the beaten path,
that was for sure. From her place in the backseat,
it seemed to her that they had driven through
Maryland suburb after suburb before coming to
the church. In fact, the church sat pretty much by
itself, bordered on one side by a public park and
on the other by a satellite campus of the
University of Maryland. Behind the church was a
graveyard, complete with weathered and falling
tombstones that Dana guessed had to be at least
a century old.

     Father Michaels had wistfully told them that the
congregation had built a new church instead of
going to considerable costs to bring the old one
up to current building codes. Decades of shoddy
renovations had taken it toll on the structure. And
the land had been officially sold to the University,
although plans to raze the church had been put
on hold due to complaints by local
preservationists. Looking around, Dana couldn't
fathom why anyone would want to destroy such a
beautiful example of early 19th century American
architecture.

     Father Michaels had explained that much of
the fight to preserve the church centered around
the fact that it had been a way-station on the
underground railroad. The church had
underground passages that had been used to
transport escaping slaves from a no longer
existing nearby farm to the church. Ironically,
these tunnels had been incorporated into the
town's sewer system during the 1930s. The priest
had told them that he had spent considerable
time exploring the tunnels during his tenure at the
church.

     Dana felt her eyes growing heavy. That
morning, she had actually fallen asleep sitting up
in the spot where she was now. She had
awakened a few hours later, feeling somewhat
refreshed and a little stiff, and found herself not in
the corner of the alter but on Mulder's sleeping
bag. She didn't even wake up when they had
moved her. Mulder had been restlessly dozing
nearby, stretched out on one of the old wooden
pews. He had looked terribly uncomfortable and
cramped.

     She looked over at Mulder, deep in
concentration. He looked exhausted. She didn't
know how much sleep he had actually gotten that
morning, but she knew it couldn't have been
much. Certainly not enough to make up for all the
hours of sleep she realized he had missed over
the past three days. Now, he was running on
pure adrenaline. She noticed that even now,
quietly hunched over the case file, his hands
were nervously tapping on the edge of the manila
folder as he read. He was more than on edge.

     She had noticed it that afternoon. He
reminded her of a rabbit, every inch of his body
attuned to their surroundings. Even in his prone
state, he had still looked like he was ready to
spring into motion at the first indication of trouble.
It was if every muscle in his body was flexed and
ready to go.

     She had seen him like this before but only for
very short spurts. In extremely tense and
dangerous moments. Not that this wasn't one of
those situations, but she honestly didn't
understand how he could maintain it as long as
he had. His "fight or flee" instinct was on
overdrive.

     Not that she was doing much better. After last
night, even a Zen Buddhist monk would have
been edgy. As the sun had gone down, her
tension level rose steadily. Plus, she still wasn't
sure what had happen the previous evening.
From the little she and Mulder had discussed
earlier in the day, it was pretty apparent that they
had witnessed two very different ordeals. When
she had mentioned the mysterious
disappearance of her spilled blood, Mulder had
just looked confused.

     "Blood? What blood?" he had said.

     My blood," she replied shocked. "It was
everywhere, Mulder. You couldn't have missed
it."

     "I didn't see any blood, Scully. All I saw was
you on the floor, acting like your head had
exploded."

     After staring at him in disbelief for a few
seconds, she had merely mumbled, "Forget it,"
and walked away. It wasn't the only completely
different perspective that she and Mulder had
about last night. In fact, the only thing that they
could agree on was that they couldn't agree on
what had happened.

     Now she wondered what could be so
fascinating about that damn case file. Yes, she
knew the case had been what started this whole
theory of his about the battle between good and
evil, and the three of them now being a part of
that. In fact, she now bought that theory even
more than he did. But he was acting like he was
looking for something specific. He had been over
the victims' backgrounds and the autopsy reports
at least half a dozen times. And earlier he had
asked her some strange questions, vague even
for Mulder.

     "Scully, do you remember anything unusual
about the woman you autopsied?" The question
had come up out of nowhere.

     "You mean other than the fact she was
covered in salt?"

     "I mean anything medically unusual. Anything
you didn't note in your report."

     "Nnno." She stopped to think for a second.
Mulder knew how thorough she was. Even if she
had chosen to leave any information out of her
report, which she had only done once or twice,
she would have confided in him what she had
found. "Why, Mulder? What are you looking for?"

     "Nothing. Just wondering." He had quickly
walked off.

     Dana stood up and stretched. It would be
useless trying to go to sleep, even if she was
exhausted. It was fairly obvious what all three of
them were doing. Even with Father Michaels'
reassurance that no one would think of looking
for her or Mulder here, they were waiting.

     She walked over to Father Michaels and
quietly sunk down beside him. With her
approach, he opened his eyes and smiled at her.
That morning, she had found him asleep in the
old confessional. When she asked if he was
comfortable, he had laughingly replied that he
had spent many hours in the past napping there.
Now, she realized how close they had grown in
the last 24 hours.

     "Is everything okay, Dana?" he asked her with
a concerned smile on his face.

     "As okay as can be expected," she replied.
"How about you? How are you doing?"

     "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

     "You just did." They smiled at each other and
both sat quietly for a few minutes.

     Father Michaels eyes turned to Mulder,
studying him for a moment. "Is he looking for
something?"

     So, she wasn't the only one who thought
Mulder's obsession with the case file was
strange.

     "I don't know," she answered. Under her
breath, she bitterly added, "Usually it's
impossible to decipher exactly what's going on
with him."

     "He's an enigma," the priest nodded. "I
personally don't know how you can stand to work
with him."

     She raised an eyebrow at the priest's
admission of not liking Mulder. So, Mulder's
irritation towards Father Michaels was mutual.

     "He grows on you after awhile." Her defense of
Mulder surprised even her.

     "His fidgeting is about to make me crawl out of
my skin. I may have to go over there and slap him
around."

     Father Michaels' smile let her know that he
was joking about the slapping part, although she
thought he was sincere about the rest.

     His face grew very solemn. "So, Dana, I'm
puzzled. Exactly what is the nature of your
relationship?"

     "Well, we've been partners for a little over..."

     "No, I mean, beyond work."

     Oh, she thought, the $54,000 question. She
paused, not really knowing how to answer.

     Father Michaels quickly added, "Look, I know
it's not really any of my business. Maybe the
dependency and protection I sense from him
towards you..." She looked over at Mulder.
"...comes from being partners over so many
years. But..." She looked back at Father Michaels,
nervously wondering what the "but" was. "...this
afternoon in your mother's living room, I thought
he was going to have an aneurysm."

     Yes, Mulder had been a nervous wreck at her
mother's house. When she had gone into the
living room to tell them she was ready to go, all
the color had drained out of Mulder's face when
her mom had smiled at him. And he had chewed
his thumbnail practically to his knuckle. But
Mulder had been anxious all day long. Hadn't the
priest noticed it?

     "Mulder can be a little high-strung." Why was
she still defending him?

     "Funny, I thought it was because he knocked
you up."

     Her mouth dropped open, and she literally had
to tell herself to close it again. And it wasn't
because of Father Michaels' crude euphemism.
Deny it, she told herself. But truthfully, she
couldn't. Nor could she confirm it.

     Father Michaels' snickered and said, "For
someone who claims he's not the father, he
certainly is worried about your mother's
impression. Maybe it's because you believe that
he is." He looked at her questioningly. "Don't
you?"

     "Father, I don't know..."

     "Not that I expect him to believe you," he
interrupted. "You two don't agree on much, do
you?"

     She didn't bother to answer. It was obvious
Father Michaels had been closely observing
them.

     Finally, she felt the moment to ask him had
come. "Father, what do you think happened last
night?"

     He thought for a moment, then answered. "I
think that God works in mysterious and powerful
ways. I know that sounds trite, but that is the only
way I can describe what happened last night. We
saw the evidence of that."

     She let the full significance of his words sink in
before she said, "I don't know if I can accept that."

     "Why, Dana, do you doubt your own
experiences?" He had said it very solemnly.

     "Because, I'm not sure what I experienced.
What I thought I saw last night. I don't know if it
happened." She leaned her head back against
the wall and closed her eyes.

     "Your inability to believe what you have seen
with your own eyes weakens you." He stated it as
if it were pure fact.

     She looked at him, unsure of how to reply to
that. It was like he had reached inside of her and
read her true weakness.

     Maybe it was their surroundings, maybe it was
the pure stress of the events. Maybe she felt a
need to confide in him. She wasn't sure why she
even felt she could. But she began anyway, even
if she was unsure of her own motivations.

     "Father, I have spent my entire life questioning
everything. Examining everything. In my job, in
my personal life. I have spent so much time
analyzing every event, even the most minute
detail, that I began to feel that it was impossible
for me not to do it. It was more than my scientific
obligation, it was the way that I made sense of the
world.

     My constant examination caused me to
discount anything that I couldn't prove. It was like
I was living the scientific method. If I couldn't
quantify the results, with repetitious accuracy,
then I couldn't accept the reality of the
experience. Even when I saw the miraculous,
events that defied any logic, any explanation.
Things that were never meant to be quantified.
And I turned my back on them because they
didn't support my need to see the world as an
ordered, logical place.

     A few years ago, I found out I had cancer. And
it wasn't until I was near death that I returned to
the belief of my childhood. It wasn't that I quit
believing in God, it was just that I quit thinking
that he cared about the world. That it really
mattered to him whether we lived or died or
believed in him or prayed or anything else. I don't
believe that accepting God kept me from dying.
But it did ease my mind. Ever since then, I have
found myself struggling against myself. And
this..." She placed a hand on her stomach. "This
pregnancy, the events of last night, whatever is
happening-is causing a struggle in me of
massive proportions."

     Father Michaels took her hand and quietly sat
examining the pain written on her face. He waited
expectantly, knowing that she wasn't done with
her "confession."

     She finally found the resolve to continue. "This
afternoon, when I went to see my mother. To tell
her I was pregnant. When I told her, her reaction
was predictably joyful. She embraced me, and I
didn't...." She took a much needed deep breath.
"...I couldn't hug her back. I felt totally empty
inside. Instead of something to celebrate, this
pregnancy is something that terrifies me."

     "Because it defies your view of the world?" He
was prodding her to give him the information he
needed to understand.

     "Because it defies everything. My
understanding of the world, my belief in science,
my faith that God will take care of me..."

     "Why do you doubt that God is looking out for
you? Why do you think he has turned his back on
you?"

     She didn't answer. This was becoming too
distressing.

     He asked again a different way. "What has
happened to cause so much pain in your life,
Dana?"

     It wasn't a matter of not knowing what caused
the pain, but where to start. She decided to try to
keep it simple and short.

     "In less than one year, I lost both my father and
my sister. I found out a few years later that I had
an untreatable brain tumor. I miraculously
recovered from my cancer, only to watch a
daughter I never knew I had die and be able to
do nothing. And now..."

     "Now you won't let yourself believe that this
pregnancy is a gift from God?"

     "Yes. And for the first time in my life, I'm afraid
to look for the answers that every cell in my body
is screaming for me to find." She took another
deep breath. No, that was not true. It wasn't the
first time. There was still three months of her life
that were missing.

     Father Michaels seemed lost in thought for a
moment, then he asked, "What did you tell your
mother? About not feeling happy about the
baby?"

     "Not much. It wasn't that I didn't want to tell her
everything. I just didn't know how. Or what to tell
her."

     Father Michaels nodded his head,
understanding that unless someone had
experienced the last few days firsthand, they
couldn't possibly understand. He closed his eyes
and rested his head against the wall.

     Dana once again looked across the church to
Mulder. He had stretched out on his stomach and
put his head down on top of his crossed arms.
She hoped that he had relaxed and fallen
asleep.

     "Dana." Father Michaels voice brought her
attention back to him again. "I don't know if I fully
understand what is going on here. Even I have
my questions about why the three of us,
especially myself, have become a part of these
extraordinary events. But I am certain of one
thing." He lightly touched her stomach and then
moved his hand away. "The life growing inside of
you is not only a gift from God, but an indication
that God does care about you. If he didn't, he
would not have felt a need to reward you with
such an important role. You have been chosen to
participate in a miracle in the most intimate way
possible."

     "I wish that I could believe that. I wish I could
find the faith to accept that truth without question.
But I can't." She pulled her hand away from him,
put her elbows on her knees, and dropped her
head into her hands.

     "Dana, God doesn't expect you to accept this
without question. He wants you to find the
answers you need, however you need to find
them. He wouldn't present you with the truth
unless he knew you could find a way to accept it
completely. God gave you the ability to examine
scientifically, and he wouldn't expect you to
abandon that ability now. He realizes that
sometimes you have to ask questions that seem
on the surface to contradict the answers you're
seeking. Sometimes you have to come full circle
to find the truth."

     Dana's head shot up from her hands, and she
looked at Father Michaels with her mouth open.
The statement had resonated with her when the
priest in Ohio had repeated it to her. Now, she
couldn't believe that Father Michaels had
repeated the exact statement again. It seemed
improbable to her that it was a coincidence.
Maybe God was speaking to her.

     "Why does that surprise you?" Father Michaels
replied to the shocked look she was giving him.

     This is not just deja vu, she told herself.
Instead of the vague feeling that she had
experienced this conversation before, she knew
that this was suddenly a replay of that
confessional visit.

     "I've had this conversation before." She said it
more to herself than him. It was like she needed
to say it outloud in order to really believe it.

     "Really?" Father Michaels said with a smile on
his face, not sounding surprised at all. "How
about this then? The truth is inside of you."

     "Why did you say that?" This was truly blowing
her mind.

     "Because, Dana, God has been talking to you
all along." He reached up and grabbed the cross
hanging around her neck. "You're just now ready
to listen."





     "This is the message which we have heard
from Him and declared to you, that God is light
and in Him is no darkness at all. If we say that we
have fellowship with Him, and walk in darkness,
we lie and do not practice the truth...."

     Father Michaels' voice floated around Dana.
She closed her eyes and took solace in his
words.

     "If we walk in the light as He is in the light, we
have fellowship with one another, and the blood
of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all
sin...."

     When Mulder had sat up and remarked that "it"
was about to happen, the priest had taken out his
tattered Bible and began reading quietly. She
didn't know what "it" was, Mulder probably didn't
either, but Mulder's words had filled her with
terror.

     "If we say we have no sin, we deceive
ourselves, and the truth is not in us...."

     Mulder's only response to the priest's reading
was to look back at him with an irritated look on
his face. He then looked at Dana as if to say,
"can't you make him shut up?" And even though
she knew that if someone was outside, they
should remain quiet and turn off the lantern, she
had no intention of telling Father Michaels to
stop.

     "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to
forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all
unrighteousness...."

     Mulder had pulled his gun out from
underneath the edge of the sleeping bag, stuffed
a flashlight into his back pocket, and headed
towards the church's front door. As he had
passed her, he had indicated for her to follow.
The best she could do was retrieve her gun from
the shopping bag and turn off her flashlight. She
couldn't even make the effort to put her shoes
back on her feet. She now found herself
crouched on the floor in her bare feet, waiting for
whatever was going to happen to happen.

     "If we say that we have not sinned, we make
Him a liar, and His word is not in us. My little
children, these things I write to you, that you may
not sin...."

     Now, she wasn't even paying attention to her
surroundings. From behind her closed eyelids,
Dana found herself once again drifting on Father
Michaels voice. As her terror slowly dissipated,
she heard the distinct sound of ocean waves
crashing behind her. She looked around and
found herself suddenly on the deserted beach in
San Diego again. When she turned back, the
church was gone.

     She was crouched at the edge of the grassy
hill. For a moment, she was temporarily blinded
by the sudden change from the dim church to the
bright sunlight. Blindly, she stood and turned
towards the ocean. As her eyes adjusted, she
focused on two figures slowly walking towards
her, down the edge of the surf. At first she could
only make out their silhouettes. A woman and a
child. But as they neared her, she knew instantly
who they were.

     Missy's white dress billowed out behind her in
the wind. She was holding Emily's hand, and
they both were looking straight ahead, neither
speaking. Emily had on the pink smocked dress
that Dana had picked out for her burial.

     They had passed her before she was able to
overcome her amazement at finding both them
and herself on the beach and to run to catch up
with them. The dry sand burned her feet and
coated the bottom of her jeans as she stuffed her
gun into the small of her back. She came up
behind them, almost afraid to speak. But her
need to hear their voices, for them to
acknowledge her, overcame her fear.

     "Missy." The raw need in her voice was
evident even over the roaring surf.

     Both Melissa and Emily keep walking, neither
one of them showing any reaction to her. She
knew that they had heard her. Her feet were now
sinking into the wet sand, slowing her down. She
quickened her pace and caught up to them.

     "Melissa, it's me! Emily! Stop!" She was right
beside them now, right next to her sister's ear.
But still they kept walking, looking straight ahead.
Both their faces held completely blank
expressions. The surf washed over her feet and
the bottom of her jeans.

     "Please!" Her need, her pain, was becoming
unbearable. She once again walked faster, this
time stepping right in front of them. "Please! Talk
to me!"

     They kept walking. Missy actually had to step
to one side to go around her, and their shoulders
brushed past each other. Dana just stood there
and turned to watch them go.

     When they were about five feet away, they
suddenly stopped. They turned around to face
her, with Missy placing Emily directly in front of
her.

     "Dana," Missy's voice sounded strange and
emotionless, "don't waste your life looking for a
truth that doesn't exist. You will only find yourself
frustrated by the meaninglessness and futility of
it. And sorry that you lost years looking for
answers that can't be found. You're drawn to truth
like a moth is drawn to a flame. It will only
consume you."

     Dana sadly regarded the two figures in front of
her, unable to reconcile her sister's statement
with her memory. Instinctively, she reached out to
touch Emily's face.

     As her hand came in contact with Emily's skin,
a searing pain shot through it. Shocked, she
quickly pulled it back and look at her palm. As
she focused on the blisters rising on her bright
red hand, the beach in the fuzzy background
faded into the church's alter. Flames rose from it,
quickly consuming the alter and spreading to the
decaying plaster walls and floor around it.

     She turned to find Mulder standing at the front
of the church, a look of total panic and
helplessness overwhelming him. He was staring
at the flames, frozen in place.

     "Go!"

     She jumped because she didn't realized
Father Michaels was standing beside her. He
handed her a flashlight and pointed in Mulder's
direction.

     "I'll hold them back," the priest promised.

     She wasn't sure who Father Michaels was
referring to, but she obediently ran to the front of
the church as he shouted out directions for
finding their way inside the tunnels. As she
headed towards the door that led to the
passageways, she realized Mulder wasn't
following her. She turned back around-the
adrenalin allowing her to grab his hand with her
burnt one-and tugged him toward the stairway.

     She pushed Mulder in front of her and looked
back. The last thing she saw before heading
down the stairs was Father Michaels standing in
front of the alter, silhouetted against the inferno
raging behind him.





     "Mulder, no, this way." Scully had grabbed his
arm, pulling him down a side tunnel.

     He followed her lead, glad that she had
remembered Father Michaels' hasty directions.
They ran side-by-side, the beams from their
flashlights bouncing along the dirt floor and walls
as they trotted along as fast as they dared over
the uneven terrain. With each step, it seemed his
panic was growing, even though he knew the fire
was well behind them now.

     Fire, why did it have to be fire? And where the
hell had it come from? One minute he was sure
someone was outside the front door, the next a
wall of flames was towering behind him. Scully
had literally dragged him from the aisle of the
church as he stood mesmerized by the fire.

     He suddenly had an image of the flames filling
the tunnel behind him, racing along the walls, the
heat radiating against his back. He closed his
eyes at the moment he thought the burning
tongues would overtake him, lost his footing, and
stumbled. Scully reached out and steadied him
before he fell. He stopped and opened his eyes
to the cool darkness of the tunnel.

     Scully was shining her flashlight between
them, illuminating both their faces.

     "Are you okay?" she asked between breaths.
"Did you hurt yourself?"

     Scully seemed almost calm. A new conviction
had come over her in the past 24 hours that he
envied. She glanced down and noticed his
flashlight beam dancing erratically on the floor.
She stood their steady-handed while he was
shaking like a leaf. She looked back up at him,
concern in her eyes.

     "The fire," he said in a way of explanation,
knowing she was familiar with his childhood
phobia.

     She placed her hand on his shoulder then
moved it to his face, gently running her thumb
across his cheekbone.

     "Hey, you have to stay with me here. After all,
you're supposed to be protecting us. Okay?" She
smiled encouragement, and he weakly returned
the smile.

     He knew what she was doing. Trying to
distract his fears by giving him a task. And even
though he knew she didn't really believe she
needed protection, it worked.

     The problem was that he didn't know what he
was protecting them from. A few days ago, he
had been certain that a supernatural evil was
stalking them. But after his run in last night with
that black-lunged son of a bitch, his convictions
had crumbled. He had spent all day going back
over the case files, trying to find any clues that the
missing women had implants in their necks. All to
no avail, and unable to directly ask Scully if she
found anything in the autopsy.

     He couldn't bring himself to tell Scully about
his unplanned meeting of the previous night and
the implications it held for her and the baby.
Eventually, he knew he would have to tell her, but
the immediate threat that was looming over them
took priority. At least that was the excuse he was
sticking to.

     Still, he couldn't shake the tingling feeling of
foreboding that had repeatedly proven itself
accurate. And it was vibrating through him, even
now while he was questioning its validity, filling
him with such dread that he found it impossible to
ignore. It had warned him of the impending threat
in the chapel above, and it was continuing to
grow here in the tunnel. The problem was, if the
attacks on Scully were the result of the chip in her
neck, which he now believed to be true, how was
he able to instinctively know the attacks were
about to happen? And that was the question that
he had really been trying to answer all day
without any success.

     His mind slowly returned to the task at hand as
his shaking subsided. He closed his eyes and
took a deep breath. When he reopened them, he
had control again. He reached up and took
Scully's hand from his face, enclosing her fingers
in his as he dropped them to his side. She
winced at the pressure, and he opened her palm
to examine it. The last of his personal concerns
vanished when he saw her skin was red and
blistered.

     "Scully, you're hurt!"

     She pulled the burnt hand away, replacing it
with her other and squeezed his hand
reassuringly.

     "I'm all right. Don't worry about it."

     Mulder returned the gesture but didn't let go.
The physical contact was too comforting to
abandon. Besides, if he was touching her, the
tingling apprehension lessened.

     "Where are we?" he asked, shining his light
down the tunnel.

     "According to Father Michaels, we should find
a grated entrance on the right that acts as a
feeder line to the sewers."

     Mulder thought for a moment. "From there we
should be able to find access to the surface. Let's
go."

     They found the grate and entered into the
cemented sewer culverts. From the looks of it, the
system was used more for storm water discharge
than sewage, which was a major relief. He had
dreaded slogging through waist high water.
Instead they found a few inches at the most. The
blackness was broken occasionally by a ray of
light cutting at an angle across the corridor.

     "Storm drains," he indicated to Scully, "Must
be streetlights up there."

     Scully nodded in agreement. "May be a way
out."

     Although the panic from the fire had left him,
the foreboding electrical charge in his skin was
still there, and it was getting stronger. He had to
get Scully to the surface and soon. Whatever
delay tactics Father Michaels had used, they
were no longer working, because something was
definitely coming. He could feel it vibrating
through his bones.

     They ran hand in hand down the tunnel, water
splashing up and soaking them from the knees
down. They stopped at the first band of light. The
storm drain was grated. So were the second and
third. But the third one also had a small manhole
cover adjacent to it. He would never fit, but he
thought Scully might.

     "All right, Scully," he said as he cupped his
hands together for a foothold. "Up you go." It was
then that he noticed she was barefooted. "Where
the hell are your shoes?"

     She looked down as though she had
forgotten. "We left kind of quickly. I didn't have
much time for putting on socks and tying shoes."

     Damn it, he cursed mentally. He almost made
a joke about being barefoot and pregnant but
stopped himself. Well, he definitely had to keep
their pursuers down in the tunnel because she
would never be able to outrun them barefooted.
He boosted her up, and she pushed the metal
cover off. It was a tight squeeze, but she made it
out.

     Her head reappeared in the hole, and she
lowered her good hand down to him.

     "Okay, Mulder, your turn."

     Mulder shook his head. "Scully, in case you
haven't noticed, I'm a broad-shouldered, hunk of
a man. I won't fit."

     Scully looked at the hole, then at Mulder,
obviously agreeing with his assessment of his
size. "Well then, I'll come back down."

     "No, Scully, you stay up there."

     "Mulder, I'm not leaving you behind."

     Mulder smiled up at her. He couldn't have
hand-picked a better partner. "You're not thinking
this through. There's more than just you up
there."

     She was obviously torn by what she should
do. She scanned the street to either side of her.
"There must be a larger manhole somewhere
near here."

     "Don't worry, I'll find one." But not before I lead
them away from you, he silently added to himself.

     As though she understood what he was
planning, her hand reappeared down the hole.
"Promise you will come up as soon as you find
one."

     "I'll find one, don't worry," he said as he
squeezed her hand. He was loathe to let go, and
by the lingering pressure she returned, he
guessed she was too.

     "Promise me, Mulder," she said again, looking
him in the eyes.

     "I promise," he said solemnly, returning her
gaze. With one final squeeze of her hand, he
released it. He pulled his extra magazine from his
back pocket and handed it up to her. "Here, take
this."

     She hesitated just a second before taking the
clip, standing and sliding the metal cover into
place.

     He shined his light down the tunnel, feeling
very much alone. He hated the thought of Scully
running barefooted, alone through the streets
above, but the thought of her trapped in the
tunnel was even worse. Besides, if he were lucky,
they would follow his trail down the tunnel
instead of hers to the surface.

     He started jogging down the corridor, slowing
at each grate to look for an opening. In the far
distance behind him, he could hear footsteps
splashing. Looking back, he could see a beam of
light waving with each splash. Time was running
short, and no openings were in site.

     His flashlight was working as a homing
beacon for his pursuer, so he clicked it off and
waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The
flashlight following him stopped for a moment,
then continued at a slower pace.

     He scanned the area ahead of him. The
beams of light from the grates provided a line of
direction, although they did little to illuminate the
uneven ground. He started walking again,
although much slower since he wasn't sure of his
footing. He reached the next drain and looked for
a way out. Nothing. The light behind him was
gaining ground. Soon he would have to turn his
flashlight back on and make a run for it. The other
option was to pull his gun and make a stand.

     It was then that he saw it, about 50 feet down
the tunnel-a small orange flame glowing
against a bent head. The flame vanished to be
replaced by an orange pinprick. The pinprick
floated through the darkness down and to the
right, then stopped.

     "You're 24 hours are up, Mr. Mulder. Have you
made a decision?"

     The voice echoed past him, causing the
flashlight behind him to recommence running. It
would be on him in less than a minute. Mulder
clicked on his flashlight and let it shine in the
smoking man's face. The smoking man held up a
manila folder to block his eyes from the glaring
light. He tossed his cigarette aside and reached
into his coat pocket.

     "I've upheld my end of the bargain," he said
indicating the envelope. "Are you willing to
uphold yours?" From his pocket, he withdrew a
small glass vile and offered it to Mulder.

     Mulder couldn't take his eyes from the vile.
The goose bumps were back, but he ignored
them. He tried to recall something from the back
of his mind, something about Scully, but it
vanished. It seemed his entire existence was
held in the vile. He took a slow step forward, then
another, until he stood a few feet from the man.
He could see the liquid was a translucent blue
and was struck by how beautifully the color
played against the beam of light shining through
it.

     "Just take the vile, and you can have the
information in the envelope."

     It seemed so simple. The envelope that would
give him exactly what he had been searching for
all these year was within his reach, and all he
had to do was take the vile. He hesitantly
reached out for the vile, afraid that the envelope
would disappear like a small animal if he made
any sudden moves.

     There was a sound coming from behind him
that was really starting to annoy him. It was
distracting, and he wished it would go away.

     "Take the vile, Mr. Mulder."

     Samantha. Soon he would know where she
was, know her children. He was a uncle! He
could take them to basketball games....

     "Take it!"

     His hand inched closer. His mother would be
thrilled. They would be a real family again, with
birthday parties for the kids....

     "Take it!"

     And holidays together. Just like Scully's family.
His hand stopped short of the desired vile. Scully,
there was something about Scully that he should
remember. Something important. And what was
that noise behind him?

     "Take the vile, now, Mr. Mulder." The words
came out a snarl and like a child chastised for
disobedience, he moved to act on the command.

     He gasped at the charge of electricity that ran
through his body as his fingers began to close
around the vial. The indistinct sound behind him
became the clear voice of Father Michaels.

     "Agent Mulder, NO!!"

     Mulder jumped away from the priest's hand
that rested on his shoulder and put his back
against the culvert wall. He felt as though he
were in two contradictory world at once, and his
mind reeled trying to bring them together.

     "If you touch that vile, Agent Mulder, you'll kill
Dana."

     Mulder looked back at the vile. As soon as he
saw it, he couldn't help but move slightly toward
it.

     Father Michaels continued, "Satan's greatest
strength is his power to divide, to turn love into
betrayal. If you take that vile, you will betray her,
and it will be her end."

     Mulder felt as if his entire being was ripping in
two. He looked at the priest who was holding his
hand out pleadingly. "Your hesitancy is
weakening her, even now. Listen to your heart,
and you will know I speak the truth."

     The same words came to him in a memory,
only spoken in a Haitian accent. An image of
Scully struggling against Krycek's grasp
coalesced in his mind. He moved toward the
priest.

     "Do you want to know where your sister is or
not?" the voice behind him snapped.

     "Samantha," Mulder whispered and hesitated.
How could he turn away when the answers were
within reach?

     Father Michaels face became stern. "What
price have you put on her soul and yours, Agent
Mulder? What will be your seven pieces of
silver?"

     The voice behind him changed. "Fox, come
here now!!"

     "Dad?" Mulder turned and looked into his
father's face. Suddenly, he felt seven years old.
His was holding the vile and envelope, and the
smoking man was nowhere to be seen.

     But his father was dead, wasn't her?

     "Agent Mulder, that is not your father. He is the
beast in the bottomless pit. Don't listen to him."
Father Michaels had a sickened look on his face.

     His father made a sound like an animal's
growl at Father Michaels. "This is no concern of
yours. This is between me and my son."

     Mulder looked at the man. He looked and
sounded just like his father, just like the father he
had dreamed about the night before. Just as the
smoking man that had been here had looked like
the man he had seen at the monument the night
before. He remembered the hougan's warning
about trusting himself and seeing everything in
his dreams. He closed his eyes and looked at his
father, not with his eyes but with his heart. He
could feel the evil, could almost smell a rotten
stench emanating from the man. At that moment,
he thought he heard Scully screaming a gut
wrenching "Nooo!" in confirmation of what he
now knew, that this man was not who he claimed
to be. That meant that the smoking man also
wasn't real and his associates weren't after
Scully, that her child wasn't some twisted hybrid
experiment.

     He reopened his eyes with a gasp and backed
away from the man with the vial. It no longer held
the beauty it had before. It looked putrid, as
though death was held captive within the glass.
He shuddered to think how close he had come to
touching it, to embracing the death it held for him
and Scully.

     "What the hell are you?" he asked, disgusted
with the man and himself for being so tempted.

     The face of his father contorted with rage until
it was more animal than human. "I am the
deliverance of your death."

     Mulder was frozen in place by nothing more
complex than wide-eyed shock as he watched
the demented image of his father lunge toward
him.

     Instantly, Father Michaels was in front of him.

     "You cannot harm this man, he is under my
protection."

     The priest's statement surprised him almost as
much as the attack had. Besides, he didn't need
protection, he thought as he reached for his gun
at the small of his back.

     The image of his father crouched as though
ready to pounce like a cat. "What can you do, little
priest?" he sneered.

     Mulder pulled his gun. "Father Michaels, get
out of the way!" he yelled to get a clear shot.

     But the priest ignored him and seemed to
stand even taller as he began speaking in a loud,
clear voice.

     "I am the child of God, and I am beloved. I am
the servant of God, and I do his bidding."

     Father Michaels began taking slow deliberate
steps toward the man, who now snarled before
him.

     "I am the sword of God, and I will smite thee. I
am the light of God, and I will banish the
darkness."

     Mulder still held his gun, "Father Michaels,
move!"

     The priest seemed to radiate a faint white
glow, although he was nowhere near a light
source. He continued his advance while still
speaking.

     "I am the hand of God, and I will crush thee. I
am the eyes of God, and I will reveal thee."

     The glow around Father Michaels brightened
dramatically into a blinding white light that
washed over Mulder in warm waves. The man
cowered now before the priest. Mulder dropped
his gun as he raised his hands up to shield his
eyes against the intense light. It seemed that the
light permeated through his hands, his closed
eyelids, and filled his head with a roaring. The
man let out a snarl of misery.

     "I am the ears of God, and I will hear only the
truth."

     The roaring in Mulder's head became a million
distinct voices speaking at once. Among the
voices, he could recognize those of people he
knew and loved blending with those of strangers.
The voices spoke in every language, and yet he
understood every word. Words of love, fear,
desire, hope, pain. Words spoken in praise,
anger, thanks, and submission. The prayers of
the entire world flowed through him, leaving him
disoriented by the shear volume of sound.

     "I am the spirit of God, and I will fill the
righteous with my essence."

     Mulder staggered back sightless against the
wall, as the cowering man's moan filled the
tunnel  and took its own unique place among the
myriad of voices he heard. The warmth of the
light still vibrated through him, overloading his
senses with emotions so raw and untame that he
keeled forward on his hands and knees. A million
images rushed through him to join the sound,
one vision for each voice. The images intensified
every thought, every emotion he felt pouring into
him. Each image flowed through his being so fast
that he was left gasping for breath. The sight of
laughing children was replaced by a wailing
woman, then a cowering man, a lost child, a
woman giving birth, a man on his death bed.

     The ground was spinning below him as he
pushed himself up and back against the culvert
wall. It had to end soon, or he thought he would
go insane. And yet, he didn't think he could stand
to be parted from the beauty that churned in him.
He had reached a state of euphoria so intense
that spasms of pain wracked his body. The
images began spinning around him in a dazzling
spiral, and the roaring in his ears took on a
rhythmic cadence. The spiral widened into a
vortex of black that sucked him down as the
cadence of the voices evolved into the quite
flutter of a fetal heartbeat. The blackness closed
over him and soothed the chaos in his head. As
he slipped into welcome oblivion, he heard
Father Michaels' final condemnation.

     "I am the voice of God, and I speak the word
Death."





     She was running. She was outside, on some
nameless street, in her bare feet, running.

     She had left Mulder in the tunnel, ignoring the
screaming voice in her head that told her not to
leave him there. As she had closed the manhole
cover, the last thing she saw was his sad eyes
looking up at her.

     Those hazel eyes.

     She was running as fast as she could, shining
the beam of the flashlight down at the street,
hoping desperately to find a manhole for Mulder
to fit through. She had come up somewhere in
the city park next to the church. But she didn't
have an accurate way to measure how far they
had run underground, or even which direction
they had come from. Now, she had no choice but
to follow the road in the direction they had been
running and deduce that the drainage system
probably followed it as well.

     She slowed down as she came a t-
intersection. The street she had been following
dead ended into a playground. She squinted at
the dark swing set, trying to decide whether to
continue straight ahead or follow the intersecting
road to the right or left. She honestly didn't have
a clue, nor had she noticed when she was
underground if the dark tunnel veered one way or
the other.

     "Eennie-minnie-minee-moe."

     Okay, so it wasn't very scientific, but she didn't
have time to consider anything else. The beam of
her flashlight landed to the right. That didn't feel
right, so she turned to the left instead. No, that
wasn't right either. She spun in a circle and
looked up at the sky, trying to see or smell the
smoke from the burning church. Nothing. So, she
headed up the embankment through the dark
playground.

     As she ran through the damp grass,
desperately searching for signs of another
drainage grate, a foreboding began building up
in her stomach. It became stronger and stronger
as it filled her body, radiating to the base of her
neck. She tried to focus on her task, to remember
that Mulder was trapped somewhere below her,
but it was becoming impossible to ignore.

     She felt someone was behind her. Chasing
her.

     As the grass emptied into a dark, deserted
parking lot, the sensation became so strong that
she had to glance back to see if anyone was
there. She turned backwards, slowing her pace,
and swept the flashlight behind her.

     No one was there. She forced herself to stop
for a moment and catch her breath.

     "No one, no one," she chanted with her
panting.

     She leaned over and put her hands on her
thighs, trying to convince herself that her
screaming fears were unfounded. That's when
she heard it.

     The sound of footsteps echoing on pavement.
They were approaching from behind her, in the
direction she had been running. And they were
getting closer, fast.

     She only glanced back as she began running
back over her path. This time, her pace was much
faster, abandoning her search for a manhole, and
her feet burned as they slapped down on the
hard pavement of the parking lot.

     She almost lost her footing as the pavement
gave way to the grass. She ran back through the
playground, straight through the swing set,
knocking one of the swings out of her way with
her burnt hand. Her only coherent thought was
that she had to get back to Mulder. With Mulder,
she would be safe.

     She was running. Through the dark, deserted
park, back out on some nameless street, trying to
get away from someone. She didn't know who.
But the terror building within her told her that it
was essential to her survival that she get away.

     As she ran, her eyes swept from side to side,
looking for a place to hide. On her first time down
the street, she had been so absorbed in her
search for a manhole that she hadn't noticed that
it was monotonously bordered by flat green lawn
on both sides. No ditches. No shrubs or trees.
Nothing, not even tall weeds. The only thing
sticking up was the gracefully curved streetlights
alternating sides every fifty feet or so, going on
endless down the endless street. She was trying
to avoid the pools of light, swerving around them.

     Her heart was beating out of her chest, and
every nerve in her body was screaming. The
footsteps were becoming louder and louder,
closer and closer behind her. They resonated
through her entire body, rising up into her throat,
vibrating her cranium. She was running as fast as
she could, now ignoring the pools of light.
Whoever was there had already spotted her, she
was sure of it.

     Shouldn't she be back to the manhole by
now? It seemed to Dana that she wasn't getting
anywhere. Like she was running in molasses.
The harder she tried to run, the less her muscles
seemed to respond. And the footsteps were
gaining on her.

     As she ran in what seemed like slow motion,
scanning the road in front of her, the panic rising
within her suddenly filled her mind with the
images of when she had been on this road. This
wasn't an unknown street. She had been running
down it another night before this one.

     In her dream.

     But she wasn't dreaming now, she was sure.
This was real. Her legs were wet from the sewer,
her feet painful from her running. Her hand
throbbed. Her fear was exploding out of her body.

     Her brain was screaming to her that her
pursuer was a man. He was chasing her, coming
after her. It was someone she needed to be
horribly afraid of, someone who was going to hurt
her.

     This can't be happening. This can't be
happening, she told herself.

     But it was. She knew the person behind her
was Alex Krycek.

     She threw the flashlight to the side and
reached behind her to pull her gun out of her
jeans. As she pulled it around in front of her, she
lost her grip on it. She desperately tried to grab
hold of it, and for a moment she thought she had
it. Then it bounced out of her palm and flew to the
road in front of her. She stumbled forward, trying
to slow down enough to reach down and pick it
up. She bent forward, reaching down with one
hand for the gun and putting the burnt one on the
road to keep her from flying head over heels.

     At the exact moment she grabbed the gun, he
was upon her. His weight jumping on top of her
caused her body to surge forward, and she
landed shoulders first on the pavement with a
"Umpf." The rest of her body flopped down after it.

     He was now on top of her, his weight holding
her on the ground. Her hand with the gun was
trapped underneath her body, and she was
desperately trying to raise up enough to free it.
Her burnt hand was clawing at the pavement, her
legs kicking, trying to free herself.

     Krycek's grabbed her free hand and pinned it
behind her back. She raised up her head to
scream, to call for Mulder to help her, but he took
his other hand and pushed her face back into the
ground.

     Her heart was beating out of her chest, and
her breath was coming in pants. She was
beginning to feel the rough asphalt through the
knees of her jeans as her efforts to free herself
ripped the material away. She needed to find the
strength to twist around and get her hand with the
gun out from under her. Instead, she felt like a
rubber band, too weak to make any real effort to
get away.

     She felt his hand fumbling for the waist band
of her jeans, trying to force the material down her
hips. In his frustration, he was lifting her hips off
the ground.

     "Nooo!" she screamed.

     The strength she was desperately searching
for surged through her with her scream, and with
her hips off the ground, she was able to get her
trapped arm out. She pushed her palm down on
the ground and managed to flip herself over.

     Krycek looked down at her, shocked that she
was now looking up at him. She absorbed the
wide-eyed look on his face as she took her free
hand and hit him as hard as she could with her
gun's grip. He was knocked off-balance from the
force of her blow and fell off of her to one side.
She focused her panic into rage and pulled her
knees up to her waist. She then hit him with both
legs, her power knocking him backwards across
the pavement several feet.

     Dana scrambled to her feet and stood over
Krycek, pointing the gun down at him. She heard
it click as she pulled back the hammer. She was
panting, trying to desperately catch her breath
and hold the gun steady. All the undealt-with
emotions from her original attack flooded her. Her
fear, her rage, her need for revenge for what he
had done to her, all rose out of her. Tears began
to stream down her cheeks.

     "We're not done." Dana's voice didn't sound
like her own. It was cold and hollow and
strangely empty of all the emotions she was
feeling.

     Krycek looked up at her terrified and began to
scoot away from her. Their eyes locked as
Dana's finger squeezed the trigger.

     The force of the bullet entering his skull
knocked him backwards. She watched as the
back of his head exploded in slow motion. She
stopped herself from emptying the rest of the
magazine into his lifeless body.

     After his body came to rest on the street, she
let the breath she had been holding out in a
furious scream.

     "I said, we're not done!"

     She closed her eyes and managed to stop her
tears.

     Maybe it had only been a few seconds. Maybe
it had been hours. She wasn't sure. She came
back to herself, quietly backing away from
Krycek's lifeless body, and wearily began
walking again in the direction of the manhole.
She was spent. She just needed to find Mulder
so she could go home.

     As she walked, she tried not to think about
what had almost happen. Instead, she found
herself blinded by the horrifying thought,
staggering down the road. She just wanted to lay
down right where she was and cry. To let all the
terror and remorse and rage out. But she kept
going forward, also needing to find the way back
down to Mulder.

     Finally, she gave out. She stopped at the side
of the road and fell to her knees, folding herself
over at the waist. She could still feel Krycek's
hands all over her, and that made her angry and
frightened all at once. She didn't know when she
began to chant.

     "God damn him. God damn him. God damn
him...."

     The hand on her head startled her. She darted
up, immediately drawing her gun in front of her.
And it took her a moment to process.

     Mulder was kneeling over her. He looked
relieved and worried all at once. She dropped
her hand with the gun to her side and lunged into
his arms without thinking.

     "Scully." He said quietly, wrapping a warm arm
around her. He was running a hand through her
hair. "It's okay. You're okay."

     She wrapped her arms around his waist and
held on. His embrace made her feel safe, and
she let out a wail as she cried against his chest.

     "I know." He said, whispering next to her ear.
"It's over. It's all over. Everything's going to be
okay." He rested his cheek up against her temple,
his breath right in her ear. "Nothing can hurt you
now." He tightened his hold around her.

     She sucked in a deep breath and relaxed in
his arms. The hand in her hair moved down
around her waist, rubbing soothingly over her
back. His other hand came up to her jaw, and his
thumb began caressing her cheek and lips.

     She suddenly became aware of his lips
against her ear. He was kissing her. The arm
around her waist pressed her against him. She
closed her eyes and mentally let go of any control
she had left. Whatever was going to happen was
going to happen. She didn't have the willpower
left to fight it.

     His lips were wrapped around the top of her
ear, tugging on it slightly. Her hips involuntarily
pressed up against his, and she felt him press
back. She tilted her head up to give him more
access.

     She lost control of her neck as his lip went
lower, and his tongue traced her ear. She let out
a low moan before she realized it. Now, she was
panting again, but for a very different reason.

     The thumb on her face was tracing a path
around her lips, and she parted them with her
moan. He pressed his thumb into her mouth, and
she began to suck and run her tongue over it.

     She couldn't believe she was doing this. She
had just experience a near repeat of the most
traumatic experience of her life, and now she was
in the middle of a public park having an
incredibly fulfilling sexual experience with her
partner. Some part of her brain told her that
maybe it was because she was almost raped by
Krycek again, and her need to fill safe was
allowing this to happen. But for now, she pushed
rational  thought out of her head. She needed to
enjoy this.

     She pressed her whole body against him and
was just about to suggest they take this to a more
private place when he suddenly raised his head
away from her. The air where his wet lips had
been rushed in around her ear and felt cold. She
let out a little whimper in protest.

     "Scully," he nervously said. "I can hear him."

     She didn't understand what he meant at first.
But after a moment, the fear in Mulder's voice
registered in her brain, and she realized he was
looking in the direction where she had left
Krycek.

     "Scully!" He sounded panicked. "I can hear
him. He's coming."

     She jerked around. Her gun was still in her
hand, and she held it in front of her, scanning the
dark road for Krycek. She didn't know how he
had survived the shot to the head, but she wasn't
about to let him get near her again.

     She strained to hear into the darkness, over
Mulder's agitated breathing, and the sound of
running footsteps slowly filled her ears. Her
heartbeat quickened, and the terror rose in her
throat again.

     "There." Mulder's voice was a hoarse whisper.
His hand grabbed hold of her upper arm and
directed the location of her gun. "Krycek. He's
there."

     She squinted in the darkness towards the
direction he had pointed her in. She could hear
the running closing in. And his fuzzy silhouette
came into view at the edge of one of the pools of
light.

     "Shoot!" Mulder yelled.

     She sucked her breath in and squeezed the
trigger. Without thinking, without taking aim, nine
shots fired off, the brass shells making a clink as
they fell to the street and bounced in different
directions. Her brain was blank, and she kept
depressing the trigger long after the magazine
was empty. Long after the silhouette fell to the
ground.

     As her brain began to process information
again, she turned to Mulder for reassurance.
Shock slapped her in the face as she realized he
wasn't there. She quickly looked to the left and
right, frantically searching for him. He was
nowhere in sight.

     The figure on the ground let out a soft groan.
Hesitatingly, she rose to her feet and began
walking towards it. She let the empty clip fall to
the ground and pulled the new one that Mulder
had given her out of her front pocket and clicked
it into place. She cautiously held the newly
loaded gun out in front of her.

     It wasn't until she entered the streetlight's
beam that the face of the man on the ground
clicked in her mind. It was contorted in pain, and
he was gasping for air.

     She had shot Father Michaels.

     Dana ran to him and knelt beside him. She
placed her burnt hand behind his head and lifted
it slightly to help him breathe. She stuffed the gun
into the front of her jeans and began searching
for his pulse.

     He opened his eyes and looked up at her. His
pulse was weak, and she knew he needed to get
to a hospital immediately. She wasn't sure how
many of her shots had hit him, but she could see
blood pooling out from under his shoulder and
right leg. She ran her hand over his chest and
also found his shirt soaked in blood.

     "Dana." His voice was only a whisper. "Listen."

     "Don't talk," she replied. "I need to slow the
bleeding." She looked around for something to
apply pressure with. She leaned back and
started to rip the bottom of her shirt.

     "No!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her back
to him. "Listen to me."

     She hesitated. He was going to die without
medical attention. Maybe even with it. She had to
do something to help him. This was her fault.

     He read her face and said, "It's okay, Dana.
I've dreamt this moment for months. I know you
didn't mean to shoot me. But there is nothing you
can do for me now. And I need to tell you..." His
voice trailed off, and he winced.

     She leaned over him. "I'm listening." She
would give him her undivided attention. She took
his hand in hers and squeezed.

     He opened his eyes and said, "You must hide.
The dragon will follow you. He will be waiting.
Waiting to devour the child." He closed his eyes
and began to choke.

     She took her hand from his and tugged to
loosen his collar. A single tear slowly trailed
down her cheek. She couldn't just let him die.
Once again she began to rip at her shirt. She
removed a strip of material and began examining
his chest. Finding the entry wound, she began to
apply pressure to slow the bleeding.

     The choking stopped, and he opened his eyes
once again. He raised his hand to her face and
wiped her tear. She thought how ironic it was that
he was dying at her hand, and he was trying to
comfort her. She looked up at him, and their eyes
met.

     "Go to the wilderness," he whispered quickly to
her. "Only stop on holy ground." His eyes shot
past her, and she turned her head to see what he
was looking at.

     Mulder was standing behind her, staring down
at the priest. She hadn't heard him walk up.

     "Mulder," she said, still applying pressure to
the chest wound. "He's seriously injured. I need
you to go for help."

     Mulder didn't acknowledge her. All of his
attention was focused on the priest. She was
surprised at how stern he looked.

     "Mulder," she said louder. "Did you hear me?
We need to find a phone and call the
paramedics."

    In a single, forceful motion, Mulder
approached, roughly grabbed her, and lifted her
off the ground. As her hands left Father Michaels
chest, Mulder's arm came around in front of her
and grabbed the gun out of her jeans. He threw it
several feet away.

     She began to struggle as he backed away
from the priest. His hands tightened around her
painfully, and he lifted her even higher. She was
straining to get her feet back on the pavement, as
well as trying to get away from him.

     She gasped as he casually tossed her into the
grass, like she was nothing more than a rag doll.
She landed hard on her bottom, several feet from
Father Michael's feet,  the breath knocked out of
her. Mulder slowly walked towards the priest.

     Her brain couldn't wrap around what was
going on. Mulder was standing over the priest,
his face full of rage. A low, animal-like snarl left
his mouth, and he straighten up, his features
suddenly very cat-like. She watched in wide-
eyed horror as he let out an inhuman roar and
pounced upon Father Michaels. He began to
devour the priest, reminding her of a leopard
attack on a lame baby elephant that she had
once seen on the Discovery Channel.

     She was frozen in place. Somewhere in the
back of her brain, a voice was screaming to help
the priest. But she couldn't move. Held to the
ground by some unseen force.

     Blood poured and sprayed the ground around
Father Michaels. The Mulder-creature snarled
and roared, his arms a blur as he beat and tore
and ripped at the priest's body. The
gruesomeness of it caused her to turn her head
upwards. Her nails dug into the soft ground.

     Above her, the bejeweled sky contrasted the
awful scene before her. She caught sight of
Andromeda just as it went out of focus from the
tears filling her eyes. She took a deep breath and
let out a scream.

     The stars above her seemed to swirl with her
tears, and a group of stars spiraled towards her.
She became mesmerized by them. She watched
totally entranced as they descended from the sky,
each becoming a ball of light the size of a
glowing tennis ball. They reminded her of Tinker
Bell, enchanted with fluorescent pixie dust. She
gazed at them as they neared her, swirling
around her head and body. Their light illuminated
her. Their heat warmed her, overloading her
senses as joy and child-like wonder poured out
of her.

     Her trance was broken by the sound of female
voices. "Dana! Dana! Dana! Dana!"

     They were gently calling her name, trying to
get her attention. With disbelief, she realized that
the lights were talking to her. Their voices filled
her ears, their gentle whispers seeming to
include the sounds of the ocean surf, the rain in
the trees, the wind rushing past her ears. The
voices caressed her.

     "A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free.
A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free."

     The chanting of the lights became a roar in her
head. It seemed as if the whole world was now
spinning around her. She closed her eyes and
tried to search her memory for the significance of
that phrase. Where had she heard it before?

     She opened her eyes as four of the lights
danced off into the distance, leaving behind the
echo of a little girl's laughter. The three remaining
lights hovered in front of her.

     "A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free.
A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free."

     The three points of light suddenly became
super novas, momentarily blinding her and
rushing past her. In their wake, the shimmering
images of three women stood, each radiating a
pure white light from their glowing, white robes.
She looked at the three faces, trying to find
meaning in the phrase they were still chanting.
They all wore expressions of utter bliss, filling her
with a sense of protection and peace.

     "A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free.
A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free."

     Her gaze came to rest on the face in the
middle. She knew she recognized the woman.
And as she gazed upon her, a name floated to
her.

     Genevieve Baptiste.

     She gasped as she realized she had cut into
this woman's cold body in Miami. Genevieve
gestured down in front of Dana as the chant
gently changed.

     "You know. You know. You know."

     Dana looked down to where Genevieve was
gesturing and saw her gun laying on the street
where the creature had thrown it. And suddenly
her heart told her what she needed to do.

     She glanced over towards the attack. The
creature was now standing over Father Michaels
lifeless body. His features melting and blending,
one second becoming Mulder, the next Krycek,
the next her father. The priest's blood covered
him, dripping from his clothes and hands. As if in
response to her glance, his attention suddenly
turned to her.

     She looked back to Genevieve and
instinctively lunged for her gun. Her brain shut off,
and she only heard her heart talking.

     A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free.
The creature couldn't harm her, couldn't harm her
baby, if she set their souls free.

     She crawled on all fours and grabbed the gun.
She sat back to find the creature now walking
towards her, his face darkening into a mixture of
a panther, and Krycek, and pure evil. Quickly, she
put the gun into her mouth and squinted her eyes
shut.

     Time slowed as her finger began to squeeze
the trigger. She heard the bullet release in the
chamber. The image of a Christmas when she
was ten and her whole family had been happy
and together. Mulder's face as her told her "No
one down here but the FBI's most unwanted."
Emily looking up from her coloring and smiling.
Father Michaels brushing the hair off her face.

     As she felt the force of the bullet enter her
mouth, she saw Clyde Bruckman as he told her
how she would die. "You don't."

     At the time, she had thought it odd. Now, she
thought what an odd thought to have for her last
thought.

     She felt the bullet rip through her skull and exit
the back of her head. The pain exploded through
her body. Her last breath left her. Her heart beat
suddenly stop. She felt the fetus' heart beat stop
as well.

     She felt her essence being sucked into a black
vortex. The blackness soothed her, enclosed her.
For a moment, she was suspended in it.

     Dana opened her eyes. The dark, star-filled
sky twinkled above her. She sat straight up, for a
moment not sure of where she was or what had
happened. She blinked down the deserted road,
then down at herself. Her hand was still wrapped
loosely around the gun.

     And she remember.

     There was no sign of Father Michaels' body.
Or the creature. Or the three women. For a
moment, she doubted that any of it had
happened. And if it hadn't been for her pounding
headache, she might have never looked.

     She ran her throbbing, burnt hand behind her
head and pulled it back. There was no blood. But
just to make sure that she really had lost her
mind, she took her gun and pulled out the clip.

     She gasped at the empty space she saw. One
bullet was missing.

     Her brain offered the logical suggestion that
Mulder hadn't fully loaded the magazine, but she
wasn't buying it. She looked down, her hands
sweeping the ground around her, and she found
it laying on the road beside her right thigh.

     The empty shell.





     Forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours and...how
many states?

     Mulder listed them off in his head in an attempt
to stay awake. Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia,
Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and
finally New Mexico.

     Forty-eight hours that had become one blurred
emotional roller coaster. It had begun in the
sewers of Maryland and had lead them here to
this now familiar motel in Farmington, New
Mexico. In between had been a series of
goodbyes, financial arrangements, and hours
upon hours of asphalt, gas stations, and mini
marts. Had it really only been 48 hours? To his
mind it seemed like only 48 minutes, but to his
exhausted body it felt more like 48 years.

     They needed to heal, both physically and
emotionally. "Go to the wilderness. Only stop on
holy ground," had been Father Michaels' final
warning. So, the sacred red rocks of New Mexico
and the Navajo healers had seemed the logical
choice for the sanctuary they so desperately
needed.

     They had arrived less than an hour ago, just
as the sun was lowering over the western
horizon. They had checked into the same motel
Scully had brought him to. Now, that seemed like
a lifetime ago.

     He hadn't been terribly surprised to find Albert
Hosteen, the old Navajo code talker, waiting with
his grandson in the parking lot when they arrived.
As soon as he had awakened in the drainage
system in Maryland, he had known that the
previous three days had just been one set in
many more to come. He also knew that even
though forces were working against them, other
forces were working to help them.

     They used their new identities to check into the
motel, Don and Kim Lewis from Portland, Oregon.
Byers had hacked into the Multnomah County
DMV and obtained the new driver's licenses,
which Frohike had printed using new
photographs. New tags for his car would be easy
to obtain from Oregon since there was no
requirement to see the vehicle for registration in
that state. New social security cards came next.
He couldn't believe that Byers had chosen the
name Donald for him. He definitely was not a
Donald, but at least it was only temporary.

     This was just the first of many tasks the Lone
Gunmen were handling. They were also in the
process of selling Scully's car and most of his
belongings to gain them some more cash. What
he hadn't hastily packed, he had left for the
Gunmen to keep or sell as they saw fit. The sight
of his video collection had been a near euphoric
experience for them, and Langly had solemnly
vowed to care for his fish in return.

     They had withdrawn the money from both of
their checking and savings accounts and put it in
a separate account with Frohike's favorite alias
as the name on the account. The problem was
that Frohike wouldn't even tell them what the
alias was, claiming they should have no
connection to the account at all. It was a good
thing that he trusted these guys, or they had just
been conned out of almost everything they
owned. Thank God they still had their federal
pensions and 401Ks sitting in reserve.

     The guys were still working on hacking into the
Mutual of Omaha system to get them emergency
insurance coverage when they left. He knew that
didn't come close to covering everything that they
needed, but it was a start and had covered most
of the immediate necessities. Given the short time
they had for planning, he was impressed with
how much they actually had accomplished.

     They had entered the motel room in silence.
Scully did nothing more than take a trip to the
bathroom before collapsing on the bed and
sinking into sleep, not bothering to even remove
her shoes.

     Mulder watched her from the other bed. The
dimming light outside cast a rosy haze in the
room. Scully breathed softly in her sleep, bathed
in the warm glow of a southwestern sunset being
filtered through mini blinds. Mulder yearned to
close his still sensitive eyes, but he didn't dare let
her leave his sight.

     The low light had lessened the pain in his
temples, which had abated only slightly since the
night of the final attack. He had never
experienced such an intensely bright light. It had
only last a few seconds before he passed out, but
the burns around his eyes looked like he had
been sunbaked for several hours. He would have
also sworn that Father Michaels had been
consumed by the intense white light, and he had
told Scully that when she had found him leaning
blindly against the wall of the sewer.

     He wasn't sure when he had actually regained
consciousness because he awoke to the same
blackness that had engulfed him. He guessed it
must have been when the images and sounds
had finally faded from his mind. The fluttering of
the heartbeat had become the sound of
splashing footsteps running toward him and
Scully's concerned calling of his name. His panic
over not being able to see had subsided
somewhat when he heard her voice and knew
she was alive. She had performed a cursory
exam of him when she found him and helped him
to his feet. He had tried to explain to her what he
had experienced, but the words had come out in
almost as great a flood as the sounds and
images he was trying to describe. Finally, he had
just told her what he believed was the demise of
the priest in that horribly beautiful light.

     Scully had tearfully informed him that she had
been with the renegade priest when he died and
would say nothing more about it except his last
words of advice.

     His death had been hard on both of them. It
had surprised him how much it had effected him,
given their rocky relationship over those few
days. But he could no longer deny the
selflessness Father Michaels had shown them
both.

     Scully seemed almost inconsolable over the
loss. She would often weep softly on their long
cross-country excursion, and Mulder wasn't sure
if it was from the priest's death, leaving her family,
hormones, or a combination of them all.

     The whole ordeal had been rough on both of
them, and they traveled mostly in silence, trading
off driving so that one could rest while the other
drove. Because of his eyes, he could only drive at
night, leaving the majority of the driving to Scully.
He had hated that more than anything else on the
trip. Scully was bruised almost as badly as she
had been after her rape, and he knew her burnt
hand made driving difficult. But every time he
opened his eyes during the day, the pain was so
intense that he felt nauseous. At one of the truck
stops along their route, he had purchased some
large, square sunglasses with side shield-the
type that little old ladies seemed so fond of-and
they had helped somewhat, allowing him to drive
from twilight to dawn.

     During their trip, they spoke only about their
immediate plans, otherwise they were lost in their
own thoughts. He had thought mostly about his
mother. How he was the only family she had left,
and how he was now leaving her alone in the
world. Even doing what he knew was the right
thing didn't relieve him of his guilt. They had
decided not to say goodbye to their mothers in
person, leaving quickly written letters to be
delivered by the Gunmen. He had also sent an e-
mail to Skinner explaining very ambiguously how
they were in danger from a recent case and felt
they must disappear for a while.

     He wondered if he returned in 20 years would
he still be assigned the X-files? He surprised
even himself at how easily he had walked away
from his work. Evidently, he did have the
necessary conviction to leave everything behind
for what he believed in. Still, he had fought so
hard to keep the files open, to search for the truth.

     The truth? The truth was that he and Scully
were running for their lives and probably would
be for a long time to come. Even here in New
Mexico, he knew they could only hide for a
month, maybe two, before they had to move on to
the next safe haven Frohike could find. He knew
now that they could not defeat this enemy, that
was a battle reserved for the child. But it was his
responsibility to keep the child, and therefore
Scully, safe until that time.

     The reality of Scully's pregnancy was finally
sinking in, and given their current predicament, it
terrified him. Up until know, he had handled it
instinctively, reacting to the immediate dangers.
Let's face it, he had only known about it for about
a week now, and what a week it had been. Now
the more mundane concerns associated with any
pregnancy were surfacing. He worried about the
lack of medical care that would be available to
her and the baby. Although, she had assured him
that she had paid attention during medical school
when they covered prenatal care.

     He also felt that this was completely unfair for
Scully. She was actually going to have what she
thought she never could, and she was forced to
live the life of a fugitive. She deserved to have
baby showers and a nursery to decorate. She
should be worrying about her mother giving too
much advice, cloth versus disposable, picking a
name. Not what evil forces where lurking in the
shadows.

     But sometimes, when she didn't think he was
looking, she would place her hand on her
abdomen and a look of such utter joy would
come over her that Mulder knew none of that
mattered as long as the baby was safe. At these
time, a wave of tranquility would wash away the
tension in the car, and he would be overwhelmed
by the love he felt for this child and the woman
who carried it inside her. It was a love that
transcended friendship or sexuality, and he
wondered if this is what fatherhood was like.

     That was a question that tickled at the back of
his mind. Was he the father of this child? Scully
seemed convinced that he was, although she
had never come right out and said it. He knew
she had requested a paternity and maternity test
from the amniotic fluid, but he didn't think she had
ever received the results. And she had shown no
interest in getting them at this point. Maybe she
would eventually want to know, but that would be
her decision. But that still left him with the
question, was he the father? Every time he tried
to answer that question on his own, another,
more relevant question would surface. Does it
really matter? And the answer was always a
resounding "No."

     Scully whimpered softly in her sleep. He
wondered absently if she was dreaming. He
would find out in the morning. That was one
decision they had both wholeheartedly agreed
on, to tell everything about their dreams. He had
come to the conclusion that much of what had
transpired over the past week could have been
prevented or at least approached differently if
they had known each others' dreams.

     He rose from the bed and sat softly next to her
on the other. Ever so gently, he brushed some
hairs back from her face.

     "Mulder?" she mumbled sleepily.

     "Everything's okay, Scully. Go back to sleep."

     She rolled over on her other side and sighed.
"What are we going to do?"

     He knew that she wasn't talking about their
short term plans; they had discussed those a
number of times. She was fearing the same thing
that he was, a completely new life filled with
uncertainties. He slid down so that he was laying
beside her, his chest resting against her back,
and put his arm around her waist and rested his
hand on her abdomen.

     He finally understood what the hougan had
meant when he said that three was the strongest
number. Before he had thought that Father
Michaels was the third, and he had lost hope at
his death. But now he knew they were three at
this moment and had been three all along, and
he could feel the strength as twilight descended
on their motor lodge in rural New Mexico.

     "We wait," he said, as he finally allowed his
eyes to close. "We wait together."





     Agent Beaubrun sat behind his desk at the
Miami field office. Most of the other agents and
staff had left for home over an hour ago. A
cleaning woman vacuumed the next hallway
over, so that he only heard the muffled hum of the
machine as she ran it back and forth over the
carpeting. Beaubrun picked up the receiver on
his phone and reluctantly dialed the number from
memory. He heard the phone answered on the
other end, but no greeting was given, as usual.

     "Its Beaubrun." He said uneasily, fearful to give
his message. "We've lost them. They are no
longer in the D.C. area. Mulder isn't answering
his cell phone or using his credit cards, so we
haven't been able to trace him."  And even the
strength of the true new moon on the third night
would not be enough to find them if they didn't
have at least a general idea of where they were,
he added to himself.

     He waited for a response, but there was none.
The silence made him nervous, so he continued.
"I have others looking, hopefully we will find them
in time." Although he knew that time was running
out, and if he didn't find them soon, his time
would definitely run out. If only she had stayed in
Miami until the new moon like she was supposed
to, everything would have been taken care of.

     "Maybe if we could identify the people who
were assisting them, but so far they have alluded
us. Is there anything else we should do?"

     A deep voice, dripping with malice, finally
responded. "Sooner or later they will make a
mistake, then we will have them. Until then, we
wait."





"All dreams of the soul end
in a beautiful man's or woman's body."

W.B. Yeats
Phases of the Moon