AT LIBERTY 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship/
Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/
ScullyAngst. Whew. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.


Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television series, The 
X-Files, are the sole creation and property of Chris Carter, Fox 
Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without 
permission. No copyright infringements are intended. 

Feedback: Please, I like it. 
Archiving: Please, just let me know first. 

Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, 
but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned, struck down,
but not destroyed."
2 Corinthians 4:8-9
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (1/6) 

by 

Lacadiva




SKINNER
Date Unknown
Sometime Before Evening 

I was sweeping out the Camp Commander's quarters when the last truck 
for the day pulled up. I dropped the broom and watched as guards 
unloaded the truck, removing the human cargo and throwing them 
unmercifully to the ground. A few of the new prisoners seemed almost 
healthy if not disoriented. That would not last long. 

Others seemed as if they had already been broken. Without an ounce of 
fight left in them, they were willing to be lead without protest to 
their death. Others were broken not in spirit but in body - bleeding, 
faces and body parts swollen and discolored. Some were unconscious, not 
at all aware of the hell of their new surroundings. That wouldn't last 
long either. 

I couldn't help but wince as the bodies hit the ground, remembering the 
pain of my own injuries - a dislocated shoulder and a bullet wound in 
my left leg courtesy of my captors - when I first arrived. I couldn't 
get up, couldn't walk on my own, the pain was so intense. So they beat 
me. I thought I would die that day. There were times when I wish I had.


The guards ordered the new prisoners to stand. They kicked the 
unconscious ones, hoping to find one that was playing possum. None of 
them moved. And then, I caught a glimpse of the last man being pushed 
off the truck. His hair was dark and longish. His body was lean and 
almost gangly from recent rapid weight loss. His face was swollen from 
a recent beating, and he walked slightly crouched over, clutching his 
side. They pushed him to the ground before I could see his face, but 
somehow I knew it was him. 

"Get up!" one of the guards ordered. 

"Get up," I said under my breath. My fingers hurt as I clutched the 
gate, no longer caring if I was caught not working. I wanted to see his 
face, I had to know. I wanted him to be spared the same beating I had 
to endure when I first arrived. "Get up," I begged again. 

As if the man heard my voice, he turned over and forced his way to his 
knees, then to his feet. I was right. As sure as my name is Walter 
Skinner, I knew it was him. 

Mulder. 

I wanted to climb the gate and rush to Mulder's side to help him, fight 
back for him, but I'm not stupid. I wanted to shout out words of 
encouragement to him, but that would just as easily get the both of us 
killed. So I said nothing, nor did I make any move to help Mulder now. 
Like all the new prisoners, he will be processed. If he survives 
processing, he will be fed into the regular population. At that point, 
I will make contact. For now, I will have to wait. 

I watched as they grabbed Mulder by both arms and dragged him away. 
Could he survive processing? The odds were not in his favor, if his 
current condition was any indication. But the very fact that Mulder had 
survived this long gave me hope. Something I learned from Scully way 
back when the world first went to crap. She taught me to pray. It still 
surprises me to think about it, that I'd actually do something like 
that. I haven't done it for a while now, but I'm pretty sure that was 
the only reason I was still alive. Maybe it was time to do it again. 

"You have to make it," I said, then picked up the broom and resumed 
sweeping. 

You have to make it, Mulder. 



* * * 

Night
Skinner's Shelter 

I lost track of the days a long time ago. If I had to estimate by the 
change of season, I'd guess I'd been interred at the "Hotel Wisconsin" 
for almost four months. There was nothing remotely hotel-like about 
this place. It's everything I remembered POW camps in 'Nam to be and 
worse. At least then the enemy was Man, and you could always imagine 
ways to thwart them. But this was a different enemy. 

I reach up to feel the barcode branded on the side of my head, just by 
my left ear. After all this time, the brand was still tender to the 
touch, and sometimes it still bled. Mulder would be receiving his about 
now. 

It will be getting cold soon. I never spent much time in Wisconsin, but 
I knew that Wisconsin winters had a reputation for being brutal. I'd 
heard stories of wind chill temperatures dipping down to forty or fifty 
degrees below zero. I can't imagine that much cold. This shelter, this 
hovel I have come to call home will be like an icebox. Since seeing 
Mulder I've already started planning how to enliven this place, clean 
it up and weather proof it, make space for Mulder. I almost laugh at 
the implication - the big tough FBI Assistant Director, nesting. Call 
it what you will, ridicule me all you want. Having a friend in this 
hellhole changes your priorities and the way you look at things. 
Instead of merely getting by, you suddenly want to survive. 

First order of business is warmth. I could cut a hole in the ceiling 
and construct a stove out of whatever pieces of discarded metal I can 
find. I can dig through the trash and find whatever old clothes or 
blankets had been tossed away, or check out the pit where they burn 
garbage, and sometimes the dead. They would not need their sweaters and 
socks anymore. I could save half my bread ration and stuff it under the 
mattress, fight off the rats if I have to, to make sure there was a 
surplus for this first few days. I could use my water ration to . . . 

I had to stop myself. Plans are dangerous here. Plans turn on a dime. 
Like life. Don't depend on anything. I remembered the two men I shared 
this shelter with when I first arrived. Every night we sat up and 
planned our escape, depending on each other to make it work. One of 
them died when a truck over-turned. The other had contracted pneumonia, 
and was dragged outside in the middle of the night and shot. I lay 
wrapped in a threadbare blanket a mere few feet from him when they 
barged in unannounced that night. What kept them from turning the gun 
on me and blowing me away? There are no answers. To depend on the 
future is foolish. I've seen that play out time and time again here. 

I turn to my cold meal. Some sort of stew. The meat in it is 
questionable, as are the roots that pass for vegetables. There was a 
time when the taste of this would have made me sick. Now I eat it 
without tasting, without caring. It was simply a means to continue 
living. Despite the things I tell myself, I break my bread in half, 
wrapping the larger end in an old work shirt and shoving it under my 
bedroll. Though my stomach continues to rumble as I use the smaller 
piece to scrape out the last of the stew, I am resigned to save it. 

Have I abandoned all hope? It seems I have not. Ask me later, when I 
find out whether Mulder lives or dies. 

* * * 

Morning 

Today I am on laundry detail. It's amazing how much blood we have to 
wash out of the guards' uniforms and how rapidly pink, then red, the 
water turns. We wash their uniforms by hand and hang them on ropes, 
tree branches, whatever is available. It's been two days since Mulder's 
arrival. I still haven't seen him. I'm not even sure now that it was 
actually him I saw. I've observed as new faces appear at the morning 
line up - new prisoners entering the general population. No Mulder. Was 
he dead already? My pace slows as I imagine Mulder's fate. A guard zaps 
me on the back with an electrical prod. I wince, but push myself to 
concentrate not on killing him, but on my work. 

My work. How the mighty has fallen. Once an Assistant Director of the 
FBI, now a laundry boy, tent sweeper, dishwasher, garbage picker, ditch 
digger, latrine cleaner for the alien conquerors. Why had they allowed 
me to live? I thought at first my being spared was so that they could 
parade me around as an example of the Colonizer's power. But no one had 
bothered me beyond the usual beatings, occasional solitary confinement 
and overworking, just like all the other prisoners. I had counted 
myself lucky, but once in a while, I get suspicious. What did it all 
mean? Who's pulling the strings? Who's in control? 

* * * 

The Next Morning 

Today I've been given a new duty, a first - window washing. I didn't 
realize the gift I had been given until the guards ordered me to start 
at the infirmary. It was hard to contain my excitement. Maybe if I am 
truly lucky, I'd get a glimpse inside and be able to see if Mulder was 
still in there, and still alive. The metal bucket in my shaking hand 
made a racket as I walk away. 

Hope turned to dread as I got closer. I imagined Mulder's body laying 
cut open on an autopsy table, the Colonizers using him as fodder for 
some twisted experiment in the name of alien science. Or what if Mulder 
had already died as a result of his beating? It didn't matter. I had to 
know. 

I began washing the filthy windows and peering in. I saw nothing at 
first, just broken bodies in beds lying still, waiting to recover or 
die. Not only were the sick sent here to mend, but this is where the 
worst of the torturing of prisoners took place in the dead of night - 
the midnight buffet. Could that have been Mulder I heard screaming the 
night before? I'd become good at shutting out the sounds of human 
suffering that broke the silence in the dead of night. 

And then I saw what I had been hoping for, praying for. There was 
Mulder, big as day, sitting on an examining table. Though he looked 
every bit the man who had lost everything, I felt a renewed sense of 
hope. Mulder was alive! I wanted to bang on the window and get his 
attention, but I didn't want to risk getting caught. 

"Come on, Mulder, look up. Look up," I whispered. He did, but he never 
turned his head toward the window. 

It didn't matter. Fox Mulder was still alive.



* * * 

Next Morning
Daybreak 

It was early morning lineup. All prisoners were to be accounted for. 
Any sick prisoners who could quickly recover were taken away and given 
the most rudimentary care. Those who required a week or more to recover 
would simply be shot and dropped into common graves. Once that was 
determined, they would assign us tasks for the day. 

I stood in my normal place, third row from the back, number fourteen in 
line. When my number was called - PK4-1121 - I answered as I did 
everyday. 

And then a number was called to which no one answered. 

"TK3-1013!" the guard shouted. "TK3-1013!" No one spoke. Everyone in 
the line began to look for the one to whom the number had been 
assigned. If he did not answer, and the guard became angry, there was 
no telling how many of us would be punished for this infraction. 

I craned my neck and saw him - second row from the back, number three 
in line. It was Mulder. He looked only half there, on the brink of 
losing consciousness. His head was freshly shaved, and the bar coding 
brand on his head was still bleeding down his shirt. What else had they 
done to him? I knew I couldn't step out of line to help him, to make 
him speak up. Finally another prisoner figured it out and gave Mulder a 
nudge. I silently thanked him. 

"Here," Mulder spoke. His baritone sounded harsh, pain-filled, forced. 
I knew he was in bad shape. 

I hung back as the other prisoners began to disperse after receiving 
their duty assignments. I waited for the guards to head off. Mulder 
stood unmoving, trying to figure out where to go, what to do next, no 
doubt. There was no place for him to go. He had a small bedroll tucked 
under an arm, along with a spare work shirt, a used toothbrush and a 
tin cup. That was all the Colonizers allowed. 

I could literally feel my heart slamming in my chest. Was I having a 
heart attack? Or was it anxiety? Hope? Could we, between the two of us, 
find a way out of this? 

"Mulder." 

Mulder looked up and over, squinting in the sun. "Here," he said, not 
recognizing me. My hope almost came crashing down like an engine-less 
plane. And then it hit him. Like air being let out of him, he nearly 
collapsed. "Sir!" 

I caught him before his knees completely gave way. "Steady, Mulder." 

"Skinner." 

"Yes." 

"Skinner?" 

"It's me." 

"Can't be you. They told me you were dead." 

"They lied." 

Mulder reached up and turned my head to the side. He touched the bar 
coding, wiping away a small drop of fresh blood I wasn't even aware was 
there. He looked at his finger and smiled. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

"Your blood is red. You're real." Mulder smiled. "I think I'm gonna 
pass out." 

He did.



* * * 

A Few Hours Later 

It's easy to find energy when you have something to look forward to. 
Right now, Mulder lay sleeping in my shelter. Our shelter. We talked, 
but only briefly; Mulder was in too much pain to speak or concentrate. 
His long stay in the infirmary was due to a poorly healing, infected 
bullet wound to his side. He'd been the unlucky recipient of the bullet 
upon his capture, and the Colonizers didn't bother to get him help 
right away. I remembered my wounded leg, and how they'd let me suffer 
without medical treatment, and how they poked at the wound while 
interrogating me, reviving me every time I passed out only to send me 
screaming into unconsciousness again. No doubt, if Mulder's condition 
was any indication, they had done the same to him. 

I could not wait for Mulder to awaken. I needed to know so much. I 
needed to know what happened, find out what he remembered of his 
capture. Was it my fault? Poor planning, bad leadership? It's easy to 
blame it on the mole within our tightly knit group of resisters. But I 
could not help wondering what more I could have done to ensure our 
safety. Perhaps Mulder could help me find some answers, ease my mind a 
bit, so that we could concentrate on what was truly important. 

Escape. When I first arrived at the Hotel Wisconsin, I was constantly 
concocting plans for escape. But time and lack of opportunity, as well 
as injury and the day-to-day struggle to survive had eroded my hope. 
But now the desire to escape was rekindled, along with my belief that 
it could be done. And I owed it all to Mulder. 

Never thought I'd hear myself say that. 

When I finished my duties, I figured it was time to visit the water 
barrel. Inmates were granted one cup of water, three times a day. We 
are made to drink the water immediately, on the spot, forbidden to 
carry any back with us. As I dipped my cup into the barrel, I 
considered that Mulder's condition, in addition to bruising, 
exhaustion, and the gunshot wound, also stemmed from dehydration. It 
would be another full day before Mulder could venture from the shelter 
and get his own water, if he was lucky. I also knew how severely the 
guards would punish me if I broke the rules. But I had to take a 
chance. I had to get water back to Mulder. 

I dumped the water into my mouth and held it there, despite my own 
thirst, despite the need to swallow. I fought to make myself look 
normal as I headed quickly in the direction of the shelter. 

"Eleven-twenty-one!" 

I froze. A guard demanded I come to him. Why now? All I had to do was 
swallow to save myself, but if I did, Mulder would suffer. All for a 
simple drink of water. The longer I held it there, the harder I had to 
fight the reflex to swallow. I could feel a cold sweat suddenly break 
out on my face. 

"No!" shouted a second guard. "I said Twenty-one-eleven, you nimrod." 

"Move along," said the first guard. I continued on to the shelter, 
willing the knot in my gut to relax.



* * * 

I sat and watched while Mulder slept. I could tell the nature of his 
dreams by his physical reactions. Sweating, murmuring, striking out. I 
still had nightmares myself, often dreaming of my capture. Brutal 
beatings, dark rooms, the screams of others. He cried out loud, loud 
enough to wake the dead, so I reached out and woke him with a shake. 

"Easy, Mulder. You're dreaming." 

"I'm okay," Mulder said, trying to sit up. Pain in his side made him 
cry out and sink back down on the lumpy bedroll. 

I offered him my hand, pulling him up and positioning him against the 
corrugated wall. I waited until his pain subsided, and he caught his 
breath enough to talk again. 

"It's good to see you," Mulder said. 

"You're a sight for sore eyes yourself. They tried to tell me a hundred 
times you were dead, but I refused to believe them. Not you." 

Mulder smiled. "Sometimes I wish I was." 

"Tell me what happened. Tell me everything." 

"A lot of it is sketchy. I was out of it most of the time." 

Mulder pulled up his shirt to take a look at his wound. I had redressed 
it for him, using the sleeves of my work shirt. Not the cleanest 
dressing ever, but the wound had bled through the bandages they'd put 
on him in the infirmary. 

"What do you remember?" I asked. 

"They caught us at the Canadian border. The Cigarette Man arranged the 
rendezvous. I should have known not to trust him, but we were 
desperate." 

"Believe it or not," I told him, "it wasn't him who ratted on you. He 
was executed in front of this entire camp for being resistance mole." 

"What? Who was it then?" 

I didn't want to tell Mulder. But he had to know the truth. "Fowley." 

"Diana?" 

I nodded. 

Mulder closed his eyes and let his head bang back against the wall. 
Time and again he had been warned that Diana Fowley wasn't his friend. 
But Mulder wouldn't listen. Never listened. 

"Do you know...if..." Mulder's voice trailed off. His eyes were 
suddenly red-rimmed and shining from burgeoning tears. "I saw them take 
her away...they separated us...never saw her after that. Do you know 
if..." 

"You want to know," I started, embarrassed that my own voice was 
faltering. I cleared my throat and tried again. "You want to know about 
Scully." 

Mulder's bottom lip began to tremble. He bit his lip hard, trying to 
hold onto his emotions. His breath hitched and he looked away, not 
wanting to be seen so vulnerable, so wounded. I knew the feeling. 

"They showed me pictures, when they interrogated me." 

"Was she dead?" Mulder ran a hand over his shaved head, fighting to 
maintain his composure. 

"No," I said. "She was alive. Mulder. . .she's become one of them." 

"Scully would never do that." 

"Their evidence suggests she did." 

"I don't believe it." 

"She may not have had a choice. Remember the implant." 

"She'd cut it out first! She'd killer herself first!" he yelled 
harshly. 

"Take it easy! I'm not suggesting that Scully would deliberately betray 
our cause, or us. Just that circumstances may have pushed her in a 
direction none of us had anticipated. Think about it for a moment, 
Mulder. Why are we still alive? Maybe she's responsible for that." 

"Then why hasn't she contacted us or tried to get us out of here?" 

"Maybe she tried, and we missed the opportunity. Maybe she can't 
because she's used the extent of her power. Maybe she did what she 
could to keep us alive, and the rest is up to us." 

"Can we escape?" 

"We're gonna find out. I'm through sticking around, and I'm sick of the 
midnight buffet." 

"What's the midnight buffet?" he asked. 

"If you're lucky, you won't have to know." 

"Do you have a plan?" 

"Only a dozen I've been working on since day one. To tell you the 
truth, I'd all but given up till you showed up. It's not going to be 
easy. But I'd rather take a bullet in the back trying to get out of 
this place than languish here another month." 

"When do we go?" Mulder seemed almost ready to leave now. 

"As soon as you're healed," I said. I gave him the cup of water I had 
saved. "You won't last a day running in this condition. We'll just have 
to be patient." 

Mulder took a sip of the water and drank too quickly. He coughed, then 
easily finished off the rest. "Thank you," he said, a little out of 
breath. 

And then we both heard it. A distant wail of pain. I saw Mulder 
suddenly turn pale. His eyes became almost darker, hooded, as he heard 
the cry of agony echoing throughout the camp. 

"That's the midnight buffet," I told him. "There's never any warning. 
Some nights the guards get bored, so they randomly choose a prisoner to 
'interrogate'. Sometimes the doctors just feel like they need something 
to do." 

Another scream. Mulder closed his eyes. "With my luck," he said, "I'll 
probably end up on the guest list soon." 

Suddenly the screaming stopped. We waited for it to resume. When it did 
not, neither of us had to voice our suspicion that the tortured man was 
undoubtedly dead. At least it was quick. 

"I don't know if I can handle this," Mulder said. "I don't know how 
much more..." 

"You can handle it!" I ordered him. "We just have to stick together, 
look out for one another. We've gotten through far worse." 

"Yeah," said Mulder. "But I'm pretty tired." 

I could not deny that I'd felt the same weariness for far too long. 

Mulder grabbed his stomach and doubled over, gritting his teeth, 
holding back the need to cry out. I have to admit, I almost lost it 
there. He turned so pale, I was afraid he was dying. I reached out and 
grabbed him, as if I could snatch him back from the hands of death. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"Don't know. Comes and goes. It'll pass. . ." 

It did, but not without more severe cramping. I could not help him, so 
I did what I could do, something I had never done before. I just held 
him as he shuddered through the pain. After what seemed an eternity, 
the pain began to subside, and Mulder pulled himself away from me. I 
was relieved. Such closeness to anyone, man or woman or child, was 
never comfortable for me. 

"I'm all right," Mulder assured me. "I'm okay." 

Needing a new focus, I reached under the bedroll and pulled out the 
wrapped up hunk of bread. I broke it and handed Mulder a piece. "You 
need to eat." 

Mulder shrugged and half-heartedly but not ungratefully took the bread 
from me and tried to nibble on a piece. "I don't want to die here," he 
said just above a whisper. 

"We won't. I'm going to give you the run down on how things work here. 
Listen good because you can't afford to forget anything. The Colonizers 
don't extend second chances."



* * *



The Watcher
Night 

I stood watching Skinner's shelter, waiting to catch another glimpse of 
Mulder. I can't believe it! Mulder is still alive! How does that 
figure? 

I'd successfully managed to keep clear of Skinner all this time, but 
I'm not so sure I'll have the same blind luck with Mulder. One look at 
me and he'll go ballistic, and probably beat me to a pulp, or die 
trying. I've decided that the time has come to make amends, to redeem 
myself. I'm sick of living like this, skulking in dark corners trying 
to avoid the people I've screwed so royally. It's time to change hats 
and ride with the good guys. Especially if the good guys can help me 
get out of here. 

Rather than risk a chance meeting, knowing Mulder's sometime volatile 
nature, I will make my presence in the camp known little by little. 
I'll slowly gain their trust - that's it - then their reliance, and 
finally some semblance of a friendship. I'll do what I can to make life 
a little less dreary. I've got the means. I might as well make use of 
my privileges. I won't fool myself; I know it will be an uneasy 
alliance. But I will show myself eventually, and prove to them that I 
can be trusted. I have to, or we'll be here until we die. Which may be 
only a matter of days now! 

Even with all the privileges they afford me for my past service to 
them, I am still a human, and that makes me the enemy. Even though I 
can come and go within the confines of the camp as I please, I am still 
a prisoner. When the Project enters its last days, and the time comes 
to eliminate all of the prisoners, my number will be up just like all 
the others. 

I'll start by changing the duty roster, and shortening the workday for 
them. They won't understand at first. They'll probably consider it some 
sort of oversight, or just good fortune. But eventually they will come 
to know to whom they owe their gratitude. 

Alex Krycek. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End Chapter One 

Lacadiva @ aol.com Merci.






AT LIBERTY (2/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship 
/Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/ScullyAngst. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one.
Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being 
renewed
day by day."
2 Corinthians 4:16
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (2/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

SKINNER
Morning
A Few Days Later 

The fact that they called it breakfast had nothing to do with what they 
serve. Each and every meal consisted of the same stew and stale bread. 

I stood in line behind Mulder, ready at any moment to catch him if he 
fell. Mulder barely slept, and when he did, his subconscious attacked 
him with vicious nightmares that would have driven an ordinary man 
insane. He had shaken me from my sleep more times than I could count, 
screaming for his sister Samantha or for Scully. I shudder at the 
thought of Mulder twice losing the most important women in his life, 
seeing them snatched away from him so violently, never knowing their 
fate, always blaming himself for not being able to save them. And there 
was nothing anyone could say to assuage his guilt. 

"How're you doing?" I asked. 

"Thirteen." 

"What?" 

"That's the thirteenth time you've asked me this morning." 

"Make it fourteen." 

Mulder tried to smile. "My fever's back. I'm burning up one minute, 
freezing the next. I don't know how much longer I can stand here." 

"You can do it. You have to. You hit the ground, they'll shoot you 
where you fall." 

"That's what I call incentive." Mulder took a shaky step forward in the 
food line. 

We both stared at the gray-brown glop that was ladled into his bowl. 
The thought of eating it was actually worse than actually consuming it. 
"You'll get used to it," I told him, hoping that would never be true. 

Mulder was surprised that despite the horrid taste, his appetite kicked 
in after the first bite and he ate hungrily until the bowl was scraped 
clean. A loud belch later let us know his insides were finally settling 
down after so much abuse. 

After breakfast, we gathered with the other prisoners, waiting for the 
guards to come out with the duty rosters for the day. I have to tell 
you I was terrified that we would be separated, and I wondered what 
wretched duty Mulder would be given. If it was too strenuous, if he 
were to collapse before the completion of his detail. . . 

"Lissen up!" one of the guards yelled. "On latrine duty. . ." 

I waited for my number to be called. I'd been given that duty more 
times that I cared to remember. I prayed it would not be given to 
Mulder. I could do it if I had to, but not Mulder, not in his current 
condition. 

I watched and waited as the number of prisoners dwindled around us, 
moving on to begin their tasks. A sick fear crept over me. Were we 
being singled out for some other horrible duty? 

"TK3-1013, PK4-1121, report to Building D4." 

A Guard was waiting for us at D4. His stony expression showed no 
feeling and gave away no hint of what waited for us beyond the door. He 
simply opened it and stepped back. 

The room was filled with dirty black boots, at least fifty pairs. 
"Clean them," the Guard announced, and left. I couldn't help myself - I 
broke down and began to laugh. 

"What's the joke?" Mulder asked. 

"I've been breaking my back in this place since day one. Now they want 
me to shine boots? I feel like I've been given a Club Med vacation." 

I grabbed a boot and tossed it to Mulder. "Cop a squat and let's get to 
work." 

"'Cop a squat?'" Mulder echoed incredulously. "What have they done to 
you?"



* * * 

When we returned to the shelter, there was a little something waiting 
for us. 

"Don't touch them!" I warned, holding Mulder back. You would have 
thought a poisonous snake had entered our sanctuary. 

Mulder pushed away from me and knelt down to touch the pile of clean, 
new blankets. "What makes you think we weren't meant to have them?" 

"Mulder, this isn't the Ritz Carlton. They don't bring you new 
blankets. You make do." 

"Then I say we make do with these." 

"No!" I yanked them away from Mulder. "Don't you see? This could be a 
trap. A set-up! If this was a mistake, or if these were stolen and 
we're caught with them, we're dead!" I threw the blankets into a 
corner. Were we being set up? And who wanted to see us caught? 

Later that night the wind outside began to pick up. The temperature 
dropped about thirty degrees and bit through our threadbare blankets. 

"Let them do what they want to me," Mulder said. He rose shivering from 
his bedroll and grabbed the blankets. He tossed two to me and kept two 
for himself. 

I have to confess, I slept completely warm for the first time in what 
seemed to be an age.



* * *



Another Morning 

We were put on landscaping duty. Our job was to pull stones and vines, 
burn leaves, basically clearing the land for the construction of a new 
alien landing strip. I would hardly call it harsh labor, though. We 
were a mile away from the stench of the camp, and it was an incredibly 
beautiful Indian Summer day. How we lucked into this duty, I could not 
say. But I was sure I was beginning to see a dangerous pattern 
developing. I simply could not find any justification for it. 

Mulder and I were allowed to work as a team - another reason to be 
suspicious. He dug the dirt from around stones while I wrenched them 
from their spot and threw them on the back of a dump truck for 
disposal.


"Why," Mulder asked, "do you think everything that happens is a set up, 
a manipulation?" 

"That's a fine question coming from you, Mulder." 

"I'm not saying I think you're wrong. I'm in total agreement. I just 
want to know what it's based on and curious to know who you think is 
behind all of this." 

I took a breath to answer, and began to cough. It was loud, harsh and 
unproductive. It hurt my chest, made my eyes water. I turned away so 
that Mulder, as well as the guards overseeing our work crew, could not 
know the extent of my discomfort. 

I've been feeling this coming on for a while. 

I pulled myself together quickly and answered Mulder before he could 
bring up what just happened.


"I can't explain it, and I have no clue who's behind it. All I know is 
we have to be careful, keep our eyes open, and -" 

It hit me again, the cough. It sounded worse. Mulder stood up, reaching 
to steady me. I shook him off quickly. "Don't," I warned him. We 
couldn't make the guards suspicious. They could not know what I 
suspected, what I feared. He backed down with a questioning look on his 
face. I just went back to work, and was relieved when Mulder followed 
suit. 

"So if this is a set-up," Mulder asked as he dug through the moist 
black dirt, "what's the objective? Kill us with kindness?" 

"The objective, as I see it, is to build us up, just to break us down 
more thoroughly. The easy duty, the extra blankets. Last week they put 
us both on food distribution for three days in a row. We grow dependent 
on the extra food, we expect it, then they take it away." 

"Yeah, but what do they expect to achieve? All this, but to what end?" 

"That I haven't figured out yet. If they wanted more information, 
they'd still be grilling us. So it must be something else." 

A guard walked by and smacked Mulder in the side with his stick. "No 
talking." 

Mulder's body tensed up as if he where about to explode. 

"Let it go," I warned him. 

A loud whistle sounded, calling all prisoners to break. 

We wandered as far away as the guards would allow and sat on fading 
grass. I closed my eyes and suddenly imagined Hanes Point. On one side 
all greenery, on the other, the Potomac River, with bright cherry 
blossoms stretched around the edge of it. I imagined I could smell 
burgers cooking over a charcoal grill, hear the sound of kids 
squealing, feel the warm moist air blowing off the river. 

"Sir?" 

My reverie was broken. I looked at Mulder, squinting behind glasses 
with a recently cracked lens. "What?" 

"You don't look so good." 

"Thanks for the encouragement." 

"No, I mean, you look tired. Why don't you dig and I carry for a while. 
I'm feeling stronger. My fever's down, my side feels better and -" 

"I'm fine, Mulder. You just try to keep up, okay?" I coughed. It 
rattled deeply in my chest. 

"Skinner. . ." 

"I said I'm FINE." I rose and headed back to the clearing fields. I 
didn't want Mulder to know that I was on the verge of a serious case of 
pneumonia. 

Because if the guards found out, I was a dead man.



* * *



MULDER
Evening



Skinner went to sleep that night without eating. He usually ate with me 
and the two of us would talk, sometimes when we should have been 
sleeping. We'd talk about the past and our hopes for the future. We'd 
talk about our ever-changing plans to escape, and when the right time 
would be. But not tonight. The work had not been that arduous, but 
Skinner just did not have the strength or the desire to do anything but 
sleep. 

There was a noise outside the flap. No way I wasn't going to 
investigate. I opened it, knowing it could be a trap, almost grateful 
for the distraction. I reflexively reached toward my back for a gun 
that was no longer there. Hadn't been there for a while. Hands will 
have to be enough. 

There was a burlap sack sitting by the opening. A note was atop it, 
with a rock on top of the note to keep it from flying away. I looked 
around, but the cold air chased me back inside pretty quickly. I 
dragged the bag inside. Trap or no trap, I was going to look in the 
bag. 

I almost woke Skinner. It would have been worth it to shake him from 
much needed sleep just to see the look on his face when I showed him 
what was in the bag. But I decided to wait, save it until morning. I'm 
positive no one else in the camp would be receiving a sack like this. 
What I could not figure out is why we received it. I agree with 
Skinner. It's a trap. Someone is going to great lengths to manipulate 
us into doing something. Although what, I cannot predict, nor do I care 
to. All I know is tomorrow is not promised to us, but right now, what's 
inside the sack is. The powers and authorities that held us captive can 
take away our tomorrow whenever they see fit. But they're not getting 
this sack back without a fight. 

I prefer to think that it comes from an angel whose name is Scully. 
With that thought, I sleep.



* * * 

SKINNER
Morning 

I was dreaming again. Had to be. It was a cruel dream, too. In it there 
was coffee. I could smell it. I could almost taste it. I was never much 
of a coffee person, but something about the smell of it always warmed 
me. And now it only drove me crazy, reminded me of the past and of my 
present in this wretched prison. I turned over, covering my eyes with 
an arm, willing the dream to go away. 

The smell was more intense. It should have dissipated, now that I was 
awake. 

Mulder sat next to my bedroll with a tin cup in hand. Steam was rising 
from it in a most familiar way. 

"Mulder, what the -" 

"Cup a'joe?" 

"Where'd you get that?" 

"The java fairy. He also brought us breakfast. How do you like your 
eggs?" 

There, in the middle of the shelter was a small sterno can blazing. 
Next to it was a dull coffee pot, and a dented aluminum frying pan. 
Near the pan were five medium sized chicken eggs, like white oval 
pearls, three bruised but beautiful apples, an orange and dented can of 
corned beef hash. 

"What do you think you're doing, Mulder? Where did all this come from? 
Who gave all this to you?" 

"Someone knocked. I looked. Found the care package." 

Mulder handed me the note that came with the sack. "What's this? 'From 
a friend?' You should have left it alone." 

"Why?" 

"Someone's after us, and they're using this stuff to bait us, to soften 
us up." 

"You could be right," Mulder said, taking a sip of the coffee. "They 
might be. But it could also be Scully. Did you think of that? Maybe she 
found a way to get this stuff to us." 

"I don't believe that." 

"I doesn't matter, Skinner. The fact is we have it. We can pretend it 
all doesn't exist, or we can enjoy it." 

"What if it's poison?" 

"Then we die." 

I looked at the cup in Mulder's hand. He was right. It was here. As 
Mulder lifted it to his lips for another sip, I grabbed it. I sniffed 
it, then drank it. "Who taught you how to make coffee?"



* * * 

MULDER
Later That Day 

Despite the better meal and the lighter duty, Skinner was looking 
worse. His energy was slipping. His cough was worsening. They put us 
back on landscaping duty again, but the weather would not be as 
cooperative as before. 

By late morning a thin drizzle had begun to fall. The temperature 
dropped several degrees, and autumn seemed to go directly to winter. By 
afternoon the rain picked up. No word came down from the overseers to 
shut off work and return to camp. They kept us working, driving us 
harder than ever. 

Every one of us was soaked and miserable. I was sure my temperature had 
risen again. But I was more concerned about Skinner. 

He shivered in the rain, soaked to the bone, coughing with every breath 
until it had developed into an audible wheeze. He became weaker, to the 
point that he fell to his knees in the mud as he fought to pick up the 
larger rocks. I offered to exchange places with him again, and this 
time he gratefully accepted. That's when I knew something was seriously 
wrong. 

By the end of the workday Skinner finally confessed to me that his 
chest felt as if an elephant had a foot on it. He could hardly breathe, 
and it became a struggle to even walk back to the camp. 

Once inside the shelter, I went into overdrive. I stripped the wet 
clothes off of him and wrapped him in all of the blankets. I collected 
rainwater and put it on the sterno to steam, hoping to open up 
Skinner's lungs a bit and allow him to breathe better. I tried to help 
the man eat, and tried to make him drink some of the warmed rainwater, 
but he refused. He had no appetite, no energy, and no desire for food 
or water. 

I felt a sense of panic sweep over me. I didn't care when I was sick 
myself. Death meant release. Freedom from pain. Freedom from captivity. 
But when it's someone else, someone you've grown to depend on, death 
takes on another meaning. Death becomes abandonment, death becomes life 
shattering. Death means hopelessness. 

His fever rose. There was no way to gauge how high but I knew that if 
Skinner was going to survive I had to get his temperature back down 
fast. I tore off one of my sleeves at the elbow and doused it in a cold 
puddle outside the flap, and used it to cool Skinner's face. I sat up 
with him for as long as I could, until my own weariness overtook me and 
I began to nod off. 

I was dreaming about Scully when I realized someone was outside the 
shelter flap. The java fairy again? I sat up, listening. And then I 
heard something like a rock hit the side of the shelter. Someone 
obviously really wanted our attention. 

It was darker than usual, as evening overcast skies gave off virtually 
no light. The rain had stopped, but the ground was sopping wet and 
muddy, and the air was close to freezing. There were no burlap sacks of 
goodies on the ground, but there was note tied with coarse rope to a 
rock. I picked it up and read it. 

IT'S TIME WE MET. 

Apparently our anonymous benefactor had decided to ditch anonymity. And 
not a moment too soon. I was quite anxious to meet him, or her, and 
find out just what they were expecting in return for all the favors. 
And then I saw a shadow, the silhouette of a man moving in the 
darkness. He was not far away, near a row of barracks. I didn't think, 
but just took off. The man turned and ran. I followed. How could we be 
moving about the camp so freely? Where were the sentinels? Who was this 
shadowy figure I was compelled to follow? Was I being set up? 

He was waiting for me at the back of the processing center. The windows 
were dark. There were no new prisoners to treat, beat and brand for the 
night. I saw a dim lantern and followed the light as it rose to reveal 
a face. One I thought I'd never see again. A face I'd wanted time and 
time again to have the distinct pleasure of putting my fist through. 

"Krycek!" 

"Ssshhh! You want us both to get caught?" 

I didn't care. I jumped on the man and grabbed him by the lapels. 
Krycek didn't fight back as I slammed him against the wall of the 
building. This was very unsatisfying. I wanted to feel the rat squirm. 

"Mulder! Listen to me! I'm trying to help you!" 

"Where've I heard THAT before!" I said as I bashed Krycek in the face 
with my fist. I felt the skin on my knuckle break, and knew there was 
blood, but I was far from done. Krycek hit the ground hard and stayed. 
"I should kill you!" 

"You can't, Mulder! I'm your way out!" 

"You think I'd believe you after everything you've done?" 

"Mulder, LISTEN! I gave you all that food. I doctored the duty rosters! 
If I'd been caught, they would have killed me." 

"Somehow I think you'd survive. Rats can survive anything." 

"Please, Mulder, listen to me. I did it as a show of faith. I know a 
way out of here, but I can't do it alone. I need help." 

I grabbed Krycek and hauled him to his feet. "I'd rather stay here and 
rot than help you." 

"Then STAY!" Krycek pushed me away. I noticed for the first time that 
Krycek used both of his arms. 

"I don't care what you think of me," he cried, "but you want to live 
just as bad as I do, and you know it! You want out, I want out! I can 
help you, but you have to help me!" 

"You're with them, why are you here?" 

"I'm human. It doesn't matter who I am or what I've done. I'm human and 
I'm disposable, just like you. I got privileges, but privileges don't 
mean jack when you're staring death in the face. Where's Skinner?" 

"I'm asking the questions, here! Where'd the arm come from?" 

"Courtesy of our captors." He pulled the sleeve up and showed off the 
arm, wriggling his very natural looking fingers. "Not bad, huh? One 
hundred percent synthetic, but real enough to the naked eye. Even gave 
me fingerprints. Still can't pitch a decent fast ball with it, but -" 

"Cut the crap, Krycek. What do you want?" 

"To help you. To get you and me and Skinner out of here. Mulder, I know 
what you think of me. I killed your father." 

I almost leaped on the man again. Krycek took a step back. 

"I'm a DRONE, Mulder. A drone. I take ORDERS. That's all I do. That's 
all I've ever done. I do as I'm told. I don't know any other way to 
live. Now the orders have stopped, I have no purpose. I'm imprisoned by 
the ones who used me to imprison you. You might call that justice. But 
there is no justice for the unjust. Not for them. THEY wanted your 
father dead, Mulder, not me. I admit I pulled the trigger. I don't deny 
responsibility for what I did. But for me, it wasn't personal. If I 
hadn't killed him, they would have killed me." 

"Am I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?" 

"No. Mulder, I can't bring your father back, but I can offer you my 
life. My life for his." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Let me keep helping you. Let me do what I can. Sacrifice myself for 
something other than their hollow cause. You don't have to thank me or 
anything, just let me help. I can get you food, better shelter, 
clothes. It's not much, but it's what I can do." 

"You said you can get us out." 

"It'll take some time, but I have a plan." 

"Why do you want to help us? Why do you even care?" 

"I just want to live, and do something right. You're the closest thing 
to a friend I ever had. Pathetic, isn't it?" 

"I don't want the miserable distinction of being your friend, Krycek. 
You're a lying dog, and trusting you would be signing my own death 
warrant." 

"Let me prove myself to you, Mulder. What have you got to lose?" 

"You want to do something for me, you want to be my friend? Do this. I 
need medicine. Penicillin, antibiotics, something to combat pneumonia." 

"Pneumonia? You?" 

I didn't answer. 

"Skinner. Look, they can't know he's sick, okay? The moment they do, 
he's a dead man." 

"I know that. So if they find out, I know who told them." 

"I swear I won't say a word! I can help you! I can get you whatever you 
need." 

"You'd better. Or I will hunt you down and kill you. Like you said, 
what have I got to lose?" 

"I'll help you, Mulder. You'll see. I can make it happen. You better 
go. The sentinels will be coming back on duty soon." 

I watched as Krycek retreated into the darkness, being swallowed up 
like a demon in the night. I didn't trust him at all, but I didn't have 
much of a choice. My survival, and Skinner's, now rested on a man who 
would easily have put a gun to our heads a pulled the trigger, and felt 
no remorse. Life is funny that way.



* * *



Skinner was shivering and coughing violently when I returned. 

"Where were you?" he asked in a weakened, raspy voice. 

"I needed some air," I said. "How are you feeling?" 

Skinner could not answer. He doubled over and coughed harder. Blood 
splattered on his clenched fist where he held it to his mouth. I 
instantly grabbed the wet shirtsleeve and wiped his mouth with it. 

We remained silent until Skinner could breathe again. I ran a hand over 
my own head, feeling the thickening stubble of new growth. My stomach 
clenched at the thought of Skinner succumbing to this, especially after 
all the beatings and mistreatment he had survived. Especially after the 
hell we had both gone through, to be brought together again as allies, 
only to sit and watch him die. It just wasn't fair. 

And I panicked at the thought of being alone. 

"I'm okay," Skinner said between gasps for breath, as if reading my 
thoughts. "I'll be okay." 

"Did you know Alex Krycek was a prisoner here?" I asked. 

"Krycek? No. Since when?" 

"I don't know. But apparently he's the guardian angel we have to thank 
for all the grub." 

"Don't trust him. It's a set up." 

"It may be. But he says he can get you medicine." 

"YOU TOLD HIM?" The coughing threatened to claim him again, but Skinner 
fought to control it. "How many times have you given Krycek the benefit 
of the doubt, Mulder? How many times has he betrayed you? If he tells 
them about me, I'm a dead man!" 

"He's a dead man if he doesn't deliver." 

Skinner began coughing hard again. I held onto him, more for moral 
support than anything. When the coughing subsided, I eased Skinner back 
down onto his bedroll. 

"Get some rest," I ordered him. It always felt strange telling him to 
do anything, and stranger when he actually did it. "We'll be okay." 

Skinner, his face twisted in pain, nodded and closed his eyes.



* * * 

MULDER
The Next Morning 

I stood at morning line up, looking for Krycek. The sun rose without a 
word or a deed from him. No medicine delivered for Skinner. So much for 
wanting to redeem himself. 

Skinner stood shivering, fighting to remain standing. His face was pale 
and sweaty. He held himself steady against coughing, struggling not to 
give away his weakening condition. 

And then the work assignments were given. People began fanning out, 
heading to their duties for the day. Skinner and I were still standing 
there, waiting for ours. 

"Eleven twenty-one, ten-thirteen, you're at the infirmary. Inventory 
and clean up. Get moving," the guard ordered. 

You always think about the task and calculate the difficulty factors - 
are we strong enough, well enough, to do what we're being told to do? 
As I walked up to Skinner, surreptitiously taking his arm to help him 
walk, it all became clear. 

Infirmary. Inventory. Medicine. I could not keep myself from moving 
faster, practically dragging Skinner along. Krycek had kept his word. 

When we reached the infirmary, we found only one doctor on duty. The 
few beds were empty and sheets were stained with blood and filth. 

"I want this place clean," the doctor said loudly, more for whoever may 
have been lingering outside the door than for us. As he spoke he handed 
me a small silver key. "I want it so clean I can eat off the floor." 
And then he whispered, "You tell Krycek this cancells the debt!" 

And then he left us alone. I instantly ran to the medicine cabinet, 
opened it with anxious, trembling hands and rifled through various 
bottles and vials until I found what Skinner needed. Ibuprofen, 
antibiotics. I found a dirty glass sitting by a wash basin and filled 
it with tap water. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I went to 
Skinner, who was sitting on the edge of a bed shivering. 

"Take these!" I rather unceremoniously shoved two of the antibiotics 
between the man's lips. Skinner nearly gagged, but swallowed the pills, 
drinking all of the water down and gasping when he was done. I quickly 
refilled the glass and gave it to him. He desperately needed to 
rehydrate. I gave him three aspirin and he chased the flaky pills with 
more of the cloudy tap water, coughing a bit as the medication worked 
its way down. 

I led him to a bed away from the door and windows and pulled back the 
covers. "Lie down," I told him. 

"You can't clean this place up by yourself." 

"You kidding? I'm a cleanin' demon. You rest." 

Defeated more by exhaustion than by my witty repartee, Skinner lay 
down. I pulled the covers up to his chin. "Tell you a story?" 

"Cut it out." 

I checked out the window to see if anyone was on to us. Not a soul was 
moving within a hundred feet of the place. I finally felt a weird sense 
of relief. I found a mop and a few smelly rags and set to work getting 
the place in order. I made sure to drop several of the antibiotics and 
painkillers in my pocket as I worked. I found myself wanting to 
actually find Krycek and thank him. I checked my own head for fever, 
then continued working.



* * *



MULDER
The Shelter
Evening 

Skinner actually ate a bit of stew and put down both our portions of 
water that night. He also kept up with taking the medication. He turned 
in early, but did not sleep. His fever had lowered so his need for 
conversation was slowly returning. 

"We have to talk about getting out of here." 

"Krycek said he has a plan," I told him. 

"You trust him enough to follow it?" 

At that moment there was a scream. The midnight buffet began early 
tonight. 

"Right now, yeah," I said. 

I blew out the candle, and we tried to sleep in spite of the painful 
wailing of the poor soul being tortured. 



* * * 

SKINNER
Three Days Later 

How I made it through is nothing short of a miracle. You could chalk it 
up to the antibiotics, but lately I've been getting the feeling that 
there's something else at play here. While I was far from being 
completely cured, I was beginning to feel human again. 

It was hard trying to work. Twice I fell to the ground and lay there, 
unable to move, too weak to even beg for my life. I kept waiting for 
the shout from the guard, the kick to the ribs, and then the gun to the 
forehead, point blank between the eyes. Instant death, instant release 
from this so-called life. But it never happened that way. Mulder was 
always a step away, covering for me. Or the guards would be busy 
elsewhere. How had I suddenly become so lucky? 

For the first time since our interment together, they split us up. I 
was consistently given cleaning duty at the infirmary. Apparently 
Krycek believed I needed to keep up with the antibiotics, and it was 
far too dangerous to continue walking around with them tucked into 
pockets as Mulder had done earlier. 

As I was mopping the floor, the Doctor on duty was showing around a 
small group of well-dressed, well-heeled individuals who seemed less 
than enthusiastic about the tour. I looked up and swore my heart had 
stopped. I immediately turned my back to them and looked down, hoping 
they wouldn't see or recognize me. 

I thought I was hallucinating when I first saw him. I was sure I had 
seen him shot dead my first month here. The smell of cigarette smoke 
was heavy on the man in the rumpled black trench coat. Morleys, to be 
precise. I knew that cloying smell of death from back in the days when 
he would hang out in my office, watching me, watching the men and women 
in my charge, spying on us all. Ordering me around like a puppet. But 
how could this be, how could he be here? They shot him in the head. 

I stole a quick glance over my shoulder. It was not the face of the 
Smoking Man I had come to loathe. This face was smooth and young, not 
the drawn, weathered cheeks of a man who'd become the very demons he 
had aided and abetted. Here was the reincarnation of evil, reborn in 
the form of his son, Jeffrey Spender. Here he was pretending to be his 
demonic old man, the chip off the putrid block, ordering people around, 
making lives miserable for a cause that had long ago made him the most 
wretched and scorned man alive. How could he walk in his father's 
footsteps, knowing what he knew, and after all Spender Senior had done 
to him? I'd heard the old man even shot Jeffrey, or maybe he shot at 
him. In any case, a father who raises a gun to his own son is no father 
at all in my book. 

I wonder how highly-ranked young Spender was within the enemy echelon. 
And did he know Mulder and I were here? 

And then I heard her voice. Ever trembled from anger you simply could 
not release? It was all I could do to not step on the mop handle, break 
the wood into a sharp jagged stake and drive it through her nasty 
little heart. Diana Fowley stood less than twenty feet away, her back 
to me, nodding as the Doctor lied about the humane care and treatment 
each patient is given. 

I knelt down to wring out the mop, to further obscure a good view of my 
face, just to be on the safe side. The tour was over, and Diana allowed 
the doctor to lead her and her small entourage out of the infirmary. 
Except for one. 

I continued to wring out the already dry mop, buying time, hoping the 
straggler would move along. He did not. 

The time had come to face the demon. 

I stood and turned, and look Jeffrey Spender in the eye. 

"Mr. Skinner. . . ?" he said tentatively. I could have sworn I heard 
his voice crack. 

I said nothing. I just gave him my coldest Assistant Director stare, 
the kind that bred fear and anxiety in the hallways, rumors and 
confessions of intimidation and imagined cruelty in the cafeteria. 

Spender reacted as I hoped he would. He took a step back. But then he 
did what I did not expect - he stepped forward and smiled. If I didn't 
know better, I'd say he was relieved. 

"It's good to see you. Mulder's here too, isn't he?" 

I said nothing. I propped the mop against the wall and put both hands 
on my hips. I was playing hardball. It was good to know that despite 
some weight loss, muscle loss and a case of pneumonia, I still had it. 
He looked like he was ready to duck. 

"How are they treating you?" he asked. 

"I'm getting a massage and mud bath at noon. Wanna join me?" 

"Mr. Skinner, I'm not what you think." 

"You mean you're not a piece of garbage in a skin suit, masquerading as 
an important man? You didn't sell humanity down the river to a bunch of 
vicious gray monsters from another planet for a piece of the action? 
What did they promise you, Spender? Your own little island to rule? Do 
you really think after they wipe us out they're going to let you live?" 

Spender was quiet, thoughtful. I expected him to become riled and come 
after me. That's what I wanted. I wanted him to come after me so that I 
could break his skinny pencil neck with one bare hand. So I could drag 
his smoky little carcass outside and stomp on him in front of the 
entire camp. Mostly, I wanted to kill him for Mulder, for the way he 
stole the X Files from him, for the way he flits around now with 
Fowley. For the evil blood that runs through his veins. Sure, his 
father may have been a martyr in the end, but there's no denying the 
grief and suffering he engendered along the way. 

"I don't expect you to trust me," Spender said, "but please, just 
listen. I've allied myself with the conspirators so that I could save 
as many lives as I can." 

"Where have I heard that one before?" 

"Sir, please. I've done everything I could to keep you and Mulder 
alive." 

"You call this living?" I said. And I couldn't help it. I unbuttoned my 
shirt and pulled it off my shoulders so that he could see the deep 
tracks of scars decorating my entire torso from beatings. I'm not one 
for all that drama but I had a feeling young Spender needed a dose of 
reality. "Thanks a lot," I spat at him as I pulled my shirt back on and 
buttoned it. 

"I know this is hard, and it will probably get a lot harder, but if you 
could just try to trust me. I'm doing everything I can. I need to 
leave. Diana's going to miss me." 

"Yeah, you better run to your little sweetheart." 

"Tell Mulder that Scully's safe. She's doing everything she can. She's 
the reason the two of you are together. As soon as we can make a move, 
we'll -" Spender peered out of a window and I could see him getting 
more nervous, more agitated. "I have to go." And then he ran outside to 
rejoin the group. 

I was at a loss to understand, to respond, or to react. There was 
nothing to do but pick up the mop and get back to work. And wait.



* * * 

SKINNER
Evening
The Shelter 

"Where is she?" 

"He didn't say," I told Mulder. "He just said something her about doing 
what she could. What that means, I can't tell you." 

Mulder couldn't stay still. "I always knew Scully was alive. She had to 
be. I could feel it. If she had died, wouldn't I have felt it on some 
weird gut level? Wouldn't I have known it down to my bones?" 

"Relax, Mulder! You're wearing a rut in the ground." 

"So, Satan's spawn still walks among us." 

"But according to him, he's on our side." 

"It makes sense in a twisted way," Mulder said. "Think about it. 
There's no good reason either of us should be alive. Either somebody 
really screwed up, or this was all very carefully orchestrated." 

"You believe him? You think it's Scully?" 

"Who else could it be?" 

I didn't tell him who I thought was orchestrating the whole thing. Not 
Spender, and certainly not Krycek. And not Scully either. 

I couldn't tell him. Diana Fowley may be manipulating this whole thing.




* * * 

SKINNER
Morning 

The screams usually came during the night. This was the first time they 
had tortured or interrogated a man in broad daylight. The screams were 
horrible. What they were doing to him, I didn't want to know. I could 
see it was effecting Mulder. He was anxious and could hardly stand 
still during line up. 

Once done, and we started to disperse, Mulder found his way over to me. 
There was another scream. 

"Listen," he said. There was another scream. "That's Spender." 

And then he took off. 

"MULDER WAIT!" 

What could I do but follow him? 

He crept around the walls, through shadowed corners where sun beams 
strafed the ground. The screams grew louder as we came closer to the 
infirmary. I could feel my own body beginning to tremble from the cold, 
from fear, and from realizing that Mulder was right. With Spender's 
torture, could ours be too far behind? 

Mulder fell to the ground and crawled on his belly in the dirt toward 
the infirmary. There were guards posted by the entrance, so he 
maneuvered himself to the side of the building to the window. I 
followed as quickly as I could. 

Once at the window, Mulder slowly raised up, peering in. His breath 
hitched in his throat when he saw what he dreaded. 

They were dragging the tortured man from the closed room, and threw him 
on a bed. His face was bloody, as were his clothes, but there could be 
no mistaking the man who lay curled up on the bed, rocking through the 
pain. 

Mulder was right. It was Spender. 

I rose up to look and saw a guard walking by who whacked former agent 
Spender across the back with a club. Spender winced but did not rise to 
fight back. Another whack. Mulder cringed, and I cringed, believing I 
could hear bone crack from the blow. 

"There's nothing we can do for him," I whispered. "Let's go." 

I practically had to pull Mulder away from that window. I had seen much 
in Mulder's face since he arrived: pain, exhaustion, fear, doubt, joy, 
surprise, anger, frustration. But for the first time since our 
captivity, I saw despair. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

End Chapter 2 

Lacadiva @aol.com 

Merci.












AT LIBERTY (3/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship 
/Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/ScullyAngst. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one.
Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The wicked draw the sword and bend the bow to bring down the poor 
and needy, to slay those whose ways are upright."
Psalm 37:14
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (3/6) 

by 

Lacadiva




MULDER
Later That Day



They gave me kitchen detail. Skinner had laundry. All I wanted to do 
was get back to the infirmary. I had to check on Spender. I had to 
know. 

There was a time I could have beaten the crap out of the man. Now, all 
I could think of was getting to him, seeing what he knew, telling what 
I knew, and getting him some help. I needed to get to the infirmary. 

I stood over a barrel filled with garbage and hundreds of dirty bowls. 
My job was to clean those bowls. Nearby, water boiled on a fire. There 
was only one legitimate way to get to Spender, and it wasn't going to 
be pleasant. 

I went to the boiling water. I stared down at the steaming, roiling 
liquid and breathed deeply, preparing myself for what had to be done. 

I stuck my hand into it and screamed. 

Several prisoners and guards ran over in answer to my scream. I held my 
reddened, burning hand up, breathing harshly through my clenched teeth. 
It hurt, hurt like hell, but I had to play it up even more. 

"Everybody back to work!" one of the guards yelled, then turned to me. 
"I should shoot you, you clumsy moron. Get to the infirmary and report 
back here as soon as they're done with you. Go on!" 

The guard jabbed me hard in the side with the business end of his 
weapon. I'm going to remember that. 

There were four people occupying the beds in the infirmary when I 
arrived. The same doctor who allowed me access to the medicine cabinet 
turned on his swivel chair and frowned. "What now?" 

I held up my hand. The doctor shook his head. "Come over here." 

I wandered over, carefully checking out the occupants of the beds. The 
bed in the farthest corner held the unconscious Jeffrey Spender. His 
face was swollen and bruised. His arm was in a cast. His torso was 
wrapped with heavy gauze, for broken ribs, no doubt. The bottoms of his 
feet were practically raw. 

"You know him?" the doctor asked. 

"I've seen him before." I held up my hand while the doctor sprayed 
antiseptic on it. "How bad is he?" I asked nonchalantly. 

"He probably won't last the night. But they want him alive." 

"What for?" 

"What's it to you?" 

"Nothing. Just making conversation." 

The doctor began wrapping it in gauze. "Keep it dry." 

"Thanks. You think I could talk to him?" 

"You want to get us both killed? Who are you anyway?" 

"Somebody who could owe you a favor." 

"I don't need anymore favors." The doctor snipped away the excess gauze 
and tucked it. 

"Two minutes," I pleaded. "Two minutes." 

"Make it quick." The doctor moved to the door to keep watch. 

I knelt down and touched Spender's shoulder. Spender's swollen eyes 
opened slowly, not focussing on anything at first, but ultimately 
finding me. 

"Mul. .." 

"Ssshh. Don't try to talk. They messed you up pretty good." 

"Go," he said. 

"What?" 

"Trap." 

"What trap?" 

"Not exactly a trap," a rich female voice said just behind my back. 
"I'd call it a lure. Hello, Mulder." 

I recognized it instantly. The inside of my mouth went sour. I turned 
around, and sure enough, there stood Diana Fowley. 

"I didn't know this camp was co-ed." 

"How are you?" 

"How do I look? 

"Like you've been through hell and back." 

"Back? I wasn't aware I'd left. So, what did Spender do to incur your 
wrath? Show you a little attention? God forbid he should think he loved 
you." 

"Spender was working for the resistance. They found out." 

"YOU found out." 

"There was nothing I could do. But it's not too late for you, Mulder. I 
can help you. What can I do for you?" 

"Die a miserable death. I dream of finding your desiccated remains in a 
small jar at MIT, labeled turncoat bi-" 

"Please, don't. I understand how you feel about me. But I can save you. 
I can walk out of here with you within the hour. You'll be free, 
Mulder." 

"That would make me yours, wouldn't it?" 

She smiled. 

"This place isn't so bad when you put it that way." 

"Fine, Fox. The choice is yours. I'm leaving tonight, flying back to 
D.C." 

"You mean what's left of it? Hey, do the aliens let you borrow their 
space ships or do you have to expense your ticket?" 

"Fox - " 

"I'm just wondering what line item you charge screwing the entire human 
race to." 

"Stop it. If you choose to stay, be prepared for a few changes. I can't 
imagine why you're even still alive. I can only protect if you're with 
me. If you stay, you're on your own. I can't help you." 

"You've done enough. Thank you." 

She walked out. 

And then it dawned on me what a terrible mistake I just made. I should 
have killed her when I had the chance. 

* * *



MULDER
The Middle of the Night 

The entire camp was roused by siren. We were forced at gunpoint to 
gather and line up as we would early in the morning. But present before 
us was the Camp Commander. Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

Diana said there'd be some changes. 

I cradled my still burning hand against my chest and looked back at 
Skinner. He was doing better, but standing outside in the cold at night 
wouldn't do him any good. 

A deadly hush settle upon the place as the alien Camp Commander stepped 
forward to speak. 

"You humans have an amazing capacity for survival. We have always 
admired that about you. But you are also deceitful and have a malicious 
disregard for authority. Because of this, an example must be made." 

Two guards dragged Krycek before everyone. 

"This man," the Commander continued, "has broken every rule we have 
established for your safety. He has stolen food and medicine. He has 
lied, to us as well as to you. He has give some of you cause to believe 
that you can escape, knowing that you will only die trying. If you have 
accusations against this man, I would hear them now. You will convict 
him, and by doing so save yourselves. Otherwise, I will assume all have 
been contaminated by his lies, and I will punish each of you. So, who 
will step forward?" 

Poor Krycek. We watched as one by one, several prisoners stepped 
forward to convict him. Even those he had never seen before had 
imagined stories to share of his treachery. Skinner and I remained 
among the few who had nothing to say. 

I cringed as the Doctor stepped forward. 

"He made me give away medical supplies." 

"Hm. And to whom did you give these medical supplies?" the Commander 
asked. 

The doctor turned and pointed to me. "Him." 

Krycek closed his eyes and let his head fall. 

"Step forward prisoner," the Commander ordered me. 

"I don't know that man," I said pointing to Krycek. "I've never seen 
him before." 

"Tell him the truth, Mulder! Save yourself." Krycek said. "Yeah, I 
stole medicine to give to him!" 

"Shut up, Krycek!" I yelled. 

"Mulder, don't be a fool!" 

"SHUT UP, KRYCEK!" 

"You're lying," said the Commander, "lying to protect him. How 
interesting. Most men would say whatever had to be said to save 
themselves. Yet you convict yourself along with him. I do not 
understand." 

"It's because we're human and you're not, you sawed-off alien piece of 
-" 

"MULDER!" Skinner hissed at me. 

The Commander turned to Skinner. "And your story, prisoner?" 

"I haven't got one," Skinner barked back at him. 

"You called him by name. What was his name?" 

"TK3-1013," Skinner said defiantly. 

"No, his name, prisoner. What is his name?" 

"TK3-1013." 

"Then I ask you," The Commander said, turning back to me. "What is your 
name?" 

"TK3-1013. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same." 

"Enough! Take the three of them to the wall." 

Guards grabbed us and dragged us along with Krycek to a wooden wall 
where cuffs hung down. I could see, even in the darkness, the dried, 
caked on blood and flesh from previous wall hangers. The guards forced 
our wrists into the cuffs and locked them. 

I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I looked at Skinner, knowing 
he wasn't fully recovered. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He was 
preparing himself for whatever was coming. I decided to do the same. 
Shut out the noise of the crowd. Ignore the fear. Resist the devil and 
he will flee. It would be over soon. We would survive or die. What more 
could we ask? Right? 

I turned my head to the other side. Past the gate, on a hill, I saw 
headlights. Someone got out of a car. It was too far away to see a 
face, but I could tell it was a woman. A tall, dark haired woman. No 
doubt Diana had decided to stick around for the festivities. Everything 
in me wanted to break those chains, jump the fence and scale that hill. 
I would not be happy until I felt her pale throat squeezing between my 
hands, until I could feel her jugular throbbing, until I could see her 
eyes pleading with me to let her go, until - 

"We have learned," said the Commander, yanking my attention back, "that 
humans are more open to suggestion and cooperation when there is 
physical pain. So I will give the three of you one more chance. This 
man stole from me to give to you. Admit it, and I'll let you two free, 
and will give him a painless execution. Deny it, and I will be forced 
to further test our knowledge of human behavior. Prisoner 1013?" 

"Drop dead." 

"Prisoner 1121?" 

"What he said." 

"Very well. Ten for these two. Twenty for the thief. No. Make it 
thirty." 

The Commander walked away. 

Someone moved in quickly and ripped the shirt from my back. My resolve 
to remain calm and get through this disappeared. This was not going to 
be fun. I was shaking, shivering, almost violently. Was it from the 
cold or from the fear of what was to come? 

I heard Skinner's shirt rip and looked his way again. He'd been through 
this before. I could see by the numerous scars on his back. 

"You can make it, too," he said, nodding at me. "Just hold on." 

Again, it was as if he'd read my mind, knew what I was thinking. I 
nodded back at him. I thought of the skin on my back about to be ripped 
to shreds. Ten hits. Ten scars. And then I thought of Krycek. 

He was shaking too. Thirty hits. He will never survive. 

I heard the first crack and saw Skinner's face redden and twist in 
agony. The first three, he managed to make it through without making a 
sound. He grimaced, gritted his teeth and took it. The fourth one shook 
his resolve. The fifth one broke it. I'd never heard a sound like that 
come from him before, spilling from teeth clenched so tightly I could 
almost hear them screech as they grated together. I didn't know how to 
react. I counted out the last five, knowing that my turn was coming up 
quickly. 

"Hold on, Mulder!" This came from Krycek. "It's only ten. You can do 
it! Don't let them break you." 

Now I knew I was really in trouble. 

I turned and looked back at the hill. The car was gone. I guess Diana 
had too much to do to stick around for my turn. 

There was a pause that seemed as long as a month and as short as a 
nanosecond. I wasn't going to let them break me. I wasn't going to let 
them break me. I wasn't going to let them - 

The first hit that exploded my flesh sent a shock through me. I know 
the look on my face registered more surprise that pain. Surprise that 
anything could hurt that much. I'd been shot, sliced with a knife, had 
numerous blows to the head, was hit by a car and had been subject to a 
drill in my skull. I even remember coming to during an operation once 
when the anesthesia began to wear off too soon. All that paled next to 
the feel of whatever that was that tore into my back. I could feel the 
eruption of blood and feel it run down my back like a warm stream. 

Then came the second hit. "EEERRRRGGG!" escaped my clenched teeth. My 
body stiffened as if I could turn myself into a wooden board that would 
feel no pain. The third hit showed me my ignorance and self-deception. 

"EEEERRRRRGGG!" 

Four. Just four. Six more to go. 

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" 

Half-way there. Half-way there. Half-empty. Half-full. Scully, where 
are you? I need you. . .I need you. . . I - 

"UUUUUHHHHHNNNNNN!" 

I blacked out. Not completely. I was only partially conscious, on some 
strange level where sound and sensation disappeared. For a moment I 
could view what was happening to me as a spectator might, completely 
detached from involvement. I thought I was dead. I was just for the 
moment blessedly unplugged. 

They finished with me. The last stroke was like some slow motion 
special effect. I knew my back was ripped to red ribbons. I was aware 
that I was in pain, though at the moment I wasn't feeling it. I could 
feel hot tears pouring down my cheeks, feel my teeth biting into my 
lips until blood was drawn. I could tell that my throat was raw. I 
pulled against the chains foolishly thinking I could break them. 

I turned my head to the other side, leaning my cheek against the 
splintered old wood. A hundred others had bled and sweat and cried 
against that same spot. Now I add my DNA to the pot. 

I waited to pass out, or for the pain to come roaring back. Not yet. 
Skinner was unconscious, hanging like a big rag doll from the chains. 
His back was a mess. 

And then I saw Krycek. He's was shaking, he was so afraid. I wanted to 
tell him that he'd be okay. Maybe he zone out like me, just become and 
observer in his own torture. I saw his face when the first hit 
occurred. Shock. I could relate. By the third blow he opened his mouth 
and just started screaming. I could not hear him. I only saw his 
anguish. For the first time since his rat-nature had been revealed way 
back with the Duane Barry incident, I actually began to feel sorry for 
the guy. 

He passed out around number thirteen. I thought they'd stop by then. 
What's the point otherwise? But the torturer kept on swinging. He kept 
on swinging. I counted up to seventeen and closed my eyes. I still 
couldn't hear it, but I was locked into the rhythm of it. Twenty three. 
You can make it Krycek. Twenty-seven. 

And then I started dreaming. I was running. Running out of a burning 
house. Scully was there in the dream with me. 

"Mulder!" she cried, "your back's on fire!" 

"What?" 

"Your back!" 

I woke up. I was completely conscious and aware. All the way back. 
Hearing, feeling, seeing, sensing, hurting. My back was on fire. It 
hurt to move, it hurt to be still, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to be. I 
heard myself scream. 

And then I passed out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

End Chapter 3 

Lacadiva @aol.com Merci. 

AT LIBERTY (4/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship 
/Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/ScullyAngst. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one.
Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"No one will be able to stand up against you all the days of your 
life....Be strong and very courageous."
Joshua 1: 5 & 7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (4/6) 

by 

Lacadiva



SPENDER
Infirmary
Time and Day Unremembered 

I lay waiting for death. Like my father, like my life, it disappointed 
me. Why it refused to come remains a mystery. Twice I heard the doctor 
say my chances of making it through the night were remote. But here I 
am. 

I realized what a challenge my still being alive would present to 
Diana. She'd work that much harder to destroy me all the more, little 
by little. Why not just put a gun to my head and be done with it, like 
she did my father? 

I stopped taking pain pills, sticking them under my mattress or just 
dropping them to the floor. I refused food and water, hoping that 
starvation and dehydration would finish me off. But I hadn't been that 
long without a meal, not like some of the men I'd seen days ago. One 
day without eating could be devastating for them. Thin as I am, broken 
as my body may be, I wasn't that bad off. But still I hurt a lot, more 
than I've ever hurt before. It could drive you mad, living with nothing 
to focus on but pain. So I lay there thinking of ways to kill Diana 
Fowley. 

Until they were brought in. Mulder, Skinner and Krycek! They had been 
beaten. Whipped, from the look of their wounds, as if we've returned to 
the nightmare cruelty of the antebellum south. I had to look away, as 
much for them as for myself. It's best not to appear too interested, 
lest you give away your interests. And it turned my stomach to see them 
beaten so severely. I lay there pretending to be unconscious, listening 
the entire time as they were thrown on beds and left there without 
treatment, without help. 

I waited for the doctor on duty to leave, locking the place up. And 
then I eased out of bed. It was hard. My feet were beaten so bad it was 
difficult to stand, much less walk. My arm was broken. Cracked ribs 
made it difficult to breathe and I became winded quickly. My head was 
still spinning from one blow too many. But I had to check on them. 
Since the day I promised Scully I would keep tabs on Mulder and 
Skinner, they had been my mission. 

"Mulder?" 

Nothing. He was deeply unconscious. 

The same was true for Skinner. Krycek barely breathed. His back was so 
severely lacerated that it reminded me of ground chuck. Should red meat 
ever be available again on this planet, I think I could easily pass. 

"Spender." 

I turned so quickly I nearly blacked out. I held onto the wall for a 
few seconds, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Skinner was looking 
at me. I limped to where he lay and knelt down, leaning down close to 
hear him. "Sir?" 

"Mulder. . ." 

His voice was a raspy, pain-filled whisper. 

"Unconscious," I said. 

"Krycek?" 

"Not good." 

"Do what you can for them." 

"I will," I said, then took a close look at Skinner's back. It was a 
mess. 

"No!" he insisted. "Forget about me." 

"Just lie still." 

Somehow, some of my own pain was forgotten as I began to concentrate on 
relieving theirs. I filled the basin and found a bunch of rags and 
bandages. Probably won't be enough, but I figured it was better than 
leaving them like this. I started with Skinner only because he insisted 
I leave him for last. Call me rebellious. 

Next I helped Mulder. He remained unconscious through most of it, but 
towards the end he awoke in a fighting mood. A few calming words from 
his old boss and Mulder backed down and lay still, allowing me to 
bandage him up. 

Once done with Mulder, I moved to Krycek. I was surprised to see him, 
as he will no doubt be to see me if he ever woke up. Why he was being 
punished with the two of them, I could not understand. I remembered an 
old scripture from my childhood - 'for what do righteousness and 
wickedness have in common?' All I knew of Krycek was that smug, 
arrogant jerk who finally told me the truth about my mother' 
involvement in the aliens' final plan. I still remember how pleased he 
seemed at my shock and anger. He ate it up. I'd always wanted to kill 
Krycek for that. But now, in this hurt and helpless state, even I felt 
strangely compelled to help the guy. So I drew fresh water and cleaned 
his wounds. I wound bandages around him and turned him onto his side. I 
was surprised to see that he had what appeared to be a real arm again. 
However, it was colder to the touch than the true arm. Strange. 

Once done with them I could not sleep. I took the painkillers I had 
palmed and stuck under my mattress earlier, when I still wanted to die, 
and swallowed them dry. I sat on my bed and kept watch over them. I 
realized that I would probably be shot in the morning for doctoring 
them up. Funny, isn't it? I finally get a reason to live and they 
execute me. 

Life is strange. 

* * * 

SKINNER
Middle of the Night 

I made the mistake of turning over. How I didn't yell out, I can't tell 
you. I sat straight up, tensed from head to toe. I felt as if my entire 
body had been beaten, not just my back. 

Spender was there. He was ringing out a rag and swabbing down Mulder's 
sweaty face. Another high fever, no doubt. Mulder was calling out for 
Scully, much as he did that first night in the shelter. Only this was 
worse. The creatures that pursued him in this fever dream must have 
been terrifying. I pushed myself from the bed where I lay, and tried to 
stand up. It wasn't easy. 

"Skinner!" Spender shouted. "No!" 

"What am I, a dog?" 

"Please." 

"That's better," I said, then let myself fall back upon the bed. "How's 
Mulder?" 

"Delirious. He's been like that for a couple of hours. Getting worse." 

Mulder was suddenly having trouble breathing. And then this body seized 
up, as if he'd been hit by an electrical shock. He began to shake. 

"Sir, he's convulsing!" Spender shouted. I could see the panic in his 
eyes. I'd seen men seize up like this on the battlefield in 'Nam after 
they'd had a leg shot off or took shrapnel to the head. It scared me 
then. And it scared me now. The worse part was, this was Mulder. 

"What do I do!" Spender shouted. 

I was up before I knew it, reaching for Mulder. "Help me hold him 
down." 

It didn't last long. Ultimately his body relaxed. Mulder's eyes 
remained open, but I know he wasn't seeing anything. His mouth moved, 
as if her were talking, but no sound came out. A few seconds later and 
he was out like a light. 

Spender and I turned Mulder onto his side and covered him. 

"Lie back down, sir," he said. 

He didn't have to tell me twice. 

"You're bleeding again." 

In that short burst of activity, I'd managed to tear a few of the 
wounds open again. They were burning worse than ever. Spender grabbed 
up a handful of bandages and was heading my way. 

"Just let me sleep." I told him. I just didn't want to be bothered. 
He'd only jack the pain level up a few more decibels if he tried to 
stop the bleeding. I just wanted a little peace. He wouldn't listen. He 
was at my side in an instant and peeling away the soaked bandages. 

"EASY!" 

"Sorry, sir," he said, but kept doing what he was doing. 

Mulder cried out in his sleep again. "SCULLY!" 

Spender and I both looked over at him, watching Mulder until he calmed 
down again. 

"You saw Scully?" I asked him. 

"Yes. A few times." 

"How was she?" 

"Worried about you and Mulder." 

"Is she really working for them?" I asked. I wasn't sure I really 
wanted to know. 

"It's the only way she could keep the two of you alive."




* * *



SCULLY
New Order Headquarters
Underground Research Facility



They gave me my own lab. I have a staff of four. We spend our days and 
nights working to make the new hybrids stronger, faster, less 
susceptible to human frailty and disease. There are no budgetary 
constraints or taboos based on humanity and compassion to restrict our 
work as before. We are given carte blanch to do whatever is necessary 
to achieve their goal - a stronger hybrid workforce that can withstand 
the toxic world this planet has now become. 

We refer to our 'superiors' as the Scourge, both singularly and 
collectively. The Scourge has offered us life and prosperity so long as 
we work hard to achieve the goal. We work hard, or seem to, sabotaging 
the results when we can. Slowing the pace to a virtual stand-still. 
Demanding equipment and drugs we cannot have. Reporting failure after 
failure to bide our time. They are catching on to us, but are willing 
to wait us out. They know that eventually they will have what they 
want. They say they have already won. They are a very patient species. 

My payment for my services to the Scourge is not in money. It is not 
even for my own life that I do this. I care little about it these days. 
I do this to save the lives of two others. They have become bargaining 
chips in a poker game of which I am quickly tiring. I live in fear that 
my captors will someday call my bluff, and I will be caught short, with 
not enough to keep the people I bargain for alive. My own death means 
even less to me, when I think of a life without them. 

Without him. 

I dream of Mulder every night. Not the romantic dreams one usually 
thinks of when someone makes such a confession. These dreams are of our 
past, of our last moments together. They are nightmares. Sometimes I 
dream of finding his body cold and decomposing on a table before me. I 
pick up my scalpel to demonstrate to an operating theater filled with 
the Scourge how to properly autopsy a human body. The first cut of the 
Y incision sends a river of bright red blood flowing from him, across 
the table, pooling on the floor, rising like a crimson tide around my 
ankles, and up my shins. And then Mulder opens his eyes. He asks me 
'why?' I have no answer. 

Many times I dream of our last moment, our last second, before they 
pulled us apart. We were running. Three times I begged him to let me 
go. The bullet in my shin had ruined my leg. I was holding him back. 
But he held tight to my hand. We reached the crest of the hill, so 
close to our rendezvous in Canada. But they caught up with us. They 
shot him. I saw him go down. He pulled me with him. Only then would he 
release my hand. He insisted I run. I could not. Would not. Would never 
leave him. The doctor in me tried to stop his bleeding. He pushed me, 
begged me to leave him. And then hands pulled me away from him. I 
screamed his name, screamed it so hard I felt something in my throat 
tear, and my voice left me. 

They put me in a van and drove away with me. I fought with my captors 
until they put me down with a syringe filled with God only knew what. 
And when I awoke days later, I was here. That was more than three 
months ago. I've lost track of time since then. 

It seemed that many of the scientists they were counting on in the 
beginning were no longer of a mind to help the Scourge, so they were 
executed. Others had been lost in the early battles after the first 
wave of the invasion. There were not enough humans with a science and 
research background left to assist the Scourge with their project. I 
was to be recruited. 

Needless to say, I was less than cooperative in the first days. I had 
been scheduled for execution and was more than ready to go. What good 
was my life now anyway? My only wish is that I could have died by 
Mulder's side, rather than so far away from him, not knowing his fate, 
only praying that he died peacefully on the crest of that hill that 
fateful day still a free man. 

And then the Scourge locked me in a little room, like a police 
interrogation box. I assumed I was to be tortured. I was wrong. Jeffrey 
Spender walked in, along with Diana Fowley. 

I lunged for her. I felt my fingers dig into the flesh on her face. I 
have to say it was most satisfying. I was beaten down by guards and 
locked away for several days without food, water or light. 

They tried it again. The same room. I lunged, but Spender grabbed me 
and held me. And while I expected him to beat me, he merely whispered 
and cooed into my ear, holding me until I had no more fight left in me. 
I could feel his lips brushing my ears as he spoke. "For Mulder," he 
kept saying. "Please, for Mulder." 

I cursed him. "Mulder's dead!" I spat. "She had him shot!" 

"Mulder is alive," Diana said. "But he is scheduled for execution. I 
can belay that order indefinitely, if you will cooperate." 

"Liar!" 

"No," Spender said, again in that soft, unexpectedly soothing voice 
that made me almost want to acquiesce. "He's not dead. They have him. 
They'll torture him and eventually kill him. You have to do what they 
say, to keep him alive." 

I looked into Spender's eyes. I was never one to believe that the eyes 
can reveal whether or not the truth is being spoken, but I believed it 
when I saw Spender's eyes. They looked so hurt, so vulnerable. He was 
either a consummate liar like his father, or he was being true. I 
stopped my fighting and lay in his arms waiting to hear what he had to 
say. 

He pulled me to my feet, then noticed the makeshift bandage around my 
shin. He knelt down and peeled it away, grimacing at the infected 
wound. 

"She needs medical attention," he said to Fowley. 

She looked as if she could spit nails. 

"If you want her help, help her first!" Spender insisted. 

"Fine." And then she looked at me. "We need your research background. 
Will you help us?" 

"Help you, or help them?" 

"It's all the same." 

"I will not." 

"Then Mulder dies. Dana, all we're asking you to do is work with a few 
of the hybrids. Help to strengthen the lot. That's all. You may have to 
experiment on a few humans here and there, but it won't be painful and 
they will be spared death camps and serving as hosts for gestating 
colonists. Now, will you cooperate, or do we send you back for 
execution?" 

"I want Mulder alive. I want him here with me." 

"Impossible." 

"Then kiss my -" 

"Be realistic, Dana. They'll never agree to it." 

"Try them." 

"You'll be very disappointed." 

"Then I want proof that he's alive. And I want weekly updates on his 
condition. I want to know where he is at all times, and that he is 
being well taken care of." 

"Deal." 

"I'M NOT FINISHED. I want the same for Walter Skinner." 

"Skinner? Why?" 

"Does it matter? I want them kept together. Where one goes, the other 
goes. That's the deal. I want them both alive. I want proof, and I want 
updates." 

"You know, Dana," Diana said, crossing her arms, "you really aren't 
that good a scientist. I could do the job myself." 

"Then do it." 

"I have more important matters to address." 

"Then we have a deal?"


"So, it appears. Spender, make arrangements to locate Mulder and 
Skinner. Have someone see to their comfort, and provide Doctor Scully 
with an update." 

Spender nodded. "I'll take care of them," Spender said, not to her, but 
to me. 

They left. And I sat in a corner wondering what the ramifications and 
consequences would be for making such a deal with the devil. Who was I 
really helping here? 

Now I sit in the lab, after all have retired for the evening, doing 
what I can to sabotage the test results. Mostly I worry about Mulder. 
Spender had been my conduit, my messenger, preferring to do it himself 
than trust it to a stranger. Every week like clockwork Spender would 
enter the lab and tell me as honestly as he was capable what had become 
of Mulder. He held no punches. He told me of Mulder's gunshot wound, 
and of his interrogation. Of his imprisonment. For weeks they lost him, 
lost him in a shuffle of prisoners from one place to the other. Spender 
spent hundreds of manpower hours trying to locate Mulder. He'd walk in 
after a frustrating day of brow-beating from Diana to tell me that 
there was no news. After the first few weeks he'd become accustomed to 
pulling me into a comforting embrace. Now I had come to appreciate and 
long for that human comfort. Somehow I felt strangely connected to 
Mulder through Spender. I would not have imagined such a thing like 
that before. 

But now a week has gone by, and Spender had not been to the lab. There 
had been no word, no report. 

Someone entered the rom. I kept my back to the door, listening to the 
footfalls. The gate was feminine, as was the clack of heels against the 
polished floor. I did not turn around to face Diana. I continued 
working and let her stand there and wait for me. 

"Burning the midnight oil?" she asked. 

"I'm busy, Diana. What do you want?" 

"I have an update on Mulder." 

I froze. Before I could stop myself I had turned around to face her. 
Her features were harsh in the dull fluorescent lab light. 

"It isn't good," she said, looking at her feet. 

I steeled myself for the worse. If Mulder was dead, so was I. 

"Mulder and Skinner were caught stealing medical supplies at the camp." 

"Were they executed?" I asked. I'd never heard my voice so low and 
frightened before. 

"No. But they were punished." 

"Punished?" 

"Beaten. Rather severely. I tried to stop it. But they wouldn't 
recognize my authority. Seems an example had to be made." 

"How severely?" 

"I'm waiting for more information. I'm sorry. There was little I could 
do." 

I turned around so she could not see the panic on my face. "I'd 
appreciate an update," I said, hoping I sounded a least a little calm. 

"If there's time." 

I heard her turn and walk away. Suddenly she stopped. Her heals 
squeaked as she turned back to me. "By the way," she began, "you won't 
be seeing Spender around anymore." 

"Why is that?" 

"Seems he had a little Underground Railroad of sorts going on. They're 
going to execute him." 

I turned to face her now. There was not a hint of remorse for Spender 
in her expression. 

"Right under your nose, Diana? I'm surprised your superiors haven't 
tossed you in a camp yet." 

"They know I'm not involved. Why don't you get back to work now?" 

She turned and walked out. 

I remained in the lab. Not to work, but to think, to plan and to pray. 
I had to do something. 

It was time to act.



* * * 

SCULLY
Diana Fowley's Office
The Next Day 

"Out of the question." Fowley stood and walked to the front of the desk 
to perch her narrow bottom on the edge. 

"Read the report and weep. All of the test subjects are dead. We need 
more." 

"How did they die? 

"It's in the report. They were half-dead when they arrived. From 
starvation, diseases, abuse. Three of them died from infections from 
poorly treated gunshot wounds. Two of them were suffering from 
dysentery. Another had been beaten so bad that - " 

"I get it, Dana. So what do you want me to do about it?" 

"We need at least twelve more subjects if we are to continue with the 
tests. Healthier subjects." 

"I'll see what I can do. Now, are we through?" 

"No!" I walked up to her defiantly and looked her in the eye. "This 
time, I want to pick them." 

"Impossible." 

"Nothing is impossible." 

"Dana -" 

"I am a medical doctor. I need to determine if they can withstand the 
tests. You send somebody out who doesn't know what they're doing and 
you're liable to set us back another month." 

"You can't escape, Dana, if that's what you're thinking." 

"You pick the camp. I can be ready to leave within the hour. I'll come 
back with a dozen fresh and marginally healthy individuals and get back 
to work. You'll save time and energy this way." 

"Why are you so anxious to be so efficient?" 

"I don't want to end up like Spender." 

I said this with such mock sincerity, with such feigned fear dancing on 
the edge of my voice, that even Diana fell for it. *I* almost fell for 
it! 

"You won't, Dana. Not if you do the work. I promise I'll do everything 
I can for you. But you've got to promise me that this is not a trick. 
If you try to escape and they catch you, there's nothing I can do." 

I simply nodded. I was afraid the sincerity would be lost from my 
voice, giving away my true cause. 

"I'll make the arrangement. There's a new camp just outside of Chicago. 
We'll send you there. You'll be under heavily armed escort of course. 
I'll give you 48 hours to find the subjects you need." 

"Fine." 

"If this is a trick - " 

"How can I trick you? You've already won. Right? If it will make you 
feel more comfortable, why don't you come with me?" 

"My schedule is far too busy." 

"Perhaps you could shift a few things around?" 

She stared at me. "Fine. We can leave first thing in the morning." 

"Fine, " I repeated, fighting to remain calm, and walked out of her 
office. 

I made up my mind as I walked the corridor back to the lab. There was 
more to this than saving Mulder. 

Diana Fowley must die.



* * * 

MULDER
Day Unknown 

I woke up in a haze of pain. I tried to rise but hands pushed me back 
down on the hard bedroll. 

"Stay down." It was Skinner. We were back in the shelter. No Krycek, no 
Spender. 

I tried to question him, but I could not find my voice. It hurt way too 
much. I could tell that Skinner wasn't exactly a hundred per cent 
either. He sat by the bedroll hunched over, trying not to move. His 
effort to keep me still had already cost him. 

"The Doctor came in at the crack of dawn, looked us over, and kicked us 
out." 

"How did I get here?" 

"I carried you." 

"That must've been fun." 

"How do you feel?" 

"Never better. What about Krycek?" 

"They're executing him at tomorrow at noon. Him and Spender." 

"What?" Skinner could not keep me down this time. "We gotta stop it!" 

"How do you suggest we do that?" 

"We gotta think of something!" 

I sat up and regretted it. The pain across my back made me dizzy, made 
my eyes burn with tears. I hate it when that happens. 

Maybe I had my priorities screwed up, but something in me would not 
tolerate the idea of Spender being executed. Even Krycek, though there 
was a time I would have paid top money for front row center seats to 
the event. 

"Mulder, I don't know if there's anything we can do." 

"Sure there is. We grab a guard, take his gun, start a riot, free them 
and run like hell!" 

"We're liable to get every single prisoner shot." 

"You'd rather hang out here another couple of weeks until they decide 
we're no longer useful?" 

Skinner stood up and put his hands on his hips. He turned his back to 
me. I could see he was still bleeding through his bandages. I turned 
away. It just made my own back hurt that much more. 

"Mulder. . .if we take this course of action, we're not liable to 
survive. I don't care about myself, I've got nothing to live for. I've 
got no family, no career. All I have is. . . . You on the other hand 
have Scully, or least the hope that you may see her again." 

"We can both hang onto that hope." 

Skinner gave a sardonic grin, then squatted down by my bedroll. He 
could not look me in the eye. 

"Look," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that in all the years I've 
known you. . .since the bureau. . . . I never had a son. I'm not that 
much older, but. . .what I'm trying to say is, if I had a son. . ." 

"Thank you, sir," I said. I got it. I was moved. But you don't grab and 
hug a man like Walter Skinner, even if you knew it might do the man 
some good. We were facing death. He was just trying to tell me in his 
own way that I meant something to him. He seemed to appreciate my not 
letting him continue trying to work his way through it. 

Now it was my turn. "When we were in the bureau, there were times when 
Scully and I didn't know if we could trust you. But time and time again 
you proved that we could. You put your life on the line for us. You 
saved my sorry butt more times that I deserved. You were more than a 
boss. You were a friend. I just wanted to say. . .it's been an honor." 

Skinner nodded and stood, turning away so I could not see his face. 
"Your plan sounds a lot like the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance 
Kid," he said. 

"You mean the part when they're up against the entire Mexican Army, 
just the two of them?" 

"Yeah." 

"You got a better idea?" 

"I say we grab a guard, take his gun, start a riot, free them and run 
like hell." 

"Okay, but I'm Sundance. Sundance is cool." 

"Whatever you say, Mulder."



* * * 

SCULLY
Mid-Morning 

We'd been in the air at least an hour. Guards sat on either side of me, 
armed and ready to kill me should I make the slightest attempt to flee. 
At thirty thousand feet, you'd think my options were limited. 

Diana sat across from me. She barely took her eyes off of me the entire 
flight. I managed to thwart her attempts to engage me in idle chit-chat 
by feigning a migraine. She gave up, thankfully. 

I disengaged the seat belt and watched as the guards turned to watch 
me. Diana nodded, silently directing them to follow me. I stood and 
headed for the lavatory. My guards followed as ordered. I opened the 
door. They tried to squeeze in behind me. 

"Sorry," I said. "but there's only room for one." They both eyed me 
with that glassy-eyed glare that men gone too long without female 
companionship often made. That look that says they are imagining you in 
far fewer clothing than you're actually wearing. I closed the door and 
locked it, then took a deep breath. 

It was now or never. I had to commandeer the aircraft. 

I wadded up a large roll of toilet paper and paper towels and stuffed 
it into the waste bin. I pulled a single wooden match from my shoe. 
Fortunately it was still dry enough to light. I struck it along the 
wall. Nothing. It took three tries before it exploded into flame. I 
dropped the match into the receptacle, flushed the toilet for effect 
and opened the door, closing it behind me. 

"I wouldn't go in there for a few minutes if I were you," I warned the 
guard with a sheepish grin, then went back to my seat. I fumbled with 
the seat belt waiting for my cue. 

The smoke alarm sounded. That was it. The two guards leaped to their 
feet and headed for the lavatory door. I was forgotten for just one 
second. That was all I needed. 

I grabbed the guard closest to me, and rather than taking his gun, I 
caught hold of his arm and aimed at his companion in front of us. My 
finger pressed the trigger and a burst of automatic fire ripped through 
his back. He fell like a stone. The other guard turned to fire at me. I 
gave him the heel of my palm to the jaw, so hard he didn't know what 
hit him. He fell backwards, throwing his automatic weapon from his 
grasp, smacking his head against a seat arm on the way down. 

"Drop it, Dana! Don't make me kill you." 

Before I could retrieve the coveted weapons, Diana had me covered. 

"Kick the weapon over here." 

I did as I was told. 

Smoke was quickly beginning to fill the cabin. My diversion was about 
to overcome us. 

"Let me put out the fire!" I pleaded, gesturing to the fire 
extinguisher within my reach. She nodded. I grabbed the extinguisher, 
opened the lavatory door and stood back as smoke and flames billowed 
out. I had the fire out in seconds. I kept blasting the white foam, 
though, biding my time, trying to figure out what next to do. 

I threw the fire extinguisher, hitting Diana in the head. She fell 
backwards hard against the overhead compartment. Her gun flew out of 
her hands. She hit the floor, twitching a few times before 
unconsciousness finally claimed her. I grabbed the automatic weapons 
and her handgun and made my way to the cockpit. 

The door was locked. I fumbled with the combination lock. Then I gave 
up and knocked. I heard the voice of the pilot call out, "Hold on!" 

He opened the door, saw the weapon aimed at his head, and backed away, 
falling into his chair. He stared at me with deep dark eyes. Sweat was 
beading up on his dark brown forehead. He could not have been more than 
twenty-five. 

"You're going to do as I say, or I'll shoot you." 

"Shoot me," he said, "and you'll have to fly this plane by yourself." 

"Fine," I said, and put the gun to his forehead. 

"OKAY! OKAY! What do you want?" 

"We're not flying to Chicago anymore." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

End of Chapter 4 

Lacadiva @ aol.com 

Merci beaucoup.




AT LIBERTY (5/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship 
/Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/ScullyAngst. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one.
Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on
every side."
Psalm 3:6
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (5/6) 

by 

Lacadiva



SKINNER
Late Morning 

Without the help of Krycek we found ourselves back on landscaping 
detail. The airstrip was practically finished. Mulder was moving 
slowly, giving the impression that he was weak and fatigued. I knew he 
was still in pain, but I also knew that he was merely saving his 
strength. He was anxious for this last hurrah. 

I have to admit so was I. 

The sun was getting higher. We were chained together and herded back to 
the camp. Time for the festivities to begin. 

The last hurrah.



* * *



MULDER 

As we walked back, I couldn't help but wonder if Scully would be proud 
of me if she knew what I was about to do. She was a woman of 
conviction. Until now, my only true conviction was finding my sister. 
Now it was about being human and dying with dignity. It was about 
sacrificing my own butt to save someone who had sacrificed his for me. 
Two people if you count Krycek. I found myself wondering if she'd hear 
the story some day. Would she consider me a hero or a fool? 

May we all live long enough to find out.



* * * 

SCULLY
30 Thousand Feet



"So what's the plan?" the pilot asked. 

"I don't have one. Not yet." 

"Improvising, huh?" 

"Yeah," I said. "You got a problem with that?" 

"Nope. I do my best work on the fly. No pun intended. I'm Vic." 

"Nice to meet you. Now shut up and fly." 

"You might want to hear this." 

I put the gun near Vic's face. I wasn't about to be talked out of this. 

"If we veer off course, they'll know it immediately." 

"How long before we're intercepted?" 

"They may have someone on the ground waiting for us. Or once they 
figure out the situation, they could have us shot down." 

"We'll have to take our chances." 

I sat next to Vic, in the co-pilot's chair, but kept the weapon trained 
on him. 

"You can put that down," he said. "I got no love for the aliens." 

"Then why are you working for them?" 

He shrugged. "They needed experienced pilots. I didn't want to go to a 
death camp. Why are you working for them?" 

"I'm not. Not anymore. Vic, I want you to show me how to fly and land 
this thing. Then, take one of those parachutes and find a safe place to 
jump." 

"You can't kick me out of my own plane." 

"I could just shoot you." 

"Then do it. I'm not going anywhere." 

* * * 



SKINNER 

It was nearly noon by the position of the sun. It hadn't made the day 
any warmer. As all the prisoners gathered, white vapors streaming from 
their mouths and nostrils, I found myself searching out the guards who 
had been the most abusive. Mulder positioned himself at the front of 
the gathering. My job was to watch the back, look for access before and 
during the procession of the condemned to the wall. Two hanging nooses 
swayed in the cold breeze, waiting for their occupants. Spender and 
Krycek. 

Their corpses would remain hanging there until decomposition caused 
them to fall away piece by piece. Not if we could help it. I nodded to 
Mulder. He thumbed his nose at me. I had to smile. I was starting to 
feel a little like Butch Cassidy myself. The army was closing in. There 
was no place to go, but out in a blaze of glory. 

The procession to the wall was beginning. 

* * * 

MULDER 

I find my concentration divided between thoughts of freedom and 
thoughts of Scully. I don't believe I will see either ever again. 
Freedom for freedom's sake is fine, but how can I dream of life or 
liberty without her? For seven years she was my beacon, a brilliant 
torch in my darkest of caves. For years I have pursued the truth like 
an obsession not realizing the one concrete truth that stood before me, 
or rather, beside me. From the moment she stepped into my office that 
first day, until the day they physically separated us on that hill, I 
have loved Dana Scully. And *that* is the truth. 

Though walls and barbed wire separate us; though time diminish us; 
though bullets destroy us, chipping away at our physical being; though 
life escapes us with each day's passing, I realize that the only time I 
was ever truly alive was when I was with her. 

For that, I am grateful. 

Now as I watch the line of guards and aliens heading for the wall, I 
take a deep breath, and strengthen my resolve by believing that 
wherever I end up in death is where Scully waits for me now. There is 
no romanticism in this statement. But it is plain to me that there is 
only one place for me in life or in death, and that is by her side. 

I wait for the moment to strike. My hands that shook with fear and 
anticipation a mere hour ago have relaxed. Time, Scully once said to me 
long ago, was a universal invariant. So, Scully, are we. So are we.



* * *



SCULLY
30 Thousand Feet 

"It's them," Vic said as he listened intently to the headphones. "They 
want to know why we're changing course. What do you want me to tell 
them?" 

I thought about it for a second and realized it didn't matter. I 
reached over and turned the radio off. Rather than anger Vic, this made 
him smile. 

"I like your style, red." 

"Don't call me that." 

"Then give me a name." 

"Scully. How close are we?" 

"Already started our decent. So, Scully, who's the guy?" 

"My partner. And my boss." 

"You guys must've had one heck of a working relationship." 

"You could say that." I relaxed my hold on the gun. I no longer saw Vic 
as a threat to my mission. 

"You know," he said, "you may want a more structured plan once when 
we're on the ground. I know how to handled those riot guns." He pointed 
to the extra one I now had slung across my back. "If you want a hand." 

I had to think about it. I had no reason to trust him. I had no reason 
not to trust him either. I pulled the weapon over my head and handed it 
to him. 

He knew how to handle it, all right. He checked it for ammunition. I 
waited for him to point it towards me. He simply settled it on the 
floor by his feet and continued flying the plane. 

"So what's the plan?" he asked.



* * * 

MULDER 

Krycek had to be revived twice as they lead him to the wall. They 
unceremoniously doused him with water, then continued to drag him to 
where destiny awaited. He didn't fight or protest or beg for his life. 
I'd never seen Krycek so calm before. 

Spender was another matter. He was yelling. About freedom. About being 
human. About escape. I could see the men around me getting fired up. I 
could feel the electricty in the air. Everyone was waiting for someone 
else to make a move. 

Once beside Krycek, they tried to put a black hood over his head. 
Spender refused. Krycek didn't care. They gave them no chance for last 
words. They placed the rope around their necks. 

Now is the time for all true men to come to the aide of their planet. 

I grabbed a guard from behind in a chokehold and pulled him in front of 
me like a shield. Skinner was there in a blink of an eye wrenching the 
guard's weapon from him. 

The other guards began to fire. The guard in front of me shuddered and 
screamed as each bullet slammed into his flesh. 

Skinner dropped and rolled and came up firing. Skinner the A.D. was 
rapidly replaced by Skinner the Marine. He shouted as he fired, blowing 
away a dozen soldiers before dropping and rolling again for cover. 

I tossed the dead guard into a line of advancing guards, grabbed a 
discarded weapon and returned fire. The weapon had amazing kick, but I 
stood my ground against it and let it rip. 

The crowd of prisoners quickly dispersed, running madly. A few 
retrieved dropped weapons and began fighting with us. We had a true 
revolution on our hands. Alarms blared, klaxons rang and bright lights 
strafed the ground. The insurrection was in full swing. I was Nat 
Turner, John Paul Jones and Arnold Schwarzenegger all rolled into one. 
My only regret was that I had only two feet with which to kick the 
aliens' butts. 

I looked for Skinner. Somehow, a half dozen men had found weapons and 
had aligned themselves with him. They were keeping the guards back. 

"Get them down!" Skinner yelled. 

I saw a clear path to the wall and made my way there. A guard saw me, 
and hit the lever. The floor fell out from under Krycek and Spender, 
and they fell with it and began to swing. 

"NO!" 

I aimed and fired, missing the first time. I cursed and aimed and fired 
again. The bullet severed the rope that held Spender and he fell to the 
ground. I aimed for Krycek. Just as my finger was about to squeeze the 
trigger, I felt something like lightning strike my right shoulder. I 
hit the ground. I don't know how long I lay there. It could have been a 
second, it could have been a full minute, but the pain was blinding. 

When my vision cleared I raised the weapon and fired from where I lay. 
Call it luck, but that bullet clipped Krycek's rope and he hit the 
ground as well. 

I felt hands on me, pulling me to my feet. It was Skinner. He pulled 
one of my arms over his shoulder and dragged me behind the wall and 
tried to sit me down and against it. 

"No!" I shouted and force my way to my feet. 

"Mulder, you're shot!" 

I didn't want to listen to him. I refused to believe I had failed so 
quickly. I pushed him away. He followed me to the other side of the 
wall where Spender and Krycek lay. Spender was fighting to get out of 
the ropes that bound his wrists. The rope was still tight around his 
neck. I could see blood staining the rope and he was gasping for 
breath. Krycek was not moving. I untied Spender and pulled the noose 
from his neck while Skinner attended Krycek. 

"You okay?" I yelled at Spender, fighting the temptation to close my 
eyes and black out. 

He nodded and tried to stand up. I tried to help him. That was stupid. 
I nearly collapsed. 

"MULDER!" Skinner yelled. Spender and I made our way over to them, with 
me practically crawling. 

"He's gone," Skinner said, though still feeling for a pulse around 
Krycek's throat. 

Despite the confusion and rioting all around us, I sat there staring at 
Krycek's body in disbelief. How many times had I threatened to kill the 
man myself? 

"Let's get out of here!" Skinner yelled, pulling me to my feet. Pain 
raced through me like a truck out of control. I nearly hit the ground 
again until Spender and Skinner caught me. The three of us began 
running. 

Skinner, the Marine, hefted his assault weapon in the crook of his arm, 
and led the way. I found a handgun on the ground and grabbed it, hoping 
I could at least handle that. 

We were stepping over bodies left and right. I wondered for a second if 
we had done the right thing. If we hadn't merely hastened the deaths of 
our fellow prisoners. But something told me by the fervor with which 
they fought that this was preferable to what their reality had become. 
They may die now, but they go down fighting. 

We charged on towards the gate. 

The pain I felt was growing worse. My back was drenched in warm, sticky 
blood, and I could feel it pumping and spilling down with every step. I 
could barely move my arms without sending jolts of agony through me, to 
the point that stars swam before my eyes. But I pressed on, straining 
toward the goal. 

And then we heard it. It made me shudder, made me want to give up, lay 
down and just die. The rumbling of an urban assault tank. It was 
heading our way at top speed. 

We turned to see it mowing down every man it its path. Rolling over 
already dead bodies like insignificant bumps in the road. 

"RUN!" Skinner cried, and we took off. I knew by the roaring in my ears 
and the pain from the bullet wound that I wasn't going to get very far. 

* * * 

SCULLY
20 Thousand Feet 

We'd just began our descent - heading for the coordinates Vic assured 
me would get us to the camp where, according to Spender, Mulder and 
Skinner were imprisoned. Gunfire exploded from the door to the cockpit. 
Sparks erupted when the very bullet that blew a hole through the door 
also damaged the cockpit controls. I turned to fire but fell backwards 
as the plane suddenly dropped several hundred feet. 

Before I could recover my footing, Diana had made her way into the 
cockpit. Her head was bleeding profusely, drenching her dark hair and 
plastering it to her face, soaking into her expensive white blouse. She 
was woozy and unsure on her feet (losing altitude didn't help her 
footing either) yet she was determined to have her revenge. 

Vic was fighting with the controls. I could see it was going to be a 
losing battle. My rescue attempt was all for nothing. At least I tried. 

"Drop the weapon," she snarled, aiming a small caliber weapon at Vic, 
"or we all go down." 

The look on my face must have been incredulous, because despite her 
injury she was looking rather smug. I looked at the gun, remembering 
that I had disarmed her shortly after I conked her on the head with the 
fire extinguisher. 

"A little trick I learned from Fox," she said. Always keep an extra gun 
strapped somewhere. You should have looked Dana, you should have known. 
Now, PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN!" 

I did. We could not afford to lose Vic. And I wasn't about to sacrifice 
him for my foolishness. 

"We're still losing altitude! I need a hand here!" Vic cried. I moved 
to help him, but Diana threatened to fire again. 

"You can't shoot in here!" I warned her. "If that bullet breaches the 
hull it will suck us all right out of here." 

"So long as you die." 

She meant it. She took a step closer, and raised the gun. I felt heat 
just above the bridge of my nose, right between my eyes, as if my body 
was preparing to receive the bullet. I did the only thing I could. I 
closed my eyes, then threw myself against Vic. 

The nose of the plane suddenly took a dip downward. Diana fell, but not 
before firing. 

The windshield exploded. A gust of air was sucked through the cabin, 
pulling Diana toward it, and through it! Her scream, and the sight of 
her body in flight will be the source of many nightmares for a very 
long time. 

I grabbed hold of the cockpit chair and hugged it, unable to breathe, 
unable to see, unable to think. I could hear Vic screaming. He was 
trying tell me something. I could not hear him as the wind screamed 
through the cockpit like a banshee. He was holding onto the other seat, 
but let go with one arm to stretch it out to point at something behind 
me. Before he could grab a hold of the seat again, the wind lifted him 
and carried him out on a deadly current, through what was left of the 
glass. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I just hugged the chair that 
much harder. Part of me wanted to just let go and be released from this 
struggle, go soaring out into the air. I was sure I'd die before I hit 
the ground, certain this death would be a gentler escort than crashing. 
But something in me refused to let go of life so easily, just like it 
refused to let me accept Mulder's fate. 

What was Vic pointing to? Curiosity got the better of me. I looked over 
my shoulder as much as I could without loosening my grip on the seat. 
My hair was slapping my face, stinging, obscuring my vision. But what I 
could see was like a gift from above. There was a parachute. 

I knew that reaching for it could mean my death. It's times like these 
I wish my limbs were as long as Mulder's. I stretched out a leg hoping 
to snag it with my foot. No such luck. I tried again, straining, 
stretching. I could feel muscles pull and pop from the strain. I cried 
out, barely able to release any real sound with so little breath behind 
it. I knew I would lose consciousness soon. I let go just a little, and 
jutted my leg back out again, ignoring the pain from torn muscles. My 
foot caught the back strap. I bent my knee, and heard the pop. The 
strap slipped off, and the parachute remained in its place. 

How close to the ground are we now? Should I just let go and be done 
with it? 

I stretched out one more time. I felt my face contort unnaturally from 
the agony of it all. I hooked my foot around the strap again. I 
imagined succeeding this time. And I did. I bent my leg and the 
parachute came with it. 

It was no easy task working my way into that contraption. I fought and 
struggled, but managed to get it on my back. That was the easy part. 
Now I had to convince myself to let go, and pray that I cleared the 
glass without impact, or without being cut. A simple nick to an artery 
and I would bleed out before I hit the ground. Should my head make 
impact and the glass refuse to yield, I may lose conscious, rendering 
my parachute useless additional weight on my back. Just letting go and 
allowing it to happen goes against everything within me, yet it is what 
I must do. 

What would Mulder do? 

He'd take the chance. He'd let go. 

So I let go. 

* * * 

SKINNER 

Mulder didn't get very far before he hit the ground. The tank was 
advancing, almost on us. Spender was fighting to get Mulder back on his 
feet, but he was like dead weight. 

"RUN!" I yelled at Spender. To his credit, he did not. 

I knew I could not make it to either of them in time, and if I did, 
what would I do? So I did what any self-respecting former Marine would 
do. I went after the tank. 

I fired, not so much out of anger, but to see how the body of the beast 
would be affected by a barrage of bullets. As I suspect, it continued 
at them. So I climbed the beast and found that the military genius that 
resided inside the tank had neglected to lock the hatch. I threw it 
open, lowered my weapon inside and opened fire. 

I heard a scream. He must have fallen forward against the controls 
because suddenly the thing kicked into high gear. I was thrown off of 
it, rolling on the ground, losing my weapon along the way. 

Spender was trying to roll Mulder out of the way now. But it was no 
longer necessary. Even though the tank was moving faster, it was 
veering to the left, just missing the two of them. The tank continued 
until it reached the gate. It barreled through, bringing down most of 
the gate, and short circuiting the electrified barrier. Sparks flew and 
fire and smoke flashed, igniting trees. 

I got up, feeling as if the tank had rolled over me, and made my way to 
Spender and Mulder. Between the two of us we managed to get off the 
ground. We raced toward the broken fence, avoiding sparks and flames 
and live wires as much as we could. 

I heard something above and looked up in time to see an airplane 
roaring toward the ground. I couldn't tell how far away or how close it 
was going to crash, but crash it would and neither Spender nor I 
figured we should stick around and wait. We ran, ran like hell, pulling 
Mulder along. 

The explosion shook the ground and the three of us were thrown. There 
was another explosion, followed by another. The concussion of the 
explosions left my ears ringing. My glasses were long gone. My head 
hurt, my back hurt. And now I was hallucinating. Whatever it was was 
blurry, but it was definitely something white and diaphanous floating 
to the ground. I wondered for a second if it was an angel, but realized 
it looked more like a giant mushroom than a celestial being. So I let 
my head fall back to the ground and closed my eyes waiting for the 
mushroom to land. 

* * * 

SPENDER 

If someone had told me this was how things would have turned out, I 
would not have believed them. I was thrown hard by the explosion, and 
was convinced that I had broken the same arm again, this time in 
another place. I looked back at the camp and saw that it was ablaze. 
Prisoner were still running, the tank was still going, just a tiny blip 
in the horizon. I shook Mulder. He didn't respond. I turned him over to 
look at the wound. It looked bad. I checked his vitals - his breathing 
was shallow. His pulse was thready. 

And then I went to Skinner. He was a little better off, if not 
delirious. He said something about a mushroom over my head. I smiled, 
the first time I could remember smiling in a long time. And then he 
said something else that sent a jolt through my gut and made me turn 
around and look. 

"Red hair." 

I looked up. That was no mushroom. It was parachute. And there was a 
person suspended from it. A woman. With red hair. 

"SCULLY!" I cried, waving my good arm. 

Despite the parachute she hit the ground hard. Once she did, I lost 
sight of her. She seemed so much closer to us when she was in the air. 

I ran like crazy, trying to find her, looking for the white parachute. 
What if she'd hit the ground too hard? What if she was hurt or 
unconscious? What if she was already dead? I could not stand the 
thought of losing her. Not after all she had come to mean to me. It was 
all so clear to me now. Everything I did to save Mulder and Skinner, 
sure I did it for them, but mostly I did it for Scully. 

I love her. 

I found her lying tangled among the parachute ropes, half-conscious. I 
pulled her free, then scooped her into my arm and held her and cried. 

"You're gonna be okay," I told her over and over again, gently rocking 
her. "You're gonna be fine." 

"Where's Mulder?" she asked. 

I stopped rocking her. How could I have believed for a moment. . . how 
could I think that in the midst of all that was going on, loving Dana 
Scully would matter at all? 

"Where's Mulder!" she insisted. 

"He's hurt," I told her. Somehow she found the strength to pull away 
from my hold and propel herself to her feet. "This way," I told her, 
leading her to where Mulder and Skinner lay. 

Once she caught sight of them she ran, even though her right leg seemed 
as if it would give out on her at any moment. She practically threw 
herself on the ground before Mulder. 

"Mulder? Mulder, can you hear me?" Her despair was deep. She lay her 
head on his chest, listening intently for his heart beat, then she just 
held him, as if afraid he'd disappear if she let him go. Eventually, 
she moved from Mulder to look at Skinner. Skinner was coming to. She 
turned back to me and stood shakily. 

"What happened, Spender?" 

"It's a long story." 

She nodded. Then she did something I would never have expected, nor 
will I ever forget it. She put her arms around me and drew me to her. 
There was no passion, no desire, just relief. It was enough for me. It 
was enough. 

"Thank you," she said. 

I pulled her away to look at her. "What were you doing up there?" 

"My pitiful attempt at a rescue. Thanks to Diana Fowley." 

"Where is she?" 

"Dead." 

I nodded. I was relieved to hear that. "We have to get as far away from 
here as we can." 

"How?" 

Another explosion dragged my attention back to the camp. Without a word 
of explanation I took off, running as fast as my broken body would 
allow, back to the camp. 

"SPENDER! Where are you going?" 

I was going to find us a way out. 

* * * 

SKINNER 

I heard voices, but the words made little sense at first. Then it all 
started coming together once I heard the name Diana Fowley. 

"Where is she?" That was Spender. 

"Dead." 

"Scully?" I said, or thought I said. My lips didn't move. I tried to 
rise, but could not, so I lay there waiting for full consciousness and 
coherence to come to me. 

Scully? 

"Scully?" There, I said it. 

In a second, a beautiful if slightly battered redhead was kneeling over 
me. 

"Scully." 

"Keep still. I think you have a concussion." 

I didn't care. I lifted up and put my arms around her. She did the 
same, and gasped when she found the criss-cross gouges along my back. 

I pushed myself up into a sitting position. I could barely see, partly 
because of my poor eyesight. And, partly because of the concussion 
Scully warned me about. My head was throbbing. "Where's Spender?" 

"He ran back to the camp. Sir, we have to get Mulder somewhere I can 
treat him. He's losing a lot of blood." 

I stood on shaky legs, looking for Spender. Why would he go back to the 
camp, after all we did to get out of there? I wasn't going to wait 
around to find out. 

"You'll have to by my eyes," I told Scully. We lifted Mulder, draping 
his arms around our shoulders and took off as fast as we could. 

* * * 

We'd been moving for what felt like hours. Exhaustion was quickly 
claiming the two of us. But we knew we could not stop. As soon as word 
got out that we had staged an insurrection and escaped, the Colonizers 
will undoubtedly swoop down and tear the entire state apart searching 
for us. I had no idea where we were going, and hoped we weren't just 
walking in circles. What a tragedy it would be to get this far only to 
deliver ourselves back into the hands of our enemies. All I knew was we 
had to keep moving. 

And then we heard it. We ducked down behind an overgrowth on the side 
of the road and listened as the engine chugged our way. It appeared in 
the distance, growing closer. 

"What is that?" It was all a blur to me. I squinted, trying to see. 

"It's a truck," Scully said. 

"Describe it to me." 

She did. From her description it would have to be one of the trucks 
that delivered new prisoners daily. It must have been on its way with a 
batch of fresh prisoners only to find the camp in ruins. There'd be 
armed guards on board, still following orders, still dedicated to 
shooting on sight any prisoner not bound or confined. 

I heard a moan from Mulder. Of course he chose this moment to strike 
out and yell in delirium. 

"Keep him quiet!" I ordered Scully. 

The truck passed us going about forty and stopped several hundred feet 
in the distance, brakes screeching. 

Had they found us? 

"Scully!" Mulder yelled out. 

"I said . . .!" 

She clamped a hand over his mouth. "I'm trying!" 

From what I could see, several armed individuals jumped off of the back 
of the truck. They began walking around, looking through the bushes, 
behind trees, digging through vines and overgrowth. Looking for us. 

"Guards?" 

"I don't think so," Scully said. "They're not wearing uniforms." 

"What?" I squinted, hoping my vision would clear just for a moment, 
long enough to see what Scully was seeing. 

"What do they look like?" 

"Like you." 

"Stay with Mulder," I ordered Scully, then crawled towards the road 
hoping that closer proximity would allow me to see a bit better. 

And then I saw the driver of the car. He jumped down from the high 
perched seat, cradling his arm as he hit the ground. 

"Skinner!" he shouted. It was Spender! 

I didn't respond at first. Was he looking for us to help us, or to take 
us back? The only thing that was clear to me was that they were armed, 
and at the moment, we were not. 

"Skinner!" 

One by one they crawled back onto the back of the truck. They were 
giving up. Not Spender, though. He kept roaming, looking, calling out. 
The others seemed to be trying to convince him to get back on the 
truck. One of them jumped down and aimed his weapon on Spender. They 
were going to force him to join them, or leave him behind. 

We needed that truck. 

I stood up. "Spender!" 

They turned this way. Spender began running in my direction. Others 
started spilling off the back of the truck. They were armed, but they 
didn't seem interested in firing on me. 

"Where's Scully! Where's Mulder?" he yelled, stopping short to take a 
breath. 

I didn't say anything. Not at first. I still needed to know where young 
Spender stood in this war. 

"Sir, please! We have a truck. We need to get out of here. I know how 
to get us underground but we have to go now before they come looking 
for us!" 

Scully took matters into her own hands. I guess she felt she could 
trust him.
She stood. "Over here!"



* * * 

SCULLY 

Spender drove while I did what I could for Mulder. There really wasn't 
much to do but patch him up. He needed stitches, he needed clean 
bandages. He needed a hospital. Spender said there were small 
underground resistance way-stations where we could find help here and 
there, and while he had a general idea of where to find them, it still 
might take time to get there. Time Mulder didn't have. 

Skinner was stable. His wounds were infected and he was still suffering 
from the damage done from pneumonia, dehydration and exposure, but with 
rest and proper medicine and treatment he would eventually be healthy 
again. I looked over the other five men who had come along. None of 
them were in the best of health, but there was no threat that they 
would succumb to their injuries or illnesses anytime soon. 

I convinced them to stop the truck long enough for me to climb into the 
cab with Spender for a bit. Spender refused to let me look at him. And 
he refused to look at me. 

"Spender, why are you doing this?" 

"Just leave me alone, all right?" 

"Is this something to do with what happened when you found me today?"
My voice was a low monotone. I wanted the emotion out of the moment as 
much as possible. 

"You could say that." 

"Please explain it to me." 

"It has more to do with me than with you. I saw something that never 
existed. I thought it did, but I was wrong." 

"What did you see?" 

"It's not a tangible thing. I believed in something that wasn't true. 
It compelled me to do things." 

"Bad things?" 

"No. Good things. I'd like to believe I would have done them anyway." 

"I believe you would have." 

"Somehow I don't know if it's in my nature." 

"Spender, I survived these past few months only because of two things. 
One, hoping against all hope that I would find Mulder again. Two, 
because of you." 

He looked at me now. 

"You gave me hope when I thought all was lost. Your weekly visits to 
the lab kept me alive." 

"Even when I had bad news?" 

"Even then. You kept me sane, connected to the human race. You gave me 
something to live for, to look forward to. I'm sorry that I can't give 
you exactly what you want. But if it's any consolation, what you have 
grown to feel for me, what you did because of it, sustained me. It was 
like breath to my lungs. Food to my soul. I will always be grateful to 
you for that. Please know that even though I've decided, or maybe fate 
has decided, my place is with Mulder, it does not diminish how 
important you have become. Please don't disappear, or go away, or 
ignore me. If things had been different, you may not have even noticed 
me." 

"That's not true," Spender said. Something about his eyes reminded me 
of Mulder. So strong, yet so haunted. "You're an amazing woman." 

"That's because you've only had Diana to compare me to." 

He laughed. He actually laughed. I'd never thought him capable of it. 

"Now, will you please let someone else drive so I can take a look at 
your wounds?" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End Chapter 5 

Lacadiva @aol.com 

One more to go. Merci, Merci.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




AT LIBERTY (6/6) 

by 

Lacadiva 

Rating: PG-13/R for violence
Category: Post-Colonization/Mulder-Skinner Friendship 
/Muldertorture/Skinnertorture/Krycektorture/Spendertorture/ScullyAngst. 

Spoilers: The Conspiracy Arc.
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one.
Summary: Mulder and Skinner fight to survive in a Colonizer's prison 
camp. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race. I have
kept the faith."
2 Timothy 4:7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At Liberty (6/6) 

by 

Lacadiva



SCULLY 

We found a densely wooded area and covered the truck with as much 
foliage as possible, and sat still for the night. We were, all of us, 
exhausted, but made plans to rotate watch over Mulder every three 
hours. It was my turn, and even though Skinner's turn was coming up, I 
decided I'd let him sleep a little longer. 

I ran my hand over Mulder's head, feeling the soft yet scratchy growth 
of new hair. I cringed when I found the branded barcode. I felt his 
limbs for broken bones, disturbed by his thinness. I am unable to 
detach myself emotionally as if forgetting that I am a doctor. I count 
every wound, every bruise, gash, scar and scratch and oscillate between 
outrage and empathy. I cry tears of bitter hateful anger and tears of 
unmitigated sorrow. I squeeze his hand, willing him, begging him to 
squeeze back. I cling desperately to the hope that Mulder would come to 
so he could know that I was here. 

I found a flashlight. The battery was dying, the light diminishing. 
Every few minutes I would turn it on and shine its dull light on 
Mulder's face, hoping to find his eyes open. Each time I was 
disappointed. I lay down beside him, letting my lips comes just to his 
ear. 

"Mulder? Mulder, it's me," I whispered, as if it were some magical 
incantation guaranteed to restore his failing life. "There are so many 
things I haven't had a chance to tell you. Things that I didn't know 
myself until now. Mulder, I won't say that I can't go on without you. 
But please know that the world, no matter how horrible or frightening, 
is a far better place with you in it. You are as important to me as my 
own life. No, more important than that, if you can imagine. I'm not 
ready to say goodbye to you yet, Mulder. So if you could allow me this 
one last indulgence. You see, as it happens, Mulder, and contrary to 
what you might think, I do love you. But such a thing seemed so 
insignificant when measured against the threat we face. Not anymore. 
You have my heart, Mulder. And if you die, you take it with you. Where 
the heart goes, the body must follow. So, what do you say?" 

His eyes began to flutter. His breath hitched. I sat up and stared down 
at him, hoping, praying that he was not lost to me. 

"Scully?" 

"Yes! Yes, it's me, Mulder." 

He smiled, opening his eyes to thin slits. 

"'Bout time you got here," he said, and drifted back to sleep.



* * * 



SPENDER
December 4th
Former Canadian Wildlife Preserve 

I was never much of a camper. But I've learned to be. I've learned a 
lot recently. We hide from the enemy, but we also train, train to be 
fighters. The men we escaped with, under the tutelage of former Marine 
Walter Skinner, have turned into a rather formidable force. The men and 
women we've picked up along the way are also important members of our 
growing resistance unit. We learn day by day what it means to be human, 
what it means to be united, and how important it is that the forces 
that threaten to annihilate us never succeed. 

Mulder grows stronger everyday, as does my admiration for him. He is 
every bit the man I remembered back in the FBI and more. He may no 
longer wear the suits or the badge, but he is as sharp and as 
indefatigable and sometimes as infuriating as he was before. The thing 
is, more often than not, he is right. It is because of him, Skinner and 
Scully that we survive. 

Scully keeps us strong, both as a doctor and as a positive force in the 
resistance. It was difficult at first. People tend to dismiss her 
because of her diminutive stature, and chalk her fiery nature up to her 
naturally red hair. Sometimes, like me, they see her beauty before her 
strength, or mistake her vulnerability for weakness. What they miss 
along the way is that she represents the very best of what it means to 
be human: Compassion, strength, conviction, humility, resilience, and 
perseverance. No wonder even Diana could not allow Scully's demise. 
Everyone she touches cannot help but be better for it. 

As for me, I accept my role in this resistance. That I am placed so 
highly is a surprise to me, and very much an honor. My being on the 
inside has given me great insight into how the Colonizers operate and 
think, and what to expect from their human conspirators. 

I remember my father, always seeming to change sides at the drop of a 
hat. Always hedging his bet so that he would end up on the side of the 
winner, no matter who it might be. I have determined that there is only 
one side to be taken in this war, and I am dedicated to it. I remember 
Krycek once taunting me about becoming an important man. In some ways, 
and with thankfully no help from my father, I guess I am. 

* * * 

SKINNER 

I remember coming back from the war and feeling less than a hero. I 
remember being promoted to Assistant Director of the FBI only to watch 
as friends and colleagues who felt overlooked turned away. I remember 
my marriage to Sharon almost ending in divorce, but ultimately ending 
in her death. Not exactly an auspicious life. 

Things have changed. 

The concept for which we fight is as old as our species. The enemy we 
fight is older than that. My imprisonment has taught me many things. 
The most important is to be grateful for each day and for everyone in 
it. There is no more room for the pettiness of our overindulgent past. 
Rank means nothing. Position means nothing. All that we have is all 
that we need. To live is to struggle, and to struggle is to live. We no 
longer seek the conveniences and comforts that were once our only true 
goals. We now walk directly into the belly of the beast ready to take 
arms and fight. Ready to win. 

We will conquer the conquerors. I am convinced of it. 

I remember wondering if I had once abandoned all hope. I did for a 
while. Hope returned in the form of friends. So long as they are there, 
there will always be hope. 

* * *



MULDER 

I find my concentration once again divided between thoughts of freedom 
and thoughts of Scully. While once I believed I would see neither 
again, fate has graciously chosen a different road for me. One that has 
many bumps along the way, but we've traveled roads like this one 
before. How many times have we been separated, snatched away from each 
other only to be returned, broken, battered, yet still who we are? Such 
resilience is surely a gift we dare not take for granted. I feel that 
the universe is in balance again, if such a thing is possible. I feel 
as if I can overcome whatever adversity comes this way, so long as Dana 
Scully remains by my side, and I remain by her. I will do everything I 
can to preserve and protect this privilege. I must. For life without 
Dana Scully, I have known since the beginning, is no life at all. 

While I cannot state with confidence or certainty that we will succeed 
against the alien conquering force, I do contend with clarity of 
thought and vision that our mere survival means the impossible is quite 
possible. So long as we are at liberty we cannot take it for granted. 
So long as other are enslaved or imprisoned, how can we breathe until 
they, too, are at liberty again? 

This is our mission. 

* * * 

SCULLY 

"Mulder?" 

He turned away from the maps laid out before him. He was looking more 
like himself. His hair was growing back. It is very gray, however. 
We've taken to calling him the Silver Fox behind his back. He'd finally 
stopped losing weight. His wounds were healing well. The slightly 
mischievous look in his eyes that I had started to miss was back. 

"We're ready to leave." 

He quickly folded the maps and tossed them onto the seat of the truck. 

"I'm driving. You wanna ride shotgun?" 

"Sure," I said. I go where you go, I thought, certain that by now he 
already knew. 

We are heading back to the States. Our mission is to pick up whatever 
survivors we can find along the way. We must also find ways to obtain 
supplies and take vehicles if we can to accommodate our rapidly 
expanding numbers. We will also take out as many Colonizer 
installations along the way as possible. It will not be easy. But we 
all look forward to the challenge. And to the future. 

Mulder offers me his hand to help me up into the truck. I take it, just 
because I have grown to appreciate the grandeur of small gestures such 
as these. That Mulder is alive and his hand is still warm and strong 
brings joy to my heart and a smile to my lips. 

"What?" he asks me. 

"Nothing," I say. 

We drive off, in search of the future.



~ ~ ~



THE END 

AT LIBERTY 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Thank you, as always, for your kind attention. Your comments may be 
send to lacadiva @ aol.com.