Novus Ordo Seclorum (6/9) by Rebecca Rusnak See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 **** The night was pure black. Once upon a time he'd sat on a rock on a lake with Scully. Once upon a time she had held him in a Florida forest. Once upon a time he had sat in a car and told her an iced tea meant love. Once upon a time he had held her in the dark and told her he loved her. They had turned north after sunset. Krycek picked his way through the night with unerring accuracy, a legacy of his years as an operative for the Consortium. Mulder followed as best he could. They walked in silence, an uneasy truce lying between them. His humiliation and subsequent defeat at Krycek's hands--or hand, rather--made Mulder bitterly aware of where he stood with the other man. With his hands cuffed, the slave's collar still around his neck, he was profoundly vulnerable, easily affected by Krycek's capricious moods. Abruptly Krycek stopped walking, becoming an ebony shape against the night sky. "Let's stop for a bit." Mulder sat down immediately, Krycek a bit later. The Russian rummaged through his knapsack and came up with the bottle of water. He uncapped it, drank deeply, then offered it to Mulder. "Thanks." He drank, then handed it back to Krycek. The water awakened his earlier hunger, but Mulder said nothing. He'd die before asking Krycek for anything. The night was deceptively cool, drained of the heat that covered the land during the day. Mulder drew up his legs, rested his forearms on his knees, and let his hands dangle, the chain between the handcuffs swinging back and forth lazily. The constant chafing of metal was rubbing his skin raw, and he grimaced as he tried to push them further up on his wrists. "Why did you take me with you?" Krycek sighed explosively. "I *knew* you'd ask me that." "Then why don't you just answer the question?" Mulder retorted. Krycek shook his head. In the dim indigo of night, Mulder could see the younger man's lips purse in frustration. "I don't know," he finally said. "I mean, I don't know what it is about you, Mulder. Why I can't stop thinking about you." A flicker of alarm raced through him, and he looked at Krycek with wide eyes. The other man laughed shortly. "No, no. I like women as much as you do, Mulder." He sighed. "I just don't know. Half the time you infuriate me, and I want to beat the shit out of you. The other half...I just want to kneel at your feet and learn, have you teach me how you do it." "Do what?" Despite himself, Mulder was intrigued. It was the first time Krycek had spoken to him as one man to another since their escape. Krycek looked down at the bottle of water in his hand, tilted it one way, then the other. "I don't know," he confessed. "How you go on, I guess. How you persevere, in spite of the odds. How no matter what happens, you pick yourself up and go on." Mulder looked at him. "Seems to me you already know how." For a moment Krycek met his gaze, then looked away. When he stood up, the motion was so abrupt that Mulder jerked back in surprise, bringing his hands in toward his chest, his hands balling into fists. He watched as Krycek paced restlessly, finally coming to a halt in front of him. "I know where Scully is," Krycek said. Mulder leapt to his feet. "Where is she?" Krycek shook his head. "Unh-huh. I'm not telling you." Mulder uttered a sound of frustration and the younger man hastily continued, "But I'll take you there." When he was satisifed he had Mulder's attention, he added, "But you have to stay with me. No trying to run away." Mulder snorted and held up his cuffed hands. "Forgetting something, Krycek?" For a moment Krycek stared at him blankly, then his gaze cleared. "Oh, that," he said. He gave that peculiar one-armed shrug. "I made that up." Astonished, Mulder could only blink and stare at Krycek stupidly. The younger man watched him through narrowed eyes, clearly expecting to be jumped on again. Surprising them both, Mulder laughed. "That's a good one." Krycek smiled thinly, then his expression became somber. "I wasn't shitting you about the danger we're in, Mulder. This is serious. I was important to their organization. They'll be looking for me. Me and whoever I have with me." Mulder ignored the warning. "How did you get to be such a big shot?" "Let's just say I had a prior connection to one of the aliens," Krycek muttered. "They knew me from that." Mulder waited, but Krycek didn't elaborate. When the silence drew out uncomfortably, he sat down again. After a long time, Krycek did so, too. "I tried to tell you about this, Mulder. I came to you for help." "Resist or serve," Mulder said softly. Krycek glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah, I remember. I didn't believe you, though." Krycek grunted. "Figures. You spent your life searching for the truth, and when someone finally gave it to you, you didn't believe it." "You wouldn't have either, if you'd been lied to and used for as many years as I had," Mulder protested. The younger man opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He nodded and looked away. "If you didn't believe in what they were doing, why did you stay?" Mulder asked. Again that half-shrug. "You don't just walk away from those guys, Mulder. Once you were in, you stayed in." Krycek shot him a glance. "Your father knew that." Mulder bit his lip against the knife-twist of pain in his chest at Krycek's words. Amazing that his father's death still had the power to hurt. "He wanted out, didn't he? That's why they had you kill him, isn't it?" Krycek nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. The truth was finally out. Mulder sat still, waiting for the anger to kindle within him. For years he had waited to hear Krycek confess to killing his father, and now the moment had come, and he was nonplussed. He had always expected so much more. "For what it's worth, Mulder," Krycek said hesitantly, "I didn't want to do it." "That's nice," Mulder said absently. He was still trying to figure out what had happened, why he felt nothing at Krycek's revelation. "Mulder, did you hear me?" "Yeah," he said thickly. It didn't matter anymore, he realized with a pang. His father had been killed seven years ago, a lifetime ago. The world had moved on since then. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I heard you. But it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?" Krycek was looking at him expectantly, wariness darkening his eyes. "Are you waiting for me to try to kill you?" he asked. A reluctant smile tugged at Krycek's mouth. "Well, yeah." Mulder shook his head. "No such luck," he said. Krycek gazed at him for a long moment, then leaned over and dragged the knapsack across the ground and onto his lap. He unbuttoned the front flap and reached inside, coming up with two shiny metal objects. He tossed them at Mulder, who caught them in mid-air. "What are these?" The two keys caught the starlight and glittered silver. One was small, and the other... Krycek said nothing, and Mulder unlocked the handcuffs from his wrists with hands that shook with sudden eagerness. With a pained grunt, he removed them and threw them to the side. He raised his trembling hands to his neck, the key skittering along his collar, passing uselessly over the keyhole as his efforts grew more frantic. Wordlessly, Krycek held out his hand. For a moment Mulder stared at him, afraid to give up the key, to let go of it, afraid that he might never get it back. Then he exhaled shakily and placed it in Krycek's palm. The keyhole was dirty, rusty, and the key didn't want to turn. Mulder held his breath and clenched his fists tightly enough that his fingernails left half-moons on his palms. Finally the key clicked home, and the collar parted with a snap. Krycek removed it and Mulder's hands flew to his neck, feeling his own flesh there, taking his first deep breath in years. "How long have you been a slave?" Krycek asked in a quiet voice. It was easier to meet Krycek's eyes now that they were on even ground. "Three years," Mulder said. "A little less than Scully has." Krycek nodded. The two men's eyes met, and Mulder let his hands fall back into his lap. "Thanks," he said. **** Thus the world moved on. The creatures of the blue planet, the humans, were conquered and enslaved by a race for whom they had no name. In an effort to make their dominion utter and complete, the human slaves were forcibly silenced, thus ensuring obedience and humility. Children became a prized commodity; raised in ignorance of their former world, they were allowed to retain their voices. One by one, those humans who had formerly held the reins of power in their hands succumbed to those very hands. Forbidden guns were fired, frail wrists were slashed, nooses were fashioned. No one mourned their loss. **** Inevitably, the days shortened. Even the strongest midday heat lessened, filtered now through the strong blue sky of autumn. Scully watched the change of seasons through the kitchen window. She went outside rarely, only on her bi-weekly visits to the breeding cabin. She missed the warmth of the sun, the soft kiss of the wind, even the damp misery of the rain and the freezing cold of snow and ice. The mood in the house was one of cautious optimism. Beth had missed a period. It didn't have to mean anything; it probably didn't mean anything. All women knew that stress affected their cycles, altered their body's chemistry. Even so, the women of the house were filled with wary hope, with Etta leading the charge. A child would mean many things, foremost among them the fact that the master and mistress would be pleased, and the rest of the women might look for rewards. That it would also mean a return to the breeding program with renewed vigor seemed to have slipped most of the women's minds. It probably wasn't even true. If it was, it would be only the second pregnancy Etta had presided over. Accordingly, she took no chances. Beth was given tasks that required nothing more strenuous than sitting down. She was ordered to take a nap each afternoon for an hour. Golden outdid herself in coming up with soft, nutritious foods. Beth bore this new treatment with equanimity, just as she had suffered through the abuse of earlier weeks. But behind her calm stoicism, her eyes were filled with terror. As the days filed past in orderly succession, Beth's fear became harder to ignore. Scully gnawed her lips to shreds in her efforts to avoid comforting the girl. She didn't want to help, she didn't *want* to become involved. Up on the sidewalk, an innocent bystander, that's what she wanted to be. Except she wasn't a bystander anymore, and she hadn't been innocent for three years. Not since the day they had held her down and branded her hip and cut out her tongue. Safely behind wire-strung blankets in the warehouse, Mulder had said once, "They turned a man away today." Weary from his day on patrol, he sat before her, head bowed, hands resting on his drawn-up knees. She knelt behind him, her hands kneading at the knots in his shoulders. At his words, the motion of her hands paused. "Why?" she asked. Mulder sighed. "They said he was too old. That he wouldn't be able to contribute to the community, that he'd be useless, a burden on the rest of us." But already, only a year after the initial attack, she'd been hardening. "They were right." Mulder had half-turned. "How can you say that, Scully? He has as much right to safety and protection as we do." He shook his head. "If he's caught, they'll just shoot him." She'd spoken softly. "Maybe he'd be better off that way." Mulder sucked in a horrified breath, turned to face her all the way. Her hands fell into her lap like dead weights. "Why do you say that?" Under his intense gaze, her cheeks had heated, but she had not looked away. "Oh, no, Scully," Mulder murmured. "Don't say that. Don't even think that. We'll...this won't last. We'll fight back. But we have to stick together, look out for each other." His voice hardened. "Young *and* old." With an ugly cynicism that frightened her, she wondered who he was trying to convice. Blindly, she reached for him, and he was there, kissing her, gently at first, then with growing passion. She matched his eagerness, the kiss becoming more violent. She raised her arms, twined her fingers in his hair, pulled him down with her. Mulder had broken the kiss first. "Scully--" "Yes," she husked, and reached for him again. His mouth crushed hers, and she welcomed him, the rising heat that flushed her body... "Dammit!" Golden swore as metal crashed to the floor. With a jolt that was painful, Scully returned to the present. One hand was pressed against her mouth, the other balled into a fist in her lap. Across the kitchen, Beth met her eyes. Scully blinked back the last of the memory and met the girl's clear-eyed gaze with one of her own. **** It was raining. They were somewhere in Arkansas, moving steadily northward, and it was raining. Mulder coughed and shivered with a sudden chill, wrapping himself tightly in the thick overcoat he'd taken from a dead man. Ahead of him, right on cue, Krycek coughed as well. He guessed it was the middle of October. Sodden gray clouds hid the sky from view, and piles of dead leaves squished underfoot. The raindrops were the cold ones of autumn, nothing soothing or relaxing about them. Mulder coughed again, and glared at Krycek's back, angry at the young man for being less sick than he was, angry at the forced furtiveness of their journey, angry that it was taking so long to find Scully, angry at the world. They walked along a wire fence, fields of grain on their right, stretching off for miles. Faintly, in the distance, they could see the hunched-over forms of the slaves working the fields. Occasionally, when the wind was right, the crack of a whip carried over the breeze. On the left, a stand of trees marked the natural boundary line for the fields. "Shhh." Abruptly Krycek raised his right hand, his head cocking to one side. Mulder stopped walking, his heart beginning to pound. Throughout their journey, Krycek had done this several times, and on each occasion he had steered them clear of danger. At first Mulder had resented this display, thinking that Krycek was merely showing off, but by now he had learned to trust the man's instincts. Now Krycek pointed to the right, then held up three fingers. An unnecessary gesture--Mulder could hear them now. Hybrids, judging by their harshly-accented voices. The three men were walking toward them, along the edge of the estate. With most of the land used up in great agricultural spreads, the two men had been forced to skirt groups such as these during their journey. Two months on the run had honed their instincts and kept them safe thus far, but sooner or later, Mulder knew, their luck would run out. Moving swiftly, grateful for the wet leaves muffling their footsteps, he followed Krycek further into the wood bordering this particular estate. The hybrid guards would be more interested in checking out the fences, making sure the slaves of that estate could not escape; probably they would have no reason to peer into the woods. At least Mulder prayed they wouldn't feel particularly motivated to be thorough today; the rain would actually help in that respect. Krycek hunkered down beside him, a stand of waist-high bushes providing a screen for the men to look through. The hybrids made their way down the fence, throwing it the most cursory of glances, telling ribald jokes, laughing coarsely at the obscene punchlines. None of them made any moves toward the woods. They were nearly gone when Mulder felt the tickle at the back of his throat that signified a cough. Horrified, he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hold back his body's reflexive action. "Quiet!" Krycek hissed in a barely audible whisper. Tears streamed from his eyes as his throat convulsed painfully, trying to ease the itching of soft tissues. A strangled sound escaped him, and Krycek's hand clamped painfully on his arm. "Mulder!" He could not help it. He could not stay silent anymore. Helplessly he looked at Krycek, beseeching him mutely for help, his shoulders and chest jerking with suppressed coughs. Krycek's hand moved in a blur of motion, and Mulder found himself pinned to the ground on his back, suddenly unable to breathe at all, coughing the furthest thing from his mind. His lungs strained for air, his hands beat at the grip on his throat, more frantic as the seconds passed without oxygen. Dimly he heard the hybrids' laughter grow fainter as they moved off. Black spots danced before his eyes, obscuring his vision; his struggles weakened. And then suddenly he could breathe again. Mulder rolled to his side, dragging in huge gulps of air through his gaping mouth. Coughs racked him and he curled into a ball against the pain in his chest. When the spasms subsided, he flopped onto his back and stared dully at Krycek. "Better?" the younger man asked. Mulder licked his lips. "Bastard," he whispered hoarsely. Already his neck was beginning to swell, bruise from Krycek's iron grip. "I had to keep you quiet," Krycek said. "It was the only thing I could think of." "I bet," he said wryly. Swallowing was painful, and so was talking. Krycek stood up, then coughed himself. "Dammit," he grimaced. "This fucking rain." "Yeah," Mulder muttered, then doubled as more coughing racked him. "Come on, Mulder. We gotta keep moving," Krycek urged. Mulder closed his eyes and groaned, but he slowly got to his feet. It was tempting, so damn tempting to just lay down and not get up, but he couldn't do it. He didn't have the luxury of resting. Somewhere north of here, Scully was still in slavery, waiting for him. He started walking again, looking down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Middle of October, oh yeah. Can you say Happy Birthday Mulder? **** She was flying, the blue sky was an open vista, she could go anywhere in the world. She pumped her wings, soaring through gossamer-thin wisps of cloud, sunlight dappling her feathers, tinting the thicker clouds gold. A cry of sheer delight broke from her throat. She had never imagined it could be like this. She turned her sleek head, looking for him, wanting to share her happiness-- With a start, Scully jerked awake. For a terrifying moment she was blind as her eyes adjusted, the irises grudgingly letting go their earlier vision of blue sky, the pupils expanding to let in more light. She blinked, and she could see again. Nothing but darkness. The floor was hard beneath her cheek, and the air was close and stuffy, entering her lungs with reluctance. One hand contracted involuntarily, and something wet and cold oozed over her fingers. With a small breathy cry, she bolted upright and flung it across the room, hearing it splat against the wall close at hand. Her chest heaved as she forced herself to breathe in deeply, to calm down. She had merely fallen asleep, probably not for long, either. The sponge she'd thrown at the wall still dripped, and the section of floor she'd finished scrubbing still wet. This was Etta's idea, her way of making sure Scully knew who was in charge, her way of asserting authority. Scully thought cynically that Etta could stand to take lessons from the hybrids in charge of turning people into slaves. Cleaning the closet in the dark was a pretty paltry punishment compared to what *those* guys cooked up. Feeling her way around in the dark, Scully found the sponge she'd thrown and picked it up, dunked it into the bucket of cooling suds. Desultorily, she began pushing it back and forth, her mind going back to her dream. That sky...she'd never seen such a blue sky before in all her life. Probably never would again, either. It was that shade of blue reserved for paintings, for picturebooks, for dreams. Just thinking of it filled her with desperate longing. Her hand stilled. Her breath caught in her throat. That sky, that *blueness* rose before her eyes and she shuddered abruptly, as if given an electric shock. How? The corner of her lip curled into a sneer, and she gripped the sponge tightly, slammed it into the floor with a ferocity born of anger. Sure. Escape. Just hand Etta her bucket and sponge and walk out the back door. How long before the guards caught her, how long before they shot her? Would she hear the gunshots before she felt them? But... An ugly sob forced its way past lips compressed into a thin line. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, faintly tasting Pine-Sol, wishing to God she had not fallen asleep, not seen that sky, that slice of heaven. The door clicked as Etta opened it. "You done in here yet?" Behind her, Scully saw Golden standing by the stove, looking at her with sympathy. The kitchen was bright with the fall sun, and Scully looked at the square of light on the floor, then back at Etta. She shook her head. "Suit yourself," Etta snapped, then shut the door. Darkness descended again. Scully closed her eyes and lost herself in the blue. **** End (6/9) See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 **** The rain was even more miserable at night. Unable to find shelter, they were still in the woods. They'd propped fallen branches against a tree at an angle, forming a rudimentary tent. It wasn't much, but it kept them dry. Dry being a relative term, Mulder thought wearily. He hadn't been completely dry in two days. Behind him, Krycek slept uneasily. The younger man talked in his sleep, usually in Russian, Mulder had discovered. Tonight his mutterings were laced with English, words of pleading, of fear. Mulder watched with detachment, neither pleased nor dismayed by his companion's nightmares. A deep cough racked him, and he groaned, trying to huddle further into his blankets. Like the coat he wore, like the shoes on his feet, they were stolen, sometimes from the dead, sometimes not. "Are you sure?" Krycek said, in a suddenly clear voice. Startled, Mulder glanced at him, but the Russian was still asleep. Over his head, the rain beat on the last leaves clinging to the trees. Mulder closed his eyes, coughed again, and finally felt himself relax into sleep, into dreams of the past... "Are you sure?" Skinner asked in a somber voice. Bereft of his glasses, he looked surprisingly young. He nodded. Since finding the burnt remains of the warehouse, only one thought had consumed him. Scully. Her body had not been among the corpses scattered at the still-smoldering ruins, and he had wept with relief then. It meant she was still alive. "I don't know how I'll be able to guarantee your safety, Mulder," Skinner said. He was clearly unhappy with the idea, but to his credit, he had not tried overly hard to dissuade Mulder. He, too, knew it was the only way. "I'll be fine, sir." The "sir" was habit; it came easily. The rest didn't. He swallowed hard. "I--I want you to be the one to do it. Will you?" Skinner's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then he nodded. He'd wandered for days after she was taken, unknowing and uncaring where he went. They could have taken him then and he would not have resisted them. "Do you need any time?" Skinner asked. He shook his head, managed a tiny smile. "I'd rather get this over with." Skinner had been heading a small band of fighters for the Resistance when Mulder had literally stumbled across them. Utterly shocked to find his wayward agent, the older man had instantly taken him in and sought to learn his story. Upon learning of Scully's enslavement, the former Assistant Director had wept. "Let's go," Skinner said. They didn't have anything as sophisticated as a branding iron. From the tack room of the stable Skinner found two pieces of metal and hammered them into a crude X shape: the mark of the slave. Held by a pair of long-handled tongs, the improvised brand slowly heated over a fire. Mulder refused to look at it. He stood in the doorway of the stable, facing the farmhouse that Skinner's people had taken refuge in. Most of them had been with the older man since fleeing Washington, and they all looked up to him with respect and near reverence. "You're sure of this, Mulder?" Skinner's hand fell on his shoulder. He did not turn around. "I have to find her, sir." Skinner's gaze dropped to the ground. "We're ready." The metal X glowed red with heat. Slowly Mulder turned his back, removed his shirt and lowered his jeans enough to bare his left hip. Skinner held the tongs in his gloved hand, the red glow from the heated metal revealing the sweat that beaded his brow. He lifted the brand, hesitated. Mulder looked away. "Do it," he ordered. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, knew he would scream anyway. "Dear God," Skinner muttered, then pressed the red-hot X against Mulder's hip, holding it there just long enough to leave a blistered imprint on the flesh. The scream was ripped from his throat, and his knees buckled, spilling him to the ground. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the clank of metal as Skinner dropped the cross, and then everything went black. He came awake with a gasp, his own scream still ringing in his ears, his hip aching with a ghostly pain. He struggled to sit up, coughing weakly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to dispel the dream. He heard a rustle of movement, and dropped his hands. Morning had arrived, and in the gloomy graylight he could see Krycek looking at him with empathy. "Bad one, huh?" Mulder grunted in affirmation. Krycek took a deep breath. "Yeah. They're all bad ones, now, aren't they?" **** The thought came, unbidden, at all hours of the day. It mattered not that it wasn't true. She could not un-think it. All the paranoia she had ever had occasion to feel came back with a vengeance. Was Etta watching her because she knew Scully's thoughts? Did Golden tell her to be careful because she knew what Scully was planning? Did Beth's sad eyes linger on her because she didn't want Scully to leave her? It became her mantra. It was her first thought upon waking, and her last before falling asleep. Sleep...she dreamed of that blue sky with a growing frequency. The dazzling vista opened before her at night with startling clarity, never dulling or changing. And every night, before she could find Mulder, share her happiness with him, every night she woke, feeling cheated out of that blueness. The real skies outside were no longer a cheery blue. Gray clouds held sway over all, darkening the days. Winter was coming, and quickly. On her trips to the breeding cabin she shivered in the unheated room and clung to the man there for warmth, rather than for pleasure. Beth was due for her period any day now, and the women of the house held their collective breath. If she missed it, the level of celebration would rise a notch. If she missed a third one, the good news would be reported to the mistress by a beaming, proud Etta. The young woman was no longer afraid. Her eyes had dulled over, losing their spark. She seemed to accept what had happened to her. Etta pointed to this as a good sign, saying Beth knew her body better than anybody, and if the girl thought she was pregnant, than she surely must be. Scully, who knew better, thought this was utter bullshit. This early on, only chemical tests could determine Beth's true state, and for now, there was simply no way to tell. Out in the front hall, Etta fussed at the missy, rearranging the woman's hat, telling her how pretty she looked. The two woman's voices rose and fell in counterpart, and from where she was, in the dining room, Scully could almost believe they were two friends, preparing for a day on the town. Almost. She gave the table leg she was working on one final furious scrub, then sat back on her heels. Her back ached from kneeling under the enormous mahogany dining room table; all morning she had been polishing it with a special cleaner. The fumes from the bottle made her throat hurt and her eyes burned. Dammit, she couldn't! Why couldn't she just accept that and move on? Oh, but she knew why. Only in the dark hours of the morning was she utterly honest with herself, but she knew why, all the same. Far better to think she could escape, to believe that lie, than to think about the alternatives. "Scully..." His eyes had been dark, swirling with emotion. "If...if something ever happens, I want you to know I'll find you." He'd reached for her hand, clasped it tight. "I won't let them hurt you. I'll come for you." And god, she had laughed. She had told him not to be silly, that nothing would happen, they had survived this far, and they would continue to survive. Only three weeks later the raid had come, and she had been taken and enslaved. Or she could do nothing, stay here and wait for Mulder. Mulder, who wasn't coming. Mulder, who would have been here by now if he could. Which meant he was dead. He had to be. Scully's throat closed up, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. Crouched under the dining room table of her owner and mistress, she finally let herself acknowledge what she had known deep down for three years. Mulder was dead. She made a small sound, a tiny whimper. She dropped the rag and brought her hands up, held them over her mouth, damming back the grief. Oh god. Mulder was dead. She blinked back the tears, hating them, hating herself, and clung to the thought. **** In the beginning of the new order, there was not much change. Then, slowly, the landscape of the blue planet altered. The human cities were torn down, laid to waste and left in rubble. Open land was used for agriculture, for planting, for sustaining the hybrids who now ruled. Precious metals were mined in the mountains of the planet, and arid deserts made fertile by the technology of the superior race. Within four years, life on the newly conquered globe was very different from what its inhabitants had ever known. New cities began to be erected, soaring palaces for the new rulers to live in, once they came from their home across the stars. Smaller towns became markets, places for slave auctions, centers where hybrids met and discussed this strange new planet and its people. And singly, or in small bands, humans roamed, seeking freedom and finding none. **** They were close. For the first time in years, Mulder felt something that could have been hope. He had not wanted to stop for the night, waste one more day. But Krycek had been insistent. They must move slowly now. The estate where Scully was a slave lay just to the east, less than a day's journey. If they were reckless, hasty, and were caught now, what would have been the point of it all? Krycek was right, but it galled Mulder to have to admit it. He sat in the ruins and refused to talk to the younger man. The building they were sheltered in had once been a barn, the kind he remembered seeing from the highway, often with "John 3:16" painted on the roof. At some point, though, the roof had caved in and left the place nearly uninhabitable. Gaping holes dotted the boards of the walls, and a rusty pitchfork lay in one corner, missing two of its tines. The cold winter air poured in from these holes and the lost roof, and Mulder shivered. He had been in more miserable places in his life, but not many. Krycek had built a smokeless fire, and the dancing flames managed to dispel some of the chill. Yesterday they had eaten the last of the canned food they had, and both men were hungry. Sullenly, they sat across from each other, gazing over the fire, saying nothing. His stomach rumbled, and Mulder shifted on the wooden floor. Some of the floor boards had caved in near one of the corners, but this section was hard enough, according to his numb ass. He pulled his blanket tighter across his shoulders, trying to ignore the faint ripping sound as the hole at the seam tore a little more. he thought, looking at the man across the fire. Krycek's hair had grown long, curling darkly over his collar; he shaved only when necessary, and dark stubble covered his cheeks. The younger man's clothes were as ripped and filthy as Mulder's, and in some places, the shiny plastic of his prosthetic arm could be seen. Mulder sighed and closed his eyes. He'd given up caring about his own appearance years ago. Looking at the unshaven, long-haired Krycek was like looking into a mirror. Except for the arm, of course. He surprised himself when he spoke. "Was it Russia?" One hand gestured at the prosthetic. Krycek glanced down, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. "Yeah," he said shortly. "They knew, didn't they? The Russians?" Mulder asked. Of course they had. All those experiments, the "black cancer"--it had all been a desperate attempt to protect themselves from the alien invaders. He and Krycek had just had the bad luck to get caught in the middle of it. "Yeah they knew," answered Krycek. "They knew more than your government did." "My government? Whatever happened to 'I love this country'?" smirked Mulder, remembering words spoken in a warehouse in New York, just before the Russian fiasco. Krycek looked down. "It's nobody's government now." "We never stood a chance, did we?" The younger man met his eyes with candor. "Does it matter now?" "Where do you go after tomorrow, Krycek?" he asked. "What happens to you?" "Who said I'm going anywhere?" Krycek replied, with a touch of his old sarcasm lightening his voice. "I don't think Scully will like that," Mulder said. To his vague surprise, he found he didn't want Krycek to leave. At some point on their journey, the man had stopped being the enemy. He still wasn't a friend, but he was an ally now, and God knew, the human race needed each other now more than ever. "Guess you'll just have to persuade her," Krycek suggested. Mulder smiled. "You just better hope she doesn't have access to any weapons. She's a damn good shot." He shrugged his left shoulder. "I'll attest to that." "I never did get that," Krycek said in wonder. "That she'd shoot her own partner, rather than let you kill me." His smile became nostalgic. "She's something, all right." Pain twisted in his stomach at the thought of all she had endured during the past three years, and his smile died. "Tomorrow, Mulder," Krycek promised. "We'll find her." Unable to speak, Mulder bit his lip and nodded. **** She lay awake, waiting until the women were asleep, until the last crying sounds had subsided. Was she really going to do this? Sixteen years old and possibly pregnant after being raped three or four times. Possibly an innocent child, torn from its mothers arms within hours of its birth, raised as a slave, never knowing the world it should have lived in. Could she really *not* do this? Beth slept in the bed across from hers, oblivious to Scully's dilemma. She snored lightly, her mouth open, eyes dancing beneath closed lids as she dreamed, perhaps of the life she had known four years ago. Four years. She would have been twelve. Scully dragged in a horrified breath; a knife sank into her chest. Twelve years old. The same age Mulder had been when his life had irrevocably changed, altering him in ways unimaginable. The man she loved had been created on that day. Was there not some man out there, who would one day hold Beth, look at the woman he loved and think she had been created on the day when she was twelve and the aliens attacked? It was too much. Yes, she could. She didn't know how yet, but she could. But to burden herself with a young girl, a girl who might very well be pregnant? Could she really be so crazy as to think of such a thing? "But we have to stick together, look out for each other. Young *and* old." Mulder's words returned to haunt her. For a moment he was there, kneeling in front of her, his hazel eyes full of pain, full of love for her. The knife in her twisted sharply and she winced at the pain. She could very well be condemning three innocent people to death, but she had to try. For Mulder's sake, for his memory, she had to try. Scully reached out and gently shook Beth. The girl came awake with a startled cry, and Scully put one finger to her lips. She pulled out the forbidden paper and pencil, wrote swiftly. "I am leaving tomorrow. Come with me." China blue eyes widened in shock as Beth stared mutely at her. With a trembling hand, she reached for the pencil. "How?" Scully shook her head and shrugged, a small smile tugged at her lips. Did it matter? Her heart suddenly lightened. Tomorrow she would probably die, but did it matter? She had made the only choice, the right choice. Crying, Beth reached for her, and Scully pulled the young woman into her arms. Tears pricked her eyes, and she inhaled raggedly, then let them fall. **** "I *hate* this," Mulder muttered. Krycek snorted. "Yeah, well, I don't like it any better than you do." He reached up, scratched at the collar around his neck. "How the hell did you wear this thing?" "You get used to it," Mulder said dryly. He snapped one of the handcuffs around Krycek's right wrist, threaded the other cuff through the belt loop of the man's jeans, but did not actually close it. No need to cuff his hands together, even for appearance's sake. The fact that Krycek could occasionally use his prosthetic as a weapon was their secret. "Well," the Russian deadpanned, "do I pass inspection?" Mulder eyed him. Still unshaven and dirty, wearing a slave collar and handcuffed, Krycek did indeed seem to be a captured runaway. Mulder rubbed his chin, feeling the lack of stubble there. In direct contrast to Krycek, he had shaved and cleaned up as best he could. Nothing could be done about the sorry state of his clothing, but he still appeared to be in charge here. He nodded. "Yeah, you'll do. Just remember to keep your head lowered. Don't look anyone in the eye. Don't--" His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard. "I...I don't think I can do this, Krycek." "You have to," the younger man snapped. "It has to be me." He gestured at his prosthetic. "If it wasn't for this, we could do it the other way around, but they'll have a description of me. They'd know." He paused. "You can do it, Mulder." They'd been over this ground already, and Mulder grudgingly acquiesced. "Yeah, I know." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Does this mean I get to shove you around as much as I want?" "Watch it, Mulder," Krycek growled, before realizing the joke. He relaxed. "Just keep it realistic," he said. "You saw me do it." "You don't need to remind me," Mulder said sourly. Krycek said nothing. He'd already apologized for his actions, his brutality toward Mulder before their escape. There was no need to defend himself, and he knew it. Mulder sighed and attached the leash to the collar around Krycek's neck. "Let's go, then," he said. **** End (7/9) See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 **** Another day, her last day here, she vowed. On her knees in the living room, Scully tensed as she heard footsteps in the hall, then relaxed; just Etta, placing a bowl of fresh flowers on the table in the foyer. After a few minutes, the woman walked back down the hall. For a space of mere seconds she was framed in the doorway of the room, and Scully bent her head, industriously polishing the coffee table, then Etta was gone. Scully sat back on her heels, breathing easier. She still had no idea how she was going to escape. Her whole body thrummed with tension, her nerves were strung nearly to the breaking point. Tonight. It would have to be tonight. Etta did not return into the hall, and Scully got quickly to her feet and ran to the desk the missy kept. She yanked open the top drawer of the desk, revealing scented stationery and pens that wrote purple ink, paper clips and rubber bands, a green marker and an ancient pack of cinnamon gum. Her heart pounding in her ears, she grabbed one of the pens and a pad of stationery, shoved the drawer shut. She ran back to the coffee table, thrusting the pad and pen under her skirt as she did so, dropping heavily back to her knees beside the table. She picked up the rag and began moving it back and forth across the tabletop, waiting for her breathing to calm, her racing heart to slow, waiting for Etta, for somebody to cry, "Thief!". The pen and the edges of the paper poked into the soft flesh of her stomach, held there by her underwear. She didn't mind the discomfort; it was proof that she was indeed, leaving this place. The front bell rang, and Scully's blood turned to ice. They knew! She was caught! Etta scurried down the hall, not wanting to keep the visitor waiting. The door was opened. She scanned the room frantically. The window. Throw herself out the window. If she was lucky she'd catch a piece of glass in her throat, die quickly. She stood, one hand drifting down, meaning to discard the pen, the paper, the evidence of her treason. As a male voice filled the hall, she uttered a bark of laughter. Why bother? Possessing contraband was a relatively minor offense compared to attempted escape. She turned, took one step toward the window, all coherent thought erased from her mind; there was only the need for flight, for freedom. Etta squeaked something in the hall, then the male spoke again. A small whimper escaped her. She was frozen, unable to move, to cry out, to scream. The man in the hallway continued to speak, his voice reaching out to her, covering her, filling her with sudden trembling need. Etta spoke again, her voice more firm, a note of dismissal in her voice. She was trying to show the man out, asking him to please leave, to come back. Footsteps receded, moving toward the door, away from the living room, away from her, away... With a thin cry, her paralysis broke. Scully ran from the room, skidding to a stop in the hallway, wide eyes seeking, searching. Etta turned, her expression one of dismay at the sight of Scully. The man in the hall did not move at all, but his hazel eyes locked on hers, and in their depths she saw a promise fulfilled. **** He had expected her to look radically different; he had expected her to look exactly the same. In truth, she was neither. Her blue eyes held pain, fear, a sorrow he would never be able to understand. And as the seconds dragged out, they began to fill with hope. Behind him, standing on the porch, flanked by two guards, Krycek stirred, hard enough to tug on the leash in his slack hand. Mulder jerked, then turned around and whipped the free end of the leash across Krycek's face. Instantly a red weal rose, and Mulder hissed, "Stand still, you filth!" The two guards from the estate snickered, but the woman in the hallway gasped, and Mulder turned back to her. He straightened his shoulders, put on his most haughty expression, then pointed to Scully. "Madam, I do believe you are a liar. That woman is the slave I seek." Scully's jaw dropped, her eyes became round circles of fear in her pinched face. "There must be some mistake," the housekeeper floundered. "She is a good slave, a hard worker." "She is a murderer, and wanted for justice, madam, just like this man is," Mulder said harshly, gesturing behind him toward Krycek. "Now stand aside and let me do my job." "But," the woman did not move, but her voice was uncertain, "sir, the master is not here. Please, won't you wait until he returns? I'm sure we can work this out." Mulder shook his head. "Give me the woman." He swallowed, then forced a note of menace into his voice. "Or I'll arrest you both." The woman faltered, stepped back, glancing behind her at Scully, then back to Mulder. "I--" "Do it now, woman!" Mulder snapped. Finally cowed, the housekeeper turned, her face full of frustration. "Go with him, then," she spat at Scully. "And to think how well we all treated you here." Scully took a step back, one hand reaching behind her. Her head shook back and forth slowly. "Don't you run away," the housekeeper threatened. Mulder held out his hand. "Let's go," he said. Scully's eyes flicked down to his outstretched hand, then back up at him. Then she turned and ran. **** There were too many thoughts skittering about her brain; thinking was impossible. Oh no, not today she couldn't. Running flat out, she hit the swinging door leading into the kitchen with stiff arms. Golden stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, and the astonishment on her dark face at Scully's unorthodox entry would have been hysterical under other circumstances. Beth sat at the work table, oblivious to the confrontation in the hall, peeling vegetables. "Come back here, you slut!" Etta shouted. "Stop her!" cried one of the guards. A body struck the wall out in the hall, a meaty thud. Beth's wrist was slender and hot under her hand as Scully yanked her from the chair. "What on earth are you doing, child?" cried Golden. Etta burst through the kitchen door, her features stormy with rage. "Get back here, bitch! How dare you run away from me!" Beth needed no urging now. She was on Scully's heels as the older woman reached the back door. "Stop right there!" yelled a guard. In the close confines of the kitchen, the gunshot was deafening. Scully ducked as splinters of wood sprayed from the door. Beth screamed loudly, falling to her knees. Oh god was she hit? Scully turned, bent over the kneeling girl. "No!" Mulder tackled the guard who'd fired, knocking the man to the floor. "Don't shoot them!" Golden began to scream. Beth struggled to her feet, unharmed. In the open doorway she saw Krycek grappling with the other guard, his cuffed hand somehow free now. The doorknob slipped under her sweaty palm, and she gripped it harder and pushed. The door swung open, slowly at first, then was caught in a gust of winter wind. It banged against the back of the house with the sound of a gunshot. **** She ran. For a split second he could only stare after her in complete idiotic amazement. The plan was going to hell before his eyes, and she was *running* from him. Then the housekeeper took off, and he was roughly shoved aside by the guards as they ran past him. It took all his willpower not to call her name as he began to run. There was still a chance they could make it out of here alive, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. When the guard fired, Mulder was horrified. Heedless of the consequences, he threw himself on the man, crying, "Don't shoot them!" He smashed the guard's wrist against the floor, ignoring the man's frantic struggles. The black woman by the stove was screaming, her hands clasped to her face, her eyes bulging. One hand still held her ladle, and a thin stream of soup ran down her arm. The guard finally let go his weapon and Mulder snatched it up, brought it down on the man's head with all his strength. There was a sickening crack, and the man went still. "Mulder!" Krycek's cry was low and desperate. He'd had the element of surprise when he originally jumped the second guard, but he was rapidly losing ground. A gun fired, this one from in front of him, and he flinched, spinning around, forgetting Krycek. "Scully, no!" he cried, belatedly realizing it hadn't been a shot after all, but the back door flying open and hitting the house. Her head whipped around, red hair falling across her eyes, obscuring her vision. She shook her head sharply, trying to clear her view. Above, thunder rumbled, and it took Mulder a moment to realize that it wasn't thunder, but footsteps. The house slaves, men and women, coming to investigate the chaos; more guards would be arriving soon. "Go, go!" Krycek shoved at his back, and Mulder ran across the kitchen. **** Beth was still sobbing in terror as Scully yanked her through the door and out into the cold afternoon. "Go, go!" shouted Krycek, from back in the kitchen. "Scully!" Mulder's voice was despairing, his scream mingling with Golden's. She could not stop running. The breeding cabins flashed by on her right. Beth's hand held hers in a panicky grip. Another gunshot from in the house, and Etta screamed this time, a high-pitched sound of agony. "Scully!" Mulder's voice was closer now, and she risked a glance over her shoulder. Both he and Krycek were outside now, with the guard just coming out the door. The gun fired again, and Beth's hand was ripped from hers. Sheer momentum carried Scully forward for a few steps before she staggered to a stop. Behind her a different gun fired, and Scully turned, seeing the guard fall in the doorway, seeing the gun in Mulder's hand, seeing Beth's crumpled form on the ground. She stumbled a step forward, and then Krycek was there, his hand grabbing her arm, the loose handcuff bumping against her. "Leave her!" he shouted. She screamed at him, flailing out with her free hand, hitting him in the face. "Scully, come on!" Wild hazel eyes bored into hers, caught her hand and pulled her off Krycek. Beth lay still as they moved away from her. At a dead run, her arms caught in two vise-grips, they bore her off, screaming. **** Across the galaxy, the superior race continued their dominion over all other creatures. The blue planet, third from its sun, was just one more conquest. To those on that planet, however, life was far more precious than ever. But to the two whom our story is about, life was only secondary to the strong current of emotions that accompanied them always. They were torn apart, and they met again. And now we narrow our focus. The world has moved on, it is not to be changed. Men and women, they may change, however. They are always changing. **** They had run for miles, dragging Scully between them, deathly silent after her earlier screams. With unerring accuracy, Krycek had guided them, nearly spent, to the road, and when a car had come, Mulder had coldly shot the driver and the lone passenger. For a time, the car had enabled them to put real distance between themselves and their pursuers; Krycek had gotten behind the wheel, taking time only to unlock the collar from his neck. Mulder sat beside Scully in the back seat, holding her limp hand in his, unable to force words through his closed-up throat. After only half an hour, they'd run out of gas and were forced to flee on foot again; Scully followed them silently, obediently. In her hand she clutched a pen and pad of paper that had appeared from nowhere, and Mulder's heart had broken when he realized the implications of this. At night, they had finally stopped, sheltering in the ruins of a house, not unlike the barn he had Krycek had hidden in only yesterday. Yesterday. Was it possible that only 24 hours had elapsed since he and Krycek had put together their plan for rescuing Scully? The Russian had left to prowl through the house, ostensibly searching for edible food, for blankets and water. But Mulder knew the real reason Krycek had left them alone, and he stared at Scully now, seeking the right words. She knelt next to the fire, huddled under a blanket, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes dark. The pen and paper had disappeared again. The silence was unbearable, and Krycek would be back soon. Mulder tugged on the afghan around his shoulders, stood up and walked around the fire, meaning to sit beside Scully. When she saw him coming, she jumped to her feet. "Scully--" He took a step toward her and she backed away, alarm and anger in her eyes. "Scully, please." She shook her head, and gestured for him to go away. Oh god, they'd stolen her voice, her beautiful voice. She'd never again speak, say his name. He had managed to convince himself that it was only the trauma of their escape that had rendered her mute, but now the last of his hopes crashed painfully into the dust. Scully stood still, eying him warily, waiting for him to go. Mulder shook his head. "No," he said stubbornly. "I won't." Her hands clenched into fists and she bared her teeth. He tried again to approach her and she stiffened, one fist coming up. He stopped. "Is this it, then? This is how it ends? Scully--" She stiffened, raised her chin high, waved her hand imperiously. Go. Leave. Those blue eyes were still inscrutable. "I'm sorry about the girl, Scully. I know you must have cared for her." He stopped, wishing to heaven he knew the right words. "I know you've suffered, Scully. I know you've been through things...things I can't even imagine. But don't shut me out because of that." He stopped, looked at her pleadingly. "I've suffered, too, Scully." Her lips twisted into a scornful sneer, and she flapped her hand at him, dismissing his statement. "Scully, I've been through hell for you!" he protested. She glared at him, then turned her back. He was stunned. All he had been able to think about, all he had done, everything he had endured for three years, was for finding her and saving her. Now the moment had finally come, he had her. And she wanted nothing to do with him. "Scully." He walked around her. Her face was closed up, revealing nothing of her thoughts. An ugly thought came to him. "Do you think I've been running along with Krycek all this time? Is that what you think?" She turned her back again, but not before her eyes cut in his direction, and he knew that she did, indeed, think this of him. "Look at me, Scully." She ignored him, and in sudden anger he shrugged off his blanket, tore off his shirt. "Look at me, dammit!" Her head moved, grudgingly, and he turned around. "Look at me, Scully," he repeated, softer. He heard her gasp, knew her eyes must be wide with horror, staring at the ugly brand just visible on his hip, at the latticework of scars that criss-crossed his back, legacy of three years as a slave. He heard her step forward, but he made no move to face her. "I walked into hell for you, Scully. And I'm not going to give you up so easily." Hesitantly, she touched him, her fingertips tracing the scars across his shoulders, his back. A soft sound escaped her, and he finally turned around. She stared at him wonderingly, then her face twisted, her eyes squeezing shut. Silently, she began to cry. He took her in his arms, holding her gently. He bowed his head so his cheek rested on her hair and breathed her in. **** It hurt to cry, hurt with a physical pain that twisted her insides, made her sob loudly. Mulder's arms were warm and strong around her, and she sank into his embrace, letting his strength hold her up, letting herself relax the tight restraints she had kept on herself for so long. "Oh, Scully, I'm so sorry," Mulder said into her hair. His voice was thick, he was crying himself. She hadn't really believed he had been with Krycek, she hadn't, but it was so much easier to be angry with him, to hate that he was obviously doing well, walking around in the open without fear of capture. And oh, how she had hated him, during their flight through the woods. Hated that he had been able to walk straight into her prison and demand her back, hated that he looked healthy and strong, hated that it had taken him three years to find her. Until she'd seen. She knew the marks of the whip; nearly every man that she had lain with in the breeding cabin was marked by it in some manner or another. And never had she seen scars such as those on Mulder's back. The thought of him being beaten for infractions both real and imagined, the knowledge that he had borne it all for her, was her undoing. She raised her head, pushed against his chest until he let her go. His eyes were reddened from crying, and he could not hide the desperate hope in them as he gazed down at her. "Scully...?" She did not wipe away her tears as she walked around him. He stood still as she moved behind him, but his shoulders hunched slightly. "Scully?" She leaned in, planted a gentle kiss on a particularly nasty-looking mark, her lips barely touching the white scar tissue. Mulder gasped and flinched. "Scully." She moved across his back, leaving soft kisses as she went. She circled him, came around to stand in front of him again. He was puzzled, unsure how to react, and she stood on tiptoe, kissed the corner of his mouth. His arms crushed her to him. "I thought I'd never find you." She returned the embrace with all her strength. she thought, pressing against him, trying to impart with her body what her voice could not. One of his hands lifted her chin. She gazed up at him, answering with her eyes his unspoken question. He bent his head and his lips touched hers, gently, then with growing passion. She returned the kiss, her lips parting slightly, and abruptly Mulder pulled back. His eyes were wide with horror. "I...can you..." he broke off, pain crossing his features. In response, she reached up and pulled his head down, kissed him firmly. Mulder tore his mouth from hers, left a trail of burning kisses down her cheek, her jawline, her throat, nuzzling the flesh that until this morning had worn a slave collar. His hands moved down her body over her gray dress; when he reached her stomach, he stopped, a quizzical look on his face. Scully smiled at his confusion, unable to help it. She reached under her skirt, removed the pen and paper she'd stolen. Mulder looked at them and his eyes filled with tears again. Angrily she shook her head. She didn't want him to cry now; she wanted him to be strong, to kiss her again, to make her *feel* again. In one synchronized movement she toed off her shoes, pulled off the dress, stood before him in only her panties. Mulder's eyes darkened as he stared at her body, taking in the brand on her hip, the new scar on her upper arm where an auctioneer's whip had caught her once. Then his arms gathered her in, her breasts flattening against his chest; she closed her eyes, revelling in the feel of naked flesh meeting naked flesh. He kissed her breasts, his tongue laving her nipples in the way that had always driven her crazy. Her fingers curled in his hair, small sounds emanated from the back of her throat. His hands moved downward, sliding off her panties; he knelt before her, pressing his face into the concavity of her belly, a man worshipping his goddess. She reached down and took his face between her hands, mouthed the words she could not say. "I love you, too, Scully," he groaned. His hands came up, bearing her to the ground, helping her to lay down on the blankets they had discarded earlier. She settled on her back, hands reaching for his belt. Abruptly Mulder sat up, his hand shoving hers aside. She frowned at him, at the fleeting pain that crossed his eyes. For a long moment he stared at her, then a small smile crossed his face. "It's all right," he said, more to himself than to her. She smiled back tentatively, waited for him to finish undressing, waited for him to lay beside her. Fully naked, she clasped him to her, feeling a surge of joy rush through her veins. This, this is what she had aspired to, all those nights of rushed sex. This is what she had dreamed of, longed for. "Scully?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes dark with passion as he looked down on her. Her smile widened and she nodded. **** End (8/9) See disclaimer, etc. in Part 1 **** He lay still as dawn came, the house slowly filling with the pearly pink light of morning. The body in his arms was real, and for that he gave thanks to all the gods that had ever been or would be. His breath caught in his throat as he turned his head slightly, seeing only strands of red hair; her head was nestled on his shoulder, just under his chin. They had slept, neither of them caring about Krycek, who tactfully remained upstairs. And at some point in the night he had woken and heard her crying brokenly. There had been no words; none were necessary. Kisses of comfort had turned into kisses of passion, and this time they had coupled with a barely restrained violence, falling into deep sleep almost immediately afterward. Overhead, something crashed, and Mulder jerked. Scully stirred, then sat up abruptly, her hand flying to her neck. Mulder watched as she felt for the collar that was no longer there, watched as her eyes darkened with comprehension. Not so long ago he'd done the same thing. "Dammit!" Krycek's voice was furious, and now they could hear footsteps. Scully scampered over to where her dress was and put it on hastily. Mulder moved slower than her, and by the time he was dressed, she'd written a note and was holding it out to him. "What happens now?" He couldn't lie to her. "I don't know," he shrugged. "We hadn't planned that far ahead." "Is there anywhere to go?" she wrote. "Mulder! We gotta go." Krycek thumped unnecessarily loudly as he came down the stairs and into the ruins of the living room. His cheeks flushed slightly as he looked at the couple standing there. "We've stayed longer than we should have. They'll be looking for us." Mulder nodded. "Yeah." Mechanically, he began gathering their things, preparing to head out. Scully crumpled the note in her hand. Mulder's silence was all the answer she needed. **** They walked throughout the day, staying off the road, but following it as it headed northeast. Krycek had suggested they make their way up to Canada. With less land available for agriculture, the young man said, it stood to reason that they would be able to hide out in relative safety. Scully was silently skeptical of this, but she did not attempt to dissuade Krycek. He had spoken only once to her, and that as they were leaving the ruined house. "I'm sorry about what happened to you," he'd said, his green eyes dark with sincerity. She'd nodded regally, unable to bend enough to really trust the man, no matter what Mulder said. Mulder. He walked beside her, often holding her hand, occasionally throwing glances in her direction. Each time he did so, a look of wonder crossed his face, and he smiled at her, the hesitant smile of someone unable to believe his good fortune. Each time, she smiled back. Her smiles were short-lived, however. She could not smile when she thought of Beth, left to die on the lawn of the house, betrayed in death as well as in life. The young woman had died because of her, and Scully could not forgive herself. It would be a long time before her hand stopped opening and closing, wondering where the girl's hand was, why she was no longer running beside her. They stopped at night again, this time in a real house. They'd reached the outskirts of a town, where cars lined the streets, and houses stood in an eerie silence. Scully didn't want to stop, unnerved by the seemingly normal appearance of the town, but she reluctantly had to admit she was exhausted from all the walking. She sat in the circle of Mulder's embrace as they ate food from cans around yet another smokeless fire. Krycek talked about Canada, about the things he'd heard. "They don't have as many spreads, but the ones they do have are huge. They have to be, in order to be self-sufficient." Going to Canada in the middle of winter didn't seem such a bright idea, and Scully wrote as much, using tiny letters on the scented stationery. "It'll be tough," Krycek said. "I won't lie to you. But what other options do we have?" "We could stay here," she wrote. "Find others." "Scully." Mulder's voice was soft, and she turned to look up at him. "Skinner's dead. They killed him when they got me, all because he wouldn't submit to being a slave." Tears filled her eyes, and she drew a question mark on the paper. Mulder shook his head. "Some other day. You don't want to hear about that now." For a moment her eyes flashed angrily, then she nodded. He was right. They had the rest of their lives to talk, to fill each other in on the missing years. "You can stay here if you want," Krycek said, "but I'm leaving in the morning. What do you say?" She looked at him, taking in the raised welt across his cheek where Mulder had struck him, the way the clothing he'd stolen from the house hung on his thin frame. Looked at Mulder, at the dark hair that curled over his neck, at the eyes that were already less haunted. She wrote in large enough letters for both men to see, then held up the paper. "We stick together." **** When they left the house, it was with a wary optimism. It was one of those idealized early winter mornings. Only a few clouds marred the blue perfection above, and the wind was crisp but not cold. Staring into that blue made Mulder's eyes tear up if he looked for too long. When the two men popped up from behind the van, his first thought was that they weren't real, only decoys meant to scare. Then one of them pulled the hammer back on his rifle and Mulder knew. "Going somewhere?" Stained yellow teeth spread into a thick grin. The other one was unarmed, silent. A flurry of movement on his left, and Krycek was gone. With a sinking heart, Mulder turned toward Scully, knowing he was already too late. **** Mulder turned toward her, and then she lost sight of him as she completed her own rotation. "Stop right there!" Krycek, where was he? She started to run, never had a chance. Something kicked her in the back, spinning her around. Her chest absorbed a second blow, and she was falling backwards, arms flailing. The gun kept firing. She didn't know how many bullets it held, lost count of how many had already been spent. Her body jumped as she was hit again. Mulder. A thin cry escaped her. The ground shook as she landed heavily on her back. Her eyes blinked, focused on the blue sky arching over her, the sky of her dreams. The rifle cracked again, and then she was flying. **** Scully. He had to get to her. She lay faraway, so close, her life's blood soaking into the ground. He coughed, choked, crawled forward. "Hey, watch this," one of the men laughed. The gun went off, and his body jerked with another ugly impact. His arms wobbled, then collapsed, spilling him to the earth. One of her hands was almost within reach. It lay palm up, fingers open, beckoning him. He inched toward her, swallowing against the blood rising in his throat. "See? Son of a bitch," the man said admiringly. "Ah, let him be. He's a goner anyway," the other one said. He reached her and allowed himself to fall beside her one last time. Her eyes were open, their brilliant blue already clouding over. He took her hand in his blood-streaked one, clasped it as tight as he could. His eyes closed. At least they had died free. His chest hitched, rose and fell once, and did not rise again. **** And so ends our tale, my children. All this happened in the beginning, many ages ago, back in the time of your grandmother's grandmother. But still we tell the tale, still we speak of those doomed lovers. For there is a lesson to be learned from the old legend. No, I cannot tell it to you. You must discover it for yourself. One day we will rise, we will claim what is rightfully ours. Until then we wait, we tell our tales in secret, we pay lip service to those that rulbe learned from the old legend. No, I cannot tell it to you. You must discover it for yourself. One day we will rise, we will claim what is rightfully ours. Until then we wait, we tell our tales in secret, we pay lip service to those that rule us. We wait, knowing our time will come. But we also remember, my children. **** FINIS Author's Notes: Inspired by a line in "The Red and the Black," I started this story in the beginning of May. "Resist or serve"--well, it seemed throwaway at the time! Always in my mind lay the shadowy goal of getting the story done and posted before the movie was released. Therefore you can imagine my dismay when, on June 6, I received my _Entertainment Weekly_, containing a nifty summation of the themes in the movie, and discovered that they were the same as the ones in this story. Suddenly, it was not only a good idea that I post this before the movie, it was imperative! Despite my terror-driven, speed-demon-typing of the last sections of this story, I am nonetheless pleased with the final results. I hope you are, too. As always, I am interested in hearing from you and what you have to say. On a last but certainly not least note, many many thanks to Jen Collins for her eagle-eyed editing, to Elspeth and Leyla for their help and suggestions, and to my husband Kevin, for providing me with a title and the encouragement to begin writing in the first place. Rebecca Rusnak rrusnak@Lconn.com **************** "I have walked the paths of desire Gathering flowers and carrying fire." --October Project, "Paths of Desire"