*XXXVI*

Saturday, 12/9/95, 10:13 A.M.
...A woman's alto voice, calling out.

Mulder jumped and his eyes snapped open. For an instant 
he expected to a red-haired woman; he was looking for her 
face before he remembered her name-- but she-- *Scully* 
wasn't there. He was alone. Fuzzy, indistinct fears told him 
that right now being alone was good, and he sagged back 
onto this side, eyes closed, waiting for his pulse to steady. 
When Mulder could glance around again, he found himself 
staring at his gauze-wrapped wrists tied to the metal 
bedrail. No, not tied-- secured by surgical tape. He gave an 
exploratory tug and ... pain. God.... His wrists throbbed. 
And then the woman's voice again-- closer now. A fluting 
tenor answered her and Mulder cringed.

When footsteps approached, Mulder shut his eyes and went 
still. There was a gentle click and he could picture the 
doorknob turning. A hallway breeze played over the tiny 
hairs of his arms and shoulders, bringing with it the scent of 
baking cookies and of lemon furniture wax. Mulder 
shivered in the pit of his stomach and concentrated on 
remaining limp, on letting his hands just hang from the 
bedrail. All was silent, then denim rasped on denim and air 
stirred again, tickling over Mulder's shoulders. A sudden 
scent of soap and horses, a touch along his temple that ran 
back through the thicker hair over his ear.... Mulder's lungs 
took a breath that stuttered, that surely gave him up. The 
hand on his hair stilled, but then it lifted and... and... and 
the Master walked away. As the door closed and the 
footsteps faded, Mulder digested his surprise, his mouth 
pulled into something between a smile and sob.

He wanted to curl into himself, and did so slowly, gasping 
at the pain but rejecting its constraint. He finally lay, knees 
bent, spine bowed, nose and mouth against the cuffs of 
gauze and binding tape, the bedrails icy smooth against his 
forehead. He drew a careful breath, rubbing his face on the 
edges of the tape, tasting its sour chemical flavor. Gauze 
sucked the spit from his mouth and snagged his tastebuds. 
His split lip hurt where the tape rubbed it. Good. Let it hurt. 
It stopped his mind from painting the sensations of rape, 
helped him bury the thought of a television in the dark with 
Scully watching a picture-play of nightmares.

When he finally opened his eyes, his vision was out of 
focus, leaving him staring at the counter blankly, letting his 
lips and tongue define everything important in his world. 
Mulder set the sharp edge of his teeth to cold metal and 
slowly, carefully drew back until his teeth stopped at tape. 
He bit gently, trying to catch tape between his teeth like a 
hangnail. Far off in the kitchen, a pan clattered and he 
jumped, losing the tape's edge. Mulder slid his teeth over 
the steel again, nipping at the tape, hissing as his teeth 
clicked together with nothing between them. Another taste 
of steel, and his neck muscles hurt from tension. He 
brought his teeth together again, but this time they didn't 
click. A satisfying heaviness ground between the sharp 
edges as he bit the tape and tugged up. Tugged up again. 
This time tape was clenched tight between his teeth and he 
pulled like a dog with a bone, tugging and tugging, feeling 
the stuff loosen. When the sticky, reluctant gum finally let 
go with a snap, he fell back and lay panting.

Mulder stared at the tape end hanging free in front of his 
face. He rose up, shaking, and wound his tongue around the 
metal to find where the tape fell free. The end was bitter, 
but he held it tight and tugged, pulling a loop loose before 
letting go and leaning down to snag the tape again and 
unwrap another loop.

Five loops later, his dry lips were bleeding. Six loops later, 
Mulder's wrists dropped to the mattress, bandaged but no 
longer bound to his bed. He slowly drew his hands to his 
chest then twitched as his face screwed up and tears 
squeezed free.

The edge of the cot was miles away. Mulder kicked and 
yanked at the blanket wrapped around him until his legs 
were loose. He rolled, draping his legs off the bed past 
where the rails stopped and let the weight of them drag his 
body until his feet thumped down on the cool floor. 
Mulder's knees sagged as his weight slid from the bed's 
support and he clawed at the sheets, groaning with the 
lightning flow in the ligaments he'd strained.

Mulder finally locked his knees and stood, trembling, his 
bare skin goosebumped. Gray dizziness drew his vision to a 
tunnel and set his ears ringing as he turned and let go of the 
bed. His steps to the door were a controlled fall. He melted, 
half-sliding to the floor, his skin sticky against the door's 
painted wood. But he wanted to laugh, it felt so good. He 
was moving on his own-- without restriction, without 
coercion. Free. 

The metal of the doorknob was achingly cold. He curled his 
fingers slowly and braced himself, twisted with his body's 
torque behind it. His palms slid on the metal-- the knob was 
motionless; there was only a faint rattle of the lock's hasp 
on its nest. It clicked again and again and again as he 
twisted the knob in jerky little spasms, yanking it back and 
forth, until his knees wobbled out from under him and he 
folded, hanging from the knob.

"Oh god..." Mulder didn't want to let go. Didn't want to 
accept-- wanted to hope for just a minute more. Again, he 
twisted the stubborn knob. "Open. C'mon, you god damned 
motherfucker, open!" The tiny, impotent clicks mocked 
him until he dropped his hands into his lap, tears of 
frustration burning in his eyes. 

After a minute or two of feeling the draft that crept under 
the door past his knees and his balls, Mulder blinked and 
looked over his shoulder-- drawn to the implicit freedom of 
the blue sky beyond the barred window. His lips quirked as 
he pictured the window from the outside with a thick, jail-
house rope of knotted sheets and blankets.

Mulder blinked again, and stared up, his forehead slowly 
crinkling in concentration. Behind him the space heater 
clicked and hummed and he startled then reached up to the 
doorknob again and dragged himself to his feet. Mulder 
staggered to the counter and reached up to a cabinet latch. 
There was no lock on it. "Yes...." he whispered.

It was full of tubes and tiny bottles of drugs. Not what he 
needed, but in the next cabinet over-- bingo. Mulder 
fumbled down a bottle of alcohol, staring at the label, 
smelling one of Scully's autopsy bays. Smelling something 
fucking flammable. Mulder swallowed and his grip 
tightened convulsively. He set the alcohol down and 
reached back, taking a glass bottle with both hands, setting 
it down next to the alcohol. Another and another joined it. 
All of the labels bore skull's-head warnings for poison and 
inflammability.

Mulder turned slowly and stared at the sink. He worked his 
lip between his teeth, barely feeling the cut, remembering 
the lab fire in the drain in eleventh grade. Fire and alarms, 
fire and smoke. He glanced up, looking for the alarm and 
not finding one. There might be one in the hall, but he 
might die before it annunciated, before help came, before 
they opened that door. 

"Oh god, oh god, " he was chanting under his breath. But 
he was going to do it. it was death or one shot at freedom 
won in the confusion of the moment. And if freedom *was* 
won...? He smiled like a lunatic, imagining himself 
sprinting naked along a roadway, freeballin' and thumbing 
for a ride. "Take me home to Scully," he'd say-- no. The 
smile faded. There could be no home with Scully now. 
Never-- not even in the ridiculous Happy Ever After he 
sometimes let himself conjure. She'd seen what they'd done 
to him and she'd know him for what he'd become: filthy, 
disgusting, a degenerate turned on by pain who'd spouted 
cum to prove it. She would never want him--never want to 
touch him again or have him inside her--- and who could 
blame her?

'Oh god, what do I do? What do I do with what I feel in my 
chest? What do I do?' he thought frantically, trying to 
breathe around the loss of Scully, his fists clenching, teeth 
grinding. "I'll burn down this fucking house!" he answered 
himself with a growl and shoved the glass bottle into the 
sink to shatter then twisted off plastic caps and dropped the 
bottles to pour their contents as they tipped.

As the fumes burned his lungs, Mulder scrabbled in a 
drawer to find the smooth handle of a scalpel. The blade 
was pitifully small, but its edge gleamed. Mulder's heart 
hammered against his ribs and his lips peeled back off his 
teeth as he moved to the door, behind where it would open, 
coughing, his nose running, everything unreal....

They were already coming, quicker than he'd thought, 
quick enough so that he might not suffocate. The lock 
clunked over and the heavy oak slammed against him. He 
bit down on the pain of the impact and stifled his groan.

"Fox? Good lord. Fox!"

Mulder tried to skirt the door and the Master, and when he 
failed and was seen, he made a wild jab at the man with his 
little knife. "Keep away from me!"

The Master dodged, squinting through the smoke and 
fumes. Mulder dragged himself back a step as the Master 
took one forward. The Englishman bent to cough and 
Mulder smiled in irrational glee.

The Master straightened. "Fox, we have to get you out of 
here."

"Get away fr'me," Mulder wheezed, trying to keep hold of 
the scalpel. His vision was graying. "Jus'stay away!" His 
voice slurred. Faint...couldn't feel the knife's handle. 
Mulder glanced down to see fingers that spasmed and 
twitched around the narrow grip. Motion caught his eye and 
he jerked back up to see the Master picking up the blanket 
from where it lay, holding it out like a net.

"C'mon, lad," the Englishman smothered a cough and as he 
circled to Mulder's right. Mulder whined and tried to 
tighten his numb fingers. The there was a snap of cloth in 
the air and Mulder hissed and gripped the scalpel with both 
hands, slashing wildly as his knees buckled and legs 
tangled under him. 

"Get away from me you motherfucking sonofabitch!" But 
the Master held the blanket up, ready to pounce. Mulder 
blinked away tears, not sure if the ammonia and chlorine 
had caused them or not. The floor was cold and slick under 
his legs and ass as he scooted backward.

"Where do you think you'll go, lad? Will you tell me that?" 
Mulder peered up at the tall, gray-haired figure. He shoved 
himself back again, tasting frustration and anger as his legs 
refused to lift him up. The Master watched with what 
looked like an expression of pride. "Mr. Mulder," he coughed, 
"you're really incorrigible." 

"Fuck you."

"Let me help you. I'll help you out to the parlor, and you'll 
almost be to the door then. That's what you were trying for, 
wasn't it?" 

Mulder's back fetched up against the room's far wall and he 
huddled there, gasping for breath, no longer able to fight 
off the gray. Other people were moving in the corner of his 
eye, but they seemed vague. And suddenly they, the room, 
everything...gone....


The Master was leaning over him. "He's coming round. 
Help me get him on the sofa, James."

He gasped for breath as they carried him, not understanding 
how his lungs could feel so full of fire and yet so heavy and 
wet. Chills shuddered through him. "I'd help you to a chair, 
Mr. Mulder, but right now I think sitting up would be too 
great a challenge," the Master sounded like frickin' John 
Cleese. Mulder responded with an angry, primordial sound. 
"Hush, boy," his captor scolded, then his voice softened. 
"The fire is out and I'm not angry. Relax. You won't be 
punished." 

Mulder wanted to retch. The taste of chemicals was vile in 
the back of his nose and his throat. "I've heard... that 
before.... One...of your top-ten lies." 

"You have heard it before, that's true. If I could have 
protected you, I would have."

"Liar!" Mulder snarled.

"Fox." The Master had crouched to stare at him at the same 
level. "Listen to me, it's important. You need--" 

"I need to get out of here!" 

"You can't leave as you are now, not newly broken. There's 
still training to be done. But we're on the easy leg now, 
remember? It won't be long 'til you can go home." The 
Master reached out to stroke his captive's hair. Mulder 
cringed, squeezed his eyes shut.

"Come now. I know William upset you about the 
videotape. That's what this demonstration of yours is about, 
isn't it?" One mention and in his mind Mulder was with 
Scully while blue television light flickered in a dark room. 
Triple-X panting and wet, desperate sounds, a close-up of 
semen spurting.... God, Mulder didn't understand how his 
face could feel so hot when he was so cold. He gulped, 
open-mouthed, unable to find the words or even a scream 
of rage. The ache of the knots at the back of his head shot 
little threads of color through the chandelier lights as he 
opened his eyes to look up at the Master. The man was 
talking, but Mulder didn't want to hear him any more, not 
ever ever ever again.

Mulder lifted his head and slammed it against the hard 
wooden arm of the sofa. There were a bright explosion of 
pain with a strong topnote of nausea, and hands lunged to 
cup the back of his head. He growled and rolled away, 
wool rubbing prickly on wounds and bare skin as he slid to 
the floor. The Master's arms enwrapped him, held him tight 
and still while Jim gripped his ankles.

"Let go of me. Let go!"

"No." The Master held him tighter. "You must calm down. 
Just trust me and--"

Trust. An incendiary word. "You..." Mulder forced the 
syllable past his teeth then it felt like his soul ruptured in a 
hot-white blossom. They fought to keep him down as he 
thrashed and kicked and shouted the truth: "You haven't 
broken me, you cocksucker! You haven't got me! I don't 
belong to you! YOU HAVEN'T BROKEN ME!"

Above him, the Englishman was shaking his head, a 
convincing expression of confusion on his skinny, 
predatory features. "Fox, be quiet!" When the man's hand 
clamped down on his mouth Mulder wanted to bite, but 
settled on panting instead. He was lightheaded again... 
hurting... cold, even as the sweat of exertion trickled down 
his face and sides.

"Mr. Mulder, you are confused and sick. I understand your 
condition better than you do. Yes, William has caused us a 
setback, and rest assured he has been strongly reprimanded. 
But now you must work with me. I'll help you through this. 
If you let me help you I can do so much. You'll end up 
well-trained and of no bother to the Group. " 

When the Master lifted his hand from Mulder's mouth, it 
felt like a dare. Mulder ran his tongue over his teeth and 
took it. "So, a pat on the head and a fuck up the ass and all's 
right with Agent Fox Mulder?"

The Master frowned. "You'll be trained and your emotions 
smoothed and you shall go back to your life. That is the 
truth."

"But here's the problem, *sir*: I don't have a life thanks to 
you. You've ripped it to shreds. You and your fucking tape 
and your lies."

"What are you talking about, colt? You'll have more than 
you've ever had before. All my lads are well cared for." 
Mulder tried to respond, but coughed, deep and hoarse. He 
had to settle for shaking his head as the Master insisted, 
"You'll go back to your partner and your job and do the 
best work you've ever done. They'll tell you what cases to 
leave alone, and you shall. They have no desire to stop your 
exemplary police work." 

"Oh sure," his retort rasped. "I'll just go back to my office 
and I'll know Scully knows why I don't have tan, and it 
won't be the same between us ever again. I'll have a boss 
who talks really softly and doesn't want to upset me and 
once a month I'll come here to sit up and beg." 

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Fox. I told you Dr. Scully 
doesn't know."

"Your boy said I was straight to video."

"She doesn't know."

Mulder shook his head, a restless, frayed laugh escaping his 
throat. "The one thing I *do* know is that you lie. You lied 
about Samantha and what would happen to me here. You 
lied about letting me rest. You're lying to me now."

"Dr. Scully was not the recipient of that tape." 

"You keep talking, sonofabitch. All I need is a black and 
white taxi with 'state trooper' on the side. They'll give you 
all a nice ride, too." 

Mulder saw Jim look to the Englishman-- saw how nervous 
Jim was, and felt glad of it. "Threats." The Master sighed. 
"That's part of the problem, Fox. Don't you see? You have 
to cooperate. You have to work with me. You'll disappear 
forever if you don't, lad, and I won't be able to stop it. Don't 
you understand that? As far as the Group is concerned, it's 
this or something much worse. Let me help you, Fox. 
You're wrong about Dr. Scully, wrong about so much. You 
have so much to look forward to. Let me save you. Please."

Mulder stared at him and wanted to scream as the soft 
voice tried to soothe and to confuse him.

"All I want is to help you. All you have to do is let me help 
you."

"You'll change me, or they'll kill me."

A nod answered what hadn't really been a question. "There 
are other options more horrible than death, Fox."

He didn't speak for the dread of exercising his free will. 
"Go to hell." Mulder finally said. "Go. To. Hell." 

The Master's face dropped. "I'm sorry. You'll never 
understand how sorry I am." 

"Sure I will. Call me a cab and no hard feelings." He 
summoned a crazy grin and then nearly sobbed.

The Master and Jim dragged him to his feet and swaddled 
him again in wool. "I can't let you go, lad. I only wish I 
could." He was being half-walked, half-dragged towards a 
door. When it opened and the unmistakable smell of that 
basement crawled up from the dark, Mulder twisted, tried 
to go limp, tried to drop from between them, growling, but 
the hands that held his arms were tight and hard. He was 
eased down the stairs by main strength, held up and held 
still even as he threw himself back, trying to fall, trying 
anything. Their bodies pressed warm against either side to 
crush him into obedience as they dragged him through a 
room that still stank of his own rape to a door and a cell 
where once he'd thought he could take whatever they might 
do to him. 

Mulder seethed in wordless hate as the Master and Jim 
pushed him down onto the eggshell mat and held him there. 
Their hands pulled his own behind him, metal jangled, and 
handcuffs firmly clasped his bandaged wrists. 

"Fox. Fox." The hands were petting him again. He cried out 
until his shriek was a whisper but the hated English voice 
still called his name. "Fox. You don't leave me any choice. 
You won't let me help you. Remember," The words were 
close and the breath was hot on his cheek. "Remember, 
Fox. Whatever happens, if you ask for me, I'll help you. 
Tell them you want me, and I'll help you." 

Then his captors retreated, the heavy door banging shut to 
leave him alone in the pitch-dark cell, sobbing. He turned 
onto his side, pulled his knees up, and shook from the dank 
cold of the floor under the skimpy padding. His chest ached 
as he keened. 

When the bolt was unexpectedly drawn, Mulder lifted and 
turned his head, the normally slight strain making his gut 
muscles tremble. "Mr. Mulder, it's Jim." A shadow moved 
forward with sneakersteps on cement. "I've got to tie your 
ankles. The Master says so. He's decided he doesn't want 
you on the loose in here." 

Mulder sneered and asked bitterly, "What the h-hell does he think
I'll do? Run around like a f-fucking gerbil?" 

Jim crouched by Mulder's drawn-up knees. "He didn't think 
you'd smoke out the infirmary either. Now, listen, I brought 
suede cuffs because they're soft. I'm trying to be nice to 
you, so don't struggle when I put them on." 

Mulder let his head fall back, whined as he felt the hands 
push aside the itchy blanket to grasp the bruised and raw 
flesh around his anklebones. Mulder tried to dam them, but 
warm tears rolled off the bridge of his nose and dropped 
onto the padding as the buckles clattered and the suede 
pulled snug against his skin. "Okay," Jim sounded relieved 
at the small sound of the clip uniting the D-rings. "I'll be 
right back." 

Retreating footfalls.

Jim quickly returned with pillows-- muther fucking fluffy 
pillows that he placed under and all around Mulder's head. 
The man drew back to assess his handiwork. There was a 
long, considering pause then Jim said, "Mr. Mulder, You 
need to know what's going to happen if you don't let the 
Master help you."

Mulder glared, bit down, and said nothing.

"You say you're not broken. He doesn't really believe you, 
but he's not sure, and the way you're acting-- the only way 
to get back on track is make sure you're broken... to make 
sure there's no question about it. We're going to break you 
tomorrow, Mr. Mulder. It's going to be bad, but hopefully 
fast. "

Mulder felt his death-ray stare dwindle as his eyes grew 
wide. "Oh god," he whispered.

"It doesn't have to happen at all if you'll just give in. Just 
learn how to act like a proper slave and then you can leave. 
There hardly has to be any pain at all and just a few 
demonstrations--"

Disbelief creased Mulder's forehead. "No!" Behind his 
back, his bound hands clawed in desperate reflex. "No! Not 
Again!"

Jim reached out to grip his shoulder and shake him gently. 
"Listen to me: you're going to have to perform for those 
men again whether tomorrow happens or not. He'll teach 
you what you need to do; you'll give a few old men 
blowjobs and let them fuck you and that will be it. Then 
you go home and do what you're told and they'll take care 
of you. They'll make your life real easy if you want. You 
can marry your partner, move into a nice house. They'll put 
your kids through the best schools... everything. Just give 
in, Mr. Mulder."

He stared at Jim, knowing his mouth was gaping and was 
he utterly unable to close it. "God damn you for even trying 
this," he finally muttered. "You fuckers took it all.... I don't 
give a shit about money...my job, Scu--my partner--you 
assholes already took it all." 

"Your partner? Is that still what this is about? Look, she 
didn't see it. Bill lied. The tape wasn't for her, so you can 
go back and--" 

"Shut up!" Mulder snapped. "Just shut up. You don't 
understand." Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, and caught his 
lower lip between his teeth. 

"Don't be a martyr, Mr. Mulder." Jim's voice edged up as 
he shook Mulder harder. 

"Leave me alone," he whispered. "I won't. God, I won't... 
won't...." 

"Chanting your mantra, huh?" Jim pushed Mulder down 
flat against the pillows and the layer of stale-smelling 
padding. The blaze of pain in his back and wrists 
made Mulder gasp. "It's going to hurt like shit tomorrow, too. 
You lay here and think about it. I hope you change your 
mind by morning." 

Jim rose and turned to go. Mulder let him take a few steps 
before speaking softly, "I know what you did." Under half-
mast lids he saw Jim spin. Mulder twitched a smile. 

"What?" 

"You thought... I wouldn't... remember," his words were 
spread apart by a need for more air as he arched to lift the 
weight off his throbbing wrists. "I-- I thought I dreamed it. 
But I didn't. I won't forget now, Jim." Then Mulder shut his 
eyes against the man's swift retreat and the leaden slam of 
the cell door. There was a moment of shivering silence, 
then, once again, Mulder wept.