Novus Ordo Seclorum 
by Rebecca Rusnak 
  
DISCLAIMER:  I do not own the characters whose names you recognize.  They 
belong to Chris Carter and Fox, and most importantly, to us, the fans. 

WRITE to me at: rrusnak@Lconn.com 

SPOILERS:  None, really.  Maybe a tiny one for The Red and the Black. 
Liberal references to past episodes.  Give yourself bonus points if you can 
name them all. 

RATING:  NC-17 for bad language, violence and sex, both consensual and 
non-consensual. 

WARNING!  Some disturbing material contained within. May not be suitable for 
all readers. 

CLASSIFICATION:  TRA.  Yes, there is romance of a sort here.  MulderTorture 
and angst.  Lots and lots of angst. 

SUMMARY:   The Date has come. In a post-Project world, mankind has been 
enslaved and largely silenced.  For over three years Scully has existed in a 
dark netherworld of slavery.  Voluntarily entering this hell, Mulder goes in 
search of her. 

NOTE:  The title of this story can be found on the Great Seal of the United 
States, and means "A New Order of the Ages." 
  

**** 

"Tell me, tell me the story, 
 the one about eternity, 
 and the way it's all going to be." 
        --U2, "Wake Up, Dead Man." 
  

**** 

In the beginning, there was a man and a woman.  He did not trust her, and 
she did not even like him.  But there came to be between them a respect, a 
growing trust, a developing friendship. 

For years they existed alongside each other in this state.  And if 
occasionally one thought of change, of furthering relations, the other did 
not know it. 

Until the day the earth stood still.  When it began its rotation again, its 
inhabitants found out that the world had moved on. 

And the man and the woman exchanged a kiss of promise.  For the first time 
they spoke of love, saying aloud what had only been in their hearts before. 

Now they lived in hiding; in danger and peril; in excitement and adventure. 
Through it all they claimed happiness.  And those who saw them together 
smiled and said that it was good. 

But as all things must come to an end, so did their happiness.  The woman 
was removed from her place of hiding by the enemy, and placed in servitude. 
When the man discovered this, he was filled with grief.  But he remembered 
his promise, and so he went to find her. 

For years, the woman waited, and lived with half an eye toward the past, 
half scanning the horizon.  For years, the man searched, suffering much in 
his continued pursuit. 

It is here where our story begins. 

**** 

She had chosen this, and for choosing life he still loved her, but for 
choosing *this* life, he could hate her. 

Yet it was his own choice that had brought him here, following her, hoping 
to find her.  It was by his own volition that he now bore the mark of the 
slave on his hip, and wore a collar round his neck.  It was through his own 
efforts that he now stood for auction in the roughest sector of what 
remained of the city. 

It had been a costly three years, and although he had not escaped unscathed, 
he had so far avoided the worst horror: all slaves had their tongues cut 
out, to ensure silence and obedience. 

That he could still speak was his greatest secret. 

That she could, too, was his hope. 

On the stage the gavel banged, and another slave was led away.  The 
auctioneer called out a lot number and brought the gavel down twice. 

One of the burly men in charge of the slaves tugged on his leash, and he 
went, reluctantly.  In the very beginning he had faced a choice. He could go 
along quietly, submissively, even.  Or he could make noise, fight every step 
of the way, and thus gain himself a reputation. 

Never one to go by the rules, he had chosen to fight. 

The end of his leash was attached to a pole in the middle of the stage.  The 
auctioneer never glanced up, merely began his rapid-fire sing-song 
recitation of the slave's qualities, soliciting bids at a pace that scarcely 
seemed to allow him time to breathe. 

The slave stood still, hands at his sides, his head up, staring haughtily at 
them all.  At his first auction he had been in tears, utterly destroyed by 
the humiliation; it was only by thinking of *her* and how she must have 
endured, that he had gotten through it at all.  Now he was used to the 
chanting, the greedy looks from the crowd, the poking and prodding at his 
body.  Now it was hatred that sustained him. 

The female slaves had it worse, he knew.  They were assessed not only for 
their work capabilities, but for breeding purposes as well.  Many a female 
slave was medically examined during her sale, in full view of the crowd. 
Thinking of her forced to undergo such degradation only hardened his resolve 
to find her. 

The bids came on fast and furious, and his asking price soared.  He noted 
with grim satisfaction that the smaller slaveowners had been left behind in 
the bidding war.  He wanted no part of them; only those who had wide spreads 
interested him.  More slaves meant more chances for him to learn about her, 
her fate.  The trail had led him this far, and he did not intend to lose it now. 

The auctioneer banged the gavel, startling him.  The crowd gave a small 
cheer for the man who worked his way through the throng to the backstage 
area.  Scattered applause burst out as his lead was unclipped from the pole 
and he was led offstage.  In another lifetime he might have fought, but now 
he merely followed the man holding his leash. 

Backstage, his new owner gloated as the leash was handed to him.  In his 
other hand he held the leather-bound packet that contained the slave's 
papers.  "Let's go," he said, in a harshly accented voice.  He gave the 
leash a sharp tug. 

The man walked off, and the slave quietly followed, but Fox Mulder still 
walked with his head held high. 

**** 

No matter how hard she tried, Dana Scully could never quite make sense of it 
all.  When she looked back at the past, she felt she was making her way 
through a mine field, each step a perilous one, leading her closer and 
closer to that impassable wall, that place in memory she could never breach, 
never recover. 

By her best estimate, she had lost three years. 

Some of her memories remained frustratingly clear, like the day--it had to 
have been at the very beginning of it all--when Mulder, who had disappeared 
for several days, burst into their shared office in the basement of the 
Hoover Building. 

"We have to move, Scully," he'd cried. 

Even now, across immeasurable time and distance, she could picture him.  The 
dark bristles of unshaven beard on his cheeks, the purplish bruising around 
one eye, the light of sheer terror in his eyes.  "We have to move, Scully!" 

She'd stood up, but so slowly.  "Mulder, where have you been?" 

He'd lunged forward and grabbed her hand.  He must have called her name, 
because in the memory she saw his lips move, but there was no sound.  There 
was nothing else. 

The woman formerly known as Dana Scully sighed and leaned her forehead 
against the window. From her vantage point, the fields of wheat stretched 
endlessly to the horizon, and the slaves who tended the crop were only tiny 
toy figures. 

Somewhere below a woman's voice called out, and she stirred.  They had sent 
her to the attic to find a dress, something suitable for the new slave girl 
her master had just bought.  She had already been up here long enough.  If 
they caught her daydreaming out the window, she would be beaten for sure. 

She backed away from the window, and doubled slightly as a cramp struck her 
midsection.  She waited for it to pass, grateful for the small pain.  It 
meant another monthly, another escape from the breeding program.  Undaunted, 
they would try again next month, and she would not be able to stop them, 
although she knew it was pointless to try to impregnate her. 

She would have told them so, if she could still speak. 

**** 

In the beginning there was darkness, and out of the darkness there came a 
light. And a world was born.  And more worlds, thousands upon thousands. 

For eons one world was barren, until the one event that was destined to 
occur, finally happened.  From nothingness, there came life.  Soon many of 
the worlds bore life, but the spaces between worlds was vast and the 
universe was at peace. 

And thus ignorance was born, and on one planet the belief was raised that 
they were the only life created, the only life allowed.  Through the ages 
some dared to disagree, and were persecuted for their heresies. 

Until a select few made contact, and the realization was made that their 
life was not alone.  And this realization was too horrible to be borne, and 
was kept hidden from the many.  Those who had formerly thought themselves to 
be alone in the universe were made aware that they were, indeed, but one of 
many forms of life. 

A challenge was issued, a battle was narrowly avoided, a deal was made.  The 
inhabitants of the blue and green planet continued living, spinning their 
supposed solitary way through the vacuum of the universe, unaware of the 
other creatures waiting to descend. 

The other life forms would come, and there would be no stopping them. 

**** 

His new owners had only bought one other slave, and after he had climbed 
into the back of the truck, it had pulled away from the auction area. 

He shared the space with the other male slave, and Mulder studied him 
surreptitiously.  Everyone he met could either be an ally or an enemy; 
nowadays there was no in between. 

He closed his eyes as they bounced along.  It was a sign of his new master's 
wealth that he even owned a truck.  Vehicles were scarce these days; most 
had been confiscated. 

They were on the road for an hour, and were stopped twice at the 
checkpoints, but were waved through after only a cursory examination of the 
necessary papers. As befitted a proper slave, Mulder kept his head down 
during these exchanges, but he listened to every word.  Information could, 
and had, come from the most unexpected places, and it did not pay to let his 
attention wander. 

His new home was a wide spread, acres of wheat and corn spreading over the 
land. The truck pulled up in front of the first in a series of long, 
one-story buildings that served as the slaves' quarters, and stopped.  A 
tall, lean man lounged in the doorway of the building, and as the engine on 
the truck died, he detached himself from the doorframe and came forward. 

Mulder's heart stopped.  The man approaching them was tall, bald and of 
military bearing, and his resemblance to Walter Skinner was astonishing. 
For a brief moment his hopes soared, then crashed again as his heart 
wrenched in his chest. He had watched Skinner die, had stood by silently as 
they had looted his still-warm body; he must never think he would see 
Skinner again. 

The man who looked like Skinner stood before the truck with his arms folded, 
imperiously watching as Mulder and the other slave got down from the back of 
the vehicle.  A faint sneer of contempt twisted his lips.  "What did you get 
today?" he asked the driver of the truck.  When he spoke, his voice bore the 
faint accent that marked him as a hybrid, although it was not as noticeable 
as the driver's. 

"One for the south field, and one for the east," the driver said.  He jerked 
his head toward Mulder.  "That one there, I think he's the one that Andrews 
was selling." 

The bald man's eyes narrowed.  "Is that so?"  He stepped toward Mulder. 
"How about it, boy?  Did you come from Andrews' place?" 

Mulder nodded once, but did not lower his eyes. 

"Ask him about what he did there, Smith," the driver suggested. 

Smith shot the driver a look of disgust.  "Ask him?" he mocked.  But he 
looked at Mulder contemplatively.  "I heard what you did there, boy," he 
said.  "Damn near killed a man, didn't you?  Not that he didn't deserve it, 
I'm sure."  A smile briefly played at the corners of his mouth, then 
vanished.  Swiftly, the tall man grabbed the trailing end of Mulder's leash 
and wrapped it around a big fist.  "It's my duty to inform you, however, 
that if you try anything with me or my men, I will personally make you wish 
you had never been born."  He jerked the leash, tugging Mulder forward. 
"You understand that?" 

Keeping his expression neutral, Mulder stared at the man.  The desire to 
speak, to tell Smith to kiss his ass, was immensely strong, but he fought it 
back.  There would be time enough for talk once he had found Scully.  Now 
there was only time for silence. 

Smith glared at him, and the moment stretched out.  Abruptly the big man 
laughed.  He let go of Mulder's leash.  "I think we're going to have some 
interesting times around here," he chuckled, turning toward the driver. 
"Don't you?" 

Without warning, one arm lashed out and a fist caught Mulder across the 
face.  The blow was powerful, and he spun completely around before crashing 
to the ground with a pained grunt.  Before he could think to move, Smith's 
boot stomped down on the leash at the base of his throat, pushing his face 
into the dirt.  He tensed and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable 
kick, but refused to move, to defend himself. 

"When I ask you something, filth, you will answer me.  Is that understood?" 
Smith's voice was light, almost conversational. 

Mulder was still.  He could not have nodded now even if he'd wanted to. 

The toe of Smith's other boot prodded under his chin, lifting his head. The 
collar around his neck bit into the soft flesh there, strangling him, and 
his eyes popped open.  Smith nodded approvingly at this.  "Do you understand 
me?" 

Mulder managed a guttural sound that might have been an affirmative, might 
have been a "fuck you."  Instantly Smith backed away.  He glanced at the 
second slave, who had stood quietly through Mulder's display.  "We got an 
understanding?"  The other man nodded quickly, his head bobbing up and down. 

Smith chuckled again.  "Take them into the cabin.  It's nearly time for the 
evening meal anyway.  They can rest until then."  He strode away, toward the 
main house. 

The truck driver stepped forward, and only then did Mulder dare get up. 

**** 

They had killed Skinner because he had resisted them, not violent 
resistance, or even loud resistance.  Just a calm refusal.... 

Mulder was in the back of the wagon, letting the rhythmic clopping of the 
horse's hooves lull him into a half-sleep.  He had never ridden in a 
horse-drawn vehicle before, and although the novelty of it had worn off 
quickly, he was content to ride along in silence. 

They heard the car before they saw it, and Mulder sat up, hissing with pain 
as the still-new brand on his hip flared.  Skinner tossed a pair of 
handcuffs over his shoulder.  "Let me do the talking."  Mulder nodded, 
closing the cuffs over his wrists, smearing dirt from the wagon bed on his 
cheeks.  He sat against the side of the wagon and pasted a sullen pout on 
his face. 

Skinner reined in the horse and allowed the car to approach.  There were two 
men, and they got out of the car but left it idling.  The horse stamped 
nervously, its eyes rolling as the men came forward. 

"Where are you headed with that slave?" one of them asked. 

"Wichita," Skinner answered.   Mulder kept his head lowered, certain that 
his pounding heart must be audible to the two hybrids. 

"Wichita don't exist anymore," the other man said. "Where are your papers?" 

There was a pause as Skinner pulled out his forged papers and handed them to 
the men.  "Where are the slave's papers?" demanded the first man. "Where did 
you get him?" 

"He doesn't have papers yet," Skinner answered.  "I found him in hiding. 
I'm taking him into town and selling him to whoever I find." 

Silence stretched out, and then there came the distinctive sound of paper 
being torn.  Mulder jerked his head up, unable to keep from looking. 

"You're a liar."  The strips of paper fluttered to the ground, then were 
picked up by the summer breeze and carried off.  "You're coming with us. 
Both of you." 

Skinner shook his head.  "I can't do that.  I'm going to Wichita."  He took 
up the reins, and one of the men grabbed the horse's bridle. 

The man who had torn up Skinner's papers stepped forward and grasped 
Mulder's arm.  "Let's go." 

Instinctively Mulder recoiled.  "Get your hands off me," he spat. 

The man smiled mirthlessly.  "Still got your tongue, huh?"  He looked at 
Skinner, who was staring straight ahead.  "You must not have been planning 
to get lots of money for him, my friend."  His smile faded.  One hand 
reached under his coat and produced a pistol.  "Now get down from the wagon." 

"I'm going--" Skinner started calmly. 

"Yes, to Wichita," the man with the gun interrupted.  "We're still going 
there, don't worry.  Only now I've got *two* slaves to sell." 

Skinner's eyes hardened, and Mulder inwardly tensed for the upcoming battle. 
"I am not a slave," the former FBI Assistant Director said, "and I never 
will be." 

The pistol shot was deafening at such close range, and the horse reared in 
the traces, nearly dragging the man holding the bridle off his feet. 
Skinner fell off the wagon, landing in the dust on the opposite side, out of 
Mulder's view.  Frozen with shock, he did not move when the pistol was aimed 
at him. 

"What about you?  Are you a slave?" 

He almost said no, almost shouted his defiance and hatred at them.  But at 
the last moment Scully's face swam before his vision, and he closed his eyes 
and surrendered to them. 

They put him in the backseat of the car, cuffing his wrists behind him 
first, and shut the door.  Through the dust-streaked window he watched dully 
as they went through Skinner's pockets, throwing his personal effects in the 
dirt, taking his knife. 

The men were laughing as they got back into the car.  The one who had shot 
Skinner turned around as the car drove off, and grinned at Mulder, 
brandishing his prize.  He made a slashing motion with Skinner's knife. 

Mulder closed his eyes and leaned his head against the car window.  He would 
not let them make him cry. 

**** 

End (1/9) 
  

See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 

**** 

The woman in charge of the house slaves was named Etta.  One of the lucky 
slaves with some authority, she could still speak, and she scolded Scully 
soundly for being slow. 

"Where have you been?"  The short woman snatched the drab gray dress from 
Scully with an impatient snort.  "Making us wait." 
  

Scully bowed her head in mute apology.  Etta turned and faced the new girl. 
"Here."  She thrust the dress forward.  "It's yours now." The new slave took 
it with a trembling hand, tears glistening in her eyes. 

Scully felt no pity for her.  Soon enough the girl would learn the way 
things were done, and if she didn't she would be killed. 

She sat down at the large wooden table in the kitchen and returned to the 
coffee grinder she had abandoned in order to fetch the dress.  She listened 
with half an ear as Etta explained things. 

"Now, you'll sleep in the common room with the rest of the house slaves. 
You get one blanket to yourself.  When it gets cold you can fight with the 
others over the remaining blankets.  One dress, and you've already got 
shoes.  Laundry is done when you can, but I warn you to wash often.  The 
mistress doesn't like her slaves to stink. 

"You'll get up early with the bell, and don't leave in the evening until 
I've released you.  I expect you to be punctual and obedient, quick to 
follow orders, and humble in every respect.  The mistress doesn't want, or 
need, to deal with you.  That's my job.  If she has to interfere, I am the 
one taken to task."  Etta lowered her voice.  "And if I get punished you can 
be sure I will see to it that you are, as well." 

Scully risked a glance up.  Etta was leaning over the new girl, who was 
openly crying now.  She looked utterly terrified, and Scully realized that 
this had to be her first day as a slave. 

"Can you talk?" Etta demanded.  The girl shook her head no, crying harder. 
Speech was highly prized among the slaves; it was the only way to attain a 
position of authority, as Etta had.  Satisfied that the girl presented no 
threat, Etta nodded approvingly.  "Now, let me show you the house, and where 
you are allowed.  Certain rooms are forbidden to us..."  Her voice trailed 
off as she left the kitchen, the new slave in tow. 

With Etta gone, the atmosphere in the kitchen relaxed noticeably.  The 
tension left the slaves, and Scully was not the only one who breathed more 
easily.  When she had first come to this spread, she had hoped to find an 
ally in Etta, but the woman took her job seriously.  For her own sake, she 
had to.  She could not afford to mix with the slaves; but she could not hope 
for freedom, either.  The best Etta could achieve was to maintain the status 
quo, and she worked hard toward this end. 

"How long you think she'll last?" rasped the cook.  She was a huge black 
woman, capable and efficient. 

Fingers were raised, indicating weeks.  Two, three, one.  Scully did not 
join in, but noticed that none of the women pointed down, signaling that 
they thought the new girl would last. 

Her jaw clenched.  She had no way of knowing, but she suspected none of them 
had thought *she* would last, either.  But by now, she had been at the house 
for several months, and she was accepted without question. 

Without consciously deciding so, Scully determined that the new girl would 
stay. She would see to it. 

**** 

His sleep was abruptly broken when the door banged open, admitting the 
slaves from the south field.  Mulder sat up hastily, blinking back his dream 
of Skinner's death. 

"All right, you bastards!  Get in there."  The shadow of a man fell across 
the threshold, and the slaves entering the cabin had to cross through it, 
each of them pausing just long enough to note the new arrival.  Mulder got 
to his feet and met their stares with one of his own. 

The cabin was long, holding two rows of beds, fifteen to a row.  Two wooden 
tables stood at the end of the room, and a row of toilets and sinks stood 
behind the tables.  The slaves all filed in this direction, some of them 
sitting at the benches before the tables, some using the toilets. 

Mulder made his way down the aisle between the beds and sat on the end of 
the nearest bench.  He left a space between him and the man next to him, a 
surly-looking redhead.   The tables were already laid with plates, glasses, 
and spoons.  No forks or knives.  Nothing stood between the tables and the 
toilets, and the thick smell of shit rose in the air.  A few of the men who 
could speak threw taunts at others who could not, but even they spoke 
softly, as if not wishing to break the overpowering silence. 

The back door of the cabin opened, and under the watchful eye of the guard, 
two women entered, pushing small wheeled carts bearing steaming bowls of 
food.  They came around, laying the food in the center of the tables, 
pouring water into glasses.  None of the men made a move toward the women, 
who went silently about their work with their eyes cast down. 

After the women left, an agonized silence fell.  No one spoke, or moved. 
Mulder looked up at the guard who had herded the men into the cabin.  A 
small smile was on the man's lips, and Mulder realized that he enjoyed 
making the men wait to eat. 

Finally the guard said, "All right boys," and the silence was immediately 
broken.  Dozens of hands grabbed for the bowls in the middle of the table, 
taking what they could, sometimes snatching food from another man's hand. 
Glasses were knocked against, although none were overturned. 

Mulder realized he had to act fast if he was to get any food.  As the new 
fish, he also had to prove himself.  To show weakness in front of this bunch 
was to invite even more misery upon himself. 

He turned to his right and reached over the red-headed slave sitting next to 
him.  Beyond him sat a small Hispanic man, and Mulder grabbed a hunk of 
bread from this man's hands. 

"'Ey!"  The Hispanic man cried out and lunged at Mulder. 

Stuck between them, the redhead calmly acted.  He reached directly in front 
of him, then swung his arms straight back.  Both Mulder and the Hispanic man 
fell backwards, landing on the floor simultaneously. 

Instantly the sounds of thirty men eating stopped. 

Mulder leapt to his feet quickly.  The guard was already moving, one hand 
reaching for the club hanging from his belt.  The man whose bread had been 
stolen was slower to get up, and hung back, clearly unwilling to antagonize 
the guard. 

Mulder had no such qualms.  Before the guard could approach him, he turned 
and hammered the red-haired slave in the back of the neck, then gripped the 
man's hair and pulled him off the bench. 

"You!" the guard cried, breaking into a run. 

Mulder sat down in the spot the redhead had just vacated.  The bread he'd 
stolen was already gone, he noticed. 

The men across from him stiffened, and Mulder tensed, waiting for the 
reciprocating blow from the red-haired slave.  "Stop right there!" he heard 
the guard cry, and then came the nauseating crack of his club striking 
flesh.  The downed slave cried out miserably once, then was silent under the 
blows.  Behind him, the Hispanic man still stood, cowering in fear. 

"What did I say about these fights?" the guard roared.  He was panting with 
anger and exertion.  "What?" 

Sensing movement, Mulder turned suddenly, and the guard stopped his swing, 
the club inches from Mulder's face.  "You wanna watch yourself, filth," the 
guard said.  "Being new ain't an excuse."  Without looking down, he prodded 
the unconscious man at his feet.  "Or else you'll wind up like him."  He 
looked up at the Hispanic slave.  "Sit your ass down," he snapped. 

The men began eating again, a bit more subdued.  No one protested when 
Mulder reached for a bowl of corn.  The Hispanic man sat down beside him, 
and with shaking hands, took up his spoon. 

**** 

The night brought its own silence, its own noises.  Men who could not speak 
still grunted and wheezed, coughed and moaned.  Bare feet scraped the wooden 
floor on the journey to the toilet. 

Mulder lay awake, not wanting to fall asleep.  He had been the recipient of 
stares all night, some of them respectful, some of them hostile.  The 
Hispanic man who had been caught in the middle of the scuffle kept a 
distance between himself and Mulder, throwing the latter hasty glances 
throughout the evening. 

There was not much to do during the evening hours, and watching the other 
slaves was the foremost entertainment.  Those who could still speak talked 
amongst themselves quietly.  A few communicated through hand gestures and by 
drawing letters on the floor with their finger.   Most lay on their beds, 
exhausted from the day's toil. 

Even though he'd slept earlier, Mulder was tired, and he fought sleep. After 
the evening meal, two men had picked up the unconscious slave and dragged 
him to a bed.  The redhead had woken after another hour, and he and his two 
companions had spent the remainder of the evening glaring in Mulder's direction. 

The night had ended when the man who'd stood watch during dinner entered the 
cabin and stood in the doorway.  Quickly the men had climbed into their beds 
and drawn up the covers.  Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Mulder 
had done the same. 

"See you in the morning," snickered the guard.  He closed the door and 
locked it, and an instant later the lights were extinguished. 

His earlier dream of Skinner had brought the man to mind, and Mulder 
reluctantly allowed his thoughts to drift.  Sleep when you can, and don't 
waste a moment, the older man had lectured often.  It's a weakness of ours, 
and one they'll exploit whenever they can.  Learn to sleep for only an hour 
at a time.  Use the night hours. 

Thinking of Skinner made his throat constrict, and Mulder rolled onto his 
side. Years ago he had learned how to fall asleep within moments, and he did 
so now. 

A slight waft of air jerked him suddenly awake, but too late.   His eyes 
struggled to discern the number of dark shapes hovering over him. A hand 
clamped itself over the lower half of his face. Furious at his assailants, 
at himself for falling asleep, he struggled, biting at the hand that covered 
his mouth.  Calloused hands seized his wrists, yanked them over his head, 
flipped him over, pressing his face into the pillow. 

Terror joined his anger as he recognized instantly what was about to happen 
to him.  Communities of men living under enforced restraint were the same 
the world over. He'd managed to avoid this for years, but there was no 
avoiding it now. 

Fingers scrabbled at the back of his pants.  Warm lips closed over his ear, 
suckling. "No!" he cried, the sound muffled by the pillow.  For a moment his 
cry gave them pause, and then the mouth around his ear shaped itself into a 
grin.  Hot breath puffed into his hair. 

A heavy weight settled on the backs of his legs, pinning him down, 
effectively ending his struggles, and he cried out again in mingled fear and 
rage.  "Damn you! No!" 

One of the men chuckled throatily.  Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and 
sobbed.  There was a split second where no one moved. 

When the world started up again, he screamed. 

**** 

Night was the best time. 

Night was also the worst time. 

She was not afforded much time during the day to think, and her brain seized 
eagerly on the long dark hours of the night.  Half-formed images, memories, 
and thoughts plagued her, made her restless. 

But the night also meant the oblivion of sleep, and unless it was her turn 
for the breeding cabin, it also meant a surcease from being yelled at, and 
touched by unwelcome hands. 

The new girl lay in the bed across from her, and Scully heard her sniffle 
mightily, trying in vain to hold back tears.  It was not an uncommon 
sound--every night at least one of the women cried herself to sleep. 

The girl's name was Beth.  Scully held that knowledge closely.  Names were 
important now in a way they had never been before.  A name held power, a 
name meant an identity, a name defined you. 

She had watched Beth get ready for bed, her eyes huge in her pinched face, a 
dark bruise already forming on one cheek.  The female house slaves slept on 
the third floor, under the attic, a room that was sweltering now in the 
summer, although undoubtedly in winter the women would freeze. 

She'd approached Beth cautiously, not wanting to spook the girl, a scrap of 
paper clenched in her fist.  Reading and writing were forbidden among 
slaves, and Scully knew that the children being born into slavery were being 
kept illiterate.  But for now, paper and pencil were treasured objects, 
stolen at great risk, used on penalty of death. The white surface of the 
paper was now a uniform gray, smudged and wrinkled from repeated erasings. 
Nothing was too precious not to be erased, so as to get as much use from the 
paper as possible. 

"Dana."  She'd printed her name in small letters, then patted her chest with 
the palm of her hand.  Beth had gaped at her, especially when Scully had 
offered her the pencil.  Her lips had moved, but nothing came out. 
Eventually she'd written her name, mimicking the tiny lettering Scully had used. 

Names exchanged, the two women had stared at each other, but did not smile. 
Scully used the rapidly dwindling eraser on the pencil to remove the marks 
they'd just made, and had hidden the contraband items again. 

Beth had stared at her until the lights had gone out. 

At the far end of the room, near the stairs leading to the second floor, 
Etta snored noisily. She considered it a disgrace that she had to sleep with 
the rest of the slaves, and never lost an opportunity to berate the women 
for her own plight.  Scully had long since stopped listening to her. 

Now she tensed, hearing the bed springs across from her creak as Beth got 
up.  Etta woke easily, and she was always cranky when first roused.  If she 
heard... 

She could barely make out the dark shape of the girl as she glided across 
the floor and knelt by her bed.  One hand reached out, tentatively, and 
touched her cheek.  Scully took it and scooted over in bed, making room. 

With Beth in her arms, she fell asleep quickly. 

**** 

He could think of no reason why waking was bad, why returning to 
consciousness was to be avoided, but there it was anyway, a crazy, cringing 
fear that made him curl into a tight ball and keep his eyes screwed shut, 
refusing to see. 

It hurt to move, to draw his legs up, and with the pain came memory.  His 
heart began to race, and a small whine escaped him. 

<no oh no oh god no> 

The darkness behind his closed eyelids was gray, not black, and he knew that 
dawn had come.  If this place was like all the others, a bell would ring 
soon, summoning the men out of sleep and into the day. 

The thought of standing up, of walking, made his stomach clench and sit like 
a rock inside him.  Waves of pain rocked him, and he groaned. 

On his left someone coughed, a hacking, wet sound, and Mulder flinched.  The 
bell went off, strident and pulsing, and reflexively he jerked upright, eyes 
opening.  Instantly he doubled over, racked with cramps, moaning helplessly. 
<oh god oh scully> 

Morning light streamed through the cabin door as it was opened by the guard. 
"Rise and shine, boys!" he called with evil glee.  His eyes swept over the 
men, noting who lagged behind, and who looked like they might cause trouble. 

Sweat broke out on his brow as Mulder forced himself out of bed.  He could 
not stand erect, and he swayed, slightly bent over, one arm held stiffly 
across his waist, holding himself.  From the corner of his eye he could see 
a crimson stain on the sheets and he turned his head, sickened by the sight. 

"Let's go, let's go!" the guard called, moving into the room.  The slaves 
had to file past him to get to the tables for the morning meal. The back 
door opened, and like the night before, women slaves began laying food on 
the table. 

He had to move.  He took a small step forward and stopped, paralyzed by the 
pain shooting through his pelvis and down his legs. 

The men who slept in the beds at the far end of the room were filing past, 
and in another moment he would be left alone in the aisle, a sole target for 
the guard's anger.  He sank his teeth into his lower lip and stepped 
forward, one pace, then two.  He hobbled past the guard, last to reach the 
tables. 

A new dilemma presented itself.  He could not, dared not sit down.  The pain 
wouldn't let him. And if he did sit, he would never get up, he'd just curl 
up on the bench and let the guard beat him to death for being lazy. 

At the other table, the red-haired slave caught Mulder's eye.  He grinned 
and elbowed his companion, who leered at Mulder.  The ugly look infuriated 
him, and buoyed by his anger, he managed to gingerly lower himself onto the 
bench nearest the door. 

The guard released them to eat, and the men reached for the food with the 
same aggressive eagerness as before.  Mulder sat still, wincing, unable to 
eat at all. 

**** 

Morning brought a return to work, to duties assigned by Etta.  Scully was 
set to polishing the silver; the mistress was having a luncheon today. 

She was more fortunate than most, Scully knew, in that she was owned not by 
the alien hybrids, but by human beings.  A former Senator and his wife, a 
man who had helped push through Congress certain measures that had paved the 
way for the alien takeover.  Not a full-fledged member of the Consortium, 
but helpful enough to have his life spared, and to be given slaves of his own. 

Being owned by a human could be a mixed blessing, however.  By now all 
slaves knew the story of the man in what had been Indiana, who had killed 
fifty slaves in his first two months as a landowner, so zealous had he been 
to show patriotism to his new government. 

Landowner.  Scully's hands fell still, and she looked up, gazing out the 
kitchen window.  From the work table she sat at, she could see blue sky, 
with a few gray rainclouds in the distance.  Occasionally, when the wind 
blew hard enough, the leafy top of an oak tree leaned into view. 

It was all about land, someone had once told her.  She could not remember 
who, or where, or why he had said such a thing. 

Most of the cities had been destroyed, either in the initial fighting, or in 
subsequent, deliberate attacks.  In the first couple of years, hundreds of 
men and women had died while dismantling the cities of the world. 
International boundaries were erased; technology and its comforts was placed 
in the hands of the few. 

The earth became one huge agricultural spread.  Mountains were mined, 
deserts made to be useful, a gift from the aliens, whose technology allowed 
such things to be possible. 

"They want us for our natural resources," Mulder had said once. 

Scully froze, going utterly still, caught in memory's thrall.  For so long 
she had remembered nothing, and now she avidly seized on any memories her 
brain offered up. 

"They'll mine and farm until they wear the planet out."  His arm was draped 
over her shoulders, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair.  Her head 
lay on his chest, and under her ear she could feel the steady, reassuring 
beat of his heart.  They were naked. 

"And if we're not all dead by then, we'll wish we were."  The utter finality 
of his words both terrified and saddened her. 

She rose up on one elbow and... 

Nothing.  Had she kissed him?  Spoken words of false bravado, meant to 
instill confidence?  She could not remember. 

A faint rustling noise jerked her from her reverie, and she blinked, drawing 
back slightly when she saw Etta standing in front of her.  Quick as a 
striking snake, Etta's hand flashed out and slapped Scully across the face. 

"You lazy slut," Etta hissed.  "Get back to your work, or the missy herself 
will flog you." 

She marched from the kitchen and Scully rubbed her aching cheek. 

**** 

In the beginning there was life. 

And there was one life form who believed themselves to be the sole 
inhabitants of the universe.  From this belief arose another, more powerful 
one: that they were the ultimate act of creation, made to rule over all 
other creatures. 

For eons these twin beliefs went unchallenged.  Until one day word came of 
another race, inhabiting a world not far from the dark planet of those 
original life forms. 

Many years were spent in debate, and council.  And a decision was made: that 
their superiority must not be questioned, that this threat must not go 
unanswered.  Preparations were made for war. 

The struggle was brief, the victory sweet.  The inhabitants of the dark 
planet celebrated this news, as it upheld their belief in their supremacy 
over the universe. 

And when they had finished rejoicing, they turned back to the stars, in 
search of more worlds to conquer.  Centuries were spent subjugating the 
races of the universe.  And then it happened that their eye fell on a small, 
blue planet, third from its sun. 

Preparations were made for war. 

**** 

<John Lee Roche> 

The south field was, technically speaking, not a field at all yet.  It was 
only half-cleared, a tangle of weeds, rocks, and assorted rubble.  Under the 
watchful eye of a perimeter of guards, the slaves were carting off the 
rocks, pulling the weeds, overturning the soil, and sprinkling it with 
fertilizer.  It was expected to be ready by next planting season. 

<Donnie Pfaster> 

The rocks were not heavy, and the work was mindless.  Mulder trudged down 
one side of the field, pulling a small cart behind him.  They'd re-attached 
his leash, hooking the free end to a ring in the front of the cart.  It had 
two slim poles on either side, reminiscent of a rickshaw, and he pulled it 
by these poles.  As it got heavier and heavier, the weight dragged the cart 
down, and the strain on his neck and shoulders grew unbearable.  He took to 
spending more time on his knees, digging up the rocks at a slow pace, 
grateful for the chance to take a deep breath. 

<The ship in Norway> 

It had been a week since his arrival, a week since his first forcible 
introduction to the nighttime activites of the south slave cabin. 

<Eugene Tooms> 

Off to his right one of the guards shouted, and there came the unmistakable 
crack of the whip. 

<Mothmen in Florida> 

Unable to put it off any longer, he stood and gripped the poles of the cart. 
It was nearly full, and he had to lower his head until the collar was 
strangling him as he strained to get the thing moving.  It lurched forward, 
one inch, then another.  His mouth dropped open, desperately trying to pull 
air into his aching lungs.  The muscles in his arms trembled with the effort 
of dragging the laden cart. 

<A hospital in Rhode Island> 

"You!  Get that thing moving!"  The lash burned along his shoulder blades, 
knocking him forward.  Losing his balance, he let go of the poles and 
dropped to his knees. 

<A Congressional hearing> 

The whip fell again, leaving an ugly red weal along his upper arm.  He 
struggled to his feet, reached behind him and took up the poles again. 

<Fairfax Mercy Hospital> 

With the guard looking on dispassionately, he got the cart moving forward. 
He staggered the few feet to the next group of rocks, then stopped. 

She had touched him before, with compassion, with affection, with love even. 
Where was she now? 

**** 

End (2/9) 
  

See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 

**** 
  

As she had suspected, Scully discovered Beth to be a multi-layered person. 
Under her soft exterior, beyond those first-night tears, there was a young 
woman of grit and determination.  She bore the slaps and shoves, laughter 
and insults with a stoic reserve that Scully both approved of and respected. 

But she was still young and easily impressionable.  And when, a week after 
Beth's arrival, Scully was informed by Etta that it was her night for the 
breeding cabins, it was Beth who cried, not Scully. 

She must have looked puzzled, for Etta drew her in.  "I know it's not the 
right time.  You just finished your monthly, didn't you?" 

It was no use lying; Etta knew all their schedules.  Scully nodded. 

"It's not my idea, believe me," Etta said.  "I overheard the missy talking. 
There aren't enough children being born, and they need more slaves.  They're 
killing us off too fast."  For a moment Etta's face was open and unguarded, 
her expression vulnerable, her use of the word "us" a rare moment of 
inclusion.  She was approachable, then, and if she had been able, Scully 
would have said the words that would have made Etta into a friend, into just 
another woman, like them. 

But she remained silent. 

Etta blinked, and the moment was lost forever.  She raised her voice so all 
the women could hear.  "Anyway, I guess they figure that you all just need 
more chances to get pregnant.  From now on you'll all go twice a month, 
instead of just once." 

She left.  Beth stood at the sink, one hand dripping sudsy water onto the 
kitchen floor.  Tears wet her cheeks, and the look she turned on Scully was 
full of agonized sympathy. 

There were three breeding huts behind the main house, and another three 
behind the cabins for the female field slaves.  All six were hastily 
constructed buildings of plywood and tarpaper.  None had any windows, and 
the only thing inside was a cot in the corner. 

Scully walked alone to the cabin, mulling over what had happened in the 
kitchen. Beth's tears stood out in her mind.  In this new world, people did 
not cry for one another, or make sacrifices for each other.  In this world, 
her long-ago statement, "Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for 
anyone but you" was an anachronism. 

A single light bulb hung from a frayed string, and she pulled the cord, 
illuminating the small space.  She walked over to the cot, sat on it, and 
closed her eyes. 

It was not long before the door opened.  Scully bowed her head and clasped 
her hands in her lap, the proper posture for a female slave.  She could 
never be sure when a guard would enter the cabin, and it was safer not to 
take any chances. 

But she heard only one set of footsteps.  She could smell him as he came 
forward, a mixture of sweat and onions.  She had foregone dinner tonight; 
obviously her stud had not. 

He sat beside her on the cot and she tensed. There were two kinds of male 
slaves: those in it only for themselves, and those who wished to please the 
woman.  Not too terribly different from the time before.  "Rapists or 
seducers," Golden, the cook, had snorted once. 

A hand touched her face, her hair, but nothing was said.  Scully relaxed. 
Clearly this man was a seducer. 

He tugged her to her feet.  Fabric rustled as he removed his shirt.  Scully 
toed off her shoes, unbuttoned her gray dress and let it fall to the floor, 
stepped out of her cotton panties. 

His hands were large, but gentle, as they cupped her breasts.  His thumbs 
flicked her nipples, and they hardened instantly.  Warm lips trailed down 
her jaw, skipping over the collar around her neck, finding skin again on her 
collarbone.  No tongue, just soft kisses.  Down her breast, finally closing 
over the nipple there.  She threw back her head and gasped. 

It was wrong to enjoy this, but *they* had taken so much from everyone. 
From her.  Happiness was non-existent, and physical pleasure was fleeting, 
to be grabbed while you could. 

Calloused hands kneaded her shoulders, traced the curve of her waist, cupped 
her buttocks.  A hand slid between her legs, seeking her, one finger 
entering her. 

She ground her hips against his hand, growling softly in the back of her 
throat. Her hands came up on their own, her palms clutching his head.  His 
hair was springy and curly, and as her hands moved through it, her 
fingertips remembered other hair, thick and soft, irresistible to touch, 
framing warm eyes. 

She was lifted, placed on the cot.  The mattress bounced slightly as the man 
stroked himself, his other hand still attempting to pleasure her.  Finally 
he grunted and withdrew his hand, leaving her hovering on the edge of 
release, so frustratingly close. 

As he entered her a tear escaped from her tightly closed eyes, eyes she had 
not once opened the entire time. 
  

**** 

They blew up the Hoover Building.  Not the aliens, or even the hybrids, but 
the Consortium.  They had destroyed it with a blast from above, from one of 
the satellites Scully had always steadfastly denied the existence of. 

They had obliterated it, and he, Spooky Mulder, had called in a bomb threat 
just minutes beforehand.  Not soon enough--the evacuation had just begun 
when the building and all in it were incinerated.  He, Scully, and a handful 
of other agents had watched in horror, crouched behind a truck parked on E 
Street. 

He missed Washington, Mulder realized. 

The drudgery and toil of the south field were unending, and his thoughts 
wandered often. He missed his apartment in Alexandria, fighting the inbound 
traffic on Route 1, the noise and bustle of downtown DC.  He missed the 
crowds, the tourists, the people.  He missed the sense of importance that 
came from living in the nation's capital, a city that drew thousands to it 
every day. 

"Get moving," snapped one of the guards, brandishing his whip.  Mulder 
looked at him and slowly turned away, recognizing the threat as empty.  It 
was mid-summer, and far too hot for anything to lure the guards out of their 
shady posts. 

Mulder hefted the rock in his hand, then tossed it into his cart.  It was 
nearly empty, and it moved easily behind him as he made his way slowly down 
the row.  Working on auto-pilot, he let his mind drift again. 

There was the fun of trying to coerce Scully into getting a Big Mac at the 
McDonalds across from the Hoover Building; jogging on the path beside the 
Reflecting Pool and watching the tourists sitting on the steps of the 
Lincoln Memorial; fighting the crowds at Union Station for the best Indian 
cuisine in the city. 

It all seemed like a lifetime ago.  Had he really gone for cheesesteaks in 
Georgetown?  Had he really visisted three paranoid friends at their grungy 
office?  Had he driven a car, ridden a subway, worn a tie, watched TV? 

He had done all these things, he had done none of them. 

Somewhere behind him a whip cracked, and a slave cried out.  Mulder closed 
his eyes.  Whatever he had done in his life before this, he would never do 
again... 

He had never dreamed it would the be last day he'd ever see the city. 

Missing for an undetermined length of time, he had woken to find himself on 
a bench in Folger Park.  Coat, badge, wallet, money, phone, all present and 
accounted for.  Only his gun and some time missing. 

It was much later that Scully would find the needle puncture on the inside 
of his arm, and by then it was nearly healed over.  All he knew that morning 
was that, within a few minutes of waking, he was filled with a sense of 
overwhelming dread, and an urgent desire to find Scully. 

He'd hailed a taxi, urged the driver on to breakneck speed, gotten out of 
the car at the Hoover Building while it was still moving.  Halfway down the 
steps to the basement, following an instinct he didn't understand, he'd 
phoned in a bomb threat to the FBI switchboard.  He'd run the rest of the 
way to the basement office, crying, "We have to move, Scully!" without 
knowing why. 

And she'd only looked at him, puzzled and confused, yet relieved to see him 
again.  He'd grabbed her hand and yanked her from the room, breathing a 
silent prayer as a strident alarm went off in the building. 

He had never remembered where he had been for those days he had been 
missing, never learned how he had known what was coming.  And in the end, it 
hadn't mattered. 

The FBI was not the only government institution destroyed that day.  The 
Capitol, the White House, the CIA, the Supreme Court; the Kremlin; 
Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, 10 Downing Street; the major centers of power 
in every nation. 

Only the Pentagon was spared. 

They had joined the long line of refugees fleeing the city, scared and too 
shocked to do anything but walk forward mindlessly.  He had kissed her for 
the first time on the Key Bridge, heading into Virginia and what they had 
hoped was freedom. 

**** 

"Scully." 

She couldn't see anything.  There was nothing but black, shot through with 
reddish-orange bolts of color. 

"Scully, look at me."  The voice was calm and reassuring.  Behind it were 
screams and crashes, screeches of metal and wails of fear. 

"Scully, look at me.  It will be all right."  Soft lips covered hers, warm 
breath mingled with her own.  The world did a slow tilt and she swayed and 
was caught by a pair of strong arms.  Her eyes opened and suddenly she could 
see. 

The room was bathed in the gray light of early morning.  On either side of 
her, women snored and wheezed in dream-filled sleep. 

Scully closed her eyes again.  This was not the Key Bridge, she was not 
nearly incoherent with shock, and Mulder was not kissing her.  This was what 
had once been Illinois, she was painfully aware of her situation, and Mulder 
was gone forever. 

The dream she'd had was commonplace by now, but the heartache it produced 
was fresh and new every time.  In the dream, she never saw the city burning, 
although she knew it had happened.  She never dreamed of the bodies that had 
littered the streets, although she knew they had existed.  And she never saw 
Mulder kissing her, although she knew that he had. 

Mulder.... 

A sound escaped her, and she pressed her lips together tightly, damming back 
further vocalizations.  It had been years since she had cried, and she was 
dismayed to feel the tingling behind her eyes that was a harbinger of tears. 

Oh, God, but it hurt.  One slim, finely muscled arm came up and covered her 
eyes, pressing into the sockets, forcing back the tears.  God, she didn't 
want to cry.  Lights flashed behind her eyelids, a result of the pressure 
there.  Even so, she could see him, but only in pieces, never as a whole. 

His arm around her shoulders, guiding her forward...hazel eyes welling up 
with tears...the broad curve of a shoulder...shouting, taking command of a 
ragtag group of refugees....pulling the trigger on a long-range 
rifle...kicking a clump of dirt over a grave....kissing her during humid 
summer nights....walking away from her, going on patrol.... 

It was the last time she'd seen him, watching as he walked off, the rifle 
slung across his shoulders, tanned and hardened by grief and the elements of 
survival. Not quite an hour later the shelter had been set upon, the people 
clustered there given the choice of death or life in slavery. 

He had promised once to find her, if it should come to that.  She had 
believed him when he'd said the words, and she had believed it then, a gun 
barrel pressed into her temple.  He loved her and he would find her. 

And so she had chosen life. 

**** 

In the beginning they were unchallenged.  The vanquishment of the universe 
continued unabated.  New technologies were created and utilized, new 
populaces enslaved until they could be fully assimilated into society.  New 
worlds were made useful, and entire villages emigrated to these new planets, 
creating new cities, moving ever onward; until the original home of their 
race was a lost and forgotten dead stone, lodged in a dark corner of the 
universe. 

And so it went for aeons, until the creatures came upon that small blue 
planet, spinning peacefully in its solar system on the fringes of a spiral 
galaxy.  A planet that met them not with resistance or welcome, but with 
negotiation. 

There was much consternation amongst them, then, and it was decided to send 
out an emissary to meet with the chosen delegation from the blue and green 
planet.  We will hand you the planet, this delegation said, if you will 
allow us to rule with you. 

Thus, hybridization was begun, visitations made, an agreement reached. 

The people of the blue planet did not know it, but their time was limited. 
While the creatures from the stars readied their plans for invasion, the 
planet continued its stately march around the sun. 

And inevitably, the time came. 

**** 

Nights were the worst, when he lay in bed, fighting the exhaustion of the 
day's work, dreading sleep and the dreams it brought.  They varied from 
night to night, but they always came, forcing him to revisit the horrors of 
his life.  They ranged from the old and familiar <Fox! She floated out the 
window, and he was helpless to do anything>, to the new and terrifying <The 
men held him down, touched him, hurt him>. 

Mulder rolled onto his side, stubbornly keeping his eyes open, swallowing 
back a yawn.  Someone shuffled past, on their way back from a particularly 
noxious session on the toilet.  Next to him, the Hispanic man whose bread he 
had stolen snored fuzzily. 

<Learn to sleep for only an hour at a time.  Use the night hours,> Skinner 
had once instructed him. <Much of their understanding of us is stereotyped. 
They don't expect us to be awake and alert at night.> 

He had found the former Assistant Director after weeks of wandering from one 
hiding place to another, nearly incoherent with grief.  It had been a year, 
long enough for a Resistance to have been formed, long enough for the war 
veteran to have risen to a high rank within the small organization. 

Resistance.  Mulder grimaced in the dark.  There really hadn't been any 
resistance, despite the fancy titles and minor skirmishes.  The number of 
humans who had escaped death or slavery was small, and of those, not many 
had been capable of fighting.  Watching the destruction of their cities, the 
murder and enslavement of their families, the shattering of every illusion 
they had held dear--it had all combined to render most people dull and 
vacant with shock. 

Still, enough of them had survived, mentally sound, able and willing to at 
least attempt to take back their planet.  Walter Skinner had been in charge 
of just such a group, when Mulder had literally stumbled upon them. 

Mulder smiled now, remembering.  He had-- 

He had a split second's warning, his eyes spying the three dark shapes that 
detached themselves from the night's shadows.  They descended on him with 
appalling swiftness. 

There was time only to fling out an arm, to catch one in the throat as he 
bent down, fingers splayed, not even enough time to make a fist.  The first 
attacker fell back, and when the other two seized him, Mulder screamed as 
loud as he could. 

The men froze briefly, and Mulder used his advantage.  He rolled to the 
side, kicking free of the sheets, trying to get off the bed.  If they caught 
him laying down he didn't stand a chance. 

Rough hands grabbed for him, and he jerked an arm away before a hand could 
enclose it.  Around him the other slaves were waking, roused both by the 
noise, and by the astonishing sight of someone actually fighting back. 

He'd made it to the side of the bed when fingers closed in his hair, yanking 
his head back.  He flailed out, desperately trying for anything he could 
reach, screaming continuously.  A hand dropped over his mouth and he bit 
down, his teeth closing over flesh.  Instantly warm blood poured into his 
mouth, gagging him. 

Fists struck his chest, his abdomen.  His right arm was pinioned, the 
death-grip on his hair never slackened.  "No!" he howled, fighting harder. 

The lights of the cabin abruptly flared into life, and the suddenness with 
which he was dropped was disorienting.  The main door opened, admitting the 
night guard. 

Mulder was beyond caring.  They had tried to rape him again, and for that he 
would kill them.  He launched himself at the nearest slave, the same 
red-haired man who Mulder had tangled with during his first meal in this 
place.  The man had his back to him, and Mulder laced his fingers together 
into one fist and struck the man in the kidneys, driving him forward. 

He fell off the bed with his momentum, he and the slave collapsing together 
onto the floor into a heap.  The redhead shouted in pain as he fell, 
twisting around, trying to hit Mulder. 

"Dammit! You sons-of-bitches!"  The guard's booted feet came into Mulder's 
view, but he ignored them.  Taking his last chance, he pistoned his fist 
into the redhead's face, relishing the crunch under his fingers as the man's 
nose broke. 

He didn't see the club descending.  All he knew was that the world suddenly 
went white and he could not breathe.  The guard struck him again across the 
shoulders, and he crashed to the floor. 

With Mulder down, the guard felled the other slaves, then stood over them, 
his face black with anger.  "What in fuck's name do you think you're doing?" 
he shouted.  "You wanna get killed?" 

>From the corner of his eye Mulder saw the other slaves watching with mingled 
delight and fear, mouths open, eyes glittering.  In the bed next to him, the 
Hispanic man looked at him with something akin to sympathy. 

The guard reached down and tugged Mulder to his feet.  "You," he spat.  "I 
don't suppose you had anything to do with this." 

Years of practice kept him silent, but he shook his head, negating the 
charges. 
"Yeah, right," the guard snorted.  He turned and faced the others: the 
red-haired man kneeling on the floor, and the other two standing on the 
other side of the bed.  "Get back into your beds.  If I see one of you so 
much as look in my direction, your ass is mine.  Got it?" 

The three men slunk off, their heads down.  One of them nursed his bitten 
hand, cradling it against his chest.  None of them dared to look up. 

The guard pulled Mulder with him toward the door.  At the exit he turned 
again. "Anybody else got anything they feel like doing?"  He glared at the 
slaves, who uniformly cowered back.   "That's what I thought," he snapped. 

Mulder made no protest as the guard shut and locked the door, extinguishing 
the cabin's lights.  "You really fucked up this time," the guard said.  "Did 
you ever."  He walked Mulder over to a spot to the right of the cabin.  A 
four foot square piece of metal grating lay flush with the ground, and the 
guard bent down and lifted this.  "Get in." 

Reluctantly, Mulder dropped his eyes, staring into the hole under the 
grating.  It was not very deep, and was lined with concrete on the floor and 
all four walls.  A iron ring was bolted into one of the walls and a chain 
dangled from this.  At the end of the chain swung a pair of iron manacles. 

"Go on, get in.  You earned it."  The guard sounded amused, and Mulder 
realized there would be no understanding from this man, no defending 
himself. Anger at the injustice of it all rose up in him and he glared at 
the guard, refusing to move.  The other man reached for his club again. 
"What, you want more of this?" 

Sick with frustration, Mulder stepped down into the hole.  There was room 
enough only to kneel, and the unfinished concrete scraped at his knees.  The 
guard seized his wrists and twisted them up between his shoulder blades.  A 
quick metallic snap, and he was cuffed to the wall, doubled over and utterly 
helpless. 

"Enjoy the rest of your stay," laughed the guard.  "Maybe if you're lucky 
they'll flog you early in the morning and you won't have to stay here for 
long." 
The iron grating dropped shut with a clang.  Mulder closed his eyes and set 
his teeth to endure. 

**** 

"I'm off."  The cook, Golden, hung her apron on the hook beside the stove 
and lumbered out of the kitchen.  Scully listened as her heavy tread moved 
down the hall toward the back stairs. 

She was alone.  Privacy was rare, and she savored this moment.  Soon enough 
Etta would return after making her final inspection of the house, but for 
now, Scully had the kitchen to herself. 

Despite the circumstances which had brought her here, Scully enjoyed the 
kitchen, and all its connotations.  As a young child, she had dogged her 
mother's footsteps as the woman baked and cooked for her family.  When she 
had gotten older, she had forsaken the confines of the house for the 
outdoors, playing with Bill, Jr. and Melissa. But she had always come back 
to the one room in the house that always spoke of family. 

In college she had made do with a hot plate, but after getting her own 
place, she had turned the kitchen into a warm and inviting area.  China 
plates hung on the walls, wine bottles stood on counter tops, and the room 
was scrubbed daily. 
Outside the window, a cricket chirped its night song and Scully sighed 
softly.  Her own apartment had been the scene of too many terrors, from 
Eugene Tooms and Duane Barry, to the violent death of Melissa.  In the 
kitchen she could sit at the wooden table, wrap her hands around a steaming 
mug of coffee, and relax.  No other room in her apartment had been able to 
calm her so well; not even the bedroom, where she lay awake for hours at 
night, plagued by doubts and fears. 

The cricket's song abruptly died as it flew off. Scully envied it, its 
ability to fly away whenever it wanted, go wherever it wanted, to make noise 
and sing.  She turned away from the window. 

Her eyes lit on the party trays laying on the counter.  The mistress was 
occupying herself the only way she knew how, by having yet another luncheon 
tomorrow; Golden had spent all afternoon making snacks and hors d'oeuvres 
for the affair.  Many of the morsels were sweet, and under the plastic wrap 
that covered them, they looked extremely inviting. 

Her legs had a will of their own as they carried her forward.  Her hand 
ignored her brain's screaming protest as it lifted the edge of the plastic 
wrap.  Her fingers shook with anticipation as they raised a perfectly round 
amaretto ball to her lips. 

Scully closed her eyes as the forbidden tastes of chocolate and rum filled 
her mouth.  All too soon, the candy was gone, and she popped another one in 
her mouth, this time savoring the dark bliss, making it last longer. 

An outraged gasp made her eyes pop open.  "You little thief!" Etta cried, 
shock written all over her face.  "How could you!" 

Scully swallowed hard, the remaining chocolate sliding down her throat in a 
wooden lump.  She shook her head no, held out her hands in a mute plea. 

Etta waited for her to approach, then slapped her, hard.  Scully's head flew 
sharply to the side, and a small grunt escaped her.  Before she could 
recover from the blow, Etta grasped her arm and marched her from the kitchen. 

Sudden fear filled her.  She had never been beaten, not in all the time she 
had been a slave, but now she had been caught stealing, and stealing from 
the missy, which was the worst of all.  She pulled back and tried to remove 
her arm from Etta's firm grip, and Etta struck her again. 

Her ears rang as Etta flung open the door to a small closet off the pantry. 
An extra broom, mop and bucket stood in the corner, all clustered around a 
drain in the floor. Scully was shoved inside the cubicle and without a word, 
Etta shut the door. 

The door didn't have a knob on the inside, and the darkness in the closet 
was absolute.  For a few minutes she could hear Etta moving around in the 
kitchen, but eventually the older woman left, and she was alone. 

Scully drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them.  She closed her 
eyes and laid her cheek on her crossed forearms.  Cautiously, she began 
sucking in her cheeks, searching for the last taste of chocolate. 

**** 

End (3/9) 
  

See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 

**** 
  

Only the heat of day told him when morning came. 

Beyond thought, beyond pain, beyond caring, he only hoped dully that death, 
if it came, would be short and swift. 

At some point during the everlasting night he had lapsed into a bout of 
useless screaming, unable to bear the agony in his shoulders and twisted 
arms.  The impaired circulation had finally caused the limbs to go 
mercifully numb, and he had fallen unconscious then. 

Now he could hear a car engine sputter and die, male voices shouting 
crisply.  Perhaps they were assembling to witness his punishment, come from 
afar to watch this rebellious slave be whipped for his impudence. 

The iron grating over his prison creaked as it opened, and suddenly the 
sunlight was no longer criss-crossed with bars of shadow. The floor vibrated 
as a man stepped into the hole.  Metal clanked on metal as the manacles 
around his wrists were opened, and Mulder fell face-first to the floor. 

"Come on," the man said.  Dimly Mulder recognized Smith's voice, the man who 
he had thought was Skinner upon arriving.  Smith seized his upper arm and 
pulled him out of the hole.  Mulder cried out hoarsely, his face contorting 
as already abused muscles shrieked at this harsh treatment. 

"Shut up," Smith ordered.  He half-carried, half-dragged Mulder over to 
where a line of slaves was forming.  His leash was attached to his collar, 
falling across his chest to his waist. "Now stand still, and don't move. 
*They're* here." 

Smith walked away, and Mulder swayed on his feet, trying desperately to lock 
his knees and stay upright.  His head fell forward and he clamped his teeth 
against the moans of pain that threatened to escape him at the renewed blood 
flow through his arms. 

On either side of him, the slaves shuffled their feet nervously, hands 
touching anything and everything, heads swiveling around.  The car he'd 
heard earlier was parked in front of the cabins, and two men sat inside it; 
two more stood next to it. 

Mulder did nothing.  It was easier just to stand still, with the hot sun 
beating upon his bowed head.  Let them think he was being a model of 
humility, the proper slave. 

Smith was barking orders again, telling this filth to bow his head, that 
maggot to lower his eyes.  A whip cracked once, carrying over the sounds of 
men shuffling their feet and of leather leashes creaking and shrinking in 
the hot sun. 

"All right, then."  The man who spoke had a cultured voice, and the accent 
that marked him as a hybrid was nearly non-existent. 

Smith and the other guard moved forward.  Mulder lifted his head slightly, 
just enough to be able to follow them with his eyes. 

The man on the end of the line was tall and thickly muscled.  He could have 
killed Smith with one powerful blow, but he made no move to defend himself 
as Smith reached up and yanked open the man's jaws. 

Cold sweat suddenly stung his skin.  Oh, God.  They were checking to see who 
could still speak, who still had his tongue. 

The realization was quick to spread, and several of the men jerked and 
looked about frantically, gauging escape possibilities.  Reflexively, Mulder 
raised his head and his eyes swept the area.  He could not, would not allow 
them to drag him away, force that red-hot knife into his mouth, forever 
silence him. 

"How long have you been with this spread?" another man asked, his question 
directed at Smith.  Awkwardly, his left arm held stiffly across his chest, 
this man pushed himself off the car's bumper, where he had been leaning. 

Mulder felt the blood drain from his face.  The sudden roaring in his ears 
prevented him from hearing the man finish speaking.  Every nerve in his body 
sang with the urge to run forward, run and kill, kill this man.  And then 
the man looked up, looked at him, and Mulder found himself staring at Alex 
Krycek. 

Smith must have replied, for Krycek nodded.  "Long enough to know that this 
inspection should have been made months ago." 

"We've been very busy," Smith said stiffly.  He clearly did not like being 
questioned. 

"That's no excuse," said the first man. 

"Here, I'll help you."  Krycek spoke tersely.  He stepped up to a man on 
Mulder's right 

Smith shrugged.  "Whatever you want." 

"Open up," Krycek demanded. 

The slave stood still, shaking with fear.  Mulder knew the man could talk 
and he watched helplessly as Krycek swiveled from the hip, then lunged 
forward, his prosthetic hand burying itself in the slave's abdomen.  The man 
grunted and doubled over, and when he did Krycek seized his lower jaw with 
his good hand and twisted. 

It took only a split second.  "You can take this one," Krycek said lazily. 

The other two men, who so far had stood silently beside the car, moved 
forward. "No!"  The slave's panicky wail split the morning air.  "No, 
please, please don't!  I have money, I can give you money, please don't do 
this!" 

Silently the two hybrids dragged off the screaming slave.  Down the line on 
Mulder's left, Smith chuckled.  "Always the same." 

Three men stood between him and Krcyek.  Mulder fought terror, concentrated 
on anger. 

Two men.  Smith found a slave who still had his tongue and jerked him out of 
line.  He was hauled away on his knees, begging for mercy. 

One man. He was going to kill Krycek, Mulder decided.  He could not stop 
them from committing the final horror on him, but he was fairly certain that 
he could kill Krycek first. 

Then he was there, with nothing standing between the two men.  Mulder raised 
his head, hating the slight flush that colored his cheeks.  For a moment 
Krycek stared back at him, then his hand flashed out, slapping Mulder hard. 
"Lower your eyes when you look at me, filth," he said. 

The side of his face flamed hot, and he knew Krycek's handprint had 
imprinted his cheek.  He dipped his head, then slowly, deliberately lifted 
his chin, glaring hate and defiance at his tormentor, baring his teeth in a 
mixture of pain and rage. 

Krycek backhanded him, and when he swayed on his feet, grabbed the trailing 
end of his leash, twisting it and yanking downward.  Already off balance 
from the blow, Mulder fell heavily to his knees. Instinctively his hands 
tried to come up to ease the choking pressure on his throat, but his arms 
were leaden, pain-filled weights, and he could not lift them. 

Krycek's dark head leaned in, pressing close until his forehead nearly 
touched Mulder's.  "Answer me," he hissed in a barely audible whisper.  "Can 
you still talk?"  His grip on the leash slackened just enough to allow 
Mulder to drag in a burning breath.  Krycek shook him.  "Answer me." 

"Fuck you," Mulder snarled, his voice strangled, his lips not moving. 

His entire body was hauled upward as Krycek yanked on the leash, forcing him 
to follow or choke to death.  Muttering to himself, the younger man dropped 
the leash, then, amazingly, walked on. 

Finally able to breathe, Mulder stood, frozen.  He waited for Krycek to turn 
around, to suddenly cry mockingly, "Oh, I forgot!  Here's one!".  He waited 
for the guards to grip his arms and drag him away, toward the hut behind the 
cabins, where already the unfortunate slaves screamed as their tongues were 
cut out. 

It didn't happen.  Krycek moved down the line, finishing up at the same time 
Smith did.  Between them they had removed nearly a dozen slaves. 

"This is disturbing," the first man said.  "You should be monitoring them 
closely when they arrive.  We shouldn't be finding this many." 

Chastened, Smith said nothing, but the set of his shoulders belied his 
relaxed posture.  As one, the slaves tensed, knowing they would be made to 
pay for Smith's scolding. 

"Take them back inside," Krycek said, by way of dismissal.  "I'd like to 
inspect the crop." 

The slaves filed into the cabin, a disheartened group, cringing at the 
horrific last screams voiced by their peers.  Smith closed one meaty fist 
around Mulder's upper arm.  "Not you," he said. "You still haven't been 
punished."  He snickered, pulling Mulder forward with him.  "I don't think 
we've had the pleasure of showing the authorities a flogging before.  This 
should be fun." 

Mulder swallowed hard.  His eyes met Krycek's briefly as he walked past. 
Smith opened the metal grating over the punishment cell, and shoved Mulder. 
"Get in," he said, already bored again. 

He closed his eyes and stepped in, kneeling down, unresisting as Smith 
jerked his wrists behind him and shackled them to the wall.  The metal grate 
dropped back down with a clang.  "See ya later, filth."  Smith waggled his 
fingers at him grotesquely, then he was gone, and only the blue sky filled 
the spaces between the iron bars. 

**** 

The night was interminable, eerily silent.  Inured to the sounds of a dozen 
other women around her, Scully found the stillness terrifying at first, then 
oddly comforting. 

<I used to sleep like this,> she thought in wonder.  She closed her eyes, 
let her head fall back against the wall. She tried to imagine what it would 
be like to sleep here in the closet, with no sounds to disturb her slumber, 
nobody crying or snoring, no Etta in the room to keep even sleep a 
tension-filled activity. 

The thought was tempting, but Scully realized she was enjoying the silence 
too much to sleep.  She wanted to stay awake, relish every moment of the 
night.  In the morning she would be beaten, punished for stealing, and all 
the women would cluster around her, bring her water and soup and bathe her 
whip weals, brush her hair back from her forehead, cluck to her soothingly. 

But right now there was only herself, alone in the quiet dark. 

Afraid of being hurt, she didn't want to think of the morning and the pain 
it would bring.  Yet she didn't regret eating the candies.  They were her 
small token of defiance, her tiny show of resistance to a world gone 
mad--hell, she had eaten them because she had *wanted* to. 

The silence stretched out, became oppressive.  In the blackness her mind 
worked overtime and conjured up images of horror.  She tried not to look at 
them, tried not to think. 

A sigh escaped her.  There were times she thought she might have made a 
mistake; that choosing a life of slavery had been an error of the gravest 
magnitude. 

At the time, staring down a gun barrel, she had felt there could be no 
decision, really.  Mulder had said he would find her; she had confidence in 
his ability to do just that.  And a life in slavery was better than no life 
at all... 

"What do you say?" the man growled at her.  A paid mercenary, he and others 
like him searched the countryside for bands of refugees, for people in hiding. 

She could clearly remember her fear, and a bitter smile now crossed Scully's 
face.  How naive she had been, thinking she understood fear in all its guises! 

She had jumped at the sound of a gunshot--either someone choosing death, or 
having the choice made for them.  There was no time to wonder who it was, no 
time to mourn the loss of a friend. 

"I don't want to die," she said calmly. 

The man in front of her grunted and waved her off to his left.  She walked 
over to the small group of people huddled there.  Some of them were crying, 
but most only looked shell-shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening. 

Scully made herself watch.  The remaining people were either killed or 
herded over to the cluster she stood in.  The building, once a large 
warehouse, was set afire. 

One woman beside her gasped.  "My pictures!" she wailed, burying her face in 
hands gnarled with age. 

Scully did not move to comfort her.  Already she could feel herself 
toughening, sealing herself off from her emotions.  She had few personal 
effects in the warehouse, nothing that held any value.  Just a change of 
clothes, a toothbrush, a comb with missing teeth--all objects she had 
scrounged up on the journey here. 

No, she'd owned nothing but memories, and fire could not destroy those. 
Memories of her and Mulder laying together in the tiny space they shared, 
curtained off from prying eyes by blankets and wires strung from the ceiling. 
Memories of late-night whispers and murmurs, kisses and caresses. 

Fifteen miles to the east, the city of Atlanta lay in man-made ruins. She 
and Mulder had skirted their way around the rubble, meeting up with other 
people, others as scared and hungry as they themselves were.  Nearly a dozen 
of them had walked west, leaving the rubble of the city behind, following 
Interstate 20.  After a day of walking, they had found the warehouse, 
already populated and made habitable by a small group of people. 

They were large enough now to have to actively avoid detection, and on 
Mulder's urging, two-man patrols began surveying the area.  Their location 
was ideal: far enough from the destruction, but close enough to the remains 
of the city to forage for food and clothing.  Shifts were rotated, each 
person contributed what they could to the small but ever-growing community. 

That was the day.  At night, she and Mulder made love, striving to mute 
their passion; their love was still new enough to hold the power to 
embarrass them.  When they were finished, she placed a finger over his lips 
when Mulder talked of leaving, of moving on.  Excited by rumors of a 
Resistance, he wanted to join them. 

Tired of hiding, but even more tired of running, she would not hear of it. 
It had taken them months to work their way through Virginia and then 
southwest toward Atlanta.  The time they'd spent on the road had been 
fraught with peril, and now she relished the relative peace of having a 
place to stay, despite its crudity and temporary status. 

Mulder was out on patrol when the raid came.  As Scully and the other new 
slaves were rounded up, she selfishly prayed that he was dead, that his 
patrol had been set upon by the men who now stood before her.  Better death 
than to come back and find her gone. 

She climbed into the flatbed truck and stood at the side rail, there being 
no room to do otherwise.  When they had all gotten in, one of the men 
climbed on, pointing his rifle in their direction.  They had all surged 
back, creating space between themselves and the gunman, compressing their 
numbers into an impossibly narrow space.  Scully found herself wedged 
between a teenage boy and the old woman who had wept over the loss of her 
photos. 

The tailgate was closed with a bang, and the truck started forward with a lurch. 

Scully bit the inside of her cheek and told herself that she would survive. 

Noise in the kitchen woke her, and blearily, Scully realized she had slept, 
after all.  Her bladder was uncomfortably full, and her neck ached from 
sleeping in a sitting position.  Tentatively, she swallowed, testing the 
dryness of her throat.  She was hungry, too, but she had been hungry before, 
and the gnawing in her belly was nothing new. 

The women continued their morning routine, and Scully waited. 

She waited for a long time before she realized Etta was not going to let her 
out. 

**** 

The day's heat lingered on into the night, and he knew the change only by 
the lack of light.  Only semi-conscious, lucid thought didn't seem worth the 
effort. His tiny prison reeked of urine and sweat, blood and suffering. 

The creaking of the gate opening roused him slightly, and Mulder struggled 
to gather his wayward thoughts. 

"Shit," a voice swore softly.  The man who'd spoken stepped into the pit and 
fumbled with the blood-encrusted manacles around Mulder's wrists.  "Are you 
awake?  Can you hear me?" 

It was a trap, he mustn't answer, he shouldn't answer.  But oh, how he 
wanted to beg them to take him out and beat him, to just kill him, anything 
but leave him in here for one more minute.  The iron around his wrists 
clicked open and he fell with a pain-filled groan. 

"Shhh!" the man hissed.  "They'll hear us." 

Something...he knew that voice.  His mind was sluggish, nearly as 
immobilized as his body was by the torture it had undergone.  Thinking was 
*so* hard... 

A sharp tug on his leash.  "Lift your head," the man whispered.  He tried, 
but his neck muscles were frozen, incapable of raising the hundred-ton 
weight that was his head.  "Come on, Mulder." 

That voice!  He recognized it now.  From deep within anger sparked, and he 
found the strength to lift his head, turn it to his left.  His eyes searched 
the dark, looking for and finally finding Krycek. 

"Here. Drink this."  Plastic clicked against his teeth, and cool liquid 
sloshed over his chin.  Some of it dribbled into his mouth, and instantly 
Mulder was overcome by raving thirst.  He drank greedily as the water poured 
into his mouth, certain that he could never get enough.  When the cup was 
pulled away he groaned in frustration. 

"No more.  You'll get sick," Krycek whispered.  He tugged Mulder's leash 
again. "Come on." 

He swallowed painfully, hiccupped once as his stomach tested the water, then 
decided it could stay.  "What..."  There was no point in keeping silent in 
front of Krycek; the man already knew his secret. 

"We're getting out of here."  The pull on his leash was more insistent. 
"*Now*, Mulder.  Can you stand?"  The idea was laughable.  He'd long ago 
lost all feeling in his body.  "Mulder!" 

"More...water..."  He closed his eyes as Krycek sighed irritably, but the 
cup was brought to his lips once more and he drank until the liquid was gone. 

Krycek tossed the empty cup away. "No more fucking around, Mulder.  We have 
to get out of here." 

The circulation was beginning to return to his limbs, and he had to force 
his eyes open.  "Where are we going?" he croaked. 

Krycek shrugged, only one shoulder moving.  "Who the hell cares?"  He jerked 
the leash.  "Come on." 

Mulder didn't move.  "Why are you doing this?" 

"Dammit, Mulder!"  Anger was evident in Krycek's voice, but he kept it low, 
a hissed whisper.  "I--" 

"I can't get up," Mulder said softly. 

Before it even began, Krycek's tirade came to an abrupt halt.  "What?"  He 
gazed at Mulder piercingly.  "How long have you been in there?" 

"All day. Since last night." 

"Jesus," the younger man breathed.  He dropped the leash and reached down 
with his good hand.  "Here." 

Mulder tried to reach up, grasp the offer of help, but his arms refused to 
obey his brain's commands.  Realizing the situation, Krycek gripped Mulder's 
upper arm. "Take a deep breath," he murmured, then yanked upward. 

Mulder sank his teeth into his lower lip to keep from crying out as his body 
was pulled upright.  His knees buckled and he fell.  Swiftly Krycek dropped 
his arm, catching Mulder about the waist; he braced one foot behind the 
other and let the older man sag against him.  "Okay?" 

Mulder nodded.  "Just...give me...a second."  His eyes were tightly shut to 
block out the sickly revolving world.   Slowly he became aware of the warm 
body beneath his and he pushed away, staggering backwards.  "Let go of me." 

Krycek chuckled.  "I'm not going to rape you, Mulder." 

Involuntarily he stiffened, his breath cutting off in his throat.   Krycek 
watched him through narrowed eyes.  "Guess somebody beat me to it, huh?"  He 
gave that one-armed shrug again, turned and left the underground prison. 

Mulder closed his eyes and took deep breaths, deliberately not thinking 
about Krycek's words or the awful memories they summoned up. He would not 
think about it, he would *not*... 

"Mulder."  Krycek leaned over the hole.  "We've got to move.  Can you get 
out by yourself?" 

He could.  Come hell or high water, he could.  Awkwardly he climbed out of 
the hole and stood up. One thing was certain: he'd not let Krycek touch him 
again. 

**** 

End (4/9) 
  

See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 

**** 
  

The door squeaked as it opened, and Scully jerked upright.  She'd passed 
most of the day in a half-doze, never really falling asleep.  If she slept, 
she might miss when Etta came to let her out. 

A rectangle of light fell into the dark room, then was blotted out as Etta 
stood in the doorway.  The woman wrinkled her nose at the acrid odors of 
urine and sweat.  "Have you learned your lesson?" she asked. 

Scully nodded and made an affirmative noise.  The soft tissues of her throat 
felt cracked and sore, and it hurt just to make that small sound.  Earlier, 
she'd been forced to urinate over the drain in the floor, a humiliating, 
messy experience.  Even so, she'd sorely resented the loss of bodily fluids, 
knowing she was becoming dehydrated. 

"Do you understand what you did wrong?" Etta asked. 

Scully nodded again, unable to keep from wondering just how on earth she was 
supposed to respond.  Even if she didn't know why she had been punished, she 
certainly couldn't *tell* Etta that. 

"You must never try that again," Etta cautioned.  "If you had only had some 
patience, you would have learned that Golden saved some of the sweets for 
the girls."  Disapproval colored her tone, but Scully knew the older woman 
well enough to know that she preferred subtle indiscretions like Golden's 
over Scully's overt defiance. 

Etta stood aside.  "Wash yourself and go to bed.  Tomorrow you will clean 
this room thoroughly, understand?" 

She was suddenly furious, but she forced herself to nod again, bow her head. 
<Would it kill her to be nice to me?  We're alone now, nobody will think 
she's a slave-sympathizer.> 

As she passed Etta, the housekeeper spoke.  "I know you think I've been hard 
on you." 

Scully raised her head and stared at Etta, blue eyes flashing.  Etta took a 
small step back, her hip pressing into the wall.  "But they would have 
beaten you in front of everyone, otherwise.  I saved you."  Her look became 
sly, conspiratorial.  "I told no one about your stealing.  No one needs to 
know."  Now Etta looked positively smug.  "And unless you give me a reason, 
I won't tell anyone." 

In her life as Dana Scully, no one would have threatened her like this and 
gotten away with it. But that woman had had confidence and assertiveness on 
her side.  That woman had had a job as an FBI agent and had carried a gun. 

Most importantly, that woman had been able to speak. 

Seething with rage, Scully lowered her gaze and bowed her head meekly. She 
nodded again and made the sign for thanks, a gesture they all knew. 

"Good girl," Etta murmured. 

As she climbed the stairs to the third floor, Scully vowed to herself that 
one day she would have her revenge. 

**** 

They had traveled by car during the night, driving without lights, going 
miles out of their way to avoid the checkpoints.  Krycek had driven 
silently, the grim look on his face discouraging any questions. 

That was fine with Mulder.  He had lain on the back seat, biting his arm to 
stifle his moans as circulation had finally returned to his cramped limbs. 
Krycek had placed a thermos of cool water on the floor of the back seat 
within Mulder's reach, and he had drunk from it every now and then, 
wondering at the Russian's aid. 

He had slept some, to his amazement, waking when the car had stopped. 
Moving a bit stiffly, now he followed Krycek out of the car.  Rosy light 
colored the eastern sky.  The land was more barren, more open than where he 
had come from.  Mulder guessed they were somewhere south of the spread he 
had been living on, in Texas, perhaps.  Nothing stood between the land and 
the sky; the horizon was a pure, unbroken line. 

"We're leaving the car. We'll get as far off the roads as we can," Krycek 
said. "Then we'll stop.  We'll travel only at night." 

"Where are we?" he asked. 

Krycek pointed off to the right.  "I think I-45 is over that way." He gazed 
musingly into the distance.  "Or what used to be I-45," he amended. 

Mulder couldn't stop himself.  "It still is the highway," he said 
forcefully.  "And it will be again." 

Krycek's laugh was hollow and empty.  "You never give up, do you, Mulder?" 

He raised his chin and looked squarely at the Russian but said nothing. 
Surprisingly, Krycek seemed to approve.  He grunted and nodded. 

They stood for a moment longer, then Krycek walked back to the car.  He 
opened the trunk, removed a knapsack and rummaged through it.  He came up 
with something metal and held it out to Mulder.  "Put these on." 

The morning sunlight glinted off the handcuffs dangling from Krycek's hand. 
Looking at them, Mulder felt a sense of dread uncurl in the pit of his 
stomach. Not for the first time,  he thought that escaping with this man had 
not been the brightest idea in the world. 

Krycek continued to hold out the cuffs, not threatening, but offering. 

Mulder swallowed hard.  "No." 

Krycek only looked exasperated.  "Mulder." 

"No."  His heart was pounding.  Krycek walked toward him and Mulder waited 
for the threat, for the growled "then I'll put them on you," but the younger 
man was still. 

"Then you put us both at risk.  And if they catch us, they won't bother 
sending us into slavery.  They'll just kill us." 

It was probably true, Mulder realized.  And it was just like Krycek not to 
waste any opportunity to point out that it was his ass on the line, too. 

"So what's the story, then?" he asked.  He still made no move to accept the 
handcuffs. 

"You'll have to be an escapee.  I've caught you and am bringing you back for 
a reward."  Mulder snorted; he'd already lived through a botched attempt at 
using that line.  "I know the right things to say," Krycek continued, "but I 
may have to hurt you to be convincing." 

"Only to make it look good, of course," Mulder sneered. 
  
"What the hell do you want?" Krycek cried.  "We can't exactly say we're two 
buddies out for an invigorating walk!  Open your eyes, Mulder.  This is the 
way things are now.  If you want to survive--" 

"You've got to learn to live with the rats," Mulder muttered.  He shook his 
head, then reached out and snatched the cuffs from Krycek.  Before he could 
re-consider, he closed them around his wrists.  "Happy now?" he snapped. 

"You think I'm getting my thrills from this?" Krycek snarled back.  "It's me 
they'll be hunting.  They don't give a shit about you.  You're just a slave. 
Me, I'm a traitor." 

"Oh, stop it, you're breaking my heart."  Mulder turned his back on Krycek 
and walked a few steps away, trying to ignore the bite of steel on his flesh. 

Behind him Krycek's feet crunched on the hard-packed earth, then there came 
more sounds of him searching through the knapsack.  "Mulder." 

He refused to turn around. 

"*Mulder.*"  The voice was insistent. 

Grudgingly, Mulder turned and faced the man who had helped him escape, the 
man who was still his bitterest enemy.  "What?" 

Krycek held up a small, black object.  It looked like a pager, the kind 
Scully had used when she had first joined the X-Files.  "You know what this is?" 

"Your garage door opener?" 

The corner of Krycek's mouth moved in an almost-smile.  "With a touch of 
this button..." his thumb hovered over a raised white knob, "...I can send 
200 volts through your body, from the right side of those cuffs.  Not enough 
to kill you--just enough to stun you." 

Mulder's gaze dropped to the circlets of steel.  He could see nothing 
special about the right cuff, but he did not doubt Krycek.  Utter 
frustration seized him. 

"Should I demonsrate?" Krycek taunted.  "It has a range of half a mile, or 
so I've been told.  You can try to run off and test that theory, if you 
like."  He smiled briefly. "I took *you* with *me*, Mulder.  Don't forget 
that."  He raised the knapsack and settled it on his right shoulder, then 
began walking. 

Speechless with rage, Mulder had no choice but to follow. 

**** 

To the creatures who ruled the universe, time did not matter.  Time was 
something they had an abundance of. 

To the people of the blue planet, it was all they had, although only a few 
knew it. 

And when the day came, those few stood to the side, in the one place of 
ruling that was spared the destruction.  Old men trembled in awe, and young 
men were made old on that day. 

The emissaries of the elite race then joined the humans and informed them of 
a change in plan.  The humans would not be allowed to rule alongside the 
master race.  Such a thing was unheard of; a conquered people had no rights. 
The hybrids were placed in command, holding the planet until the supreme 
creatures could populate it themselves. 

The old men of the blue planet were horrified when they realized how they 
had been betrayed.  Some of them tried to resist, and were killed for their 
insubordination.  Some of them tried to revert to their earlier plan of 
negotiation; they, too, were killed. 

A very few swore allegiance to their new masters, and were placed in minor 
positions, with little status, but with their lives spared. 

Compared to the rest of the humans, who faced death or slavery, these few 
men looked at their situation and saw that it was good.  And if some of them 
wished to change things, they kept these desires hidden and secret. 

**** 

"Why?" 

Silhouetted by the setting sun, Krycek would not look at him.  They had 
walked all day in an effort to put as much distance between themselves and 
the abandoned car as possible.  They would sleep for a few hours, then set 
off again under cover of night. 

"Answer me," Mulder insisted.  He watched as Krycek went through his 
knapsack and removed two loaves of bread, a bottle of water. "Dammit, Krycek." 

Deliberately, the younger man bit off a hunk of bread.  He chewed and 
swallowed. "I don't know," he said honestly.  "Maybe it's because I'm sick 
of looking at people that aren't entirely human." 

Mulder snorted.  "Sure."  He held out his hands, still cuffed together. 
"Give me some of that." 

Krycek shook his head, making a negative noise.  "No way.  I couldn't take 
much--I was in a hurry.  There's only enough for me." 

The backpack looked awfully full for someone who had been unable to steal 
much, and Mulder frowned.  "Come on, Krycek." 

The Russian merely shook his head and tore another piece off the bread. 

"You can't fucking starve me!" Mulder cried in frustration. 

Krycek grinned humorlessly, showing bread between his teeth.  "Who says I 
can't?" he asked. 

Angrily, Mulder kicked at Krycek, sending dirt and pebbles in the younger 
man's direction.  It was a stupid, feeble gesture, and it didn't make him 
feel one bit better.  Furious at Krycek, disgusted with himself, he turned 
his back. 

"Mulder."  He didn't move, determined to ignore Krycek.  "Mulder, I was just 
kidding.  You can eat.  Here."  He didn't have to look to know that Krycek 
was holding out the other loaf of bread.  "Mulder." 

"Fuck you," he snarled, refusing to turn around. 

"Suit yourself," Krycek murmured. 

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of eating. 

"I saved your ass, Mulder.  Don't forget that.  Those guys...they wanted to 
pull you out of that hole and flog you.  I dicked around, got them to wait." 

Krycek stopped talking, and Mulder thought angrily that if the young man was 
waiting to be thanked, he had one hell of a long wait in store. 

"Do you really think you can find her?" 

Forgetting his vow, Mulder whipped his head around.  "What?" 

"Scully.  That's why you're doing this, isn't it?" 

Krycek was almost done with the loaf of bread, and he gazed at Mulder with 
curiosity.  "You're trying to find her, aren't you?" 

Irrationally, it angered him to have been figured out so easily.  "It's none 
of your business what I'm doing," he said petulantly.  He stood up and 
walked off a few feet, gazing defiantly at Krycek, stomach growling, wishing 
he hadn't been so stubborn about taking the bread. 

Krycek laughed.  He put away the second loaf of bread, capped the water 
bottle and placed that in the knapsack, too.  He stood, brushing crumbs from 
his jeans with his one hand.  "Well," he muttered, looking around.  "All 
right, Mulder.  Take your pants off." 

Mulder took a step back.  His heart gave a nasty leap in his chest. "What?" 

"You heard me."  The leer that crossed Krycek's face was full of amusement, 
but it was also threatening.  "Drop your pants.  On your knees." 

"No."  He felt sick with fear and revulsion.  His throat tightened and he 
had to force the word out.  "No."  Oh god, Krycek knew, he knew what had 
happened to him, he *knew*.... 

"Can't get something for nothing, Mulder.  You didn't think I helped you 
escape just for fun, did you?  Time to pay up." 

He couldn't speak, he was frozen, only his eyes moved, darting about, 
looking futilely for escape.  The handcuffs about his wrists suddenly 
weighed a ton, electricity already seemed to be pouring through his flesh. 

"Do it, Mulder.  Or I'll cut out your tongue myself and turn you in at the 
next checkpoint.  And then you'll never find Scully."  His voice was light, 
but Krycek was deadly serious. 

Scully.  Thinking of her, Mulder felt his resolve weaken.  <oh god oh 
scully>  He couldn't do this, he couldn't, but...how could he not? 

Krycek seemed to sense his dilemma, and he waited, right thumb hooked in the 
belt loop of his jeans. 

He could not look at his tormentor.  "Knock me out then," he begged, ashamed 
at how unsteady his voice was. 

Krycek made an ugly sound.  "I'm not into fucking the dead, Mulder.  Now 
*get on your knees.*" 

<for you scully>  He bowed his head, knelt on the hard ground, closed his 
eyes. He heard the metal rasp of a zipper, and began to tremble; his 
breathing was reduced to shallow gasps. 

An eternity passed before he heard Krycek come close.  Hands grabbed his 
face and he recoiled reflexively.  Then a pair of soft lips covered his, 
kissing him soundly.  Mulder's eyes flew open, and he began to struggle. 

Immediately Krycek let him go, stepping back.  For a moment he merely looked 
at Mulder, then, incredibly, he began to laugh.  "You're a real piece of 
work, Mulder, you know that?"  He moved off, still laughing to himself. 

Mulder couldn't move.  Not even the slave auctions had succeeded in 
humiliating him so thoroughly.  Krycek's soft laughter carried over the breeze. 

It had all been a joke, just one more chance for Krycek to toy with him.  He 
began to shake again, this time with suppressed rage.  Swiftly he jumped to 
his feet and launched himself at Krycek, knocking the younger man to the 
ground.  "You son of a bitch!" he screamed.  He grabbed Krycek's hair with 
both of his cuffed hands, meaning to pound that dark head against the packed 
earth. 

Krycek lashed out, striking Mulder in the throat with the side of his hand, 
throwing off his assailant.  Mulder fell to one side, suddenly unable to 
breathe, unable to fight back as Krycek straddled him.  "Don't you ever 
touch me again, Mulder.  Or I won't bother turning you in.  I'll just kill 
you.  Understood?" 

He coughed, his eyes streaming.  "Go to hell," he croaked. 

Krycek abruptly stood up.  He held out his arm in a sweeping gesture.  "Look 
around you, Mulder.  We're already in hell." 

**** 

The young woman's steps dragged as she approached her bed.  Her breathing 
was the strangled sounds of someone trying not to cry. 

Scully pursed her lips.  The first time in the breeding hut was bad. 

Beth fell onto her bed and sobbed, a sound that was immediately muffled as 
she tried to keep quiet. 

She did a poor job of it. 

Slightly impatient, Scully sat up.  The sound penetrated Beth's crying, and 
she froze, breathing noisily through her mouth.  Scully got out of her bed 
and stole across the aisle separating her bed from the younger girl's. 

Beth watched her approach through wet eyes that were wide with fear.  She 
sat up and scrubbed at her face, trying hard to control herself. 

Scully shot a hasty glance around the room, gauging who was awake, who would 
see her and Beth together, who would see her secret.  The risk was there, 
but the desire, the need to communicate, more urgent. Detecting no one 
watching her, she darted back to her bed and removed her paper and pencil 
from their hiding place. 

"Bad?" she wrote. 

Beth stared at the printed word with an intensity that almost frightened 
Scully. Trying to get the young woman's attention, she nudged her with an elbow. 

Beth jumped, a startled sound escaping her.  Scully hissed at her, her fist 
reflexively closing about the forbidden articles.  Her grip was tight, and 
she didn't want to let go when Beth reached for the pencil. 

"My first," Beth wrote. 

Astonished, Scully's eyes flew to Beth's face, seeing the pure misery there, 
the pain and shame, the clean lines of youth, oh god, how young she was! 
She held up one finger, then six; raised a questioning eyebrow.  Beth nodded. 

Sixteen years old. 

Beth looked at her quizzically, wanting the knowledge reciprocated, but 
Scully's thoughts had turned inward. To be sixteen again, to have her family 
intact, her innocence renewed... 

After all this time it still rankled that she had never learned what had 
happened to her mother.  Mulder had pulled her from the wreckage of 
Washington without a backward glance; she knew he had been right to do so, 
or they would not have survived, but she had never forgiven him for that. 

Beth was still looking at her, and Scully raised three fingers, then eight. 
Thirty-eight years old.  If they still made calendars, the year would be 
2002.  The earth had been under alien domination for four years. 

Carefully Scully erased the words on the paper and wrote again.  "Bleeding? 
Pain?" 

Beth nodded. 

Her palms were suddenly wet with sweat; her eyes burned.  Amazing.  Just two 
words, and the doctor in her was clamoring loudly, straining to break free. 
Sudden images assaulted her mind's eye: herself in an Army hospital in the 
Arctic, shouting down another doctor; assisting burn patients in a hospital 
in Townsend, Wisconsin; asking another doctor if he believed in miracles as 
he prepared her for a PET scan. 

At the soft touch on her arm, Scully flinched, her hands instinctively 
coming up, ready to attack, ready to defend. 

Beth's mouth dropped into a surprised o, and Scully slowly lowered her 
fisted hands.  Deliberately she wrote, "Don't touch me.  You'll be fine. 
Tell me if the bleeding doesn't stop." 

Her eyes glistened with tears, but Beth blinked them back as she nodded. 
She made the universal gesture for thanks. 

Scully nodded curtly, then moved back to her own bed.  She erased all signs 
of writing on the tissue-thin paper, then laid down and closed her eyes. 

**** 

End (5/9)