Title: Self Unknown 01/03
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and
disturbing imagery
Category: SAR - character exploration
Spoilers: none
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please!
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.
They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,
Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor
and have nothing material they can profit from.
Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113
Summary: Injured in the search for Priest, Mulder has no identity.
Lost in the mind of the killer, and in the bowels of New York, he
is drawn to dark deeds through the twisted lies he is being fed.
Part of the Self Serial. Series in order is:
Self Lost
Self Unknown
Self Revealed
Self Torment
Self Complete
Self Unknown 01/03
"What did you find?" Skinner asked, as he walked into the
room. He held one of those cardboard trays balanced in
one hand, two cups of hot coffee stuck into the holders.
A small paper bag dangled beneath the cardboard, and he
could hear the paper packets of sweetener rustle as the
liquid creamers sloshed in their little containers. His
other hand held a waxed paper bag with two deli sandwiches.
She looked up at his words, one hand coming up to slowly
remove her glasses. Already her face showed the strain,
with tiny lines appearing on her normally smooth forehead.
She placed her thumb on one temple and two fingers on the
other, and as he watched, she dragged the fingers across
the plane of her forehead, erasing the lines before his
eyes. How did she do that? He smiled without realizing
it, shaking his head at her quizzical expression. "Coffee,"
he murmured, almost gruffly, but his hand reached out to
steady hers as it shook imperceptibly.
He watched as the coffee was placed on the table, then he
reached in the waxed bag and pulled out the sandwiches,
passing one to her. She pushed it away, wrinkling her nose;
he pushed it right back. "You have to eat. I can make
it an order if necessary, but you *will* eat. You won't help
him if you aren't strong enough to search."
"You won't let me search," she snapped back. "I need to
*do* something!"
"You are," he said soothingly. "You're doing all any of
us can." He gestured at the stack of folders on her
table. "Have you found anything?"
"Hmmpf," she grunted in frustration. "What do you think?
As much of Priest's life as we know is in there, but
there's nothing new." She tore a pink packet of sweetener,
strong but delicate fingers gently ripping one tiny corner.
Then she shook the powder from the tear into the cup.
Why did she even bother, he thought in bemusement. That
small amount couldn't possibly make a difference. And yet,
it must, because as he watched she took a sip and a small
sigh escaped her lips. "I can't think of anything else to
do except go talk to the mother."
Skinner nodded. It was what he had expected. With thousands
of miles of tunnels, pipelines, sewers, and the subway running
beneath the city, they had a better chance of finding a
needle in the proverbial haystack than they did of finding
Mulder. Maybe the mother would know where her son liked to
hide.
****************************************************
Mulder woke again, aching everywhere. Legs, arms,
wrists. The damaged knee throbbed. His chest was
tight and when he lifted a hand to gingerly touch
the sore spot on the back of his head, he could
feel dried blood. His eyes were still closed and he
was afraid to open them. Out there were the bodies,
the rows and rows, and piles and piles of dead, rotting
bodies. Bodies that had once been people -- human
beings with thoughts and dreams and families, hopes
and fears and aspirations -- people who had loved and
fought and cried and laughed and now would never
live again.
A sudden urge to cough caught him by surprise.
His body shook as his chest sucked in air and then
coughed it back out in one unending racking surge
of pain. He coughed and coughed, then rolled onto
his side, phlegm and bile coming up, out of his control.
There was a bucket beside the cot, and he used it
gratefully. Eyes open now, he looked around and
realized he'd been moved. He wasn't in the
Sanctuary anymore. His chest ached, his skin
felt hot, but he was cold and shaking. There
was a terrible sense of loss that hovered
just outside his grasp. He'd lost something very
important and he didn't know how to find it.
Sam came to him, as if in a dream and slowly
extended a hand. Mulder reached out, grasping the
offering, and he was gently tugged to his feet. And
then they were moving.
He was pulled through the tunnels, limping on the
injured knee. Down and over and across they went,
Sam holding his hand tightly. He had a vision of
a small child, dark-haired and bright-eyed, clinging
to his hand like this while deep voices yelled in
the night. Sam continued to pull him, holding tightly
like he was afraid, even as he led the way. Mulder
knew that before, he had always been the strong one,
the one who put his own fears and weaknesses aside
to provide for others, to do what had to be done.
He knew that he had often taken the unpopular road,
but that it had been the right road for him.
They reached the Sanctuary and he gasped. There was light
in here, but just a little bit, coming from a small
lantern that rested on a rickety old table. He stared
at the table, fascinated and repulsed at the same time
by the mold that clung to the rotted wood. Everything
in this room held a fetid fascination for him -- the bodies,
the scant furnishings, the heavy air itself. He shivered,
arms coming up to hug himself. Why was this so familiar,
almost comfortable to him? And yet, the very nature of
his surroundings turned his stomach and made him weak.
How could he be part of this? And -- how could he not?
Sam touched him, a small shake, then ordered, "Close your
eyes," and he complied at first, then peeked through lashes
at the scene playing out before him. The images danced before
his eyes, as clearly as if the light of day illuminated them.
There was a girl, not moving. She lay by the bodies and
watched them with dull, lifeless eyes. He looked into her
face and realized with a shock that despite her stillness,
despite the glazed-over expression, she was very aware
of her surroundings. She was carefully watching as his
brother approached. Sam spoke softly to her, and she
continued to hold her head still, though her eyes
moved carefully to follow him as he moved behind her.
Mulder watched, unsure of his role in this drama. He
wanted to warn the girl, wanted to tell her to run, but
that seemed at odds with what his brother had been telling
him. He'd been searching for Sam for a long time -- he
knew that -- and he didn't want to lose him again.
Mulder blinked and looked away and the girl made a
garbled sound. He jerked his eyes back around and there
was something shiny around the girl's mouth. Duct
tape. Her eyes were no longer lifeless and dull; gone
was the glazed-over look. Mulder stared as Sam
pulled the tape, sticky and tight, all the way around
the child's head. He wound it round and round and
Mulder could see as her hair got caught and pulled.
She was screaming -- but there wasn't any sound coming out.
She began to choke and cough, and as he watched, she
gathered herself and the silent screams stopped as
quickly as they had begun.
Mulder stared at the child, trying to imagine what
she was thinking, how she was feeling. He felt himself
waver, and realized he wasn't breathing. As he watched,
the girl furrowed her brow and concentrated on getting air
into her lungs through her nose. Mulder drew a deep
breath and felt tears prick at this eyes. The girl
wasn't crying yet, but she was on the verge of
it. He could see the tears hovering in the corners of
her eyes. He jerked as he suddenly felt something
hot slide down his own cheek. A single tear.
The girl tried to run but Sam pulled her back by
her arm, hard, jerking her back against him. He held
her tightly, forcing her to stand very still. His leg
trapped her against the rotted wood of the old
table. The lantern wobbled and threatened to fall,
but Sam reached out and balanced it, then glanced
back to see Mulder watching, but still not moving.
Sam held the child pressed against the table,
wrapping layer after layer of the shiny silver tape
around her wrists, around and around, until she
couldn't move her arms at all. Mulder tried to
reach up and wipe the tear from his face, but
his arms refused to obey. He looked down in
confusion, then twitched as Sam picked the
girl up, lifting her onto the table. She tried
to kick him, thrashing her legs, but he was too
strong, and Sam got her legs down and taped
them together, too, twirling the tape around and
around her ankles.
She twisted painfully, her eyes calling out to
Mulder in fear. He couldn't move -- he was as
immobilized as she, and his chest ached. Each
breath was a struggle; the air seemed thick.
His head throbbed and he was hot and cold at the
same time. He stared at Sam, unable to move,
unable to look away. The girl was trying to catch
Sam's attention, pleading with her eyes, but
he refused to meet her gaze. He wouldn't look
at her eyes. Mulder could hear the other man
muttering, "Not the eyes, never look them in the
eyes."
He kept walking back and forth, back and
forth in front of the table, chanting, "You can do
this," repeating it over and over, "You can do
this, something you can do, you can do this you can
do this you can do this, this is something, something
you can do, do this, do this, do this. Do this, do
this, this this this." He finally stopped pacing and
went to the child. She tried to make a sound, but
only the faintest "whuff" of air escaped. Mulder
grunted, only slightly louder, and Sam turned to
glance at him.
He moaned this time, straining against the invisible
bonds that held him rooted in place. Sam lifted
the girl, turning her over, and Mulder felt the rough
wood against his chin as her face connected with the
table. Sam grabbed her legs, and her shoes, impossibly
small shoes, were pulled off. The sound they made as
they hit the floor echoed in the chamber. Mulder's vision
blurred, and then Sam's hands flashed in front of
the girl's face and a string, a shoelace, bit into her
neck.
Mulder gasped, choking, as he strained to breathe. The
lace pulled tighter and tighter, cutting into the skin.
He could feel it cutting off the air, felt the veins in
his neck straining and exploding against the string
that his brother -- his own brother! -- was pulling
slowly, inexorably into him, into his skin. He tried
to breathe, pulling in huge gulps of the fetid air, but
it seemed devoid of the oxygen he needed so desperately.
The girl's eyes were wide, silently screaming at him, the
silence loud in his ears, almost drowning out the steady
chant of "you can do this you can do this," that echoed
in the chamber. He opened his mouth, lifted his nostrils
and saw the girl mimic his movements, but there was no
air to be had. His heart was pounding in his chest;
her heart was pounding -- he could hear it fill the room.
The blood was rushing to his ears now, drowning the
chant, as if his ears were pressed against a concrete
highway. He strained to listen to the sound of the wheels
on the concrete, the seams making a rhythmic *thump,*
*thump,* *thump,* and then his lungs went empty.
***************************************************
"Where is she?" Scully strained to see over the much
taller, mostly male swarm that stood between her and
the hospital room. She used elbows and a determined
stride to push her way to the front. Skinner, though
he would easily have been able to move the crowd,
wisely followed in her wake.
As Scully reached out to grab the knob to the door,
it opened before her touch. A small Asian man stood
there, metal chart in his hand. He made no move to
close the door, but it was clear he wasn't letting
anyone in, either.
"Doctor," Scully began, "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully
of the FBI." She tilted her head at the tall man next
to her. "This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner."
The doctor nodded for her to continue. "We believe
the girl in there may have information concerning the
whereabouts of my partner ..."
The man gestured easily, made a "shooing" gesture
with his free hand, then reached back and shut the door.
"And who are all the rest of these people?" he asked
quietly.
"Locals," Skinner said shortly.
"And who has jurisdiction?" The doctor looked worn,
as if he'd worked too many hours and seen too many
things. It was a look that they'd all worn many times.
"We do." Skinner turned and spoke quietly to Nowak.
"Can't you clear these people out?"
The detective nodded and the crowd began to thin, but
not without some disgruntled murmurs.
"Can we speak to the girl, please?" Scully's frustration
was barely concealed and Skinner was willing to bet
that if he touched her, her skin would be vibrating.
However, he wasn't about to test that theory -- not at
the moment.
"No." The doctor's reply was succinct and seemed to brook
no discussion.
"Who are you? And who do you report to?" Scully was
apparently over the niceties and had gone straight to
blunt.
"I'm Doctor Cho, and you'll have trouble finding someone
above me to appeal to."
"Would it help you to know that I am a medical doctor?"
Scully offered a tight smile. "It is critical that we
talk to this child."
"Maybe," the doctor agreed, "but I think it is even more
critical that she be allowed to sleep. She's exhausted,
malnourished, and has been through God knows what. She's
got bruises all over her body, it was obvious she's been
choked -- the ligature mark is quite clear -- and she was
covered in duct tape when she got here. It was in her
hair, on her wrists and hands, arms, legs, ankles. Whoever
freed her, or however she was freed, the tape was cut and
so was the child." The doctor took a deep breath, visibly
trying to calm himself. "Now, I'm sure you need to talk
to her, or there wouldn't be so many of you here, but," he
paused, staring into Scully's ice blue eyes implacably, "she
needs to sleep."
Scully opened her mouth to speak, but Skinner's hand was on
her arm. "When can we speak with her, Sir?" Skinner had
been right -- Scully was vibrating, the muscles in her arm
twitched beneath his fingers.
"Let her sleep until she wakes. We haven't located any
parents, so I've had Youth Services notified. Someone
will be here to look out for the girl." He looked up at
the big man, then met Scully's eyes with compassion.
"When they arrive, and she wakes up, then you can talk
to her." He shook his head sadly. "Try to remember --
she's been through hell."
************************************************
The woman reached out and brushed his hair out of his
eyes. It was reminiscent of his mother's touch, but
it was charged with a respect, a sense of deep commitment,
that had never been in his mother's touch. Or at least
it hadn't been there since Sam disappeared. He strained
to see her, this mysterious woman who soothed his fevered
brow, but she was shrouded in shadow, hidden somewhere in
his mind that he couldn't access. He knew she was small.
He reached up and took her hand gently, turning it in his
own large hand. Tiny really, this hand, but he could see
it was strong. Strong and capable. She let him hold
her hand for a moment, then slowly pulled away. He whimpered,
bereft at the loss of her touch, but she was there again,
a cup of cool water being offered and he drank greedily,
parched lips cracking as he opened his mouth.
"There," said a deep voice. "That's better, isn't it?"
He blinked rapidly, trying to chase the fog from his mind,
then scanned the room. He was in the smaller chamber, the
one away from all the bodies. "What ...?" he choked out.
"You're still sick," Sam said.
Mulder nodded, grateful for the water, but aware that
something wasn't right. He closed his eyes and images
of the room full of bodies came back to him. Surely
he couldn't have done that? Though Sam had told him
that they worked together -- killing people wasn't
work, was it? He struggled to make it fit in his head.
There were huge gaps, places that he just couldn't seem
to access. Sam had disappeared -- he was sure of that.
It had turned his mother hard and cold. But there was
the other woman, the small but strong woman from his
dream. He was sure she was real. But who was she?
And where was she?
His head still ached and his chest was tight. It
felt full of fluid and breathing hurt. He looked over
at Sam. " 'nother aspirin?" he asked, and then swallowed
the pills thankfully.
"Still not feeling yourself?" Sam asked solicitously.
Mulder had another image of a girl, bound and struggling
on a table in the Sanctuary room. What had happened?
Had he killed her? "The girl," he asked. "Wha' happened?"
Sam's face grew thunderous and the hands that had so
gently held the water for him clenched into fists.
Murderous rage engulfed his face and Mulder tried to
shrink into invisibility. "She must have kicked me
somehow," he spat out. "Knocked me out. When I woke
up, she was gone." A sliver of drool slid unnoticed
out of Sam's mouth, and he began to pace, Mulder's
presence suddenly forgotten. "Can do this can do this
can do this can do this..."
It went on without ceasing for what seemed like hours.
Mulder's temples throbbed and he shook his head. One
arm came up to rest across his eyes and he let himself
drift back off to sleep.
End part 01/03
Self Unknown 02/03
Scully stepped quietly into the room, smiling at
the suspicious eyes that watched her every move.
"I'm Dana Scully," she said quietly, taking another
three steps into the room.
"Youth Services or cop?" Hardened eyes stared
at her from beneath clean sheets.
Scully laughed. "Neither." She reevaluated her estimate
of the child's age. She was older than her slight
stature indicated. "FBI -- you heard of us?"
The girl grunted. "Uneducated don't mean stupid."
She paused. "Yeah -- I know the FBI."
"What's your name?" Scully waited patiently while
the girl studied her.
Finally, the child shrugged. "Not important."
Scully's eyebrows arched. "Why?"
The girl shrugged again. "It just isn't. Not now."
She tilted her head and stared at Scully. "You're
here for him, aren't you?"
"Him?"
The girl nodded. "The man ..."
"The man that had you?" Scully stepped to a chair
by the bed and gestured. The girl nodded and she sat.
"The man ... how did you get away?"
Tears sprung to the girl's eyes and she looked away
for a moment. "It was bad -- scary. I thought the
crazy dude was gonna do me." She lifted a hand and
swiped angrily at her cheeks. She turned back, staring
at Scully. "But he's not the one you care about."
Scully waited in silence.
"You're here for the other one -- the one that let me
go."
Scully's heart leapt in her chest. Mulder! "The other
man, do you know where he is?"
The girl shrugged -- a favorite form of communication.
"Please -- he helped you. You've got to help him."
Scully would plead or cry or beg or anything else
the girl wanted if it would help her find Mulder.
But the child was through talking. She rolled to her
side and closed both eyes. Scully waited in silence
for over an hour, but the child never moved. At last,
she rose and headed for the door.
When she had one hand on the knob, there was a slight
whisper from the bed.
"Tell him thank you."
********************************************
Skinner looked at her. She was sleeping, at last.
It had taken every bit of persuasion he had, and
he hadn't really been able to get her to go to bed,
but at least she was sleeping. She'd been awake for
over twenty-four hours, pushing herself and everyone
who had the misfortune to come near her. Agents
and NYPD continued the searches in the miles of
tunnels. Data experts were pulling records on
Priest, his mother, his father. Another team was
researching missing people from the city, though
God knows New York lost enough people each year that
finding a connection there was a long shot. Yet
another team was in the process of interviewing anyone
who had known Priest or his family, at any time.
Skinner had moved into Mulder's room at the hotel.
All the data they had gathered so far was there, and
it adjoined Scully's room, so he could keep an eye
on his other agent. Hopefully he'd be able to keep
her from working herself into exhaustion.
He'd had dinner sent up, but she'd only picked at it.
Her eyes had been shadowed and there were deep furrows
on her forehead. She'd been working at the laptop,
researching properties to see what Priest owned.
He'd made her switch from coffee to tea -- herbal
tea -- hours ago, and the lack of caffeine finally
seemed to have caught up with her. She'd been sitting
at the desk, her upper arm lying alongside the laptop,
her head resting in her hand. And as he watched, she'd
slowly slipped down, until now she slept, her head resting
on her arm, her hand curled over her ear.
He leaned back in the chair, long legs stretched out
before him and slowly toed off his shoes. He stared
at Scully again, then removed his glasses and pinched
the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been
threatening for hours had finally settled between
his eyes. He rubbed his temples, then dropped his
hands to his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles,
mentally forcing himself to relax. His head rolled
back and he closed his eyes, trying to put aside his
fear for Mulder long enough to think clearly. There
had to be something here that they were missing.
Scully wasn't going to let any of them quit until
they found it.
He forced his head back up, studying his slumbering
agent. She couldn't be comfortable -- back bent at
an odd angle, neck twisted to one side of the laptop,
arm weighted down by her head, and her hand sticking
up in the air. He shook his head. She needed rest.
She needed to sleep for hours -- comfortably -- so
that she could wake up and attack the problem of the
missing Mulder with a clear head and renewed energy.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the too-small chair
and walked over to her. He stood there a moment,
weighing the danger of what he was about to do. A
quick scan of the room showed her holster and gun laid
neatly on the dresser. Good -- at least she couldn't
shoot him. He leaned over and scooped her up in one
fluid motion, his muscles bulging slightly as he
shifted her against his chest, her head turning to
nestle into his shoulder. She curled against him
and murmured something into his shirt.
"Hmmm?" he asked quietly as he laid her down on the
bed and pulled the extra blanket over her. She'd be
more comfortable out of that suit, but even without
the gun, he wasn't about to risk undressing her.
He did slip off her shoes and tuck the blanket in
around her.
She grabbed the blanket, clutching it to herself
and murmured again. "Mulder ..."
"Shhhh," he said. "Sleep now. We'll find him."
*******************************************
She could see him. She was running through the
tunnels, calling his name, but he would not stop.
He darted to the left and she charged ahead, ignoring
the pain in her side, breathing hard as she skidded
around the turn in time to see him disappear up a
ladder. She slowed, took a couple of deep breaths
and then bounded up the ladder. She took one quick
peek to see if it was clear and then pulled herself
through the hole.
"Mulder!" She turned frantically, desperate not to
lose him and there he was. Standing, almost waiting
for her, down the concrete tunnel. He waved her back,
one finger over his lips in the international signal
for silence, then he turned and ran again.
"Arrogant prick." The words were out of her mouth even
as she took off after him. "Thinks he can protect me --
keep me out of the chase ..."
She took the next turn too fast and came down hard
on her left side, knocking the wind from her lungs.
She lay there a moment, gasping and then hands were
pulling her to her feet.
"Leave me alone," she snarled. "I'm all ..." She
turned, expecting Mulder to be holding her, but it
wasn't Mulder. It was Priest. And Mulder was tied
to a grate at the end of the tunnel. How the hell
did Priest tie him up so fast?
She let herself go limp, expecting to surprise Priest,
but he surprised her. He let her go completely and
she dropped heavily to the floor. She tried to roll,
to pull her weapon, but before she could complete the
action, his foot lanced out, caught the side of her
head, and blackness stole her away.
She felt wet when she came to. Mulder was screaming,
still tied to the grate. She was tied, too, to some
pipe or iron bar that bisected the tunnel. Rank,
untreated sewage had filled the tunnel to the halfway
point. Priest stood in the filth, the knife in his
hand as he methodically cut out pieces of Mulder's
flesh.
"Stop! Stop!" She struggled futilely against her
bonds as the water continued to rise. Mulder's screams
were hoarse, incoherent, and his eyes were filled
with agony.
"You can't save him," Priest taunted, "and you can't
save yourself. But until you go, you can watch." He
looked at Mulder, then reached out and grabbed his
face. "But he won't be able to see a thing..."
She watched in horror as he lifted a brand and began
to work on Mulder's right eye.
"Noooooooo!" The scream was ripped from her lips.
"Nooooooo..."
"Scully!" Skinner pulled her up in the bed, shaking
her. When he'd first realized she was dreaming, he'd
tried speaking softly, calling her name, but she just
wasn't responding. Now he tried yelling, some
very firm manhandling, and he was rewarded with
frightened blue eyes staring up at him in panic.
"Scully," he repeated with slightly less volume,
"you're all right. You're safe -- it was just a dream."
"Just a dream ..." She shuddered, pulled out of his
hands and tried to stand. Her legs buckled and he
caught her, forcing her back to the bed.
"Sit," he ordered, holding her in place a minute
longer. He moved quickly to the sink to fill a
glass with water. "Here. Drink." He held the cup
out, wrapping his hand around hers as it trembled
and the water spilled onto her lap. She took two
small sips, nodded, and passed the glass back to
him. She was still shaking, so he pulled the blanket
around her, relieved to see she was alert enough to
catch the edge and pull it tight. "It was just a dream,"
he said again. "You're all right."
"Oh, God ..." Her voice was tremulous. She lifted
both her hands and dry washed her face, then rubbed
sandpapery eyes with the heels of her palms before
pulling the blanket back around her. Her eyes were
vivid blue, dark circles enhancing the color, as she
stared at him. "We have to find him," she said. "We
have to find him soon."
Skinner nodded, and this time, when she began to shake,
he sat next to her and pulled her close.
*******************************************
"There she goes!" Scully whispered to Skinner. "She's
heading into that tunnel." She leapt to her feet,
Skinner at her side. "Don't let her get away."
The girl had been released to Youth Services and
then placed in foster care from which she had promptly
run. Scully felt guilty, but it had only taken two
days in foster care for the girl to bail. She
and Skinner had been waiting, ready to follow her
back to the shadowy underworld that was obviously
her home.
Skinner spoke into the radio he carried, notifying
the search teams they were moving. Even as he
and Scully got ready to follow the girl, there were
several teams of FBI and NYPD combing the underground,
searching once more for Priest's stronghold -- and
for the missing Agent Mulder.
They followed swiftly into the concrete pipe. Not far
in, there was a bolthole, the plywood cover still
slightly askew. She pulled a flashlight, looked at
Skinner, who nodded, and they were through. The small
storage room had yet another hole, this one dropping to
a chamber beneath it and they both dropped down again.
Skinner held the small receiver, the blinking light
leading them after the transmitter in the girl's new
clothing. They followed for several hundred yards,
and the tunnel began to curve and narrow. Forced to crawl
on hands and knees, Scully glanced back to see the big
AD scrunched down so far, she was amazed he wasn't just
lying on his stomach and shimmying along. There was no
sign of the girl in front of them, but the receiver still
blinked rhythmically.
The concrete ended and they were crawling through actual
earth. Dirt and rock crumbled with every movement.
Broken roots snaked out of the earth, sometimes dangling
in front of her, sticking to her face like cobwebs.
It was hard to breathe. The farther she went, the
less air there was. What little air was there was
stale and rancid, burning her lungs and adding to the
ache in her chest.
Fur brushed against her hand and she flung the flashlight,
missing the rat and sending the batteries flying. The
sudden darkness surprised her. Terror exploded inside
her chest. Frantically, she groped for the flashlight,
fistfuls of moldy dirt picked up and discarded. "Easy,
Scully." The AD's voice was calming. "What happened?"
"Rat," she said shortly. She had one battery, now another.
"Surprised me." She groped blindly, afraid to move, afraid
not to.
"All right," Skinner replied. "What are you doing now?"
"Batteries." Ah, there was the third one. Please, please,
let it work. She wasn't even sure they'd be able to turn
around in the narrow, twisted space. And she didn't even
want to think about backing all the way out.
She screwed the flashlight together, the beeping of the
receiver echoing the beating of her heart. Nothing. She
smacked the light against her palm, tightened it, and
smacked it again. Light. Thank God. She drew a deep
breath, then coughed. Now she was gasping for air. Had
the darkness sucked out all the air?
" 'kay, now?" Skinner asked. He'd waited patiently through
her search, though with his size, and the cramped confines,
there wasn't much else he could have done.
"Yes, Sir," she replied, getting some of her equanimity back.
She returned to the task at hand, crawling faster. The tunnel
narrowed even more, and she heard the AD drop to his belly.
She was barely able to move, and she could hear Skinner's
elbows scrape as he moved along, propelling off his toes
like a swimmer pushing against the current.
How far had they come? How much further could it possibly
be? How could this child live like this, clawing her
way through dirt and debris to reach some inner shelter in
the New York underground? Weren't there clean ways to
access the tunnels? Concrete and steel -- anything that didn't
involve lying on your belly in the dirt? Other than the
scratches of rat claws and the susurrus sound of dirt raining
in the AD's wake, there was silence. The receiver's blinking
light cast eerie shadows on the shifting earth.
This was nuts, absolutely crazy. She couldn't make it,
couldn't breathe. How was Skinner able to even move in
this cramped space? She forced herself forward again --
Mulder was out there somewhere. It had been three days,
three impossibly long days, and her exhaustion was topped
only by her fear. She'd been paralyzed, unable to do
anything but sit and wait. But now -- by God, she
was doing something now. Her lungs burned, ready to
explode any second. The dirt clung to her. Sandpaper
scratched her eyes and throat. Her mouth was dry,
the taste of rot and death gagging her. The walls
narrowed still more, and she heard the AD grunt as they
scraped against his skin. She could hear rips and tears --
her clothing, Skinner's clothing, sometimes the big man's
skin, catching on pieces of rock, wood, maybe even animal
bones sticking out of the dirt walls.
How much further? Was it a trap? Had she missed something
back in the beginning where the tunnel now seemed to have
been so huge? Where she had walked, crouched low, but still
upright? Could the girl have turned off into another
passage and they missed it? That would explain why she
couldn't see or hear the child up ahead. What if this
tunnel led to a dead end, a wall of dirt?
Just as she was certain she could go no farther, the flashlight
caught on a sliver of glittering white up ahead. Bones.
Animal? Or human? They clogged the tunnel. Despite her
training, Scully gagged as she realized skin -- human
skin -- still clung to some of the bones. She was almost
ready to turn back, convinced this couldn't be the place,
when she heard it -- a tortured, strangled cry that pierced
the air for a single, solitary second, then faded quickly
into oblivion. In one last mad rush of panic, she clawed,
pushed, tore, and dug her way through the pile of bones
that thickened into bodies. At first, she thought she was
coming up in a cemetery, rising from the ground like a
corpse among the tombstones. But there were no tombstones.
Instead, there were bodies. A seemingly unending stream
of bodies in all stages of decomposition. And, less than
10 feet away, lay Mulder, Priest hovering over him
like some black Angel of Death. She screamed, "Mulder!"
and felt Skinner push past her even as she clambered
to her feet. Priest turned startled eyes on her,
seemingly amazed that someone dared to breach the
security of his Sanctuary. Then, smiling calmly, he
slammed his foot into her partner's face and turned
and raced away.
End part 02/03
Self Unknown 03/03
"I don't want to do this." Mulder was standing, but
barely. His legs shook and his chest ached. If he
could just get some air ... He knew he needed to
watch Sam's -- *Priest's* -- eyes, but they were
hidden beneath the brim of a ball cap, shaded behind
colored glasses. How he could even see in this gloom
was just -- impossible. Then Mulder remembered --
Priest didn't *need* to see. He knew every inch, every
nook, every cranny down here. He *was* the underground.
"You don't have a choice," Priest snapped. "You
were chosen, just as I was."
"It's not right -- I don't do this." Mulder wheezed in
the foul air and then choked as he was racked by coughing.
"I don't hurt people -- I help them." He bent double,
coughing again. Pneumonia -- it had to be pneumonia.
"I ... I ..." He looked up as a barrier broke in his
mind and a sudden smile crossed his face. "I'm a cop.
I don't kill -- I hunt killers."
He felt fevered, jumpy, suddenly very uncomfortable
about the declaration he'd just made. But, damn, it
had all just swept over him, like a wave.
Sam -- his *sister* -- not this monster.
Scully, his partner, the one who'd been by his side
for years now. He coughed and shivered, one huge,
body-shaking motion. She was going to kill him for
taking off on her like this. And kill him again
for getting sick. For some reason, she took his
illnesses and injuries very personally, as if they
were an affront to her medical skills.
He shivered again, lost in his memories of a
compact redhead, fiery hair, fiery temper. He
almost missed the first movement, but something
caught his eye and he looked over at Priest.
Priest moved slowly -- that was what surprised Mulder --
the slow, even graceful moves that Priest made as
he leaned over and reached down into the mass of bodies.
Mulder wasn't sure if he saw the knife or felt it first.
It happened so fast -- yet it was all in slow motion.
So much was unclear but the individual details stood
out in stark relief.
Priest turned -- he bent -- he lifted the knife. And then
he *glided* across the floor. Mulder was almost willing
to bet the man's feet never touched the ground. One
minute he was ten feet away, the next he was just -- there.
Priest's arm came up -- the knife flashed in the dim
lantern light -- and then it came down, biting
viciously into his tender flesh. Mulder went down,
landing heavily on his butt, eyes wide with shock as
he stared at the river of blood that began to flow
from his arm. His vision blurred; he struggled
not to start coughing. If he gave in to the coughing
fit he knew was coming -- he'd be dead. He scuttled
backwards like a crab, trying to bear the most weight on
his good arm, but before he got three feet, he hit a wall.
Priest's arm came up again, slashing wildly on the down
stroke, and he felt something in his chest give way.
There were two -- or was it three? -- more strikes
before he gave in and coughed, blood erupting from
his mouth in a thin mist. It was scarlet, the brightest
color in this place of dark and gloom. When he
reached up to wipe his chin, it was blood warm.
The knife came down again, and all he could think of
was Scully. She loved him -- she said so -- and he
left her, and now he was going to die. She wouldn't
even know where his body was. She might not ever know
he was really dead. He gathered his strength -- just the
thought of Scully rallied him -- and he was more prepared
for the next strike. His arm came up, pushing back, and
Priest was taken by surprise. Mulder grabbed the blade,
feeling it bite deeply into his palm, yet he refused
to let go. A twist, a yank, he rolled, pulling Priest
with him, the blade separating from the hilt. It was
buried in his hand, but, he thought smugly, at least Priest
couldn't use it on him anymore.
He was coughing again now, more blood was coming up.
He knew the lantern was dying because the light in the
room was fading. He felt something hard, and heavy,
connect with his head, and his hands went up of their
own volition. He could feel the blade imbedded in his
palm scrape against his scalp as he tried frantically
to protect himself from Priest's blows. He tried to
roll again, and could just make out Priest, holding --
holding a human bone -- one of many from the piles
around them.
The bone came down again and he felt bones break in
his hands, small bones, little bones, giving beneath
the larger bone that assaulted them. Again and again
the large bone pounded down, torturing his hands and
fingers. There was a high-pitched sound coming from
somewhere, something that was a cross between a scream
and a whimper. It took him a moment to realize it came
from him. He tried to draw a breath, choking on the
blood that filled his throat and mouth; then there was
a sound of shattering as the large bone broke, tiny
shards of human bone raining down upon him.
When would it stop, he wondered idly. The warm red of
his breath continued to light the air and he rolled
again, still trying to get away. "Stop -- stop," he
cried breathlessly. "Don't ..."
Something connected again -- a fist maybe? This
time the world went dark for a moment. He lost track
of time, and when the light came on again -- an instant
later? -- Priest's hands were around his neck,
fingernails gouging into the skin.
"Bastard, bastard, bastard..." Priest was chanting.
Mulder clawed feebly at Priest's hands with his
own broken, useless fingers. The knife in his hand
pushed deeper with each tortured move he made. He
struggled, fighting to keep Priest's hands from rising
up and reaching his eyes. He pushed, straining with
what little reserves he had, and then -- he began to
cough. Huge racking coughs from deep within his damaged
lungs. The cough turned into vomit, the bright blood
pouring out. Priest pushed back from him in disgust.
Priest leaned against the wall, regaining his balance,
and then his foot came out, methodically stamping on
Mulder's chest with the heel of his sturdy work boots.
The hilt of the broken knife appeared, as if by magic,
falling onto his chest, under the foot that would not
stop. Priest's foot came down, again and again, as
if he were trying to destroy it, but he only succeeded
in driving it deep into Mulder's abdomen.
Mulder heard a sound in the distance, someone calling his
name, and Priest looked around, startled. He grunted,
then went to work on Mulder's face, the heel of his
boot raining down blows on him with the callous
indifference of a jackhammer. Mulder lost consciousness
again, but not for long enough. He came to all too
soon, pain exploding in a kaleidoscope of agony. When
he was aware again, he could see Priest heading for the
bolthole. Then Skinner was there, pushing past
Scully, inserting himself between her and Priest as
Priest vanished down the hole. Skinner's gun was drawn and
Mulder could make out the clear indecision on his face
as he struggled between chasing Priest and tending his
injured agent. He was suddenly aware that there were bits
of teeth loose in his mouth, he was covered in blood,
and lying in his own urine. Scully was there, though,
and he didn't care about any of that -- only that he could
see her, and touch her, and hear her voice one more time.
"Oh, Mulder," she said, and her voice infinitely soft,
infinitely sad."
" 'm sry," he mumbled, as her hand came out, as if to
seal his lips to silence, but afraid to touch.
"Shhh," she whispered, and he could see the look of worry
she gave Skinner. The AD was on a radio, or phone,
or something, giving orders, and Mulder was inordinately
pleased that their boss was there to take care of Scully,
to keep her safe from Priest. "Paramedics will be here
any minute," she murmured, her hand coming out to stroke
his face, and again pulling back as if there were no
place safe to touch. "Hang on just a bit longer."
"Cnt brth," he gasped. "Wnt to pas out, 'n 'm 'wake."
"Where the hell are they?" Scully sputtered, piercing
Skinner with a look.
The older man knelt, folding the radio into a pocket
as he gestured. "They're here."
Mulder reached up, grabbing the AD, one corner of his
mind surprised to see Skinner's shirt wasn't crisp and
white. The mud and blood he deposited there fit in
with the dirt already collected during Skinner's search
through the tunnels. "Prst - go!" The damage to his
mouth made talking so difficult.
Skinner shook his head. "No -- we're getting you out.
We'll find Priest later."
Scully was there, taking charge, giving orders, as the
paramedics loaded him onto a gurney. He heard, "Get
the IV in," and there was a small stick.
"Mrph -- 'n?" he asked hopefully.
Scully shook her head. "Shhh - don't talk. Try to
stay awake. We'll do something for the pain as soon
as we can." She fiddled with something -- Scully
in doctor mode -- and then, despite his best efforts
to stay awake for Scully, he felt the pain recede and
his eyelids grew heavy and at last, he could sleep.
*****************************************************
"The lung was pierced in three places. Seven
broken fingers. Twelve stitches on his left
tricep. His face is a mess. I can't begin to
count the injuries there. The wound on the back
of his head should have been stitched. It wasn't,
and it's infected to boot. Seventeen stitches
across his right palm -- he was lucky there wasn't
nerve damage." Scully ticked off Mulder's injuries
as she paced outside the ICU. Skinner sat quietly,
listening. "They removed a blade from his hand, and
a knife hilt, probably the one that matches the blade
in his hand, had to be surgically removed from his
abdomen. Again, he was lucky he didn't lose his
spleen. He's wrenched his knee, possibly torn the
meniscus." She paused, glaring at Skinner. "*And,*
he has pneumonia!"
There really wasn't anything to say. Skinner looked
at Scully, trying to decide if she wanted him to
comment or if silence was the best option. Watching
her pace, he wasn't sure. She was definitely angry;
he knew it wasn't at him, but then again, if he said
something, she might just redirect the anger at him
anyway, and he really didn't want that. But -- if she
was looking for a response, she could get angry with
him for not saying anything. He sighed, thinking that
his ineptitude in handling this type of situation was
why Sharon had wanted a divorce.
He looked up. She was standing still now, staring at
him. What had he done? He cast back frantically, trying
to remember if he'd said something out loud. The sigh --
that had to be it. He'd sighed and attracted her attention.
Now she was waiting for him to -- to what? He looked
up at her in confusion, then shook his head. This was
ridiculous. He was an Assistant Director at the Federal
Bureau of Investigation, and he could certainly carry on
a conversation with one of his agents about the other one.
"Is he awake?" he asked carefully.
She snorted. "Hardly." She glanced over at the closed
door, then turned back to him. "He doesn't do well under
anesthetic. They had to put him under to repair his
belly wound and fix the collapsed lung."
Just then the door swung open and a woman walked out.
"I'm Dr. Morrison," she said. "You're here for the
FBI agent, right?"
Scully nodded as Skinner said, "He's my agent. I'm
Walter Skinner -- with the Bureau."
"Does he have family?" Scully paled visibly at the
woman's words.
"His mother. She's not well and can't travel. I'd
rather not have to notify her, if it can be avoided."
Skinner frowned at the doctor and then took two steps
to stand beside Scully.
The doctor nodded. "Well, he's in pretty bad shape."
She looked at Scully. "I know the nurses have told
you the extent of his injuries ..."
"Is he going to be okay?" Scully cut the doctor's
words off.
"He's pretty banged up. His hands and face are a mess.
Stitches on both and he's going to need work on his
teeth -- what's left of them. The wound in his abdomen
is going to be painful -- belly wounds always are.
And he's got a chest tube in his lung."
"What about his head -- that gash on the back of his
head?" Scully was obviously memorizing every word
the woman said. "It should have been treated sooner."
"Yes," the doctor agreed. "We did a CT scan -- nothing's
fractured. God knows why. With the beating he took, he
came out remarkably well. Concussion, but that to be
expected given the extent of the injuries to his face
and head. That gash will be the least of his problems
if we see a quick response to the antibiotics I've put
him on. They'll clear up the pneumonia as well."
She looked down at a chart in her hand. "Wasn't he just
here being treated for ..." She frowned. "What is this?
He was in the sewer when they backwashed it? Got all that
crap in his lungs?" She shook her head. "No wonder he
has pneumonia. Oh, well, that should clear up with
the meds."
"When can he leave?"
Skinner looked quizzically at Scully. It wasn't
like her to be rushing to get Mulder *out* of a
hospital -- she was usually trying to keep him in
one.
She smiled. "You know it's going to be the first
thing out of his mouth." Her smile faltered but she
straightened her back and crossed her arms across her
chest. "Besides, I've decided I'll have better luck
keeping track of him if I take him home and keep him
there."
"He's not going anywhere any time soon. I'd say we're
talking weeks, maybe a month. He's facing some
reconstruction for his mouth -- have to talk to the
oral surgeon about that. For now, we take it one day
at a time. I'll keep him on IV antibiotics for the
next 48 hours, then we'll see how he's doing," the
doctor said. "He's going to have some real pain with
the belly, and he's not going to be able to use his
hands too well -- not with all those broken bones and
stitches. At least the thumbs weren't broken; he'll have
some use because of that." She looked at Scully. "I
take it you're going to be there to help?"
"I'm not going to be anywhere else."
****************************************************
"You're here." The words were a hoarse whisper.
"Where else would I be?" Scully rose and moved to
stand by the bed, her hand placed gently on Mulder's
good arm.
"Look cute in scrubs. Brings out your eyes." The words
were slurred from the damaged teeth and mouth, but the
meaning was clear.
"Flirt." She smiled despite herself and looked down
at the blue scrubs. Once she'd seen Mulder into surgery,
she'd taken a quick shower and changed into whatever was
handy. Skinner had offered to go and get her clothes,
but she hadn't bothered with it yet.
Mulder closed his eyes. "Hurts."
"Shhh, I know." She stepped to the door and motioned
to the AD. "See when they're going to bring him something
for the pain," she whispered. "It's due."
"When can I go home?"
She smiled to herself. It may not have been the first
thing out of his mouth, but it was close. "You're
on the IV for at least 48 hours. And you have to get the
chest tube out." She stroked his hair. "You've got a
lot of recuperating to do. And you're still facing
surgery."
"Days?"
"I'd say we're talking weeks, Mulder."
"Hmmmpf." He lifted one hand and cautiously scratched
at the other.
"Does it itch?" When he nodded, she took his hand and
rubbed between the bandages, paying special attention
to where the tape met skin.
" 'd you find Priest?" Mulder pulled back his right
hand and passed it over the left for a good rub.
"Not yet. He bolted when we came in. You were in
pretty bad shape ..." She shuddered slightly and
his eyes flew open.
"Worried 'bout me?" He turned his hand so her smaller
one rested in his larger, bandaged one.
"Always. I guess when I was telling you not to drown,
I should have included don't get stabbed, cut, hit
on the head, knocked out, or sick." She leaned down
and rested her cheek against his. "I need you, partner."
He smiled. It was hard to believe this was happening
to him. Every touch was new, sending sparks through
his body. Every word carried new meaning. Partner.
That really was a nice word. He reached up and touched
her hair with the back of his hand, a gentle touch
that comforted him and made him feel stronger at the
same time. He drew a breath, smelling a unique
scent that was part soap, part hospital, and
part Scully. He liked it. But ... this wasn't the
time or place.
A nurse came in with a syringe and Scully pulled
back, stepping out of the way. The nurse fiddled
with his IV, and then he felt something warm rushing
into his veins. Almost immediately, the pain began
to recede, and he grew drowsy.
"Scully," he murmured. She stepped back to his side.
He could feel her desire to touch him again. It
mirrored his own, but he was fading away and there
was something he needed to say. He reached out and
she took his hand, bringing it to her lips briefly.
"Nice as this is, you know you have to go."
"Where? We don't know where to look for him."
"Go talk to his mother."
End Self Unknown
Story continues in Self Revealed, coming soon!
(
geocities.com/daydreamersden)