Title: Trust 2: Water
Author: Parrotfish
Series: Trust
Written: November 1996
Rating: PG (violence, disturbing imagery)
Classification: T (Mythology story)

Summary:Mulder and Scully learn of the existence of a computer file that may reveal the truth about Scully's abduction -- but going after it means putting a friend in danger. Warning: This story is a cliffhanger!

Author's Note -- This is the second story in a series called "Trust." You don't have to read the first story, "Trust: Fire," in order to follow this one. But to appreciate what I'm trying to do with this series, you should read all installments.

So what am I trying to do with this series? I'm trying to take the X-Files from a very familiar context -- the show as we see it on TV -- and move gradually toward new territory that would not likely be included in the TV version. "Trust: Fire" was a straight X-File, and it introduced the character of Rachel Sachs, who will appear throughout this series. "Trust 2: Water" puts our heroes on the road to learning some truth about the conspiracy, about their past, about themselves, and about their feelings for each other. Much of this will play out over the course of future installments in this series. It is my goal eventually to provide some closure on matters of plot, character, relationship and theme. The installment before you contains angst and UST, but no MSR. I'm saving the good stuff for later.

Seaview, Virginia is a made-up place.

Again, please note: THIS IS A CLIFFHANGER! I feel it's a complete story, but, if I've done my job, you should be panting for the next installment when you finish reading this.

Thank you: To Chris Carter for creating The X-Files; to David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson and the entire cast and crew for bringing this marvelous series to life; and to Fox for putting it on the air.

Monday, July 7, 1997 6:20 PM
J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Not enough.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

"Scully? Will you please say something?"

Counting to ten was not going to be enough.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder? That I don't care whether there's any evidence on which to base our report? That the killer was actually possessed by the spirit of a long- dead, psychotic ax-murderer? That I was wrong? What? JUST WHAT The HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

The sudden silence that followed her outburst was oppressive. Scully glared at her partner, her jaw clenched so tightly that he could see the joints on either side of her face bulge with tension.

"Scully, you're being completely irrational."

She paused before answering, weighing how far to go. "Am I, Mulder? I don't think so. But what the hell -- I'm in a generous mood. I'll give you that. I'm being completely irrational. Is that any reason for you to be so goddamn nasty?"

"Listen, Scully, if you can't face up to an irrefutable argument without throwing around personal accusations, I think you'd better consider getting into another line of work."

She stared at him for a long moment, wishing his words unsaid. But that, she knew, was impossible.

"Mulder, I'm going home," she began, her voice tightly controlled, the raw edge of fury plain. "If you really want me to find another line of work, then that's exactly what I will do. You think about it for a while. But don't take too long. My patience is wearing exceedingly thin."

With that, F.B.I. Special Agent Dana Scully picked up her purse and walked out the door of the basement office, closing it firmly behind her.

Special Agent Fox Mulder sat motionless and stared at the door for a long while afterward. Finally, he grabbed a paperweight from his desk and hurled it at the door with all his force.

"Shit!"

Scully's Apartment Later That Evening

"Shit!"

"Boy, he really got to you, didn't he?"

Scully considered her friend's question.

"Rachel, why is it that the things we value most in our lives also bring us the most pain?"

"No fair, Dana. You skipped straight to the Final Jeopardy round. Can't we start with the easier stuff, like 'Does god exist,' or 'Did O.J. really do it?'"

Scully smiled, which caused her friend to grin broadly.

"That's better. Y'know, Dana, it's kind of hard for the rest of us to understand a relationship like the one you have with Mulder. I mean, other people do have some serious relationship problems, but they're generally pretty down-to- earth. Like, 'He can't make a commitment,' or, 'He's sleeping with other women.' Not, 'He believes that six horrible murders were committed by the spirit of a dead man acting through an unwilling medium.'"

"It is kind of different, isn't it?" Dana wondered what Rachel would think if she dared tell her about all the far more outrageous things Mulder believed. The things she was beginning to half-believe. An international conspiracy to cover up experiments involving the combination of extraterrestrial and human DNA. The existence of a massive project to genetically tag the entire population of the United States. Her own abduction by aliens.

*Don't go there.*

"But Rachel, he's not my boyfriend. He's my partner. 'He's sleeping with other women' doesn't come into it, anyway."

"Yeah, right." The slender, dark-haired woman snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, not nothing! What was that supposed to mean?"

"Look, Dana, I realize your professional life is pretty damn complicated, and you've got a thousand and one reasons for keeping things cool between you and your partner. But nobody who cares as deeply for a man as you do for him could possibly be oblivious if he started sleeping with other women. Or men, for that matter."

"What makes you think I care so deeply?"

"Simple. You wouldn't be this pissed off at him if you didn't."

"Can't argue with that."

The two women fell silent and went back to peeling and slicing the peaches that lay on the kitchen table between them.

"Think that's enough?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah. Throw 'em in the blender."

Rachel did as she was told, then hit the "High" button.

She didn't quite get the results she expected.

The top of the blender went flying through the air, releasing a cloud of lumpy peach daiquiri that splattered everything in the kitchen. Rachel screamed and took a step backward, catching her foot in the blender's electric cord. She fell backward, pulling the appliance off the counter onto the floor with her. There was a loud crash.

"FREEZE!"

A minor kitchen disaster she could have handled.

The man who'd burst into the room and held her at gunpoint was another matter.

Mulder took in the scene before him. There was fruity- smelling goo everywhere, including on the woman who sat on the floor looking up at him in terror. And on Scully, who was glaring at him from the other side of the room.

He relaxed his grip on the gun. "I heard a loud noise...and then a scream, and this crash. I thought..."

"It's okay, Mulder. We just had a little accident with the blender."

Rachel noted the gentle tone of Dana's voice. To her, it was the most surprising thing in this decidedly surprising situation.

"You must be Mulder," she said as she picked herself up off the floor.

"Ummm....yeah." He holstered his weapon.

"Rachel Sachs. You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands. Mine are a bit sticky at the moment."

"Sure. Look, I'm sorry..."

"Forget it. She's already told me about you."

Rachel walked off toward the bathroom.

"What was that supposed to mean?" Mulder asked, turning to Scully, who was not quite as messy as her friend.

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

"Look, Scully, I came over to apologize. I went a little too far today. You weren't being irrational. I know I said...I mean, I implied that you should...I said things I didn't mean. Really."

Scully sighed. "I know, Mulder. But I've gotta tell you, I still don't buy this cockamamie theory of yours. And if I don't, you know no one else will."

"Yeah. But I've got to call it the way I see it."

"I know."

Rachel walked back into the kitchen at that moment, rubbing her short, wet hair with a towel. Mulder glanced at her, then said to Scully, "We'll talk tomorrow. You've got company. I'd better go."

Rachel heard a faint echo of sadness in his voice. "You don't have to go," she told him.

"No, I'd better. I'm sorry for the confusion, Ms. Sachs."

"Rachel."

"Rachel."

Mulder left.

"He doesn't like me very much, does he?" Rachel said, looking after him.

"He doesn't like anyone very much."

Rachel turned to her friend and smiled. "I think he's made at least one exception to that rule."

Friday, July 11, 1997 3:00 AM
Washington, D.C.

Scratch scratch scratch. Scratching out a living.

The rats were fat and happy in these parts, by the looks of them. This one was huge and dark, with tiny eyes blacker than the brown-black of its fur. Why did people think rats had red eyes? No, they had eyes the color of crude oil, just as wet and slick-looking. Tiny bead of oil in long, pointed faces. Whiskers and noses that twitched with alertness. Tiny claws on tiny paws scratching, scratching, scratching through shapeless mounds of useless trash. Useless to us, maybe. Dinner to them.

Mulder stretched his long arms over his head, trying to work out the kinks that had settled in during his three-hour late- night vigil at a dark construction site.

He watched the rat scratch away on top of the dark pile. Probably got some scraps here before, and he's back to try again. Conditioned reflex in the purest Pavlovian sense.

Mulder's own reflexive drooling had started earlier in the day when he'd listened to the message on his answering machine. Nothing but the address of this construction site and a time. But he'd recognized the voice -- Marita. She'd been feeding him information for months now. Nothing big -- just little tidbits. Enough to make him salivate at the sound of her voice, at the thought that one of those tidbits might actually be bigger than she realized, something he could really turn to his own advantage. Something that shed some light on his sister's disappearance so many years ago, or maybe Scully's.

Scully. Thank god she had no idea where he was. She'd burst an artery. One of his, probably. She hated the way he let himself be led around by the nose, as she put it.

Was she far wrong? He knew as well as she that most, if not all, of the information he was fed came from his enemies. He could never be sure whether it reached him with their knowledge or not. Were his informants traitors to the consortium, or were they acting under orders? Did those mysterious forces actually want him to unravel this mess bit by painful bit, using the frustratingly slim leads they gave him? Were they using him to some end of their own? Or was he actually one step ahead of them?

He never knew. The way things always played out, he could never be sure. Everything was always left open to multiple interpretations. How much that he and Scully had seen was what it appeared to be? The experiments? The clones? The aliens? He knew what he believed they were. But even he had to admit there was room to doubt.

Scully doubted. In fact, she was completely predictable that way. Leave her the tiniest wiggle room, and she'd squirm her way into the most conventional available explanation. She drove him absolutely crazy that way.

Mulder sat on the step protruding from the doorway where he'd spent half the night. What made her refuse to believe that the least conventional explanation might in fact be the correct one? Why did she always resist so strongly?

But he knew he was damn lucky she did. He needed her to resist leaps of faith precisely because he himself was so prone to them. Still, sometimes she drove him crazy.

It wasn't fair to her, really. The irony was, he never even bothered hoping anyone but she would agree with him. Hell, most people who agreed with his theories were 10K short of a meg. But Scully -- he never seemed to stop hoping. The worst part was, he knew how miserable he'd be if he ever got what he wished for. She just wouldn't be Scully any more.

But sometimes his wishing for the impossible made him behave so badly to her. He'd really scared himself the other day. 'I think you'd better consider getting into another line of work.' What the hell had made him say that? She seemed to have forgiven him, but he knew she'd never be able to forget he'd said it. If only he'd...

Plop.

The envelope fell into his lap from nowhere, startling Mulder so badly that he pulled his gun before realizing he had nothing at which to point it. He looked up, but saw nothing in the darkness above him.

*Good aim,* he thought, looking at the padded disk mailer in his lap.

The show was over. Time to go.

Three rings and then a pick-up.

"Hello?"

"Kill the tape."

A pause and a click.

"Beyers, sometimes I think you boys overestimate your own importance."

"Oh, yeah? Then how come you're calling us? Besides, someday that tape is going to give us evidence of something big."

"Yeah? You expecting Jimmy Hoffa to call?"

"What's up, Mulder?"

Mulder was grinning broadly, his sock-clad feet propped up on his coffee table, one hand idly flipping a floppy disk over and over.

"Translation job."

"What is it this time? Navajo code-talk? Ancient Mayan? A Bob Dole campaign speech?"

"Nothing quite that obscure. Japanese."

"Cakewalk. Something important?"

"I don't know. Depends what's in it."

"Mulder, have you been hanging around with shady secret informants again? We told you not to talk to strangers in dark garages with no license plates on their cars."

"Actually, it was a dark construction site this time. And I didn't see their car. I didn't even see them. Or him. Or her. Or whatever."

"Y'know, Mulder, for a certifiable paranoid, you're absurdly trusting."

"Yeah, I know, Beyers. Listen, can you guys get it done quietly?"

"What's in it for us?" Frohike's voice.

"Get off the line, you evil little troll," Mulder deadpanned.

"Come on, Mulder. Fair's fair. We do something for you, you do something for us."

"I know what you want, Frohike. If I gave it to you, I'd have to kill you."

"You mean, if she didn't kill you first." Beyers again.

"Damn straight. Listen, how do you want me to proceed?"

"Leave it in the usual place," Beyers instructed.

"Oh boy. Does that mean I get to see you three do the Dorothy Hamill impersonation again?"

"Not that place. The other one."

"Oh. Okay. It'll be there within the hour."

"Right. We'll contact you when we have something."

"Copy that, Big Tuna. This is Little Smelt signing off. Over and out."

Mulder hung up the phone, still smiling. God, those guys were goofy. He figured he liked them so much because they were the only people he knew who were goofier than he was.

Well, almost.

After leaving the floppy disk in a trash can outside the Air and Space Museum (much as he hated to admit it, he admired the Lone Gunmen's sense of humor), Mulder was halfway home when he realized there was absolutely no way he'd be getting to sleep any time soon.

He turned the car around. Ten minutes later, he was standing outside Scully's apartment.

He heard her lean against the door to look through the peephole before unlocking and opening it.

"Mulder? What are you doing here?"

He ran his eyes down and up. *Damn. Mistake.*

"Ummm...I'm sorry, Scully. I didn't know you had plans. I'll see you on Monday..."

She was wearing a green dress. Okay, he'd seen her in green before. But this green was lime. And tight. And ended halfway between her knees and her...

"Dana! Who is it?"

Mulder heard Rachel's voice from inside the apartment. His forehead creased with the thought that was forming.

"It's Mulder!"

"Tell him to come in! Maybe he wants to come with us?"

"Come on in, Mulder." Scully stepped aside to let him enter, then closed the door behind him. "So -- do you want to come with us?"

"I don't want to interfere with your plans."

Scully smiled at him. "I'd hardly call them plans. I was just going to do my laundry tonight when Rachel came over and convinced me I was getting old before my time. She says she knows a great club where we can go dancing."

"Chaos. Ever hear of it?" Rachel entered from the bedroom. She was dressed in black from head to toe -- if you could call it dressed. The catsuit fit her like her own skin, and the motorcycle boots looked positively dangerous.

"No. But you two obviously planned to be alone."

"Don't be silly, Mulder!" Scully said over her shoulder as she headed into the bathroom. "Come with us! It'll be fun!"

Mulder was about to decline when he noticed Rachel grinning wickedly at him.

"It's not what you're thinking," she said.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?

"Well, aren't you?"

He crooked a corner of his mouth at her. "I'll never tell."

"Look, Mulder. The only thing you're likely to learn about your partner tonight that you didn't know before is that she looks hot in a lime-green minidress. And we both might find out whether she can actually loosen up long enough to have fun at a very loud, very raunchy, very young night club. And for that matter, we might learn the same about you."

"Is that a dare?"

"If it is, will you join us?"

"Yes."

"Then it is."

Mulder's T-shirt was sticking to his back as he wormed his way through the crowd to the bar.

"Three Sam Adams," he yelled over the madly pounding beat. The music was so loud he could feel it vibrate in his chest.

He turned to watch the dance floor as he waited for the bartender to come back with the drinks. Scully and Rachel were still out there, moving and jumping and turning and carrying on. The three of them had been dancing together for half an hour non-stop before Mulder needed to take a rest. He marveled at their stamina.

This club really did make him feel old. Everyone else looked like they should be home studying for an algebra test or something. And the place could serve as a living demonstration for a lecture on "The Human Anatomy and the Many Ways It Can Be Pierced." On the other hand, the loud music and flashing lights were ideal for wiping thought away. The minute they'd walked in, there had been nothing to do but dance, and dance they did, with no self-consciousness or shame. The rhythm was so overwhelming that his body seemed to start moving of its own accord.

He realized he hadn't thought about the document he was waiting for since they'd walked in. That thought brought with it a pang of guilt. He hadn't told Scully about it, either. Then again, they hadn't been alone. He couldn't exactly inform Scully that he might have obtained new evidence of an international conspiracy in front of some stranger.

Okay, not quite a stranger. Clearly, Rachel and Scully were really becoming friends. This bright, witty, outgoing woman seemed to have a mysterious ability to loosen up his oh-so- serious partner. He envied Rachel that, even though he knew that the nature of his professional relationship with Scully made it impossible for him to have the same effect on her. Oh, well. At least she'd found someone who could do it. And at least that someone was a woman. So far, there were no indications that either one of them was anything but straight. He was secretly thankful.

"Ten fifty, please."

Mulder turned around and dropped some money on the bar. "Keep the change."

"I hope one of those is for me!" someone yelled from behind him. He felt a hand on his back and turned to find Rachel there.

"This must be your lucky night," he said, grinning and handing her a cold bottle.

"Oooooh -- that must have been one of those 'killer smiles' Dana's been telling me about. Does this mean you don't hate me any more?"

"Scully says I have a 'killer smile?'"

"Do you hate me?"

"No."

"Then, yes, that's what she says. Don't tell her I told you. She'd murder me."

"It's our secret." The two of them stood grinning at each other in silence for a moment.

"How long do you suppose it'll be before Dana notices she's dancing by herself?" Rachel yelled, tossing her head back in the direction of the dance floor.

Mulder craned his neck to see past her. "Not too much longer, I'd guess."

"Then you'd better get out there."

"Aren't you coming?"

Rachel smiled even wider. "Nope. She's all yours."

As he wound his way through the pulsing, surging crowd, Mulder found himself thinking absurdly warm and fuzzy thoughts.

Saturday, July 12, 1997 9 AM
Mulder's Apartment

As Mulder drifted awake, he realized the loud knocking was not the sound of his fists pounding the side of a buried train car in his dream, but someone else's fist knocking on his apartment door in real life.

He stumbled off the couch and across the living room to open it. Without waiting to be invited, three odd-looking individuals walked in single-file.

"This meeting of the Three Stooges fan club will now come to order," Mulder mumbled as he shut the door behind them.

"You don't look so good, Agent Mulder," said Langly.

"I was out late."

"Why, Mulder, don't tell me you've gotten a life."

"As a matter of fact, I have. But it's only a 30-day free trial. I'm not sure I'm gonna keep it."

Frohike held out a manila envelope. His voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke. "We're sorry to disturb you, Mulder, but we thought you'd want to see this right away."

"I assume you guys have looked at this already?" Mulder said, taking the envelope and opening it.

"We have."

"And?"

"Japanese health department document."

"What's it say?"

"You'd better read it for yourself."

Mulder sat down and withdrew all six pages the envelope contained. The Lone Gunmen stood and watched silently as he first glanced at each page, then began skimming the contents.

"Oh my god."

"It's not much to go on," Langly said.

"But there are clear references to an undercover, experimental medical project," Beyers added.

"And Scully is mentioned by name." Mulder ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

"There's one more thing before we go," Frohike said quietly. "We just wanted to make sure you saw the endnote."

Mulder flipped to the last page and read.

"Defense Department, huh?"

"Yes," Frohike replied. "This document is clearly cross- referenced with another one there. And from the looks of the citation, that one is likely to be a lot more detailed."

Mulder didn't say anything.

"What do you want us to do, Mulder?" Beyers asked.

"Nothing. Not yet. I have to talk to Scully."

"We understand," Beyers replied.

The funny thing was, Mulder actually believed they did.

He picked up the phone as soon as they left. It wasn't until he heard the barely coherent "Hello" on the other end that he realized Scully would be in no better shape at this hour than he was.

Oh, well. Too late.

"Hi. It's me."

"Mulder? What time is it?"

"'Bout a quarter past nine."

"Mulder, we were out until 4 AM."

"I need to talk to you."

He heard a sigh and the rustling of covers as she shifted her position. "So talk."

"I'm coming over."

"Mulder, I'd really like to go back to sleep..."

"It's important."

There was a long pause. He knew his tone of voice had probably sent a rush of adrenaline singing through her veins. If she hadn't been awake before, she was now.

"I'll start the coffee."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at her kitchen table with two steaming mugs and six printed pages.

Scully read every word before speaking.

"Where did you get this?"

"It fell into my lap, so to speak."

"Mulder, why do you continue to play that game? You know your informants always have their own agendas."

"Nevertheless, the information they provide is generally accurate."

She sighed. It was true. Somehow, Mulder seemed to pull it off -- drawing together snippets of information from the most untrustworthy sources, and piecing them together in order to catch a glimpse of the truth.

So what was this piece of truth trying to tell her? She knew the Japanese government had somehow been involved in whatever happened to her during the three months she'd been missing. She'd been pretty sure that some kind of medical procedure or procedures had been performed on her during that time. What could she learn from this new evidence? Where she'd been taken? What exactly had been done to her? Whether, as Mulder believed, some extraterrestrial force was involved?

Who was to blame?

For so long now, Scully had wanted to know that. She'd wanted someone at whom to direct the almost unbearable rage she felt at the violation she'd suffered. She didn't know what she'd do if she ever found out. Would she take revenge? Would it help?

Mulder watched his partner's face reflect her anguished train of thought. Sometimes, the knowledge of what she'd been through, what she was still going through in the aftermath of her abduction, was so difficult for him to bear that he just turned away, focusing on his own agenda. He knew he'd done that to her before. It was a key ingredient in the mental stew of self-loathing that defined his personality. When she'd told him she'd met other women who'd been through the same ordeal and who were dying of cancer, he'd turned away. At the time, he'd justified the action by telling himself there was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

*Jerk.* What had she thought of him then? Why hadn't she just told him to fuck off and walked out of his life forever?

"Mulder, do you think we can get our hands on this Japanese Defense Department document referenced here?"

Mulder stared at her for a long moment. Christ, this woman had balls. She never turned away from harsh realities. If only he had her courage...

"Maybe. We can try. We'd have to find a hell of a hacker."

"The Gunmen probably know someone."

"I'll call them."

A pause. Then, "Mulder? How come you came to me with this?"

"What do you mean? This is about you."

"That never stopped you before."

Her words hurt. "Things change."

She smiled. "Go call."

Sunday, July 13, 1997 10 PM Office of "The Lone Gunman"

Mulder walked into the cluttered little office and made himself at home. Scully stood uncomfortably near the door.

"Did you find someone?" Mulder asked, stretching his long legs away from the creaky chair in which he sat.

"Yes. But..." Langly paused.

"But what?"

"But it'll cost a fortune."

"I figured as much. What's the number?"

"$20,000."

Scully gasped.

Mulder didn't miss a beat. "Done."

"What?" Scully said incredulously.

"I said done. Half now, half on delivery." Mulder didn't turn to face her.

"Mulder, are you out of your mind? Where are we going to get that kind of money? And what if the information isn't worth it?"

"I have the money, Scully. It's my gamble."

"You can't do that! We're both in this."

"Yeah. But I'm the one who happens to have the $20,000."

Scully walked across the room and stood before him, head tilted back slightly in furious defiance. "I won't let you do this, Mulder."

"You don't have any choice."

"Like I didn't have any choice when they took me?"

*Damn!* Mulder thought. *Why don't I ever think before I open my mouth?*

"That's not what I meant, Scully. We can't just drop a lead because it's too expensive. I know you don't necessarily want to know what happened to you, but this could be..."

"HOW DARE YOU?" She was seething now, and he knew he'd made a mess of it. "Don't you EVER speak to me in that patronizing tone, like I was a patient on a couch, Mulder! You are so goddamn arrogant! You think you're such an expert on the subject of abduction because you've been thinking about it a few years longer than I have. Well, let me tell you something. You have NOTHING on me. Nothing. Don't presume to tell me about denial or repressed memories, like some ignorant white trash living at Lake Okeechobee."

"Scully, that's not what I meant. It's just that you refuse to pursue certain avenues of investigation. I can't just drop this lead."

Scully stood glaring at him for a long moment, her blue eyes hard as gun metal. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." Then, she spun on her heel and marched out.

Mulder flinched when the door slammed. He still didn't turn around. Just eyed the Gunmen coldly. "So how do we do this?"

One Hour Later

Rachel was startled when the doorbell rang. It was late, and she knew no one in the D.C. area who would stop by unannounced.

Correction. Until recently.

She opened the door to admit Dana Scully.

"Dana? What's up?"

"I'm sorry for coming by so late, Rachel. It's just -- I don't know, I didn't feel like going home."

"No problem. Want some tea?"

"Sure. Something herbal."

While Rachel puttered around in the kitchen, Scully idly wandered through her cluttered living room. She'd only been in the apartment once before, and hadn't had time to soak in the scenery. This time, she took note of the eclectic array of antique furniture that didn't quite go together; the bits of dead coral and shells littered across every open surface; the framed Herb Ritts poster with the excruciatingly beautiful photograph of a male nude; the books on the shelves, ranging from marine biology texts to accounts of the Holocaust to cheesy sci fi anthologies to novels by Zora Neale Hurston, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Charles Dickens.

"Here you go."

Scully turned and took the mug Rachel held out to her. Her hand was shaking.

"Dana? You all right?"

Scully sighed. "Yeah. It's just -- I'm really pissed off at Mulder."

"Argument?"

"Big one." Scully sat heavily on the slightly uncomfortable Empire sofa.

"How long has this been going on?" Rachel sat in an overstuffed armchair.

"How long has what been going on?"

"The two of you acting like new lovers." Scully glared at her friend. "Look, Dana, I didn't mean to imply that that's what you are. You just act that way."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning you can be happy as clams together one minute, all warm and comfortable and intimate. And the next minute, you're having a knock-down drag-out."

Scully just stared down into her mug.

"New lovers," Rachel continued as though reading from a textbook, "feel privileged to spend time together. They're acutely aware of every moment. Usually, that's a good feeling. But the slightest irritation can release screaming fury, precisely because the two people are so sensitized to one another. Surprisingly, that's not the stage of a relationship that does people in. It's the next one -- the one where a couple has achieved such a degree of familiarity that the acute sensitivity is gone. In a good relationship, it's been replaced by comfortable contentment. In a bad relationship, nothing is left but boredom and frustration. Your trouble is that you and Mulder aren't lovers, but you're nearly as intimate as lovers. You never get to move on to that close familiarity, so you're stuck in permanent hyper-sensitivity."

"I assume you'll be sending me a bill?"

"No. It's on the house. I find not too many people are willing to pay for relationship counseling from a marine biologist. Most of my clients can't even manage internal fertilization."

Scully smiled faintly. "Besides," she said quietly, "you don't know the half of it."

"I don't?"

"No."

"So what am I missing?"

Scully paused, a range of emotions crossing her delicate features that Rachel didn't know how to read. Then, seemingly reaching a decision, she replied.

"You're missing a whole lot of pain, guilt and fear."

"Look, Dana, I know what the two of you do is really dangerous. I didn't mean to trivialize that."

"No. I'm not talking about your normal, run-of-the-mill dangers involving serial killers and murderous mutants. I'm talking about something...something that happened to me a couple of years back. Something that happened to us. Something that changed everything."

And then it all came pouring out. The tale of her abduction by a lunatic, her harrowing ride bound in a car trunk, and then waking up from a coma in a hospital with no memory of the previous three months. Of Mulder's belief that aliens had something to do with what happened to her. Of her belief that some kind of horrible experiment had been conducted on her. Of the nameless, faceless enemies they'd both been facing for years. Of her sister Melissa's death. Of Mulder's near-death experience alone in the New Mexico desert.

Even in her distress, Scully didn't forget herself. She skirted what little they knew of the secret consortium that seemed to be behind it all, conspiring to control the government, and possibly much more than that. She didn't forget that she had to protect Rachel. Too much knowledge could prove deadly, she'd learned.

Rachel sat motionless, intent through it all, until Scully finally fell silent.

"Dana...I don't know what to say. I can't imagine it."

"No. You can't." There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I really shouldn't have dumped all that on you."

"No -- it's all right." Rachel spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "It sounds to me like you've lost yourself in all of this. You've had to stand up under such an assault of terrible experiences, it's no wonder."

Scully didn't answer.

"So Mulder feels responsible for all of this, right?"

This time, Scully smiled. "Got it in one. How'd you know?"

"Other than the fact that it's tattooed on his forehead?"

"Well, Mulder seems to feel he's not alive if he's not on a guilt trip. It makes him annoyingly self-focused."

"Dana..." Rachel began tentatively. Scully cocked an eyebrow at her, and she continued. "Do you want to know what happened to you while you were gone?"

Scully looked down into her mug and whispered, "No. And I think Mulder hates me for that." For the first time that night, a tear escaped and slid down her cheek. Then another and another. They kept coming.

Rachel moved to sit beside her and wrapped her arms around her friend, who was now weeping openly.

"Dana, if there's one thing I do know, it's that Fox Mulder does NOT hate you."

Monday, July 14, 1997 10:30 PM Outside Dana Scully's Apartment Building

No sooner had Mulder pulled up to the curb than Scully was opening the passenger door and sliding in. She buckled her seatbelt and sat stiffly, staring straight ahead.

"Scully? You sure about this?"

She sat in silence for a long time. Her profile, illuminated by the overhead street light, betrayed nothing. She was closed to him.

"I'm sure," she said finally, still staring straight ahead.

He started driving.

Neither of them said a word during the two-hour drive down the Virginia coast. The tiny town of Seaview was quiet as the grave when they got there.

A small fishing boat was waiting for them by the dock. There was just enough moonlight to make out a man with a long pony tail leaning against the railing. Mulder pulled up alongside and killed the engine. The two agents got out of the car, but instinctively kept it between them, making it harder for a hidden gunman to take them both down at once.

Their contact looked relaxed, unintimidated by the cloak-and- dagger meeting. He was blonde, thin and pale, not more than 21 or 22 years old.

He grinned. "Our mutual friends tell me you have a problem I might be able to solve."

"We hope so," Scully replied.

"Is it abroad?"

"Hey, that's my partner you're talking about!"

Score one for Mulder, Scully thought. No one outdid him in the relaxed-under-pressure department.

"I meant the job. It's in Japan, right?"

"That's right," Mulder said, serious now. "Defense Department. We need this file." He handed the young man a slip of paper.

"You have the money?"

"Can you do the job?"

"I can do the job if you have the money."

"That's convenient. I have the money if you can do the job." Mulder slowly reached into his suit jacket, removed an unmarked envelope and handed it over.

The young man opened it and glanced inside. "Okay, here's the deal," he said, apparently satisfied. "When I have the merchandise, I'll contact you through our mutual friends. Shouldn't take more than a week, maybe less. Be here at 11 PM the day you get the word. I come in, I hand over one disk, you hand over the rest of the money, and I'm outta here. We never see each other again. Got it?"

"Yeah," replied Mulder with a sneer. "I got it."

Without warning, the young man gunned the boat's engine and roared away.

"So that's what would've happened if Bill Gates had turned to a life of crime, huh?"

"I have a really bad feeling about this, Mulder," Scully said, staring out across the dark water.

"Let's go home," he replied.

Tuesday, July 15, 1997 9:27 PM
Fox Mulder's Apartment

*I really don't have the energy for this,* Mulder thought when he heard the knock. He'd spent way too much time in the past couple of days watching Scully watch him with that pained look in her eyes. Was that carefree night spent dancing and laughing really only four days ago? Couldn't have been. Had to have been a lifetime, at least.

He opened the door and his eyebrows rose in surprise. Not Scully. Rachel.

"Mind if I come in?"

"No."

She looked uncharacteristically nervous as she stood in the middle of his living room, glancing around furtively.

He waited for her to speak.

"I wanted to see you..." she began hesitantly.

*See me?* His first thought was of certain interesting possibilities. His eyes darted down and up again, quickly taking in her form. She was athletic, lithe and graceful, with exotic, expressive eyes. He felt a rush of desire for her, but tamped it down hard. She was Scully's friend, and he didn't think Scully would like it if he did what he'd been thinking about. He would have thought Rachel would have shared his reservations. But, much as he had started to loosen up around her, he still didn't know how loyal Rachel felt toward Scully. And he sure as hell didn't know whether she could be trusted.

"Okay, you're seeing me. Can I get you something?"

"No. I mean, I wanted to talk to you. About something Dana told me."

Now Mulder was really confused. He had no idea what to expect. "Okay. Shoot," he said, sitting on the couch. Rachel remained standing.

"It's just that...Dana told me some things about stuff that's happened to her. They were so...such horrible things. I don't know...I couldn't believe...She's so...." She stopped, her voice cracking. Mulder could see she was really disturbed. Or a very talented actress.

"What did she tell you?"

"About her abduction, and the time she can't remember. About her sister, and New Mexico. That you two have enemies."

"She shouldn't have told you any of that."

"She didn't tell me all that much -- not really. I could see she held back more than she said. But I...I can't stop thinking about it. She's so...I don't know. Kind. Intelligent. Good. How can anyone..."

"So you want me to tell you why bad things happen to good people? Sorry, but if I knew the answer to that one, I'd make a fortune on the self-help seminar circuit."

His response had been cold and somewhat nasty, he knew. But what was he supposed to say? This virtual stranger comes barging in, asking him about the incidents that lay at the core of his life, his and Scully's, and he's supposed to provide some kind of -- what? What did she want from him, anyway?

Rachel began pacing up and down his living room. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not making a lot of sense. I just -- I wanted to know what you think happened to Dana when she was gone."

She said it as though she were afraid he would laugh at her.

"What does it matter what I think?"

Rachel paused before answering, considering. "I'm not sure. But I know what you think matters to her. A lot."

That wasn't the answer he was expecting, and it disarmed him. He surprised himself with his own next words.

"Do you know about my sister?"

Rachel shook her head, and Mulder sighed.

"You'd better sit down. This is a long story."

And he told it -- or most of it. How he had been 12 when his sister had vanished, and how he had later recovered memories through hypnotherapy of her strange abduction. How he believed she'd been taken by aliens.

When he got to that part, he stopped and waited for her to reveal herself. This was the part where people let him know which camp they were in -- the one for those who scoffed, or the one for those who believed.

"I can't imagine living with that belief," Rachel said. "It must be hell."

Mulder was silent. For the past five years, there had been only one person in the third camp -- the one occupied by those who weren't true believers, but who respected the journey.

*Looks like Scully finally has some company,* he thought. In a selfish way, it saddened him. He'd always enjoyed the unique role she played in his life. Not that this changed anything really. And maybe it made things easier for Scully, to have a friend who was more like her.

"It's not like I've had too much choice in the matter," he said. "I've had to live with it."

"So is that what you think happened to Dana?"

He hesitated, considering how to answer. "No. What happened to Dana was different. For one thing, her abduction began with a very human captor. For another, she came back. But I'm convinced that there was some kind of extraterrestrial involvement."

"What do you think they did to her?" Rachel's voice was very small.

"I don't know." Mulder's face was cold, closed.

"I think she's very frightened by whatever they did to her," Rachel ventured.

"Yes." He would volunteer nothing more.

There was a long silence.

"I'd better go," she said.

"Did you get what you came for?" he asked.

"I don't really know what I came for," she replied. "Good night."

"Good night."

Thursday, July 17, 1997 10:05 PM
Dana Scully's Apartment

Scully watched a tiny drop of blood well from the pinprick. Just watched it. It grew into a perfect hemisphere that sat trembling at the end of her thumb, its surface tension holding its shape, keeping it from sliding into a thin, red trail across her skin.

She had never been especially domestically inclined, but she could usually handle sewing on a button. Not now, though. Recently, she'd been distracted, screwing up even the simplest tasks. She supposed her hands probably shook, and that's why she'd stuck herself with the needle.

She couldn't help herself. Every quiet moment was broken by the ghostly sound of a phone ringing, a sound generated in her mind when her imagination leaped ahead to the moment when the news came. It was done. The file was retrieved. They could pick it up. Read it. Find out...

Find out what? What would be in it? She'd been over and over that question in her mind. What would she learn from that file that she didn't already know?

For that matter, what did she already know? Months of her life added up to nothing. A black hole. No memories. No way to see the truth and confront it as she would have preferred. And so she had filled the hole with nightmares -- the worst terrors her mind could conjure. Experiments. Torture. Pain. What little she and Mulder had been able to learn about what might have happened to her did nothing to dispel her fears. In fact, it only fed them. There was no concrete evidence, but there were indications, and they all pointed to experiments, torture and pain.

So she had made every effort to slam down the lid on the bottomless pit that three months of her life had become, hoping the demons would be content to stay down there and leave her alone. But now...now the demons were restless, demanding to be seen and heard. At least, that's what she feared. A file. Information. Facts. Evidence.

Did she want to know? What would she do with the knowledge? How would she ever close her eyes and sleep again?

She twitched reflexively when the doorbell rang, and the perfect little droplet of blood leaped from her hand to the couch cushion, creating a tiny spot.

Scully stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked as she rose to answer the door.

"Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" Mulder commented dryly as she stepped aside to admit him.

"Hey, a girl's gotta take comfort where she can find it," she replied, removing her thumb from her mouth. She was pleased at the sound of her own voice -- natural and easy.

Mulder considered one-upping her comeback for a moment, then discarded the idea. He was too preoccupied to bother, anyway.

"The call came."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You ready to go?"

"Sure. Just give me a minute."

There had been silence in the car for fifteen minutes when Scully determined not to let this ride pass as the last had. She glanced over at Mulder, who was driving.

"What do you think is in the file?" she asked tentatively.

"I don't know. I hope it's more than we know now."

She drew a deep breath. "I'm not so sure," she said.

"You're not so sure it'll be more than we know now?"

"I'm not so sure I want it to be."

There was a long silence.

"Scully?" No answer. He tried again. "I wish I knew how to make this easier for you."

"I know, Mulder."

"I think it would be better to know."

"Better? Better for whom?" There was an edge of anger to her voice. "You're always after the truth. What if the truth is..." Her voice cracked. So much for 'natural and easy.'

"What, Scully? Tell me."

"What if the truth is too much to bear?" she replied quietly.

"Oh, Scully." She heard the catch in his voice. "You're here now. You're strong. Nothing you learn about the past can change that."

"I know." She sounded so unsure, like a patient nodding at a doctor who had just given her a long, complicated explanation of her condition. She didn't really get it. She just trusted him not to lie to her when it came to the bottom line.

He wondered if she was doing this entirely for him. Was there any part of her that wanted to know? He couldn't tell. He doubted she could, either. He hoped he wasn't pushing too hard, forcing her into a place she wasn't ready to go. But he couldn't help himself. He believed in the truth as an end in itself, not just as a means to an end. The truth was always better than lies, than ignorance.

Wasn't it?

They spoke little for the rest of the ride. The dock was empty when they arrived.

"He's not here," Scully said as Mulder turned off the car and killed the lights. "It's 11 o'clock. He should be here."

"Let's give him some time."

They waited in the car, looking out over the sea. The moon was nearly full, painting a bright white streak across the water, providing enough light by which to scan the horizon.

"There. He's coming." Scully pointed into the distance.

"Where?"

"There." It took Mulder another minute before he saw the speck at which she'd pointed. She had the eyes of a sailor -- or a sailor's daughter. Which, after all, she was. It took him another few minutes to determine that the speck was growing larger. It was indeed an approaching vessel.

When the fishing boat was no more than fifty yards away, the two agents wordlessly opened their car doors and stood up. It would pull alongside the dock in just a few minutes.

Once again, Scully saw it first. "Oh, no! Mulder, look!"

Mulder struggled to see what she was pointing at now, but he heard it first. The hum of a second engine had joined the first. Then he saw it -- a black speedboat coming in at full throttle, its unrelieved darkness camouflaging it even in the bright moonlight.

"They're gonna ram him!" he yelled. Even as he said it, they heard three shots ring out across the water -- high-powered, high-caliber rifle, he guessed from the sound of it. They both ducked and drew their weapons, but there was no point -- from their position, they couldn't see who was out there, and they were out of range, anyway.

They watched in horror as the larger, faster speedboat bore down relentlessly on the fishing boat. There was a sickening crack when the two vessels made contact. Then, the black boat turned wide and took off the way it had come. The fishing boat sank like a rock.

Relief.

There was no denying it. A powerful, almost tangible wave of relief washed over Scully as she stared out across the sea, now dark and silent. The first wave was followed immediately by another, this one of guilt.

A man had just died. Another soul had just been lost because she and Mulder had pulled it into the maelstrom of their quest, their lives. The ocean was placid, hiding all signs of the bloody crime it had witnessed just minutes earlier.

"Nothing disappears without a trace," Mulder mumbled.

Scully made no reply.

Suddenly, Mulder whirled and pounded the hood of the car. "Damn!" He crossed his arms over his chest, took a few agitated steps away, spun around and locked her in his gaze.

"Rachel," he said. "We'll call her."

"What?"

"We'll ask Rachel to try to salvage the disk."

She turned her head to stare back at him, shock in her eyes. "Rachel?"

"She's an experienced diver. She should be able to do this."

"Mulder, we can't! Leave her out of this!"

"Look, Scully, we have a few hours at best. They'll be back for the disk. With any luck, they'll wait for daylight. We might be able to beat them to it. They probably think we don't have the resources to do this."

"That's crazy! We don't even know the wreck's exact location."

"You saw where it went down, Scully. You're good at this kind of thing. You can find it."

"Even if I found it, we don't know how deep it lies. It might not be accessible."

"It wasn't very far offshore. She could probably reach it. We have to try."

"No, Mulder! What you and I do is our business. We can't drag her into this. It's too dangerous."

"That's her choice to make, Scully, not ours. We'll tell her everything. She's free to refuse."

"Oh, come on, Mulder. You know damn well that's bullshit. She'd be in over her head -- figuratively as well as literally."

"She's an adult, Scully. She can decide if she's willing to take the risk. I think she'll want to help us."

"Of course she'll want to help us! That's precisely the problem. She'll feel she has to help us. That's why it's not fair for us even to ask."

"Damn it, Scully!" Mulder pounded the hood of the car again. "We're so close!"

"You hypocrite!" Scully snapped. She was no longer arguing the logic of the situation, and she knew it. She was furious. She walked toward him as she spoke, stopping just inches before him, spitting her words in his face. "That's what this is about! What you want! And you'll do anything -- use anyone to get it. You'll even rationalize dragging Rachel Sachs, a marine biologist who never bothered anyone and just wants to count her fish, into this dangerous, ugly, evil mess. How could you, Mulder?"

"Fine! Okay! Fine!" Mulder was shouting at her, and forced himself to stop. He lowered his voice, speaking in a tense, tightly controlled monotone. "Fine. Call me selfish. I'm rationalizing. But Scully -- that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Here are the facts. Out there --" he pointed out to sea -- "is information that could take us a long way toward understanding what They're doing...why They're doing it...whom they're doing it to...maybe even who They are. What They did to you." He paused, letting his words sink in. "We may never get another chance. This information could even provide us with ammunition to do something to stop Them. Rachel Sachs is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. We can give her all the facts and let her choose."

He watched Scully listen to him and knew she heard the truth in his words. In her eyes he saw her grief at what they were about to do, but he knew she wouldn't deny the truth. He knew her too well.

"Do you trust her, Mulder?"

"Do you?"

She paused and considered carefully before answering. "Yes. I do."

"Then that's good enough for me."

Friday, July 18, 1997 12:15 AM
Rachel Sachs' Apartment

Rachel sat up in bed, her heart pounding, staring at the phone she'd just hung up.

This had to be a bad dream. It couldn't possibly be real. They couldn't possibly have asked her to attempt to salvage a floppy disk from the ocean floor in the middle of the night, hours after powerful, shadowy forces had shot the disk's owner and rammed his boat.

She couldn't possibly have said yes.

She sat there, her naked legs tucked warmly under the blankets, and felt the edges of sleepy relaxation begin to reclaim her mind.

*Just a dream. That's all. Lie down and go back to sleep.*

Then her eye fell on the pad next to the phone where she'd written down the directions Scully had given her. They'd said they had to make it look like they'd given up and gone home, so they'd drive halfway back to D.C. and wait for her at a dock in Virginia. They'd told her to bring all her diving equipment, as much as she needed to make as many dives as it would take.

They'd also told her it would be dangerous. Not just the diving, which itself was dangerous. Very dangerous. Under any other circumstances, if someone had asked her to do a night dive at an unknown site with little information about what lay below, looking for a floppy disk that could be anywhere on the wreck, she'd have laughed herself sick at the lunacy of the idea. But they weren't even talking about that kind of danger. They were talking about a kind she knew they faced all the time, and she had never faced. The was a danger that stained the lives of those who threatened certain powerful, nasty individuals. She wasn't sure exactly who those individuals were, but she knew a little of what they'd done to her friend. Two friends, if she counted Mulder. She wasn't sure he would count her among his friends, but...

*Damn, I'm rambling.*

They'd said she was their only hope of getting valuable information that could stop unseen forces from hurting a lot of people. And she'd said yes.

*Better get a move on.*

One Hour Later

"How the hell did you two get a boat at this time of night?" Rachel asked as she began unloading her equipment from the trunk of her car.

"It's amazing how quickly people warm up to cold cash," Mulder replied. "I happen to have an awful lot of that on me this evening. Didn't get to spend it where I'd planned to."

"So where's the dive site?"

"About 20 miles south of here -- maybe an hour at top speed, I'd estimate," Scully replied.

"An hour?" If the light had been better, the other two would have seen Rachel turn a little green around the edges. "Why didn't you pick up a boat farther south?"

"Too risky. We need to be very careful," Mulder said cryptically.

She changed the subject as she hauled a third scuba tank onto the boat, not really wanting to hear more about the danger she'd already thought too much about. "So this boat we're after got rammed."

"Yes."

"And it wasn't far offshore?" Leaning against the boat's side, she stripped off her jeans and T-shirt, revealing a practical, one-piece Speedo underneath, then moved to stow her gear beneath the benches on either side of the small motorboat.

"Not more than 50, 60 yards from the dock where we were standing, I'd say," Mulder replied. He watched her as she bent over to pull a thick wetsuit out of a mesh bag. Her body looked strong and hard. He'd noticed how well-defined the muscles in her back, shoulders and arms were as she'd moved the heavy tanks. She turned and he took in her flat stomach and the small mounds of her breasts. For a moment, her eyes caught his, and he glanced away.

"Do you think it broke up before it went down?"

"No," Scully said. "At least, I don't think so."

"Good. That should make this a little easier. If the wreck were in pieces, I'd hold out no hope at all. As it is, if you can drop me very near the site, and if the moon's still up so there's any ambient light at all, I'd say there's a small chance." She was pulling on thick wetsuit overalls as she spoke. "Damn, I wish I had a drysuit. It's going to be cold down there."

"What do you want us to do?" Scully asked.

"Right now, just get us there. Take us to the exact spot you think it went down and drop anchor. I'll tell you what I need you to do when we're there."

Without another word, Scully pulled in the lines, started the engine and took off.

No one tried to speak over the noise of the wind and the engine as they cruised south, Scully keeping a careful eye on the instruments that allowed them to navigate through the moonlit night. Less than an hour later, she turned the boat in toward shore. They could see a dock in the distance. Scully cut back on the throttle, slowing the boat as she triangulated their position. Finally, she stopped and lowered the anchor.

"This is it, as best as I can tell," she said.

The boat rolled gently on the lazy ocean swells. Mulder had to hold the railing to keep his balance. Scully's sea legs were better, and she could stand unsupported.

Rachel just sat on the side of the boat. When several minutes had passed and she made no move, Mulder spoke up. "Aren't you going to start..."

He bit off his next words as she whirled around and leaned out over the side. The only sounds they heard for the next minute or two were little waves slapping against the boat and Rachel's raw, racking heaves.

"You okay?" Scully asked when she'd finished.

"Yeah. Sorry. I get seasick."

"Seasick?" Mulder smiled. "Boy, did you pick the wrong profession."

"I usually take medication. I didn't have any at home, and I couldn't get any at this hour. Don't worry, when it's over, I'm fine. Let's get on with it."

With practiced efficiency, she began assembling her gear. The other two watched in silence as she fitted her buoyancy control vest and regulator onto a tank, checking the gauges and testing the air flow. When she finished, she lay the rig flat on deck and climbed into the neoprene bodysuit that covered her overalls. Then, she pulled a tight hood over her short, dark hair.

"What's the bottom read, Dana?" she asked, leaning back against the side of the boat.

"Fifty-three feet directly beneath the boat."

"Okay. That's good. If it doesn't drop off much more than that, I should have enough time. Here's what's going to happen. First of all, I'm going to attach one of these to my tank so you can find me in an emergency." She pulled a chemical light stick out of her mesh bag, ripped off the foil wrapper, bent the plastic cylinder and shook it until it began to glow green. She used a plastic tie wrap to attach the stick to the valve on top of the tank.

She reached into her bag again and removed something that looked like a large fishing reel strung with nylon rope. "I'm going to have to make two dives. I've only got two tanks, so there's not much room for error. The first dive is for reconnaissance only. I'll go down the anchor line and tie this rope off at the bottom. I'll use a spiral search pattern with the anchor at the center. The reel will allow me to get back to the anchor line at any time. With luck, I'll find the wreck, see how it lies, decide where to try to penetrate it and how. Then I'll surface."

"How long do you think that will take?" Scully asked.

"If the maximum depth is no more than 60 feet, I'll have a maximum bottom time of about an hour. But if it's deeper, I'll have less. And it's not easy staying in water this cold for an hour -- it's probably not more than 50 degrees down there. I might be forced up early because of that."

"What do we do?" Mulder asked.

"First of all, time me. If I'm not up in an hour, call the Coast Guard -- although at that point it's probably too late anyway. Assuming I do turn up, here's the drill. You probably won't be able to see my light while I'm on the bottom -- this water is pretty murky. But I'll be making a three- to five-minute stop at about fifteen feet, and you'll probably see my light there. If all goes well, I'll be right on the anchor line. Don't worry about my staying in one place for so long -- that's a safety precaution to allow me to blow off excess nitrogen that's dissolved in my bloodstream under pressure.

"As soon as I surface, I'll signal you with my light. A big circle means I'm okay and I'm going to swim to the boat. A back-and-forth motion means I've got a problem and you need to come get me. Either way, when I get back to the boat I'm going to need your help. This boat doesn't even have a ladder, so getting back in won't be easy. I'll take my gear off in the water and hand it up to you. Then you'll have to haul my freezing butt up after it. I'll have to wait about an hour at the surface to blow off more nitrogen before I can attempt a second dive."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Except that this is totally nuts. And when it's over, I want the fanciest, most expensive lobster dinner available in the District of Columbia. Is that perfectly clear?"

Mulder smiled at her. "Yes, ma'am!"

There were no traces of humor on Scully's face as she answered, "Sure."

They watched as Rachel strapped a knife to her leg, then donned her weight belt, mask, fins and gloves. Mulder lifted her tank and she slid her arms into the vest, closing the buckles around her waist and chest. She reached back over her shoulder, found the regulator and put it in her mouth. They heard the regular hiss of her breathing as she inhaled and exhaled. Scully handed her a large underwater floodlight, and Rachel looped its lanyard around her wrist. She checked her gauges once more, sat down on the side of the boat, put one hand over her mask and regulator to hold them in place, and rolled over backwards.

There was a loud splash, and they watched as she righted herself in the water.

"Good luck," Scully called.

Rachel flashed them the okay sign, thumb and forefinger in a circle. Then, she was gone.

Half an hour passed in silence on the darkened boat. There was nothing for Mulder and Scully to do but watch the anchor line, waiting for Rachel to reappear. The night was warm and clear, with a gentle breeze blowing across the water. It was serene and beautiful out on the ocean in the dead of night, Scully thought. Romantic, even. Except that her thoughts and fears made it difficult to enjoy the scenery.

"She's coming up." Mulder's tense, quiet statement interrupted her reverie. Scully saw an eerie blob of white light in the water off the bow. It grew steadily larger, then stopped.

"She must be on her safety stop," Scully said.

Five minutes later, they were hauling her and her gear back into the boat. Mulder grabbed her by the waist and yanked, dropping her on deck like a fish taken off the line.

"Well, it wasn't very elegant, but it worked," Rachel said, looking up at them from her prone position.

"What did you find?" Mulder asked.

"It's there. Dana, your navigational skills are impressive. It's no more than ten yards off our port side."

"Yeah, well, just don't take her out hunting prehistoric sea creatures," Mulder quipped. Scully glared at him.

Standing, Rachel pulled her hood back and unzipped the front of her wetsuit. "The wreck's lying on its side in about 65 feet of water. It's pretty intact, except for a hole in the side which, I assume, is where the boat got rammed." She paused. "The man...ummm, the body is in the pilot house. I guess that's fortunate, because otherwise he might have floated away from the wreck. I assume it's likely the disk is on his person. I should be able to gain access with no problem." She fell silent.

"Rachel? You okay?" Scully asked gently.

"Hmm? Yeah. It's just...well, he's not a pretty sight. He's got a couple of holes in his head, and the fish are all over him."

"Oooh...can you bring me back some? The critters in my tank at home are always hungry."

Rachel stared at Mulder for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. "Is he always like this?" she sputtered.

"No," Scully replied with a sigh. "He's behaving himself tonight."

The three spent the next hour in idle conversation, avoiding all discussion of corpses, secret files, floppy disks or shipwrecks.

Eventually, Rachel checked the digital display on her underwater computer. "Showtime." She rose and started working on her gear, transferring it to a fresh tank.

"I've got no more than half an hour of bottom time this time," she said when she'd geared up. "And this is the hairier dive. I'll be penetrating the pilot house, which means I'll be without direct access to the surface as long as I'm in there. Not to mention the fact that I'm gonna have to touch that disgusting mess." She shivered.

"We'll be watching for you," Scully said.

Once again, Rachel rolled off the side, flashed the okay sign, and went down.

Sinking slowly, she trained her light on the anchor line and followed it down. Gradually, everything changed. The dry, balmy world above was no more, transformed into a cold, liquid environment. There was no sound at all except the steady, reassuring hiss of her regulator and the warbling sound of the bubbles formed by her escaping breath.

She felt a familiar sensation build in her ears and reached up to pinch her nose through the mask, exhaling gently to equalize the pressure between her inner ear and the water all around her. She brought her light up with her right hand and directed it at the depth gauge. Fifteen feet. Twenty. Twenty- five. Thirty. And still she sank, slowly leaving behind the environment where her species belonged.

*God, it's fucking cold down here,* she thought as she passed through the thermocline, the layer that separated the sun- warmed water near the surface from the cold, dark water below. The temperature dropped ten degrees in the space of ten feet. Frigid water stung her face, the only part of her body where her skin was exposed.

Suddenly, with no warning, her feet touched solid bottom and her descent stopped. She reached up to pinch her nose once more, to equalize pressure one last time before setting off on her quest.

The darkness all around was complete beyond description. In this alien, watery environment, all her senses were befuddled. There were no smells to smell, no way to tell up from down, no sounds but the ones she made herself, and nothing to see outside the weak cone of light cast by her powerful flashlight. And cold. So cold. Every movement admitted a trickle of icy water into some crease or gap in her wetsuit, making her muscles clench and her head hurt. She reached to a button in its familiar place and sent a puff of air into the vest, giving her enough buoyancy to allow her to swim.

Shining her light on the gauge console again, she took a compass bearing. Two hundred eighty-five degrees. That way. Dropping the console, she reached for the reel where it was hooked onto her vest and released it, tying the end of the line to the anchor. Then she took off, kicking slowly and evenly, wasting no energy. She knew the deadly cold was stealing precious calories, and she had none to waste. The line reeled out slowly behind her.

She was swimming from nothing into nothing. She began her internal rituals, the ones she used to fend off fear. Mentally singing her favorite songs. Conjuring up the faces of people she knew. Reciting poems she'd learned.

It wasn't that she didn't know what she was doing. She'd done these kinds of dives dozens of times -- night dives in cold water, searching for something. But never alone. Always before, there had been the comforting presence of a fellow creature, a buddy to stick close to, someone carrying a light and a glow stick to mark the presence of another human being.

She hadn't wanted to tell Dana and Mulder that this was her first solo nighttime salvage dive. It would have given them pause, made them wonder if they shouldn't have asked her. She knew Dana already wondered. And she wanted to help them. She trusted them enough to know that, if they said it was urgent, it was. They wouldn't have asked her otherwise. So here she was, alone in the murky depths in the wee hours.

There it was -- a boat, lying on its side grotesquely, like roadkill.

She reached it and pulled herself forward along the railing until she came abreast of the pilot house. Kicking herself forward, she reached the door that faced directly up and looked in through its glass pane.

There was that horrible thing again that she'd seen on the first dive. Perhaps the most obscene thing about it was how much it still resembled the man it once had been, considering its current half-eaten state. Ragged bits of flesh floated in the gentle currents created by the hundreds of fish that swarmed about it in search of dinner. There would be even more fish tomorrow, she knew, when the daytime feeders showed up.

She turned the doorknob and pulled. It opened easily. She swam in. Instinctively, she braced for the foul smell of rotting flesh, but of course it never came.

Gingerly, she reached into the shirt pocket. Nothing. The jacket pockets. Nothing. A pants pocket.

Something. She drew out a plastic box -- a floppy disk case. She shoved it into the pocket of her vest and sealed the Velcro flap.

Paydirt.

Once again, Mulder and Scully kept their silent vigil, watching the spot of darkness where they expected Rachel to reappear. Time passed excruciatingly slowly. The sea breeze that blew gently across the boat did nothing to dispel the tense atmosphere on board.

Each of them, unknown to the other, was doing exactly the same thing -- visualizing a floppy disk, willing it to be found, to make its way back to them. For Mulder, it was another shot at the truth. For Scully, it was a challenge. Her reluctance to learn its contents remained, but she had set out to retrieve it, and she had no intention of failing.

Twenty minutes later, the seemingly endless waiting was disrupted by the appearance of the same eerie blob of light they'd seen before when Rachel had ascended. As before, it stopped moving just below the surface as she made her safety stop. Minutes later, it began to grow again. They could see the green glow of her light stick rising from the water.

Suddenly, a fearsome noise ripped through the silence -- a noise they'd already heard once that night. A speedboat's engine. And it was headed their way.

"Mulder! They're coming back!"

"The bastards let us do their dirty work for them! Scully, you've got to move the boat."

"Too late! I'll never get the anchor up in time!!"

Two shots rang out over the roaring engine. A pause, and then a third. Mulder and Scully drew their guns and fired blindly into the darkness.

Rachel was relieved it was almost over. She had the disk. As she waited out her safety stop, she thought about how she'd give it to them, they'd bring the boat back, drive home and it would be over. They'd thank her, tell her they owed her one. She'd try to pretend it was nothing, but deep down she'd be immensely proud of herself. She'd know she'd done something important, something good.

She was just seconds from surfacing. Almost there.

The sudden sound of a boat's engine was ear-splitting in the formerly still water, its low rumble carrying clearly through the liquid medium.

Could Dana have started the boat? She couldn't have -- she must know the danger of tangling a diver in the prop. Then what?

She stopped just feet below the surface, unsure what to do. Normally, she would have headed back down, knowing an accidental encounter with a boat's propeller would leave her sliced through like a deli salami. But she was seconds from the surface, and if she could just signal with her light, they'd veer off.

Physics made the decision for her. At this depth, she was slightly positively buoyant. Even as she stopped to think, she hit the surface. Trained reflexes kicked in and she hit her inflator button, filling her vest so she could float safely.

The night around her was suddenly shattered by two loud cracks -- gunfire. Instantly, she felt a burning pain cut through her left shoulder. Then, four more shots from another direction.

She felt the red rush of panic overwhelm her, the roaring noise of fear fill her head. Sputtering, she reached up with her right hand and yanked the regulator from her mouth -- the deadliest sign of a panicked diver.

*No. No. Stop. Think. Then act.*

Her training began to kick in again -- even though that training hadn't exactly addressed the problem of gunfire.

*Think. Think. They can see you. They can shoot at you.*

She fumbled for the switch on her light and turned it off, then retrieved her regulator and put it in her mouth.

Another crack split the night, and a spray of water was kicked into her face.

*The light stick! Shit!*

Frantically, she reached over her shoulder and felt blindly for the little plastic cylinder. But with the pain in her left shoulder and the thick wetsuit restricting her movements, she couldn't get it.

*Stop. Think. Think.*

She had to hide herself, but she was tagged with a faint, glowing green marker.

Faint.

*Dive!*

Awkwardly, she grabbed the inflator hose on her left side with her right hand and raised it above her head. Her clumsy, gloved finger found the release button, and she heard the hiss of air as it left her vest.

She sank slowly into the absolute, inky blackness.

The black speedboat was bearing down on them, just as they'd seen it do earlier on the ill-fated fishing boat.

"Get us out of here, Scully!"

As his partner worked frantically to weigh anchor and start the engine, Mulder raised his weapon again and fired toward the oncoming noise. Shot followed shot until he'd emptied his clip. He was reaching into his pocket for another one when he heard the noise alter. The enemy was veering off.

Their own engine started, and the boat lurched forward, knocking him off his feet. As he scrambled to his knees, he heard the other boat running alongside. His head had barely peeked up over the side when he caught a glimpse of someone tossing something right at him. Instinctively, he reached up and caught it.

It was cold, metallic.

The weight of the thing had barely settled in the palm of his hand when he pushed with all his might, propelling the grenade back the way it had come.

The concussion of the explosion knocked both of them down this time as debris rained around them. Scully regained her feet first. She could see only the faint outlines of wreckage floating in the water.

"How the hell did you do that, Mulder?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I have no idea," he said, rising to stand beside her.

They both stared in amazement for another second until the next horror intruded on their thoughts.

"Oh my god...Rachel! Scully, we have to find her! Let's go!"

"No, Mulder. I don't dare start the engine again. If she's at the surface, we could accidentally run her over -- especially if she's hurt."

"Rachel!" Mulder called across the silent sea. "RACHEL!"

Underwater, the explosion had sounded like a sudden, nearby avalanche -- a long, low rumble she could feel in the pit of her stomach. Then, silence.

No more gunfire. Was it over? And if so, who was left alive up there -- friends or foes?

Slowly, forcing herself to be calm despite the pain that now raged down her whole left side, she again reached behind her and felt for the light stick. This time, her effort was rewarded. She grabbed it and yanked it off the tank. Then, she kicked her feet, propelling herself slowly back toward the surface.

The moon had by now set completely, and she could see nothing by the weak starlight. For a moment, she considered swimming toward shore -- until she realized she had no idea which way that was. She felt cold despair descending.

Then she heard it. "RACHEL!" It was Mulder's voice.

She reached up and carefully removed the regulator from her mouth. Gulping as much air as she could, she tried to call out. A faint croak emerged. She didn't have the strength. Panic began to rise again.

"RACHEL!" She heard the anxious fear in his voice.

*Stop. Think.*

The light. With the last of her strength, she fumbled for the light that still dangled from the lanyard around her wrist. Flicking it on, she raised it over her head and waved it weakly back and forth.

It seemed to take forever for Scully to ease the boat gently alongside Rachel, being careful not to cause a wake that would toss her away from them. Finally, they were near enough so Mulder could reach her over the side of the boat.

"Give me the tank," he said.

"I...I can't." She sounded weak.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes."

"I'll do it." Scully quickly kicked off her sneakers, grabbed a life preserver from an overhead rack and put it on. She was over the side in an instant while Mulder grabbed for a light and shone it down on them.

When she reached her friend in the icy water, she saw blood soaking Rachel's wetsuit. "You're okay, Rachel. We'll get you out of here. You'll be fine." She kept up a stream of quiet, reassuring words as she worked to unclip the vest that held the tank in place. Easing Rachel's arms out was harder, bringing a whimper of pain.

Mulder grabbed the tank and hauled it onto the boat. Getting Rachel up without hurting her was going to be more difficult.

"Give me your good arm," he called. Rachel reached up weakly, and he grasped her by the wrist. Using all his strength he pulled. She came halfway out of the water before her slippery, neoprene-covered arm slid out of his hand and she splashed back down, groaning loudly.

Scully was afraid Rachel would lose consciousness, making it even harder to get her into the boat. Holding her firmly around the waist, she spoke. "Stay with me, Rachel."

She heard Rachel mumble something.

"What?"

"The weight belt," Rachel managed. "Dump it."

Scully gave herself a swift mental kick. She'd forgotten that. Reaching down, she found the plastic buckle and yanked it open. The 20-pound belt fell away.

"Mulder! Try again!"

This time, they were successful. Mulder hauled Rachel up and pulled her over the side as gently as he could, but not without bringing tears of pain to her eyes. No sooner had Scully flopped onto the deck than she was kneeling by her friend, starting her examination as Mulder held the light.

"Looks like the bullet passed through. We've got to get you out of this wetsuit." Scully reached over and slid the knife from its sheath on Rachel's leg. Carefully, she began cutting at the thick neoprene around Rachel's shoulder.

"Dana," Rachel croaked.

"Yeah?" she replied, still cutting.

"This is a $400 wetsuit."

Scully chuckled. "I'll buy you a new one."

"Did I say $400? I meant $600."

Once the top of the wetsuit was cut away, Scully got to work carefully slicing open the hood. She had just leaned over her friend to cut away from her neck when Rachel's body was racked with a hard spasm.

A hot gush of fluid hit Scully in the face.

The injured woman heaved again and again, even after all the water she'd swallowed was expelled. Each racking spasm sent hot flashes of pain shooting down her left side.

"Fine time to be seasick," Scully muttered.

Rachel didn't hear it. She'd finally passed out.

Friday, July 18, 1997 11:45 AM J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C.

"Here goes."

Mulder hurriedly popped the disk into his PC, eager to see its contents. Less eager, Scully supposed, than he would have been had not so much blood been shed in its retrieval. Still, she'd heard the excitement in his voice when, as she piloted the boat toward the dock and a waiting ambulance, he'd gone through Rachel's gear and found the plastic case tucked safely in a pocket. Given the impatience he must have been feeling, she was surprised and pleased that he hadn't said another word about it at the hospital as they rushed Rachel into the ER, waited while she was treated, then helped her get settled into her room. Scully had wanted to stay longer with her friend, but Rachel had insisted they go do whatever it was they needed to do.

And that had brought them back to D.C., back to the basement office Mulder and Scully shared. To this moment.

The machine had no trouble reading the disk despite its brief voyage to the bottom of the sea. The case had kept it fairly dry.

Mulder tapped his fingers on the desk as the floppy disk drive hummed to life. Seconds later, the screen flickered and displayed the file.

VGY&*R)*INHJF^E&*OUINHG&KNVFS#$OBTYDDVO{ *UDCIPU*TTCBY*(RRCYGIT&()&UNM<VS$&*JN><AW #!sge$^%&hby%{_op<yf^i&vgit&^bjf%^$cdFd%^*UBY89 54S(_&&(rfvhMVTIY7u*^&ogbhgr(&yBHOT78YHby(%t&p (hnbyt$r(*B;07YEDC0&i"w#!*)_mf&^jmf6586NBU68NJvy ir%ewi*(BJIO&*_^GJKLYIP)KVHGUIR^%(*PJMKBGF% *yhintr88[0kIH)&*&RFV:K()_Y&h;u8r5urvvbi(*)^Y*NUT( &UUG6ijkg679ml;'u8gby*%R^(IBV^&*^*jnju9807hvrw7J KP{M<L")Y&*^TBMJop890y- 9iNMJI)G^&%(*PHNI"K<o0]9ikop98r6ybl;oNKOTY&GBH F%*^FVHByuf67yhbhu'pu07ytYT&*)Yhubv78uug7698gvihj u890kmjn78yv58yuh&(PJU*)Y(JIO:IP_jnkihg98jmiopuy8rf vb[9[i*()YHUIY)P(U&*()

On and on, screen after screen. Gibberish.

"Code," Mulder growled between clenched teeth.

"Maybe not, Mulder. Not this time."

"Then what?" Scully heard real distress in his voice. If it had all been a hoax, then a number of people had died and a friend had been hurt for the sake of some cruel son of a bitch's amusement.

"Here, let me try." Mulder stood up and let Scully take his place. He watched as she navigated through the program that controlled the computer's system settings.

A few keystrokes later, the screen flickered and displayed the file again -- this time, in what looked like perfectly normal Japanese characters.

"We'll have to have it translated," Scully said. "I think you'll have to take it back to the Gunmen. We can't let anyone here know we have this."

The phone rang and Mulder answered.

"Yes? Yes. Okay. We'll be right there." He hung up. "Skinner."

"Has he heard already?"

"I assume so."

"What are we going to tell him?"

"You just said it yourself, Scully. We can't let anyone here know we have this."

Mulder and Scully sat side by side across the desk from Assistant Director Walter Skinner, who looked very unhappy. In fact, he looked furious.

"What the hell happened last night?"

"Agent Scully and I tried to meet secretly with an informant. Something went wrong and he was attacked. Later, when we tried to retrieve the information, we were attacked ourselves. We had to use deadly force."

"An informant? On what case? What were you investigating?"

"An open X file, sir."

"Which one?"

Mulder hesitated only a moment. "Agent Scully's case."

"Her abduction?"

"Yes."

"And did you get any new information?"

"No," Scully cut in. "We didn't find anything."

Skinner stared at her hard, forcing her to meet his eyes for what seemed like an eternity. She steeled herself, refusing to turn away.

*She's getting better at this,* Mulder thought with a pang of regret.

At last, Skinner turned back to him. "Agent Mulder, who was the woman who was injured in this confrontation?"

"A friend of ours. Rachel Sachs."

"And why was she with you in this hazardous situation?"

"We needed her special skills in underwater salvage."

"Agent Mulder, the F.B.I. has an entire department dedicated to underwater salvage and investigation. Don't they have the skills you felt you needed?"

"No, sir." Mulder held his breath, praying the A.D. would choose to ignore his patently absurd answer. He couldn't come right out and say, 'Oh, of course they have the skills. I just wouldn't trust them to give me the right time of day.' This time, he was the one pinned under the older man's harsh glare like an interesting insect specimen.

"You will submit a full report immediately."

Mulder exhaled. "Yes, sir."

The two agents rose to leave.

"One more thing."

They stopped and turned back toward him.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully," Skinner continued with great deliberateness. "I have reason to believe that this could be a very bad time to reopen Agent Scully's case. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

Wednesday, July 23, 1997 10:56 PM Mulder's Apartment

Mulder's restlessness drove him from room to room. He wandered around his apartment aimlessly, trying desperately not to count the seconds as they passed.

The phonecall had come from Beyers 20 minutes earlier: He had the translation and he was on his way over with it. Mulder's first impulse when he'd hung up the phone had been to pick it up again and dial Scully. But he stopped himself.

*Not yet. Not until I know for sure.*

He knew she would kill him for this, but he had to know first. Maybe if he told her himself, he'd somehow be able to make it easier for her.

Yeah, he'd get the report and read it first. Then he'd go straight over to her place with whatever he'd learned. He'd tell her. He'd be there for her. He made that a silent vow.

He had the door open almost before Beyers finished knocking. The dapper, bearded man didn't say a word -- just handed over a thick manila envelope.

"Have you read it?" Mulder asked.

"Not this time. Not after what happened. I think I'd feel safer not knowing."

"I can't blame you. Thanks, Beyers."

"No problem, Mulder. Give my regards to Agent Scully." Beyers turned and walked off down the hall. Mulder shut the door and carried the envelope to his couch. He paused to take his glasses from the coffee table and put them on, then opened the envelope and slid the heavy document out.

He flipped quickly through the first few pages and saw they contained dense medical data. There seemed to be several pages for each subject, but there were no names -- only numbers.

He turned back to the first page: Subject 456865.

"Record date: 6/30/94 White female 24 yrs. 168 cm. 56.7 kg. Hair: Brown Eyes: Brown Test dates: 4/5/88-6/4/88; 4/15/91-6/14/91; 4/1/94-6/30/94"

*Oh my god. Three times.*

Mulder started flipping page by page, looking for one particular subject. As he skimmed the document, he noticed that every single subject was female. Most were white, though there were some blacks and Asians.

Twenty minutes later, he was still flipping, half hypnotized by the monotony of the task, when he suddenly stopped and turned back several pages.

There.

"Subject 846895 Record date: 9/6/94 White female 28 yrs. 158 cm. Hair: Red Eyes: Blue Test dates: 7/7/94-9/6/94"

It had to be her. Mulder could feel his heart pounding. Next came a medical history, a family history and a psychosocial history. He skimmed through them.

Everything matched.

Then, results of a physical exam, with clinical descriptions of every part of her: skin, eyes, ears, nose, mouth and throat, neck, breasts, respiratory, cardiac, GI, urinary, genito- reproductive, musculoskeletal, peripheral vascular, neurologic, endocrine, hematologic. Soup to nuts.

His heart raced when he saw the next section: neurological results. Page after page of them. He felt sick. The entries were voluminous, with results listed test by test, hour by hour, day by day -- for three whole months. Positron emission tomography. Electroencephalography. Computerized tomography. Magnetic resonance imaging. On and on.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Mulder began plowing through it all.

Scully's Apartment

It's never really quiet during quiet moments, Scully noticed. There was the oddly soothing noise of a car going by in the rain; the hum of the refrigerator compressor floating from the kitchen; the whir of the elevator motor outside her apartment. Evidence that the whole world was still going along doing what it always did. There had been a time when Scully would have taken comfort from such knowledge, but that time had passed. Too often now she worried about what the world was going toward instead of enjoying the simple fact that it was going.

She clutched a throw pillow to her aching stomach, trying to will herself to relax. Any progress she was making was lost when she tensed at the gentle knocking on her door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Rachel."

Surprised, Scully rose slowly and let her in.

"Rachel, you're supposed to be home resting."

"I know. I didn't really feel like being alone. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not. Come in."

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked as she sat gingerly on the couch, carefully favoring the arm she carried in a sling.

"Nothing."

Rachel looked around at the dim, silent apartment. She realized her friend's answer was literally true.

"How are you doing?" she asked, turning to face Scully, who took a seat beside her.

"Me? Fine. How about you?"

"Sore, but not too bad, all things considered."

"Good. I wish...I didn't want...I mean, I'm sorry." Scully was staring uncomfortably at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap.

"Don't, Dana."

"But..."

"No. Don't. You know, you're doing exactly what you hate Mulder to do."

"I am?"

"Yeah. You're feeling guilty for someone else's choices. You didn't force me into anything. So can we just drop it?"

"Okay."

There was an awkward silence.

"You're really worried about whatever is on that disk, aren't you?"

"Yes. I...I can't tell you about it. I'm sorry."

"I know, I know. If you told me, you'd have to kill me."

Scully smiled and relaxed noticeably. "Something like that."

"So how's Mulder? I haven't talked to him since that night. The jerk didn't even call me in the hospital."

"Yup. That sounds like Mulder. He's fine, in a Mulderian sense."

"Which is...?"

"He's not sleeping well, he's eating lots of junk food, and he's working obsessively."

"Jeez. To know him is to worry about him, huh?"

"Only if you're stupid enough to care."

Rachel didn't think Scully had intended her offhanded comment to carry such a ring of truth.

"So what happened to you two on Monday morning?"

"Well, as expected, our boss nearly blew an artery. He was none too pleased about..."

What happened next seemed to Rachel like a scene from a bad movie.

Scully's apartment door flew in with seemingly explosive force. Men dressed in black came tumbling through, brandishing weapons that looked like they were designed to take out an armored truck rather than two women sitting on a couch.

No one said a word. One of the men -- Rachel counted six in all -- walked straight to where Scully sat, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up roughly. Another man cut off Scully's angry yell by jamming a rag in her mouth. In a matter of seconds, he'd tied a gag around her face and slipped a black sack over her head.

"What are you doing?" Rachel cried, jumping to her feet.

A third man slammed the butt of his gun across her face, sending her reeling over the back of the couch. She lay stunned on the floor, vaguely hearing the shuffle of feet and then -- nothing.

They were gone.

Mulder forced himself to look at every line of data, every number, every word, trying to squeeze out some meaning, some pattern. There was a lot here he didn't understand. He knew he needed Scully's technical expertise to decipher this. But he wanted some idea of what it was all about before bringing it to her. He needed to know.

Minutes ticked by as his eyes moved painstakingly down one page, then the next. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He turned another page and began a preliminary scan through the information. And then he stopped.

"Next scheduled testing period: 8/1/97-10/30/97"

August first. One week.

One week.

"Mulder!"

The pounding on his door shattered his thoughts.

"Mulder! Mulder! OPEN UP!"

The hysterical screaming drove him to his feet and across the room. He pulled the door open violently -- and the sight that met his eyes made his heart go cold.

Rachel stood there, a deep gash in her temple bleeding profusely.

"Rachel? What happened?"

"She's gone, Mulder! They took her! Dana's GONE!"

End