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