The author acknowledges the copyrights of Chris Carter, et al., in association with "The X-Files" as well as the rights of any others whose material is referred to herein. No copyright infringement is intended. If this were a movie, it would be rated R for language. Comments are welcome (76021.3043@compuserve.com). Specter By Laura Herold In the rearview mirror Fox Mulder could see the car behind him approaching at a pace well above the speed limit. He had a strange feeling that the car wasn't going to stop, that it was going to slam into his car at high speed. A sliver of fear slipped through him, and he was surprised by the strength of his will to live. When the car behind him got close enough to bathe the inside of his car with the light from its headlights, Mulder began to speed up. Something was going on: His instincts were on fire. The car behind him suddenly swerved into the oncoming traffic lane. Mulder floored the gas pedal, but he already knew that it was too late. The car swerved over into his lane, and he had to slam on the brakes. Two more cars came up behind him, boxing him in and driving him off the road. He watched as two men with guns got out of the lead car. He knew that pulling his own gun would be nonsensical. He just waited. One of the men, a blond, went over to Mulder's car. He opened the driver's side door and pointed his gun at Mulder. "Get out of the car, and put your hands on the roof," he said. Mulder complied. "What is this?" he asked. "Shut up, and face the car," the gunman replied angrily. He frisked Mulder, removing Mulder's gun, cellular phone, and watch. By that time the other gunman, a dark-haired man, had approached. He grabbed Mulder's arm and pushed him toward the car the two men had been in. "Get in that car," he said. Mulder looked at the cannon the guy held in his hand. He wondered if these guys were authorized to shoot him. "No thanks," he said. "I've already got plans for tonight." "We can do this the easy way or the hard way," the blond man said from behind Mulder. "I'd rather do it the hard way." "I'll keep that in mind," Mulder said. "Get in that car," the dark-haired man repeated. The blond man ground his gun into Mulder's back, causing a sharp pain. Mulder sighed and began to walk past the dark-haired man toward the car. "Let's make this quick, OK?" he said. "I need to be home in time to catch that new movie on the Playboy Channel." Mulder sat between the two gunman in the back seat. No one was answering his questions, so he gave up asking them. Alone with his thoughts, he tried to piece things together. Had he pissed off someone new? Or was this just the same old bullshit from Cancer Man and his buddies? He thought about the cases they had worked on lately, trying to extract something that this could be connected with. Nothing came to mind. He had been as confrontational as usual, but he didn't have any new evidence or anything that would expose their dirty secrets. As they drove, he felt a worry germinate in his brain, but he tried to push it aside for as long as he could. After all, that thought could only be destructive: There was nothing he could do about it now. But none of the denials or rationalizations stopped that thought from blossoming and eventually penetrating his conscious mind. That thought was this: If they've done this to me, is Scully safe? This, of course, had even more painful sequelae: Have they taken her? Have they hurt her? Have they killed her? He didn't care what they did to him. After all, he had pretty brazenly asked for it. Again and again he went up against people with more power than him. He knew it was only a matter of time before they made him pay with a pound of flesh or his life. The only reason he had for clinging to life at all was his search for Samantha. If he was to die, the quest for her recovery would likely die with him. But Scully didn't deserve the horrors that had been dealt to her -- her abduction and the murder of her sister among others. Because he had needed her so desperately, he had drawn her closer and closer to him, alienating her from the protection available in the real world. But what should he have done? What could he have done? He could have rejected her, kept her at arms length. Perhaps he should have. But could he really have rejected her? Did he ever really have a choice? It had been so wonderful to have someone support him and see his ideas as valuable. For so many years he had lived apart from contact and comfort; when those things were offered to him by someone he could trust he would have been hard-pressed to resist them. Still, it was surprising to him how close they had gotten. He relied on Scully to support him both as a partner and as a friend, the kind of friend he could turn to when all of his defense mechanisms were shattered and the raw emotions were out of control. He had never had a friend like that before. He had never had that type of relationship with anyone before. But he wondered if maybe he had acted too selfishly. What had *he* given *her* aside from pain and heartache? They pulled up to a warehouse in a fairly deserted area. The dark-haired man got out of the car, and the blond man shoved Mulder toward the door. Mulder followed the dark-haired man to the door of the warehouse; the blond man was behind him with the gun in his back. The warehouse appeared to be empty. Mulder was led to an inside door. The dark-haired man opened the door, and the blond shoved Mulder inside. He heard locks click behind him. The room was literally pitch dark. Mulder couldn't make out any shapes or hear any sounds. He didn't know whether or not he was alone. After several moments of nothing happening he sat down on the floor. It appeared that he was going to have to wait -- either for contact or for death. Suddenly a light burst into life overhead. Mulder got his first look at the small room he was in. It was completely empty, so clean it seemed sterilized. The floor, ceiling, and three of the walls were stark white. The fourth wall, the one on his right, had a mirrored surface. He figured it was most likely a window for someone on the other side. "What is this?" Mulder asked. "What do you think it is?" a male voice asked through a speaker on the mirrored wall. Mulder didn't recognize the voice. "I think it's bullshit." "Why do you think you're here?" "There was nothing good on TV?" The voice was silent for a few moments. "What if I told you we have access to your sister?" Mulder felt his heart stop, and for a second he couldn't breathe. "What does *that* mean?" "We can return her to you." Mulder closed his eyes. "What do you want from me?" he asked. "Does it matter?" He looked at the mirrored wall. "Why don't *you* tell *me*?" "We're willing to make an exchange." "What do I have?" Mulder asked. "Agent Dana Scully." With that the light went out, and Mulder was plunged back into darkness. Mulder tried to look at the situation from angles, rather than straight on. They put him here, alone, vulnerable, isolated, and then they threw this emotional hot potato in his lap. What were they doing? Were they testing his loyalty to Scully? Did they think that just invoking the specter of Samantha would be enough to make him betray Scully? And, if they did have Samantha, why would they even consider returning her to him? He knew why. They brought him here, to this antiseptic room, for one reason only, to contaminate his soul. If he willingly gave Scully to them -- no matter what the reason -- he became one of them, like his father, another Mulder willing to barter with human lives. His crusade with the FBI -- built largely on morality -- would be effectively destroyed. *He* would be destroyed. The light came on again. "Will you make the exchange?" the voice asked. "You don't have my sister," Mulder said. "The two of you could be reunited in less than two hours." So close? Mulder thought. Could she really be so close? "I want to see her," he said. For a few moments there was no response. Then the voice said, "We will bring her here, but you will only be allowed to speak with her." "Why?" "That won't be answered." Mulder closed his eyes. Was it possible that he could be in the same building with Samantha after so many years? "OK," he said. The light went out. Mulder thought: What if it's true? Was it possible that he could get so close, close enough to talk to Samantha, and then let her slip away? Then an ugly thought slid into his mind: Samantha was his sister, his blood. What was Scully to him really? That thought ripped into him like a knife. How was it possible he could think such a thing? He stood up and took a few steps into the darkness. He knew he couldn't let them get inside his head. He couldn't let himself make the decision they wanted. He laid down on the floor. That made him long for the beaten up sofa in his apartment. That's where he should have been, lying on the sofa watching something from his video collection. This is what he got for trying to go home. Maybe he should start sleeping in his office. Not that he slept anyway. He stared at the darkness. There were memories that wanted to be seen and heard, memories from his childhood. Why wouldn't they just stay quiet? Why wouldn't they just stay locked away? They were memories of his parents and Samantha. They were stupid things, senseless things. Family trips. Picnics. Nonsense. He just watched them play in his mind like home movies, one after the other until he came to the last one, the abduction scene. He shut that down. He wasn't going to go through that again. Not now. He made his mind as dark as the room. He listened to his breathing. He felt his heart beat. A memory came unbidden, the day he met Dana Scully in the basement of the Hoover Building. For some reason he had liked her from the beginning. He had known she was there as part of a plot to discredit him, but she was different. She had intelligence, a sense of humor, and a willingness to put up with his crap. And, somehow, she managed to touch him deep inside. At times she had made him forget his pain, and she had helped him deal with it at other times. The fact that she cared about him, the fact that he cared so very deeply about her -- more than friendship, it was much richer than that -- bound them together. He was so thankful, so grateful. Could he repay her by delivering her to the devil? He remembered other things, cases, moments that flowed one into the other. He remembered her by his bedside when he had almost died. He remembered the night his father was murdered. He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, facing in the direction of the mirrored wall. What if it's true? he thought again. But it couldn't be true. Could it? =========================================================================== From: Laura Herold <76021.3043@CompuServe.COM> Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Specter -- Part 2/2 Date: 25 Oct 1995 03:27:13 GMT Specter (Part 2) --------------- The light went on, and Mulder sat up. He didn't know how much time had passed -- had it been hours? On his right the door swung open, and he looked over, expecting to see Samantha, even though he had been told he wouldn't get to see her. The dark-haired gunman entered the room. He was carrying a chair. The blond man was in the doorway, gun pointed at Mulder. Mulder watched as the dark-haired man set the chair down and left the room. Mulder almost laughed -- it was like he had been dropped into a scene from "Waiting for Godot." The door was closed and locked. "Have a seat," the voice said. Mulder looked at the chair. It was in the middle of the room facing the mirrored wall. "Where is my sister?" Mulder asked. "Sit in the chair." Mulder stood up. He realized then how angry he was. "Let me talk to my sister," he said. There was no response. Fuck, he thought. All he needed were more goddamn games. He walked over to the chair. He wondered if this was what death row inmates felt when they took that last walk to the electric chair. Was this what it felt like to walk to your death, to take a seat in the chair you'll die in? He sat down. He felt empty, exhausted. "Put your hands on the arms of the chair," the voice said. Mulder did so. "Here is the way this works. You stay where you are. You move, and someone dies. Do you understand?" "Yes," Mulder said. His heart was pounding. The lights went out. He heard the locks and the door. The door was closed but not locked. Someone was in the room. "Fox?" a woman's voice said. Mulder felt his mind slip away from the present and slide down, spiraling, into the past. "Samantha?" he said. "It's me, Fox." "Come here." "They said I..." "OK. Are you OK?" "Yes. For now, anyway." The voice seemed right to him. The feeling felt right. "Test me," she said. He didn't know what to ask her. It was likely that if they had Samantha they would have used all sorts of methods to extract memories. They could have briefed another woman, and, if she was perceptive enough, it was possible that she could wing the rest of it well enough to fool him. So he would have to listen and not be fooled. "Fox? Are *you* OK?" "No," he said honestly. How could he be OK? He leaned back in the chair. "Do you remember that doll you always carried around? The one with the blond hair and the blue dress? You brought that thing everywhere. I hated that thing." There was no hesitation. "It was a Raggedy Ann doll, but I did take it everywhere. You did hate it too, didn't you? Remember that time you ripped the arm right off? I cried and cried. You could be a nasty little boy, Fox." He remembered. She had it all right. "I'm sorry," he said. "You were just a child." "No, not about that. About... this." "This isn't your fault." "I should have done something." He felt her moving toward him. "Sam..." He felt her next to him, beside the chair to his right. She put her hand over his, lacing her fingers with his. He strained his eyes, but it was too dark to see any details. The tears were rolling down his face; he couldn't hold them back anymore. His emotions were too close to the surface. For a few seconds he was sure he was going to have to stand up and take her in his arms. He waited for it to pass. "Fox," she said, "I want to come home. It's time now, Fox. I need to come home." He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He felt her pull her hand away. "Don't go," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I have to." She was moving away from him. "Sam," he said, not knowing what it was he wanted to say. "Tell me again." "It's me, Fox. It really is." The door opened and shut. He heard the locks. He got out of the chair. He just stood for a moment. His brain wasn't working. He couldn't figure out what to do. He held out his hands and walked to his left until he reached the wall. He moved along the wall to the corner. He put his back against the wall and slid to the floor. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. It isn't her, he thought. It isn't her. It isn't her. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself *not* believe. And he wanted so badly not to believe, perhaps as badly as he ever had. He started the arguments in his head: He hadn't seen her, they fed her stories... but they all died out quickly. He had always gone by his instincts, and he had felt a connection with her that was stronger than the words that had passed between them. For some reason he thought of Scully. If she was there she would help him work this out. His brain solved the problem by ignoring logic: He had to have both of them. He picked both of them. But he knew that wasn't a possibility. The light came on. "What is your decision?" the voice asked. "I won't take part in this," Mulder said, surprised at how steady his voice was. "Just stop the bullshit, and let us both go." "That isn't an option." Mulder looked at the mirrored wall. "This is fucking pathetic," he said. "Look at this. You can't even talk to me like men. You want to make a deal, but you won't discuss it face-to-face. This is a joke, a sick fucking joke." He walked over to the door and noticed for the first time that there was no knob on his side. "Open this fucking door," he said. "Open it now!" "Give us an answer." "Twenty-four." "Will you make the exchange?" "I need to use the bathroom." "Now." He took a deep breath. "Give me five minutes. If my bladder doesn't burst by then I'll have an answer." The light went out. Mulder laid down on the floor. I can't leave Samantha with them, he thought. I can't, that's all. Scully would understand. After all, it's possible it wouldn't be so bad for her. No. I'll get Scully back. No. He knew it would be horrible, and he would probably never see her again. It was likely that *no one* would ever see her again. No one would help her. He would have his family back. What would it matter to him that Scully was no longer around? And if it didn't matter to him, who would there be to help her? But it would matter to him. Scully, like Samantha, was in his heart. He tried to visualize that moment, not the one where he betrayed Scully, not even the one where she realized that betrayal. The one he wanted to see was the one where he closed the door, leaving her behind, and went on with his life. How could he live with himself? How could Samantha? That was when he realized Samantha didn't know. How could she know? That thought cleared his mind. It didn't make anything better, but it added a sharpness. Would Samantha want him to exchange Scully for her? It was so absolutely wrong. He knew at that moment that he could live with passing this up -- it would tear him apart, but he could do it -- but there was no way he could live with giving them Scully. There was absolutely no way. The light went on. "What is your answer?" Mulder looked at the mirrored wall. He looked at himself. He looked like hell. He ran his fingers through his hair. His face was red and blotchy. He sighed deeply. "I won't do it," he said. "You reject the exchange?" the voice said, and Mulder thought it seemed to shake a little. "Yes," Mulder said. he stood up and brushed off his wrinkled clothes. "Now let me the fuck out of here." "If you do this you'll never see your sister again." Mulder shook his head. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I will." And he believed it. He didn't know why, but he had a feeling that it was about time that the good guys started to win. The door opened, and the two gunmen walked in, weapons drawn. Mulder knew they were there to execute him. That was fine. He could live with that. "Roll up your sleeve," the dark-haired man said. He had a syringe in his left hand. "I prefer to just say no," Mulder said. "Do it," the blond man said. His finger was pressing on the trigger of his gun. Mulder just looked him in the eyes. He wondered what it was like to live each day as someone's lackey. It made sense that the guy was so angry. "What is that?" Mulder asked the dark-haired man. "What does it matter?" the dark-haired man said. "I want to make sure it's added to my medical records," Mulder said. The dark-haired man holstered his gun and grabbed Mulder's arm, pushing up the sleeve. Mulder didn't resist. The dark-haired man thrust the needle into a vein in the underside of Mulder's arm. He depressed the plunger and withdrew the syringe. The dark-haired man walked away, but the blond remained, his gun still on Mulder. Mulder rubbed his arm and pulled down his sleeve. "This isn't the end of this," the blond man said. "I wouldn't assume it was," Mulder said. He felt dizzy, and he finally had to sit down. He could feel his consciousness slipping away. He laid back. His eyes drifted closed.... He woke up in his car. It was still on the side of the road where he had left it. His brain was full of cobwebs. On the seat next to him were his watch, gun, phone, and car keys. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. "Hello," Scully said, her voice thick with sleep. Mulder looked at his watch. 3:17 AM. "It's Mulder. Are you OK?" "Mulder? What's going on?" "Nothing," he said, starting the car and heading back onto the road. "I just had this bad feeling that something might have happened to you." "I'm fine. You sound like you need sleep, Mulder." He was driving back to the warehouse. They hadn't had him blindfolded, and he remembered the way. He knew that by the time he got there every trace of what had happened would be gone, but it was something he had to do. "Scully?" "Yeah?" "I just want to thank you for being my partner and my friend. It hasn't been easy. I know that." "Are *you* OK, Mulder?" "I think so," he said, but there were tears in his eyes. "I just want you to know that I appreciate you." "I know," she said. "Do you want to come over here and talk?" The answer to that question was yes. More than anything at that moment he wanted to sit in one of Scully's chairs and spill his guts until the pain was muted enough to be bearable. He could envision the gentle compassion in Scully's eyes. But he knew he couldn't go there. He brushed away the tears that were rolling down his cheek. "Thanks, but no," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow." "Get some sleep," she said. "I'll try," he said and shut off the phone. He drove on, the headlights cutting a path through the darkness.