Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 22 August 2002

Self Lost

"Avenging angels?" Mulder asked, as his eyes scanned the folder that lay open in his lap. "The X-Files investigates angels now?" He shut the manila folder with thinly veiled contempt and looked up at Skinner. "I thought we were finally being taken seriously, but I can see I was mistaken."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Scully said dryly, as she extended a hand toward her partner. "May I?"

"First time for what?" Mulder asked, as he passed the file over. "Angels? Or the X-Files not being taken seriously?"

"Both," she said shortly, as she studied the folder.

"I understand your -- reticence -- regarding this case, Agent Mulder," Skinner said quietly. "But let me assure you, it is serious. There have been three deaths now; the victims were badly beaten, repeatedly stabbed, and had their eyes burned out." He paused a moment, letting the gruesome details hang in the air. "And you will note," he continued, "it was the witnesses who mentioned angels, not the local LEOs. The local law enforcement officials are approaching this from a decidedly earthly angle, but have requested Bureau assistance."

"Well," Mulder said, casting a sly glance at Scully, "religious fanaticism is really not my area of expertise, Sir. Perhaps Agent Scully should field this one by herself."

Scully looked up from her perusal of the case papers, arched one eyebrow dramatically, and said, "Religious fanaticism? What's that supposed to mean, Agent 'Elvis lives?'"

"Hey!" Mulder protested. "Didn't you see 'Men in Black?'" He paused, making sure he had her attention, then deadpanned in a fair Tommy Lee Jones voice, "Elvis isn't dead -- he just went home." He grinned over at her. "That movie validated my life's work," he added melodramatically.

There was another pause and Skinner took the time to study them both. The last year had been a tense one for them both, and he had, at times, worried about their partnership, their rapport. He'd been scarce for much of the time; their transfer to Kersh making it hard to keep an eye on his two renegades. And, there'd been that messy business with Diana Fowley, something that still didn't seem completely resolved. But the lightheartedness of their interaction was a positive sign as far as he was concerned, and he was pleased.

Of course, it wasn't his nature to let them know that, so he cleared his throat and scowled.

Mulder turned back to face Skinner. He wiggled his fingers in the air and mimicked, "They're heeeeere ..." The improvised falsetto impression lingered for a moment, then he laughed, an actually happy sound, earning a rare smile from Scully and even the typically stone-faced Skinner couldn't completely suppress the small quirk that lifted one corner of his mouth.

Pleased with himself, Mulder turned serious and said, "Honestly, Sir, I don't think there's an X-File in this one. I think this is more your garden-variety serial killer, and if Bureau involvement is really called for, VCS should be the one to go. I'm not really thrilled with having to go to New York."

Scully still had a slightly amused look on her face as she returned to the folder she held.

Truthfully, Skinner agreed with Mulder, but this one had been taken out of his hands. He scowled again, this time in frustration and distrust at the directive that had been handed him, then said, "That's enough." He waited until both of them were looking at him, then said, "This came down from upstairs with a great big X on the front. That means it belongs to both of you." He stopped fiddling with the pen in his hands, clicked the top, and scrawled his name across a piece of paper before thrusting it out toward them. "I'll expect both of you to be on the first plane out." Conversation concluded, he dropped his head and began to sort the many layers of paper that seemed to cover his desk in an unending snowfall of documents.

"Dismissed," he said shortly, never lifting his head to watch as his two agents rose and departed in silence. When the door closed behind them, he looked up, eyes roving the seemingly empty room, and his shoulders drooped. A small sigh escaped him as he pondered why someone was so intent on pushing Mulder back into VCS work. Skinner knew the man was a genius at crawling into a killer's mind and ferreting out his deepest secrets, but he also knew it took a terrible toll on him. He'd fought this assignment as hard and as far as he could, but in the end, he'd been overruled, and there had even been a threat to transfer the X-Files from his department. He'd given in, but was still extremely uneasy. Other than monitoring the case closely, there wasn't much else he could do.

He hated having his hands tied like this.

"Yes, ma'am, I understand," Scully said gently, "there was a light ..."

"A bright, white light," the elderly woman interjected quickly, and Scully glanced up at Mulder, standing by a window behind the old woman and rolling his eyes.

"Yes, ma'am, a bright, white light -- but did you actually see what happened to Mr. Amaldi?"

The woman shook her head. "The angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were much afeared," she intoned, then shrugged. "The light was too bright. I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't even move, I was so overtaken by the Presence." Her face hardened as she looked at Scully. "Mr. Amaldi was an evil, evil man. I'm glad that he's gone. He was a blot on all humanity. It's only just that God should send his angel to strike him down."

"So you couldn't see, and you couldn't move." This was old information, already covered in the reports, as the light had been. But there was no point in redoing the interviews if you weren't willing to go back over the old information. You never knew when something new might be knocked loose.

"Did you hear anything?" Scully was doing her best to persevere in the hopes that just that would happen; some useable scrap of information that had been missed in the prior interviews would suddenly appear.

Mulder was doing his best to wear a path in the carpet behind the sofa.

"There was a loud hum, high-pitched, and it got louder and higher as the light grew." The woman winced at the memory and lifted her hands to her head. "It hurt my ears."

"Anything else? Anything at all?" They already knew about the hum.

The woman frowned, thinking. "I thought I felt something sting me," she said uncertainly. "I didn't really mention it because I just assumed it was a fly or a mosquito."

Bingo!

Scully cast a pleased look up at Mulder, and saw that he was nodding, suddenly interested. This was new information.

"Did anyone ask you for a blood sample?" she asked.

The woman shook her head mutely, eyes widening.

Scully cut her eyes to Mulder again, then said, "I'd like to arrange to have one taken, if you would agree."

"Why?" The woman was sounding petulant now. "What are you looking for?"

"We're not sure," Scully responded. "But you said there was a noise, and a light, and you couldn't move. It may all be connected with the sting you felt." She smiled then, trying to ease the woman's growing discomfort. "It probably was a bite of some kind, but we'd just like to be sure."

With obvious trepidation, the woman slowly nodded, and Scully made the arrangements.

"It's a synthetic form of a curare derivative." She glanced around the motel room to see Mulder stop by the large window. "Quick-acting, and apparently doesn't last too long. There are a number of other agents in there as well, and some new combinations that must have accounted for the fact that no one was paralyzed to the point that they stopped breathing. A neat trick." Scully looked up from the report to find Mulder's eyes on her, that look of intense concentration she had come to know firmly in their depths. If he hadn't wanted the case, if it hadn't interested him at first, this had caught his attention. As she watched, she fancied she could almost see the gears turning as he worked to process the multiple discrete elements in the case into a gestalt.

"So he drugged them? Blinded them with the light, distracted them with the noise, then shot them, or pricked them, or dosed them somehow."

"It had to be a prick. Curare has no reaction when ingested, only when it's injected."

"So, he kills the one he wants, fades the noise and light as he makes his escape, and the witnesses revive on their own, thinking they've just seen an avenging angel."

Scully tilted her head. Despite her intention to get Mulder to focus on the case, she wasn't sure she liked the result. His eyes were rapidly glazing, acquiring a look of obsession. His breathing was growing fast and erratic, and she could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. She was willing to bet, if she touched him, it would be a cold sweat.

"Possibly," she said, in as neutral a tone as she could manage.

"Possibly? Scully, you did the work; you figured it out. Of course that was what happened. Once you had a clue as to what to screen for, it all fell into place." He shook his head, and she was pleased to see some of the fevered intensity drop away.

"There's still a lot of work to be done," she reminded him. "Knowing what happened, even having a working hypothesis, doesn't necessarily help unless we have a suspect."

"Helps us find a suspect. Gives us a place to start." Mulder was pacing now, tension building again as his steps increased in speed. "Someone who had access to the drugs, or the raw materials. Someone who knew how to make this stuff -- this quick freeze potion."

He paused in mid-step, staring directly at her. She waited for him to speak, then began to fidget slightly under the intensity of his gaze. She was about to speak to him, when she realized he wasn't staring at her -- he was staring through her. He didn't even see her. He'd drifted off to someplace where she couldn't follow.

She called his name, not really surprised when he didn't answer, then called him again, a bit louder. Still no response. A few short steps and she was standing in front of him. "Mulder?" Gently, so as not to startle him, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm. Still no reaction. She'd seen this before. She knew this. This was Mulder -- lost in a killer's mind. Why the hell hadn't she thought about this before she was so quick to float this little mystery before him? This was why he'd given up his WunderKind status and fought so hard for the X-Files. Besides giving him the opportunity to pursue his sister's disappearance, it also saved him from the madness that profiling created. Saved him from the sewers of a killer's thoughts. Saved him from the darkness that lurked in his own soul.

"Mulder," she called again, rubbing the arm she still touched. "Hey, partner, come on back. I need you to talk to me." Her hand roved from arm to shoulder and over to touch his face. A firm touch, but gentle, a connection to reality if he would just acknowledge it. "Mulder," she said again, still stroking his cheek, hand straying up to brush his hair back. "Talk to me, Mulder."

He was cold beneath her touch, his skin seeming to grow more chilled with each passing second. Hesitant though she was to break the connection, she dropped her hand and stepped quickly to his bed, yanking back the spread and pulling the blanket off. She wrapped it around him, then took a deep breath, thinking. How many times had she touched this man in all the years they'd worked together? How many times had she offered her hand, that physical human connection that was so real and yet, so rare? She was closer to Mulder than she was to anyone else on the planet, and yet, they rarely touched. And when they did, it was not the friendly touch of a hand on an arm or a hug in greeting or good-bye. And certainly not the deeper, more meaning-filled touches of a man and woman. Their touching was filled with crisis and, oft-times, panic.

A sad thought, but Diana Fowley had touched him more in the last year than she had in six.

She looked at him, standing there, lost in some far-off place of madness and confusion, then she wrapped her arms around him. She was inches below his face, but stood on tip-toe and lifted her head so she could speak directly into his ear.

"C'mon, Mulder, we gotta make a report and I'll be damned if I'm gonna write it all by myself this time." She held him tightly and rubbed his back. She continued to speak to him, keeping her words light and non-threatening. She counted his breaths and counted his heartbeats. And she waited. Finally, when she was almost ready to give in and call for help, he stirred.

She released him immediately and stepped back, watching as he took a deep breath, then slowly focused on her. "Scully," he said hoarsely, then he glanced around the room, noting the unmade bed, and the blanket resting on his shoulders. He flushed and dropped his head, stepping back to sit on the bed.

"Figure anything out?" she asked quietly, watching as he flushed again.

"There's something about their eyes. That's what attracts him."

She pursed her lips as she looked at him. She didn't doubt him, but no one else would believe just on his say so. "And you know this, how?"

He shrugged, drawing the blanket more tightly around himself. "It fits. In a way, the angel theory is correct. He sees himself as an avenger, out to right wrongs and remove those who would harm others." He shivered suddenly, a full-body quiver that shook the bed, and she hurried to sit beside him and wrap an arm around him, lend him some warmth. He seemed startled at her proximity, then relaxed into her embrace, and she could feel the tension drain from him.

She studied him again. His face was wet, cold sweat streaked his forehead and cheeks, and his hair was damp. Beneath the blanket, his shirt clung moistly to his back. She sat quietly for a few moments longer, then rose and pulled him up behind her. She tugged him toward the bathroom, saying, "Take a hot shower, Mulder. You'll feel better. I'm gonna order some dinner for us."

He stared at her for a long time, and this time, when she began to fidget, it was because he was staring at her. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time, and there was something in his eyes when he looked at her, something she had only caught glimpses of before. Something that was real and intense, and filled with the passion Mulder brought to everything he believed in. He stared at her and she felt he was looking into her heart, her soul. Then he smiled, the moment broke, and he ducked into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

The water pounded down on him, hot and steamy, and he could feel the cords in his neck and back begin to loosen. He stood directly within the pulsing stream, letting the cleansing flow wash over him. It didn't erase the images he had envisioned in his mind, but it did help to still the shivers and warm his too-cool flesh. It was his curse -- this ability to imagine. It enabled him to extract specifics from the vast amounts of information he could store in his memory, but it also gave him nightmares. All too frequently, the visions he conjured up were far worse than what the killers did. It made him doubt his own sanity when he realized his creations far outstripped a madman's when it came to sociopathic behaviors.

Through the stream of the water, he could vaguely hear his phone ring twice, and then stop, which told him Scully had waited for him in his room. He smiled then, pleased. She'd seemed closer to him, more open, than she had in a long time. His vocalized declaration of love after his debacle in the Devil's Triangle seemed to have pushed her away. The fact that there'd been no playful intimacy between them for so long, along with the lack of the light banter he was accustomed to, made him wonder why she continued to put up with him. Especially when Diana kept popping up, and he kept reacting to her.

But tonight, for whatever reason, she seemed to be fully with him, knowing instinctively what he needed and willing to provide it. It warmed his heart as the water warmed his body. He was smiling as he ducked his head under the water and began to bathe.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and then Scully's head popped in. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's been a development. We need to roll." The door shut quickly.

Mulder cut the water, wrapped in a towel and emerged.

"What happened?" Mulder was pulling clothes from his travel bag, throwing them on the bed.

Scully had her coat on and was gathering papers into her briefcase. "There was another one. But this time, something seemed to go wrong. All the other victims were men whom the witnesses described as 'bad' or 'evil.' Apparently no one was disposed to try to help them."

"Turn your back, Scully," Mulder said as the towel dropped.

She paused as she pulled the belt of the trench coat around, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, then obediently turned. "This time, our killer must have read things wrong. He went after a man who was having a loud and very ugly fight with his wife. But when the light came on, she moved -- I'm still not clear on what happened, but the husband is dead, and the killer managed to paralyze himself. It's a freaking mess." She sighed, then added, "I'm going to the morgue; gonna look at the body. You're going to Bellevue. They have the guy up on the psych ward."

"Psych ward? You trying to tell me something?" Mulder was almost dressed now, sitting on the bed to put on socks and shoes.

She snorted. "NYPD is on site, but the guy's not talking. Everything is sorta on hold until you get there." She turned back around, smiling. "Apparently, your reputation for getting through to the bad guys has preceded you and they're gonna let you talk to him first."

"He's slippery, Scully. He's not what he seems. He started with a mission, but I think he's losing it."

"Then you be very careful," she responded, startling him again when she reached out and touched his arm before she turned to leave.

"Agent Mulder?" The man was in his fifties, slightly overweight, but with a full head of iron gray hair. His hand was extended, and Mulder was pleased to see there didn't appear to be the all too frequent resentment that accompanied Bureau involvement in local cases. Mulder held out his own hand.

"I'm Frank Nowak. I gotta tell you, we're all pretty impressed with your call on the drug screen. Knowing what caused this guy to freeze up, and how long we could expect it to last, was a real help when we caught him. We appreciate your input."

Mulder smiled and said, "Not mine. My partner's. She's the one that caught it."

"Oh, yeah, right." The man seemed slightly nonplused by Mulder's easy self-deprecation. "Forensic pathologist? She went over to look at the victim, right?"

"Yeah. I dropped her there, then came on here. I think I'm illegally parked."

The man waved the comment away. "Everyone's illegally parked in New York. Don't worry about it. But now," he turned and led the way through a series of security doors, "let's go talk to this guy. I understand you're supposed to be pretty good at this kind of thing."

Mulder listened, waiting for the taunt, the snide comment, the general disbelief that usually accompanied remarks on his skill as a profiler. But there was nothing in Nowak's tone except admiration, and a clear need for and willingness to accept help. "I've had some experience with it, yes," he said cautiously, "but each case, each perpetrator is different."

Nowak grunted. "This guy is certainly different, that's for sure."

"Surely you can understand that they had to die?"

Mulder shook his head. "The last man you killed was happily married, never been in trouble with the law, held the same job for over twenty years." He studied the man sitting across from him, took in the quick look of surprise that crossed his face, before the obstinate pout of one who has been wronged slid smoothly back in place. "Tom Jackson was just having a disagreement with his wife."

"NO!" the man thundered, hand coming down to slam against the table.

There was a rustling behind Mulder, and he could hear Nowak and his partner, John Huddy, moving forward, but he waved them back.

"Yes," he said evenly. "He wasn't a bad man; he never did anything wrong. He just didn't like his daughter's boyfriend, and he didn't like it that his wife didn't agree with how he wanted to handle it."

"It was dark," the man said. "It was all dark. I could look into his eyes and see the dark."

"You were wrong," Mulder said simply.

"It was dark and deep, far down below, and I was the only one who knew the way."

Mulder turned and looked at the men behind him and mouthed, "Enough?"

Nowak shook his head and said, "Will he say it?"

Mulder shrugged. The guy was obviously nuts. Turned out the psych ward at Bellevue was extremely appropriate. Who could tell if he would come right out and confess? And if he did, would it be admissible, given his state of mind? But, he was here, and Nowak had been all right so far, so, if he wanted him to try for a confession, he'd try.

"You were the only one who knew the way to what?" Mulder stopped, as if a new thought had just occurred to him, and asked, "And what am I supposed to call you, anyway?"

"Priest," the man said absently, and Mulder started to attribute it to his mania, but then he added, "Fenton Priest."

Swallowing his surprise, Mulder said, "All right, Fenton, what did you know the way to?"

"To the low places, the dark places, the way out of the maze."

"And what did knowing the way out have to do with Garcia and Amaldi and the others?"

"Their eyes were dead. They were like all the others in the low places. Dead inside. It was like a cancer and it had to be taken out -- burned away."

He rose and began to pace, and once again, Mulder waved Nowak back.

"Dead, dead, dead," the man chanted. "But I know the way. They can't catch me, all those dead eyes. I can be in the dark, and I can be in the lowest place, and I can find my way back." He paused his pacing then walked slowly and deliberately to a wall, and began pounding his head against it.

Mulder was on his feet, moving with Nowak and Huddy, and they grabbed him and forced him back into the chair. But the damage was done. There was a lump developing over one eye, and a gash had opened, blood dripping slowly down Priest's face.

"Aw, fuck!" Nowak muttered. "Now we gotta get a nurse in here."

"Not a good idea," Mulder said. "I don't like this."

"Sorry, my man," the older detective responded. "It's not an option. NYPD has taken too many hits for not providing proper care or following proper procedure. The suspect is injured -- he gets medical attention."

Priest sat, head bowed and unmoving, and mumbled, "Down in the dark, through the maze, save them from themselves. Down, down, down ..."

Huddy had moved to the door, and was calling for a nurse. Nowak still stood by the prisoner.

"This was too deliberate," Mulder said, "too orchestrated. Something's not right. Was he searched?"

Nowak snorted in disgust. "Thoroughly, I assure you."

Priest's head was still down, and he watched as if fascinated as drops of blood dripped from his brow to the table.

"I don't like the idea of letting someone else in here. I -- I feel like we're losing control. He's set something up."

"He's gotta be treated. I'm not gonna get hung out to dry for not taking care of my prisoner." Nowak was adamant, and Mulder nodded, backing away to stand by the wall and try and put things together in his head.

He was soon lost in thought, lost in that place of madness and mayhem where he did his best work. His hands shook, and he shivered in the cold, but he never moved as the young nurse came in, bandages in hand and approached Priest.

He didn't see the glare of disgust she turned on the three men, didn't see her hand gently reach out to lift the suspect's head. He didn't hear her soft exclamation of surprise, or Nowak's reiterated comment, "He did it to himself."

Mulder was processing. He was putting things together, synthesizing what he knew. He was deep in his own maze, following the discarded threads of sanity that led deeper and deeper, lower and lower ... Deeper! Lower! It clicked in his head and he knew what Priest had been talking about.

He looked up suddenly, just in time to see Priest move. The man's hand snaked out just as the nurse reached into a pocket to remove scissors to cut the tape on the bandage she had placed over his wound. He yanked the scissors from her hands, rose and swiveled, pulling her around to stand before him, the sharp points of the scissors pressed tight against her throat.

He shimmied backwards, the woman dragging against him, and nodded for Huddy to move from the door. The younger man looked at Nowak, who nodded. Priest backed against the door and kicked. It opened almost at once. He backed swiftly down the hall, and into a small control room. He depressed buttons, turned a knob, and then was moving again, the nurse still clutched to his chest. With amazing speed, he was through the doors, threatening to kill her if anyone moved closer to him.

The alarm klaxons rang, a sharp whistle from the intercom filled the air, and through the window, vaguely, he could hear sirens blare as they worked their way through the grid-locked New York traffic. The stolen weapon in hand, silver flashing in the sunlight, the man kept behind the nurse's station as he disappeared through the last door, his hostage -- or was it victim? -- pulled with him as the last line of defense.

As Mulder watched, the last doors shut, and all around him he could hear the "slam, clank, snick," of metal on metal as the lock-down was triggered. All hope of following vanished as completely as the madman with the still, dead eyes.

Mulder hung from the access ladder, sweaty hands making his grip a questionable thing. Even as he kicked futilely on the sealed shaft doors across from him, he struggled for balance and to maintain his precarious perch. The doors to the next floor, the only way out until the mandatory two hour lock-down elapsed, seemed flimsy enough -- twin layers of thin sheet metal. But despite his best efforts, all he could do was make dents and a lot of noise, a deafening boom that rang in the silence of the shaft and echoed up to the floor above him.

"Elevator maintenance says look for a hand crank," Nowak called down. "On the wall."

"A what?" Mulder answered, the words half-swallowed as his foot slipped and he grabbed the ladder with both hands. He stilled himself for a moment, breathing heavily, knowing he'd pay for the vicious, if useless, flailing at the doors with a limp. If he didn't fall off the god damn ladder first.

"A crank handle," Nowak hollered again. "On the wall. Fits into a slot or something."

"Great," Mulder muttered, even as he checked the sides of the shaft, scanning unfamiliar mechanics around the sealed door. On one side was a contraption that resembled a vise. He studied it intently, then continued looking. Wedged into a groove near it was what had to be the handle. Shaped like an H, with bottom left and top right removed, it looked as if it might fit the vise.

"See it?"

Stretching hard, he pulled the truncated H out of its resting place, hefted it in his hand. "I think this is it," he called back to Novak. He leaned out again, just barely reaching the vise slot, pushed in, then took hold and turned. "Probably fucked it up, kicking the damn door like that," he mumbled, but the doors were creaking and he could make out a slight movement and the shaft slowly unsealed.

"On a roll!" he yelled, hyped by success. Stretched to his limit, each full turn was exhausting and only moved the door about an inch, but he persevered. "What's the status now?" he called, strength failing as he pushed from his awkward stance. "Your guys get him in the basement?"

There was silence from above, and Mulder stopped his cranking, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes. "Well?" he demanded.

There was an uncomfortable throat clearing, then Nowak said, "There was a small problem. By the time our guys got there, he was in, the door sealed from inside. They're, uh, busting it down now."

"Fuck!" Mulder went back to his painfully slow cranking. "A complete fucking clusterfuck, that's what this has been."

"Not to worry." Nowak's voice was more certain now, sure of himself and his department. "We've got him cornered in that basement. He's not going anywhere."

Mulder grunted, and yanked on the handle with all his strength. One foot slipped and he pitched sideways, barely catching himself before plunging off into the shaft. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"What's that?" Nowak asked. "Can't hear you."

"Forget it. He's gone."

"What? You can't know that!"

"Weren't you listening? All the bastard talked about was going down into the dark, staying low, finding his way through the maze."

"Yeah, so?"

"What's one thing New York is famous for?"

"What? I only get to pick one?"

"The fucking sewers, you shithead! He's going for the sewers!"

"No fucking way, man! We've got him nailed in the basement."

The doors were pulled back about 15 inches, enough room to slip through if Mulder could make the leap over without killing himself. "You don't have him!" he shouted, body poised for the jump. "The bastard is already gone!"

"No fucking way!"

Mulder jumped. Sweaty hands hit the metal door jamb, and began to slide. He was slipping, sliding, dropping, falling, and he screamed, "Yes, dammit! Way!" He gave a mighty heave, body contorting from sheer panic. But this got him up and through, and he was lying face down on the floor, legs still protruding into the empty shaft behind him.

"Mulder? Mulder?" Nowak was calling. "You make it, man?"

But he was already up and running, heading straight for the stairwell and eleven flights of steps.

It was what she expected. The same gruesome wounds to the eyes -- well, the eye sockets at this point. Knowing what she was looking for this time, she was able to pinpoint the small needle mark on the man's arm. She took skin, hair, and blood samples, and labeled them, then stood for a moment, staring down into the dead man's face.

It was such a senseless loss.

She was shaken from her reverie by the ring of her cell phone. She quickly stripped the gloves from her hands, dug into her pocket, and flipped the small black case open. "Scully."

"His name is Fenton Priest, Scully. He knows New York, knows the sewers, the underground especially." Mulder was panting, seven flights down, four to go.

"What happened?" she asked, hearing his breathlessness.

"He's loose. He took a nurse and locked down the holding ward. I think he's been here before." Another flight. Three to go. His steps echoed in the stairwell, his voice loud in the empty space.

"I'm on my way." Scully was already shoving the gurney toward the cold storage locker.

"Background, Scully. Find out about this guy, will ya?" Two more flights.

She pushed the gurney the last way, then slammed the door. "All right." She glanced as her watch. "You've got the car."

"You don't need to come here," he panted. One more flight of stairs. It was getting harder and harder to talk.

"I'm coming. I'll get a cab." Through the phone she could hear a door open. "Mulder, what are you doing?"

"I'm going after him." A click, and the phone went dead.

The basement door was open and the Quick Response Team had fanned out through the area, searching. It was pitch black; Priest had apparently stopped long enough to pull the circuit breaker. Flashlights danced through the darkness, and an occasional curse split the air as an elbow slammed into a wall, or a toe impacted a shelf.

A huge man, morbidly obese despite being close to seven feet tall, lumbered up behind Mulder. "Somebody cut the lights?"

"You know where the breaker box is?" Mulder asked.

"Should," the man answered. "My job."

Mulder followed the big man's light, trailing after him into the darkness. The light flitted over the wall, touching on a metal box, then darting past to highlight an open space before the man brought it back.

"What's that?" Mulder demanded urgently, reaching out to grab the light from the man's hands.

He moved swiftly past the maintenance man, light shining on a metal plate that lay against the wall. Behind him, there was a series of clicks and then overheads came on, almost blinding him with their yellow glow. The flashlight was pointed at a hole now, revealed by the absence of the plate on the ground. It was an access to the city steam pipes. Moisture hissed from pipe connections, and an odor of mildew and hot metal filled the air.

"I'll be damned," the big man said, even as QRT began to trickle in around the hole.

A radio chirped and there was a hurried conversation then a young woman, a lieutenant, spoke up. "Agent Mulder? It's your call."

Mulder's eyes never moved from the hole. "Have someone dig up maps to the underground. We're gonna need them. Make sure my partner knows where I am."

"And where are you going to be, sir?" the woman asked.

He stepped through the hole, light shining into the darkness before him. "Right behind Priest," he said, as the blackness swallowed him up.

"Where is he?" Scully's voice was loud, and even she could hear the tinge of hysteria that was creeping in. Manhattan traffic had played havoc with her travel and it had taken her far longer than she had expected to travel the twenty-some blocks from the medical examiner's office to the hospital.

"He went after the suspect, ma'am," the woman said patiently. She could imagine how this woman was feeling. If Mulder had been her partner, she'd have been ready to kill him.

"Alone?"

The woman nodded.

"Alone," Scully repeated. "And you didn't take your team in because ...?" The question hung between them.

"The air was foul. You could smell it from where we stood. I went in a dozen yards or so, and it just got worse. Once we got masks, I sent a crew in to track Agent Mulder."

"And you didn't find him?"

"No."

"Or the suspect?"

"No."

"Or the hostage?"

"No."

"So you pulled back."

The petite woman was making her feel like an idiot, a rookie, despite the fact that she was forty years old and had earned her rank with hard work and long hours. She knew her job; she'd made the right decision. So why was she feeling so guilty now?

The lieutenant watched as the other woman produced a cell phone, ignoring the hospital convention against the devices, and placed a call.

"Get me AD Skinner," she said, and there was a pause. Then, "Sir? This is Scully. We caught the guy and Mulder was interrogating him. The suspect injured himself, grabbed the nurse that was patching him up and escaped."

There was another pause, and the lieutenant could just imagine what the woman's boss was saying. She didn't expect it would be very complimentary to the NYPD. She sighed as she listened.

"Mulder got out right behind the guy and tracked him to the hospital basement. He apparently went into the underground pipe system. Mulder followed him."

The redhead held the phone out from her ear slightly, and the lieutenant could hear the deep voice that boomed from it. It went on for some time, until finally she pulled the phone back to her ear and spoke again.

"No, Sir." The FBI agent gave the QRT office a dirty look, then said, "He's alone. NYPD declined to follow."

The phone left her ear with alacrity that time, and stayed out at a distance for quite a while. When the invective faded away, she pulled it close and listened for a moment, then said, "Yes, Sir. I'll look for you there." She closed the phone without saying good-bye and turned to stare at the lieutenant.

"Assistant Director Skinner will be here in a couple hours. The Bureau will be assuming control of the search for the suspect," she fixed the woman with a steely glare, "and my partner."

It was a tight fit -- dark, hot, and closed in. The steam pipes hissed on both sides of him, and above his head as well. He was walking through a narrow passage, bent over to keep from banging his head on the pipes overhead, and trying desperately to breathe through the handkerchief he held to his nose.

The air was foul -- it made his eyes water and his nose run. His throat was tight -- alternatively dry and itchy or filled with the sour-sweet taste of bile from his uneasy stomach. He still held the maintenance man's flashlight, using it to push the darkness aside a few feet at a time. His gun was in the hand that held the handkerchief to his face, and that arm was already growing weak with the strain of holding the weapon up. His legs were tired from his frantic race down the stairs, and his lungs were protesting that what he was trying to tell them was air, was really poison, and they were having nothing of it.

He pressed on resolutely, determined that Priest couldn't have that much of a lead on him. He was, after all, dragging the woman. Or so Mulder hoped. He hadn't seen a discarded body, so there was hope that the woman was still alive and still with Priest, just waiting for him to catch up to them. Mulder picked up his pace, pushing oxygen-starved lungs and muscles to work harder and faster. He found himself adapting to the narrow tunnel of piping, the periodic protrusions of wire cage that hung from the overheads. He was doing something between a jog and a skitter as he moved rapidly through the increasingly loud, hot, and foul-smelling tunnel.

Moving quickly now, having found his rhythm, he was beginning to feel he was bound to catch the man. A huge wall suddenly reared up in front of him, with pipes to the left, to the right, and above him, vanishing into the solid concrete barrier.

"Fuck!" He'd missed something. He turned and headed back, moving slowly this time, using the light to scan the sides and beneath the pipes, checking the ceiling as well.

He'd lost precious time and was almost three quarters of the way back when the stench rose up and almost choked him. His stomach heaved and the air itself seemed thick, almost tangible. The steam here was heavy, the vapors rising, and scalding water droplets were falling to splash with a rhythmic 'drip, drip' on the uneven concrete flooring.

He paused, forcing himself to sniff the air, then gagging. The odor was very bad here -- worse than it was in the other parts of the tunnel. He looked around, searching for an opening into the sewers, and finally found it, down low and tucked behind the left steam pipe. He dropped to the filthy floor, and shimmied under the hot pipe, lying on his belly to look down through a small access port.

About ten feet below him, he could just make out the shape of a ladder, pulled from the hooks under his hand, and left discarded in the lower passageway. He played the light over all the visible areas, then shifted carefully, rolled into the hole and let himself drop. The odor was much worse here, and the floor was covered in a thin layer of muck and slime. He gagged again, swallowed hard, and focused the light in on two pairs of footprints, one moving confidently, the other dragging at intervals, that led off through a passage to the west.

Mulder set off immediately. It never occurred to him to replace the ladder or leave a marker so that he could be found.

"Thank you for coming, Sir," Scully said.

Skinner dismissed the young agent who had met him at the airport and dropped his carryon at his feet. He slung the briefcase up on the table, and opened it, pulling out a stack of paper. "This is what I was able to get on Priest before my flight left. If he's really in the underground, Mulder's gonna have a hell of a time finding him."

"How so?"

"His father worked for the transit authority, surveying the subway lines. Probably got his first taste of life underground as a kid. Then Priest worked for a short time for the city."

"Doing what? No, let me guess. Something in the pipes, right?"

Skinner smiled grimly and touched his nose. "On one," he said. "Was part of a crew that was updating the old pipes, pulling out the ones made with asbestos and replacing them with PVC."

"You said he worked for the city for a short time. Why?"

"Kept wandering off the job, going off into the tunnels. Wasn't productive and it wasn't safe. I called his former supervisor, managed to have a brief conversation with him. He remembered Priest well. Didn't want to let the kid go. Sole support of a widowed mother. Father was killed at work when the kid was seventeen. They think some homeless guy, living in the tunnels, went nuts and just beat the father to death."

"So he knows the area." Scully turned and looked off into space. "Dammit, Mulder, why didn't you wait?" she muttered to the air, and Skinner, thoughtfully, did not answer.

"There's a team in the tunnels now?" he asked.

"No, they followed the passageway Mulder went into until it ended. Swear it has no way out. They're saying he must have slipped back into the basement at some point."

"Didn't they have a guard on the entry?" Skinner asked sharply.

"Yeah, so they say. But they still say he must have gotten by, because they swear he's not in there."

Skinner was quiet for a long time. Scully took the papers from him and began to read about Fenton Priest, while he worked out the next step.

"We'll take another team and go back in," the AD said finally. "QRT must have missed something."

"I'll go," Scully said immediately, but Skinner was shaking his head.

"I need you here. We still have to get a handle on this man Priest, and you've got the most experience so far. You've seen his work, examined the victims. Take some time and read the files. I've got Research running the data base now for additional information."

"But, Sir," Scully protested, "he may be injured. He may need medical attention." She stared at him with large, worried blue eyes. It was never voiced, but Skinner heard it nonetheless.

He may need me.

He shook his head gently, pleased to see that the bond that made these two such a formidable team seemed to be back, and stronger than ever. This was the Scully he remembered, ready to fly off to Puerto Rico, or down to the Bermuda Triangle in search of her wayward partner. "You stay here, Scully. Keep the investigation going." He paused a moment, then added with a slight smile to soften his words, "I'll go fetch the headstrong Agent Mulder myself."

He followed the muddy footprints for what seemed like miles. They tracked on and on and on in an endless trail of sludge and stink that slowly seemed to cover his clothing and fill his sinuses. He breathed through his mouth, and still held the cloth over his face, but it was hard, hard, hard, to get the exchange of gases his lungs were starving for.

At last something different appeared. The footsteps disappeared into an open door, some sort of chamber, left conveniently unsealed. Mulder approached, his body cringing involuntarily as he moved closer to the opening. He couldn't count on being able to get off a shot. If Priest had any sense, he'd keep the woman in front of him. Mulder nodded grimly. That was what he'd do. He froze. He knew it was what he'd do. The seed was planted; the thought was firmly in his head. If I were Priest, what would I do? Mulder flicked the flashlight off, then closed his eyes and stood swaying in the inky blackness.

He knows these tunnels, he has to. He's been here before, knows how to get around. His steps are too confident, his direction too well-planned for it to be 'seat of the pants.' Where was he going?

Mulder drew a deep breath, then tipped his head back, stretching upwards, nose extended, and breathed again. Slightly cooler, slightly cleaner air, and he'd almost missed it.

Priest was going up.

What was up? Why would he want to go up?

Up was out, but that wasn't it. Mulder sensed instinctively that there was another reason Priest was heading up. What else was up?

The storm drains? Less cluttered, no pipes, no conduits, just open pathways despite the almost certain flow of water that would cover the floor. A man could move quickly through the storm drains, even with a hostage. And then he could get out, or go back down, or move from the drainage system to the sewage system to the cable and conduit system, even into the subway tunnels. It would offer the best of the underground system, a sort of all purpose changing system to move from one plane to another.

Mulder's eyes were still closed, head still back, and he was lost in plans of tunnels and mazes, of sewage and carnage. In the sewage system, you could kill with impunity. No one would look for bodies there. There were people who lived in the New York underground, weren't there? Mulder could remember reading about it, seeing documentaries on TV. A whole community that couldn't complain if some of their number began to disappear, or turned up dead with their eyes burned out.

And they would be the kind of people who should die. The kind who had dull, flat eyes, and didn't contribute to the world. People who didn't deserve to live. Mulder's eyes popped open at the next thought.

Dangerous people.

That was the trigger. Something had happened to Priest in the tunnel. Something that set him off as an avenger. And then, he escalated and moved up top, bringing his fear, his anger, and his need to kill. Beginning to feed on the top dwellers.

Priest had shifted levels from here. Mulder could feel it. The odor was strong here, almost overpowering, and he could feel the eddies of air that circled his body and plucked at his hair and clothes. Where was the connector?

I am Priest, Mulder said to himself. I know these tunnels; this is my home. I can make these walls tell me their secrets because this is where I belong.

He drew a deep breath, holding it, and forced himself to stop all movement, to focus on what he could hear and feel. There was a steady drip, drip, drip from a pipe. A low, almost constant vibration, a hum that permeated the ground and sank into his bones, setting his teeth on edge. It came from nowhere and everywhere, never starting, never ending. And the air. The air was alive around him. It was a thick blanket that enclosed him, a living, moving shroud that shifted against his skin, stroking him, ruffling his hair, whispering in his ear like a lover. Drawing him forward.

He glided into the darkness, instinctively following the tease of the air. He moved easily, languidly, relaxed in the choking atmosphere, sliding through the muck covered floor. At home in the sewers of a killer. He was one with the city's underbelly. Alive in the darkness. His bones the rocky foundation that held the city up. His veins the tunnels that raced through the teeming underground. His blood the vital power source that surged and pulsed beneath the ground, and made the city run.

This was how Priest did it. He became the underground. Dark and dirty, fouled and misshapen, hidden from the rest of the world, but vital to its very existence, he was the city.

Mulder froze again. The air had shifted, changing currents swiftly washing over him. Without breathing, he turned on the light and looked around. Nothing. He was sure it was here -- the connection, the next step, the path that Priest had followed -- but he could see nothing. He still wasn't far enough in to be able to see with Priest's eyes.

He still knew who he was.

His vision blurred and he staggered a bit, and then he remembered to breathe. He coughed, holding the cloth tight to his mouth and nose, gasping desperately for real oxygen and not this fouled excuse that tried to pass for air down here. His lungs hurt, felt seared as if they had been burned. He coughed and coughed, and choked, and coughed again. And then he heard it.

An echo.

He shifted under pipes and rose again, staring up at a tiny patch of light, far, far above.

Daylight.

His eyes watered and he wondered how long he had been in the tunnels. Hours? Days? Had it been day or night when he went in? He honestly couldn't remember.

Scully would know. He paused, thinking. Scully would know. Why the hell hadn't he called Scully hours ago? He stuck the flashlight in his belt, and dug frantically in his pockets for the cell phone that was always there, but came up empty. It confused him for a moment, trying to remember if he'd had the phone, or where he might have lost it.

And it was then that he began to realize that breathing these fumes might not be so healthy. His thinking was confused, foggy, and his reflexes were slowing. He needed to get out, to get real air, to see real light. And he needed to do it now, before he became completely a part of the savage sewers of New York.

He looked up again. There were metal ladder rungs welded to the wall, going all the way up. He put the gun in his holster and tied the handkerchief around his face, wondering idly why he hadn't thought to do it sooner, and began to climb.

Skinner yanked his arm from the hand that held it and said, "No!"

The man shrugged. "No options, Mr. AD. City says outta the tunnels; we gotta get outta the tunnels."

"My agent is still down here," Skinner said through tightly clenched teeth.

"Not according to QRT. They say he got out."

"No one saw him."

The man shrugged again. "Where else could he be?"

"Down that hole I found."

"Nah," the man said. "We checked that on the map. It's a dead end. Opens to a small chamber -- used to be used for system exchange, but it's been blocked off for years."

"You said yourself those maps might not be accurate."

"Best we got." The man pulled himself up straight, then sighed. "Look, Mr. Skinner, I sympathize with you. But we still gotta get outta the tunnels. Now."

"Why?"

"City's flushing the sewage system down here today." He dropped his eyes, and added, "You better hope QRT was right and your boy got out 'cause ain't nothing gonna be alive down here in a few more minutes.

Mulder finished the climb, exhausted. There was a metal storm grate over his head and he was ankle deep in a thick, nasty soup of dirty water, mud, and other things he preferred not to think about. He took a deep breath, wishing he had the rubber fireman boots he had taken to carrying in the trunk of his car. And a respirator; anything that would filter out the suffocating stench of sewer gases.

Oh shit!

Sewer gases. He could see daylight through the grate above. He was in the storm drain, not the sewage system. He should be breathing considerably cleaner air.

So why was the rank stench of raw sewage still so overwhelming? What was wrong? What had he missed?

Fuck! It was almost impossible to concentrate when the air itself was your enemy, your eyes were watering so badly you couldn't see, and your throat was closed tight, swallowing made almost impossible.

To say nothing of the fear that was branded into your belly that the man you were chasing was far worse than you had imagined. That there were layers to his psychopathic mind that had yet to be revealed. And that each new layer, each new atrocity, would only serve to bring you closer and closer to the demons that haunted your own dark passageways.

Something was going on here. Something that Priest knew and he did not. Priest was on his home territory; Mulder was the invader in the city's soft underbelly.

He shook his head, trying to force the killer from his mind. He was letting him psych him out. He had to keep moving, keep following the man. It was his job. It was his duty. It was the only thing that separated him from being just like Priest.

You can find him -- just keep moving.

He forced his feet to shuffle through the thick muck on the floor. His shoes were completely covered; the oozing mud was being sucked up his trouser legs as the absorbent material drank in the liquid sludge. He was covered in filth now, and his senses were shutting down. He couldn't even smell the sewage any more. He pushed on, forcing himself to move forward.

It seemed his thinking was shutting down as well. How long could someone function in an oxygen-deprived environment?

Scully would know.

He stopped again and a smile crossed his face. Scully would find him. She always did. She would make them take the damn tunnels apart, but she would find him. All he had to do was hang in there until she got to him. It was a reassuring thought, the first he'd had in hours.

He was still standing there, pursuit forgotten, lost in the memory of a small, red-haired woman who never let him down, when he felt it. A distinct throb beneath his feet. A vibration that seemed to roll over him, swallowing him in its wake. He looked down and saw that the slime was deeper, its surface roiling from the vibrations.

What was going on? What the hell had happened?

And then the air began to move. At first it was like a breeze, caressing his hair, and brushing it back from his sweat-covered forehead. Then it was harder and his wet clothes began to flap and pull in the wind, and then he was leaning into what felt like a full-fledged gale.

What the fuck was this? Hey, Scully, I think I'm in trouble here.

He never heard the onrush of the water, but he saw it a split second before it rolled over him, engulfing him in a dark, shimmering wave. It was on him so fast, so completely, he never had a chance to turn or run, or seek escape. He just stood there, watching it and then he was lost, surrendering to the oily, black tidal wave that filled the tunnel. He was caught in the undertow, sucked down and turning, tumbling head over heels, hands grasping out blindly for something -- anything.

For a moment it seemed Scully was there, holding him. Then the light was gone, the air was gone, and she too, was gone. He was left alone, trying to survive without light or air or the comfort of her presence.

And then there were no thoughts at all.

The car hadn't even stopped when Scully had the door open and was out. Stumbling a bit, she caught her balance, and raced for the police cordon. Skinner was a bit slower, waiting for the driver to park, but he was quickly out behind her, and making his way around the car to follow in her wake.

"Let me through!" he heard her demand of the burly traffic cop who had halted her forward motion.

She was digging in her pocket, pulling out her badge, even as the man responded, "Sorry, ma'am. We've got an emergency in here."

She shoved the badge in the young officer's face. "That's my partner. Let me pass!"

The boy, and Skinner could see he was hardly more than a boy, took a step back, but held his ground. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he tried again, "but I have orders that no one gets past.

Skinner called out, "FBI! Let her by," but the boy either didn't hear, didn't care, or ignored him. The AD shrugged. He'd tried. He watched as Scully backed up, almost as if she was going to leave and he could see the cop relax. Then she moved, stepping forward, grabbing the much larger kid by his collar, and her knee was coming up. He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch, and heard the horrible, high-pitched squeal that escaped the boy's lips. When he opened his eyes again, the cop was on the ground and Scully was gone.

He shook his head, then stepped forward, showed his own badge, and offered the young man a hand up.

"That's her partner," he said, watching as the kid tried to straighten. "Someday, if you're really lucky, you'll have a partner that cares enough about you to do what she just did." He gazed sympathetically at the young cop, then added, "You probably can't appreciate that level of devotion right now, but you will some day." He started to move on, then turned and looked back. "Oh, and you should learn when to make exceptions to the 'let no one pass' rule. It'll save you a lot of trouble in the future."

He reached Scully in time to hear her say, "I told you, I'm his partner," as she slipped by a med tech and moved to stand by the gurney.

A hoarse, broken voice from the gurney croaked, "Better stay out of her way. She's a good shot." The voice was overcome by coughing then, and Skinner watched as Scully gently held Mulder's shoulder until the fit passed, totally oblivious to the oily black goo that covered him, and was now starting to cover her tailored suit. She scanned the immediate area, eyes lighting on a damp cloth that an EMT held, and she took it, pressing it to Mulder's lips.

Skinner caught the medic's attention and spoke quietly. "She's a doctor, too. She won't do anything to hurt him, and she won't get in your way. You'd be smart to leave her alone."

The medic looked back at the red-headed lioness prowling by the gurney, swallowed, and nodded.

"What the hell happened here?" Skinner demanded, when he finally recognized an NYPD face. It was the man who had chased him from the tunnels.

"Guess you were right after all," he said sheepishly. "Your man wasn't out. He got caught in the backwash, hung onto a storm grate, and eventually caught someone's attention -- no mean feat in New York. They called the fire department, one of our dispatchers heard the call, knew we'd been monitoring movement in the tunnels, and voila -- here we all are." The man turned serious. "He should be OK, the medic said. Just banged up, and they're a little worried about fluid in his lungs." A smile, and the man wrinkled his nose. "And he seriously needs a bath."

Skinner gave a half laugh, and moved toward his agents, halting when he heard the conversation.

"Enough with the drowning, ok, Mulder?" Scully smiled down at the man on the gurney, trying to stay out of the way of the paramedic who was taking vitals and making a report preparatory to transport. "No more drowning."

Mulder was nodding, his hair leaving a dark, greasy stain on the white sheet. " 'kay, Scully," he promised, his eyes never leaving her face. He coughed again, then half-rose and leaned over. She had her arms wrapped around him, holding him, as he vomited up more of the nasty, black sewer water he had swallowed in the deluge. He finished and she helped him lay back, holding him while he panted and caught his breath. "Sorry," he mumbled.

She shook her head fiercely and turned away. Skinner could have sworn he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. But no, it couldn't be. Not Scully. Then she turned back to Mulder and said, "No more drowning. Not in Bermuda, not in Florida, not in New York. Not anywhere. Promise me."

Mulder nodded. "Promise."

"All right, then." She took a deep breath and stood, looking at him a moment longer, her hand reaching out to rest against his cheek. Then to Skinner's surprise and Mulder's complete shock, she said, "You know ..." Her hand gently stroked his cheek. "I love you, too." She let her hand linger, then she turned and walked away.

As she passed Skinner, she said in a perfectly normal voice, "I'm catching a cab to the hotel and changing. Will you stay with the Boy Wonder over there?" Skinner nodded mutely, and watched her leave, his mouth still hanging open.

He wouldn't stay in the bed. He kept tossing the covers to the floor, then flinging himself to his feet and pacing back and forth, back and forth.

"The woman he took -- the nurse. She hasn't shown up?" he asked for the fourth time.

"No," Scully said shortly. "Mulder, get back in the bed. Your ass is hanging out for the world to see, and frankly, as scrawny as you are, it's no great treat."

He froze, his back to her, acutely aware that she was right. She had a magnificent view of his ass right now. BDL -- Before Declarations of Love -- he would have tossed off some witty comeback, but now, ADL, he was blushing. He could feel the rosy glow spread over his cheeks -- oh, god, not those cheeks too -- and down his neck into his chest. He waited until the flush subsided, then turned slowly -- no point in blowing the skimpy gown around anymore -- and said, "Scully, you wound me! I love your ass."

She snorted. "Get back in the bed, Mulder. You're supposed to be resting."

He crawled obediently into the narrow bed, smiling to himself. He shoots! He scores!

Silence reigned and life slowed into a time-stolen moment, when everything faded away. He stared at her, she stared at him, then she rose, and came to stand beside the bed. She leaned over slowly, her forehead coming to rest against his. One hand reached out, her fingers twining into his own. They were still, not moving, and Mulder wasn't even sure he was breathing. This moment, this feeling, this Scully, this was the stuff of his dreams. He was sure he was going to wake up any moment, and find he'd imagined it all. Or he'd kiss her and she'd haul off and smack him. Or, even worse, simply walk away in disbelief, crushing him once again.

But she didn't move, she didn't dissolve, she didn't back away. Her touch was constant, her presence steady; then slowly, she moved, and her nose rubbed back and forth against his, gently, tickling. His eyes filled with tears suddenly, he slammed them shut, and he remembered.

Eskimo kisses. His mother used to do that. Long ago, when things were still good, and everything was right in his world. It evoked feelings of comfort and love and acceptance and belonging, and his heart was filled to bursting.

How could she know that a kiss would be too much, the touch of a hand too little? How could she know that he needed reassurance, needed something to tell him it was real, and true, and honest? How could she know that Eskimo kisses were the perfect way to touch his heart and seal his soul to hers?

She was pulling away now, and he left his eyes closed, hoping she would think he was sleeping, because he was too overcome, too overwhelmed to speak or move or even think. He was lost in a place of feeling loved and wanted, and he didn't ever want to leave.

It was dark, but that didn't bother him. He'd lived in the dark for years. He could move in the dark, gliding silently through the twists and curves of his home, never colliding with wall or door, or bumping his head on the overheads. He could shut his eyes and feel the air itself surround him, leading him safely through the dark recesses, guiding him unerringly in the right direction.

His feet slipped smoothly over the rough concrete floor, and he could hear the quiet "step, drag," that he made as he shuffled onward, moving deeper and deeper into the dark -- going home.

He knew these passages intimately. He paused, stroking the walls with a lover's hand. The thin sheen of rank and moldy moisture that clung there made his flesh slide slickly over the rough surface, his touch a caress. His nostrils flared as he breathed the fetid air that filled him with hope and joy, reminding him always of his purpose.

He moved forward again, swiftly opening the door and then he was there. He was home. It was his own primordial domain. The place that first swallowed him in darkness, first overwhelmed him, then taught him who he really was -- what he really was.

The Priest.

Even back then, he could see it in his mind: Capital 'T' The; Capital 'P' Priest. It was so fitting.

He'd been so young when he'd first come here. Dragged by his father -- anything to get out of the house. The beatings he received -- forced to hide in the tunnels so the old man wouldn't get in trouble for having his dirty, messy kid at work. Scared at first, he had eventually become mesmerized by the maze-like tunnels, the warren-like series of chambers and rooms. Drawn by an invisible force to find out more, to see what was really down there. It had been a whole different world. Different world, different rules.

He'd wandered off alone one day, stumbling on this place by accident, seeing the First One as he was doing the Work. There'd been some confusion -- the First One was old, and didn't understand that he had been drawn there to help. That he had been called to take his place. To become the next One.

The First One had risen, still covered in the blood of the Work, and turned, the knife brandished before him. He'd tried to explain, tried to make him see that it was his time, but the First One was crazed and he would not hear. And so, he'd taken the First One and the First One had become his first Work.

And then there had been the Dark Time. Lost in this hidden place, plunging down into the aphotic abyss, hanging there suspended for who knows how long, burning in the fire that gave no light, no heat, only pain. And through that pain was purification. Purification and purpose.

He'd lain there for a long time, the shell of the First One heavy on his still small body. But he'd finally shoved it off and taken a look at the chamber. It was a good-sized room, but it seemed small because the Work filled every wall, stacked from floor to ceiling, spilling out into the center of the space. He spent some time exploring, finding that the Work in front was new, it was still soft and it gave off the odor that filled the air. It seeped into his pores, and strengthened his purpose. The Work by the walls was old, some of it very old, for only the yellowish-white base of the Work remained. Some of the older Work had been chewed on by rats -- he could see the teeth marks in the bones, and there were even bones that had been split and broken, making it possible for the marrow to be sucked out.

In the beginning, he understood none of this, for he was too young. But as he grew and matured, and learned of his calling, he came to understand the importance of everything that was done in the chamber. The Work was all that was important. He studied the Work of the First One, and saw how he had taken the eyes -- burning them out. It was a long time before he came to understand that. But at last, one day when his father spoke to him, chiding him for spending all his time in the tunnels, he had looked at the man, appraising him as if he might be a candidate for the Work. And the man's eyes had hardened, going flat and black, and then he knew how to pick the Work, and why the eyes had to be removed.

But that understanding came years later.

That first day, the day of the First One, he suffered through his own trials, survived his own test, and knew then, that he was not Fenton Priest, twelve-year-old boy. He was The Priest, and the tunnels were his Domain, and this chamber was his Sanctuary.

And when he had finally emerged, covered in the blood of his First Work, he knew what he was meant to do.

He was back in the tunnel, tumbling blindly in the black wash of foul water that tossed him along like so much flotsam in the ocean's wake.

And this time he wasn't alone. Surrounded by corpses, they slammed against him, deadwood arms assaulting him, legs tangling with his own, pulling him under and keeping him from grabbing onto something, from finding purchase in the tidal onslaught. Empty holes stared at him, their burned out eye sockets stared at him, accusing -- "You must end this!"

He protested, wasting precious breath to argue with the dead. Pleading that he wasn't responsible, it wasn't his fault. Begging for understanding. He had something now. Scully loved him. He was finally going to have a chance for happiness.

But the bodies were implacable. "Now you know," they said. "How can you walk away, when you alone know?" A child, flesh swollen and mottled, putrescence oozing from her every limb, reached out and grabbed him, halting his wild roll in the dark, rank waters.

"Will you forget what happened to me?" she demanded. "You run from us and still he kills. How can you run from this?"

I'm not running, he screamed in silence. I won't forget! Something inside him broke, something vital that kept him tethered to the light, snapped, and he was suddenly lost in the dark. Spinning madly out of control, there was no more light, no more air, no more hope ...

Mulder woke with a gasp, shooting upright in the narrow hospital bed, sweat pouring from his body. The sheets were sticky; the thin hospital gown clung to his back, its underarms soaked. The bed itself shook with the violence of his tremors. He dropped his head to his hands, trying to recapture the feelings of goodness that had encompassed him when he fell asleep. But there was only emptiness there.

How long had he been out? He threw his feet over the side of the bed, then paused, the stiffness in his muscles slowing him. He was clear of monitors, no IV, but ... He stopped, staring at the figure in the chair.

She was here. She'd stayed to watch over him. He shook his head sadly. As powerful as she was, not even Scully could keep these demons at bay. It was as if the tunnels themselves called to him, as if some part of him belonged down there in the rank and decaying darkness.

His lip trembled and he bit it, drawing blood. He didn't want to go back down there. Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away angrily.

He had no choice. Priest was far more dangerous than they had first imagined, with a much longer history of madness than was known. Mulder couldn't prove it, he couldn't explain it, but he knew it. Just like he knew he was the only one who would be able to catch the man.

He sighed quietly, then rose and tiptoed to the door. A quick look back over his shoulder showed Scully still sleeping, a look of peace on her face. He studied her for a moment, engraving the vision in his heart. She was like an angel -- an angel with a fiery halo, and fiery temper to boot. She wasn't going to like this.

He cracked the door open and slipped out, holding a finger to his lips to keep the guard quiet. The man rose, question in his face, and Mulder appraised him quickly. He was about six feet tall, and built similarly to himself. He would do.

Mulder motioned the man to follow, still indicating the need for quiet, and the man obliged. He managed to move him several yards down the hall before the man reached out, gripped his arm, and said, "Agent Mulder, my orders are for you to stay in your room."

Mulder nodded, agreeing. "I know. But I'm going crazy in there. If I don't get to move some, I'll lose what's left of my mind." He smiled what he hoped was a charming smile, and was relieved when the guard smiled back. "I'd pace in my room, honest I would, but Scully's sleeping in there, and I hate to disturb her."

The man was still nodding, and Mulder went for the kill. "Couldn't you just walk up and down the hall with me for a bit, let me work off some of this energy?"

The man looked undecided, and Mulder waited, praying. At last he looked up and down the deserted corridor, and said, "Well, maybe just a few times. Then back in your room. I've heard about you, you know."

It was said lightly, teasing, and Mulder had a flash of remorse for what he was about to do to this nice, young man, adding to the rumors of how difficult Spooky Mulder could be. He set off for the far end of the hallway, and the small storage room there, the hapless guard, and his extremely useful clothes, trailing obediently.

Mulder took another step forward, and felt -- nothing. His foot plummeted down through empty air and he was thrown wildly off balance, arms waving madly as he struggled to grasp anything. His body canted forward, and then he was falling, falling, falling, the trailing left leg bending at the knee, the foot catching on the lip of the opening, wrenching the knee sideways as he screamed in agony. He fell, and he fell, and he fell, and then -- he stopped. The floor seemed to rear up beneath him, slamming into his body, and when at last it settled back down, he was lying in a crumpled heap.

The air was filled with a fetid odor, far worse than the stench of the sewer gases. This was something foul, and rank, and, Mulder knew in his heart, perverse. He'd lost the flashlight in the fall, and he began a cautious search, his hands spread before him as he crawled across the floor. The few sounds he'd made had not echoed, but he sensed he was in a large space, made small by the presence of many objects absorbing the sound. His hand brushed against something soft and wet. He was reminded of a day long ago, when he had been chasing a fly ball far out into right field, only to bend over to pick it up and plunge his hand into the remains of a dead squirrel. It was putrid, rotting and crawling with maggots and partially ripped apart by other animals. He had yanked his hand back with a yelp, struggling for control as his stomach threatened to leap from his throat.

He repeated those actions now, a yelp, a yank, and then iron-tight control slamming down on his churning stomach, teeth clenched and breathing through his mouth. He stayed there for several long minutes, forcing the hot, thick air into his lungs, forcing his heart to continue beating, though it seemed determined to stop. His very blood chilled to ice, and slowed within his body, and continuing to breathe became an exercise in will power and determination.

At last, the panic attack receded, and he slowly renewed his cautious search for the light. He was rewarded when he found it several moments later, slightly to his left. He hefted it in his hand and pushed the button. Nothing happened. He slapped it several times against his other palm, and tried again. This time the chamber was illuminated, leaping to existence before him. He stared dumbly, shock threatening to overtake him, disbelieving that the carnage that surrounded him could really exist.

He was still kneeling, his knee screaming from the position, but he was too stunned to move. He'd landed in the center of the chamber. Surrounding him were the bodies of his nightmare. In various stages of decay and dismemberment, they stared down at him from empty sockets, their eyes all burned away. He swiveled slowly, taking it in, and realized there were hundreds of bodies here, going back many, many years. There were bodies stacked against the walls, three and four deep, and reaching to the ceiling. They spilled from their funeral stacks, lying sprawled at the base of the piles, and he could see where some had been shoved back as the older ones decayed and made space behind the newer ones.

It was coming to him now. This was where Priest lived. This was where he stayed, the lair from which he rose to wreak his violence on the unsuspecting.

This was his Sanctuary.

There was a sound behind him, and he half-turned, the injured knee making movement slow and ungainly. But before he could see what it was, or get his gun hand around, something slammed against the side of his skull and his head seemed to explode. He had a brief vision of a man in long robes, with flat, dead eyes staring down at him, and then darkness crashed in, and he saw nothing.

There was a knock at the door and Scully woke, eyeing the empty bed. She relaxed though, seeing that the bathroom door was closed as well. She crossed the room to admit Skinner, her smile of greeting turning to a frown as he demanded, "Where's the guard?"

"Guard?" Scully stuck her head in the hall and scanned up and down. She turned to face Skinner with a sinking stomach. "I don't know." Frown turning to scowl, she crossed to the bathroom and yanked the door open without a word. Empty.

She stared into the vacant room for a moment, then slammed the door, muttering, "I will kill him myself. Drowning is too good for that arrogant, thinks he knows it all, son of a bitch." She marched past Skinner into the hall. "I swear to God, I will cuff him to the bed next time. I will strap his ass down and wire him up to enough alarms to bring the Bureau running if he so much as rolls over without permission. I don't care what's the matter with him." She was moving determinedly up the hall, checking doors on both sides of the corridor, while Skinner trailed her. "Next time, I will personally see to it that he is restrained, cuffed, and manacled to the god damn bed, and I will shoot his scrawny ass if he so much as makes a peep of complaint."

She threw open a door marked, "Linens," and stared down at the young agent, nude but for his jockeys, hands cuffed behind his back, and mouth swaddled in a sheet.

"I am fucking tired of being ditched, and I am going to put that arrogant asshole on a fucking leash when I get my hands on him."

She looked at the agent on the floor in disgust, and asked, "Didn't I tell you not to let him out of his room?" then turned and retraced her steps.

Skinner took a second more to drop his handcuff key where the man could reach it, then said, "Get some clothes and report back to the field office. I'll talk to you there."

He caught Scully by the elevator.

"Where do you think he went?"

"The precinct house. Nowak's office. He's probably got something he needs checked immediately, and he just couldn't wait till morning, and couldn't imagine that someone else would be capable enough to look into it for him."

Skinner started to say something, but one quick look at the small ball of barely contained fury that stood tensed beside him and he decided silence was the wiser course.

The first thing Mulder was aware of was the smell. It filled the air, making it heavy and moist, and he could feel it surrounding him. It was foul and rotten, the smell of decay, and it was everywhere. He drew a cautious breath, then gagged. He could even taste the stench, something rancid that lingered on his tongue and filled his mouth with bile.

The next thing he was aware of was a sound. It was a sort of hum, a tuneless drone that emanated from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. And despite its atonal quality, there was a happy cast to the sound, as if the hummer were pleased with something, or enjoying his work.

Feeling was restored next. He started to rise, but was immediately jerked up short by the cords that bound his arms, legs, and chest to the bare metal springs of the cot on which he lay. The rope was hard, and scratchy, and as he tugged experimentally, he could feel it bite more deeply into his wrists and ankles. It hurt.

Actually, he hurt all over. But some places were worse than others. The wrists and ankles. His knee. The back of his head. And inside his head, he had the mother of all headaches. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, because it didn't bear contemplating what light would do to the pain in his head. It was already throbbing, a sharp, piercing agony that pulsed with each beat of his heart. He began to wonder if he would be able to see, even if he did pry his stubborn eyes apart.

With a mighty effort, he did just that. He opened his eyes, and then froze, staring at the scene that greeted him. Bodies were everywhere, stacked one on top of the other, from floor to ceiling, and layers deep. They covered the walls of the room, or at least what he could see of it from his position on his back on the cot.

It should be horrifying to him, he should be puking in disgust, or crying in dismay. That would be the normal reaction to a scene like this. People, real people, who once walked and talked and lived and loved but now lay in total disregard, relegated to no more than sound barriers and insect breeders in this deep, dark chamber. He simply stared dispassionately at the carnage that surrounded him, the brutality that assailed his senses on all sides, and wondered why he was not shocked.

And then it occurred to him, he was not shocked, because he was familiar with this. This was not something new, or unusual to him. This was not a once in a lifetime, out of the ordinary, never-to-be-repeated-again-thank-God, experience for him. This was familiar, this was known, this was something he had seen before, many times before. Enough times that he was beyond shock, beyond grief, beyond righteous outrage and indignation.

This was familiar because this was part of his life. This was what he did. This was who he was. This was the essential him. He knew it as surely and with the same certainty that he knew his name.

His breathing hitched then, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. The reaction he'd expected earlier was upon him. Eyes slammed shut, hands screwed up tightly in balls at his side, his stomach lurched, his heart raced, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His head was pounding fast and fierce now, and he felt dizzy and disoriented.

The humming had moved closer and seemed to come from inside his head, making him even more confused, more disconnected. And then it stopped.

The silence in the room was broken only by the pounding in his head, the hammering of his heart, and his own harsh gasps as he struggled to breathe in, breathe out. The fetid air was so scant of oxygen, he felt faint. He felt a shadow fall over him, and lifted heavy lids to stare up at a figure by the cot.

"Ah, you're awake," it said, and the voice was so cold, so dispassionate, that something inside him seemed to shrivel up and wither away. He nodded once, miserably, wondering what it was that he had lost.

Scully came down the stairs, almost running, and collided with Skinner, his grasp on her arms the only thing keeping her upright.

"Oh, God," she breathed, "he's not here. He hasn't been here. I was wrong!" She pulled away, dodging around Skinner but he reached out and caught her again, forcing her to stop and turn.

"Where are you going now?" he asked.

"I have to find him!"

"Where will you look?" His tone was softer, more understanding, and he loosened his grip slightly.

She stared up at him for a moment, the panic on her face fading to confusion, then to dismay as she realized the enormity of what she had just said. Her shoulders slumped and he released her completely, waiting patiently for her to speak.

"We need to review the files on Priest," she said at last. "Wherever Mulder went, it'll be in there."

"All right. You start here. Nowak has everything that's been accumulated so far. I've got to go over to the field office and talk to that idiot Murray who let him go, but I'll be back as soon as I can." He paused a moment, fixing her with a penetrating glare. "You will remain here until I return. Absolutely NO attempts to follow him without my direct approval. And I do mean direct -- you talk to me, no one else, got that?"

Scully nodded slowly, and he could see that she hadn't expected him to hobble her so effectively. Of course, she could still just take off in true Mulderesque fashion, but he was betting that her natural inclination to play by the rules and operate within approved guidelines would keep her here. At least until he could make a few phone calls and get the backing he needed to launch a full-fledged search for his wayward agent.

"I'm going to talk to the local SAC. Get some more folks over here to help out. While you're reviewing the files, make notes on anything you feel needs looking into. I'll have more support in place shortly."

She nodded again, and he could see that the earlier anger at Mulder's rash and impetuous action had changed into real concern, a fear for his safety that showed in the slumped shoulders and the worry lines that etched her face. He stood for a second, undecided on what to say or do, then hesitantly reached out and touched her arm again, a gently supportive touch. "We'll find him, Dana," he said, in a firm, quiet voice.

She looked up then and smiled tremulously.

"Yeah. But will he be OK?"

Mulder's head still hurt but wasn't as bad as it had been when he woke before. The pills the man had given him must have done their job and eased the pain somewhat. He was still tied down to the cot, but the ropes had been loosened at some point, and they didn't hurt anymore. Now, he was just uncomfortable from being in the same position for so long.

He opened his eyes and turned his head, looking around the room again. It was really incredible that there could be so many dead bodies in one place. He decided his nose must have gone numb, or else he was getting used to the smell, because it didn't bother him so much anymore. It was just there, like smog on a really bad inversion day.

Sometime during his latest sleep, he'd come to grips with the idea that he belonged here. That being here with the dead, here in the bowels of the earth, this was how he lived. There was still a twinge of sadness hovering in the background, as if he'd lost something, but down deep, he knew that this was what he did, this was who he was.

Priest spoke then, and he twisted somewhat, trying to see him in the dim light of the small lantern that sat on the floor near his cot.

"Are you awake again?" he was asked.

"Yeah," Mulder croaked. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. "Why am I tied up?" It was a reasonable question, one of two things he hadn't been able to figure out.

"You were violent," the man said shortly.

"I've been sick?" he asked hesitantly.

The man rose from a small desk and walked over to look down curiously at him. "You don't remember?"

He shook his head. He didn't remember being sick, but his head hurt, and his throat hurt, and his stomach was still queasy. He must have been sick.

"What do you remember?" The man pulled the chair from the desk and sat, sliding it close to the cot and speaking in an intense voice.

Mulder looked around, studying the room once more. "I remember the bodies." He paused, swallowing hard. "Lots and lots of bodies. And I remember a light. There was a bright light."

The man in the chair looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "Good," he said, as if praising a child, "that's very good." He reached out and touched him, one hand coming to rest lightly on his chest. Mulder shivered. "What else?" Priest asked.

He spoke slowly, dredging the words up, trying to verbalize what he could. "I --" he paused here, and his arm twitched as if he would have waved it around if he could, "I know this. I'm part of this. This is my world." He stopped again, a look of fascinated disgust on his face as he stared at the seemingly endless stacks of corpses. "I know this place. I know this."

The man in the chair was smiling openly now, and the smile soon turned into a cackle of laughter. He laughed and laughed, and Mulder could hear him mumbling, "Oh, too rich. Too rich!" as the laughter continued to roll out of him. He laughed for a long time, then it tapered off and he was left staring down at the cot, the occasional chuckle still escaping as he said, "Do you remember searching for this place?"

He shook his head and answered honestly, "No. I just woke up and realized that I knew what this was. That I was part of all this." He frowned and looked at the man in the chair in confusion. "I have been sick, haven't I?"

Another chuckle, then, "You could say that, yes. You were hurt. You fell and bumped your head."

Mulder nodded. That explained the headache, and the pain at the back of his skull. And his knee. He must have hurt that in the fall as well.

"I was violent?"

The man in the chair nodded soberly. "Extremely. I was afraid you were going to hurt me."

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"No." There was a pause and Mulder could almost see sadness slip across the man's face. "We never really want to hurt anyone. But," the man's face grew hard now, "sometimes it's necessary."

That was true enough, Mulder thought. He could feel it. Sometimes he did hurt people because it was necessary. That made sense.

"Can you untie me now?"

Priest studied him for a long time, then asked, "Do you feel like you are in control of yourself?"

Mulder nodded. He did. He felt a little lost, and a little sad, and a little lonely, but he certainly didn't feel violent or out of control. "I just want to sit up, maybe get some water?"

There was a rustle of cloth, and he realized the other man wore a robe of some kind. Mulder watched as he pulled a knife from within its folds. For a second, his heart stopped as the knife was held open before him. But then the ropes were being cut away, and two strong hands were helping him to sit, holding a cup of cool, clear water to his lips.

"Thanks," he said, and the man laughed again.

"Oh, no," he said, taking the cup back and placing it on the desk. "I should thank you." He stared at Mulder then, and Mulder began to assess him. He was a tall man, powerfully built, but relatively young, with dark hair and piercing black eyes. "When you fell through the entry to the Sanctuary, I was sure we were in terrible trouble. But now, it will all be ok. I'll take care of you. I won't make the mistake of the First One. I am not so proud that I think I'll be able to do the Work forever, or that I need to do the Work alone. Not now. Now, we can do the Work together, brother."

Mulder smiled up at the speaker, not really following his words, but somehow relieved that the man was not mad at him. "I can work," he said. He did work. He could feel that was right too. He was someone who got up and went to work each day. He had a job, he had responsibilities, he had work to do.

"That's right," Priest responded. "You can help me with the Work. Together, we may be able to finish it all."

"So," Mulder said, looking up into the other man's face, pleased to have that taken care of. "Who are you?"

The man seemed startled, then he smiled and said, "Me?" He laughed again, a deep, hearty chuckle that was contagious and soon they were both laughing companionably, and it didn't seem odd at all to find humor here in the house of death.

"Me?" the man repeated. "I'm your brother, bound together in the Work, and through our shared experiences."

"My brother?" Mulder asked and a name floated up from somewhere, a vision of someone small with dark hair. "Sam?"

The man had that startled look again, but it quickly disappeared and he nodded. "Yeah, you can call me Sam. I am The Priest."

Mulder nodded. It wasn't exactly right. He must have hit his head pretty hard in the fall, but with his brother to help him, it would all come clear eventually.

The man -- Sam -- was looking at him now, an odd expression on his face. It could have been relief, or it could have been pleasure, or it could have been curiosity. He couldn't place it, and he was getting tired again, and his headache was coming back.

He shifted on the cot, the bare metal uncomfortable, and asked, "Is there something I could put on this?"

Sam nodded and a rolled up foam pad was produced. They stretched it over the cot, then he lay back down, closing his eyes against the increasing pain in his head, one arm thrown over his face.

He was almost asleep again when there was a nudge, and he cracked one eye to see Sam kneeling by the cot, pills in one hand, water in the other. He took them both gratefully, sitting up to swallow and drink the refreshing liquid. He passed the cup back, then lay back down. He could hear Sam's robes rustling as he moved back to the desk.

"Hey, Sam?" he called quietly, waiting for him to answer.

"Yeah?"

"Who am I?"