Title - "The Games We Play" Author - Wintersong E-Mail address - xf_wintersong@yahoo.ca Rating - R Category - SA Spoilers - First Person Shooter Keywords - none PURity Category: Minor Characters Summary - Mulder and Scully participate in an FBI wargame that raises interesting questions about what game is being played...and the identities of the players. Disclaimer: They belong to CC and 1013. Note: This story was written for the PURity Summer Season Challenge. It takes place after First Person Shooter but before Requiem. ************************************* It was the FBI's newest toy...and everybody wanted to play. It started out as the bastard stepchild of an HRT desire for their own Hogan's Alley training facility. Appropriations took one look at the projected budget and rightly choked. There was absolutely no way, they said, that that much money would be spent on a unit that had a bare 100 agents, no matter how specialized. Grumbling at the prospect of sharing their playground, HRT nevertheless went back to the drawing board and redrew the plans, this time including facilities for SWAT and other fast -response training. The FBI National Academy program was proving to be such a success that the HRT designers decided that the same philosophy could be re-utilized. Quantico would provide the training facilities, the FBI would get a chance to get local law enforcement used to dealing with the new and improved federal response teams (the mandate of those teams being ever expanded to the jurisdiction and ego-pinching dismay of city and state police departments everywhere) and HRT would get it's multi-million dollar swingset. It almost worked. About the same time HRT was gleefully designing multi-leveled warehouses, hidden bunkers and underground tunnels, Quantico was getting serious requests for expanded seats in their National Academy program. Additional classes meant a need for additional accommodations and cafeteria allocations and the accountants were still reluctant to authorize the construction of facilities that needed to be built to full-time standards, but would likely only be filled to half capacity for the first few years. The possible expansion of available training programs - training programs that the FBI might actually be able to charge for, made every cost recovery instinct sit up and sing. Even better, no one had any doubts that the federal government was going to be getting more involved with SWAT-like activities through CIRG and the FBI's expanding international mandate against terrorism, drugs and hostage negotiation. Then someone read the HRT proposal. And had an idea. A wonderfully, horrible, awful idea. What if - they said- in grim awful, tones, we advertise? We build something so big, so unique, that no one except the federal government could afford to build it. HRT is the best? Then let's prove it. Let's build a training facility designed not just to train better soldiers, let's show the locals just how good our agents are. Let there be absolutely no doubt in anyone's mind, that when HRT takes over jurisdiction, that they deserve to be there. And how better to do that, then set the locals against the feds? And make them lose. Of course, that was not exactly how they put it on paper.. Officially, local law enforcement would be run through the program to show them just how difficult it was, just how good HRT agents really were and then, after the hormone buzz wore off, they'd be given classroom training in how best to co-ordinate local and federal resources in an emergency situation. Ultimately, it was proposed, HRT would become the universal fast response standard. It was a recruiter's wet dream. So what about the money? It was going to cost big. Really big. And budgets were being reduced left, right and center. How were they going to justify something the size of a small theme park? Somebody called the CIA and asked one simple question. How would you like free rein to mind-fuck the FBI? They crossed the water before breakfast. Before anyone could sign on the dotted line, the NSA landed three helicopters and one pissed off director who demanded to know why he was being cut out of the fun. NCIS wanted any information that might come out regarding psychological stress testing of agents in the field while the CO for the Navy CRT at Catalano just wanted to know if he could help. Within four hours, the DEA, ATF, DOT and LAPD had all called wanting to reserve space in the program. The USMS reserved judgement. Needless to say, HRT was more than a little put out with all the fingers being dipped into the pie...but they got their money. Three years later the facility finally opened. Six months into the program, they realized that they had a gold-mine on their hands. Data poured in, unbelievable and totally unexpected results blew previous expectations out of the water. By the end of the first trial run, new studies were being hashed out and the embryonic structure for training programs designed to brutally expose the weaknesses in the individual, the partnership and the team were being laid out. The CIA was ecstatic, law enforcement beta testers-local, city and state - were in a state of psychological shock and the military was making grabbing noises. The FBI just grinned and booked out the next six month segment of the program while the bean-counters stared in disbelief as cost- recovery began to look more like ( gasp!)- profit. The FBI, the website and the official letterhead called it the National HRT Psychological Testing and Training Program. Survivors just called it The Maze. ************************************* I searched through the gathered pairs of agents and tried to locate the four teams which belonged to me. Above the sounds of eighty people shifting and anxious to get started, I could hear the amplified voice of SAC Tony Garnes as he went through the final pep talk. "...have no place in this exercise. I don't care if your dog died, your wife left you or your kids were just picked up for shoplifting. In there, you have one concern , one goal, one purpose. Your partner. In there, your partner is all you got...and vice versa. " The team from Cleveland were standing by the closed doors to the main entrance. Both agents were twitching, rising up on their toes, ready for action and desperate to strut their stuff. Both Willis and Holden were assigned to computer crimes and I had a sneaking suspicion that this was the closest thing to field work this pair of agents had ever seen. Neither had a law enforcement background although Willis's file noted that she was an avid rock climber. It would be interesting to see how they reacted to this live action video game. "...once this is over, you will have no more illusions. Not about yourself or about your partner. We are going to twist you, and then we are going to do our best to break you. And when it is all over, we're going to show you how to put the pieces back together again. Hopefully in a way that will keep you from getting yourself or your partner killed. Make no mistake ladies and gentlemen. We have your files, we have your psyche evals and we have total access to every single item in your personal jackets. And we are going to use it all." My second team was standing off to the side, both agents carefully rooting through their packs and double-checking their weapons. The actions themselves were commendable, but their body language was...problematic. SACs had specifically been asked for the best teams fitting the program criteria for this study. If this team had been working together for the minimum three years demanded, then they had better hope that they never got a field assignment. I was getting absolutely no sense of any synchronicity in their movements - not even the standard like/dislike and basic acknowledgement of identity that most humans gave off as a matter of course. Oh well. Whatever it was would come out in the course of events. It was my job to make sure of it. "...not about blame. Nor are there always right and wrong ways of doing things. But you cannot operate in ignorance. If you are going to react, do so in the full knowledge that you, as a team and as part of a team, are choosing to act in this way because this is the way you work best. Many of you will have taken on certain roles and attitudes because this is the way you started and this is the way it has always worked for you. But people change, and some of you may have grown beyond these roles and may be trapped within them." My third team was waiting patiently, listening carefully to the SAC and glancing at each other every once in a while to catch the other's reaction. Marshal was ex-SFPD and Sanchez was an ex-Marine. The memo had specifically requested that the SACs recommend their best. With these two, I was actually confident that we had gotten it. Despite the heavy weighting of pairs with military or law enforcement background, I did not have to be a profiler to see that barely half of these teams were as confident in their partnerships as they would need to be. It was too early to tell if it was because of the baseline criteria or if it was because of the nature of the program itself. Some of the SACs were beginning to avoid sending working teams they wanted back in one piece. "...over the next three days, you and we are going to find out exactly who and what you are and if that is where you should be. I kid you not people, this is going to be a painful process. We are going to find every bruise, every insecurity and every fear and we are going to poke it, prod it and jab it with a knife. We are going to rip it out, hold it up to public scrutiny and then we are going to stomp on it. " Where the hell was my fourth set of agents? A second visual sweep failed to turn up any faces matching the ones in the file folders I was holding. Growling under my breath I thumbed my throat mike and ear-piece combination to an open link. "Farrow to Command" "Command here. What can I do for ya Jamie?" "You can tell me where my Delta team is." I winced as the voice on the other end of the link snorted. "Lost them already have you?" I could overhear a set of voices saying something about a bet. I groaned as I considered what the next three days were going to be like if it was starting already. Hell, the kitty was already up about fifty bucks just because the elusive pair had actually shown up this morning. Apparently, there had been some doubt on that issue. At the rate the bets were filling the dry-erase board on the command center wall, my Delta team just might be responsible for the biggest cash kitty in the history of the FBI. Wonderful. "According to the blinking green dots, they should be somewhere in your vicinity. You want sound?' What the hell. "Might as well." My ear-piece crackled and the sudden faint echo of the noise behind me not only confirmed that they were somewhere close, but that they were also wearing their FBI approved project fatigues. The ones with the transmitters built into the buttons. So, if they had gone so far as to come out dressed to play, where the hell were they? "...notice anything odd about the class mix, Scully?" "You mean other than the fact we are all male- female pairs? No Mulder, not at all." There was a decided pause before Mulder spoke. "What?" "You don't find all of this annoying?" "Not really." "You don't find it insulting that they've rounded us all up like some sort of exhibit at the zoo?" "Nope. You want to know why?" "I'm afraid to ask." " Because while all those shrinks are out there looking for the men from Mars and the women from Venus, the FBI agents are going to kick their collective asses." I finally spotted them. A tall dark haired man and a short red-headed woman standing over by the billboard map of the multi-leveled game complex. My eyes had passed over them at least twice without noticing them and I was at a loss as to explain why. Both looked surprising natural in their fatigues although nothing about them screamed military. Agent Mulder was fixated on the billboard with unnatural intensity while Agent Scully stared up at him with amusement and a casual tilt to her head that should have looked awkward and did not. Comfortable, I thought suddenly. That's the word I was looking for. They looked poised, alert and absolutely comfortable. Where had I seen that combination of factors before? The agents behind me started shifting as backpacks were shouldered and the game director started calling out starting orders. Thirty-nine teams of agents started lining up before one of four doors. My Delta team made forty. Each pair would be given fifteen minutes to clear the doors and get moving before the next team would be sent in behind them. Each agent was equipped with a semi-automatic paint pistol and two extra clips. Each ammo clip carried ten rounds of splatter paint pellets and once inside the game zone, everyone except your partner was the enemy. "How badly do you want to put the boots to their bell curve, Scully?" I could see the teeth flash from fifty feet away. "Funky poaching, Mulder?" "We're even dressed in black." I closed my eyes and sighed. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I suspected it meant it was going to be a long three days. ********************************************* Mulder may have had a photographic memory, but he usually did not bother to do maps. Too much detail. If he did not notice it, he could not remember it. It was one of the reasons he still studied crime scene photos long after they had been engraved into his gray matter. Scully also had a sneaky suspicion that the process of comparing the actual photo to his memory was part of the way he evaluated details. In any case, he still had to look at the map in his head and that took just as long as reading a regular paper copy. He had long since told her that any benefit they might gain was far outweighed by the weird flashbacks he got when driving. Which was why she usually did the navigating. Just because he normally did not memorize them, however, did not mean that he could not. The compound was twenty acres of interconnected buildings and tunnels. Many of the buildings extended as far as six levels underground and the many possible routes had been designed to give the HRT the maximum amount of flexibility when choosing the skill being trained and the level of difficulty being assigned. For this exercise, four suggested routes of varying lengths and difficulty had been assigned based on the agenda of the exercise and the type of equipment that the participants would be carrying. Agents had the leeway to choose which route they wanted to take based on their own skills and competitive spirit. But they were suggested routes only , and as anyone could have told the game organizers, Mulder did not always take suggestion well. Since the agents were only given partial maps of the game zone - the parts covered by their suggested routes - wandering out of bounds usually only occurred by accident, not design. Scully had taken one look at her partner's narrow-eyed contemplation of the complex map and left her game supplied map in her backpack. Wherever they were going, it was not on the map. While everyone else was using the time waiting in line to make last minute battle plans, she stretched out on a nearby picnic table and took a nap. Agents were free to choose their own route as long as they passed through at least five of forty possible game zones. Each game zone represented an exercise or psychological test the agents would be required to undergo. Each test was carefully scripted and agents would receive in-depth analysis of their performance after the game. What the agents were not told, was that their handlers had a range of exercises built around each target weakness and could chose which exercise to hit them with based on their psychological profiles and the results of previous exercises. Agent teams could be eliminated from the game in one of two ways. After twelve hours, they could be shot by another agent pair or they could be taken out by various types of hostiles played by staff members. The latter was usually only found during military style training exercises. With the exception of CIRG personnel, the FBI was more concerned with the psychological performance of its agents during the scripted exercises, not the physical. Agents were under twenty-four hour surveillance by VCU profilers and CIA psychological warfare specialists. The compound itself was covered by various forms of hidden audio and video pick-ups with the game zones being inundated with everything from infra-red to nightvision equipment. Every aspect of the agents' communication be it verbal or non-verbal was taped and tagged for analysis. If the agents had any hidden weaknesses, the Command center would find them. The final stage of the game was a complex problem solving exercise that supposedly depended on the agents having learned something about communication , cooperation and trust for the exercise to be resolved successfully. Ironically, there seemed to be no middle of the road with many of the partnerships. In the crucible that was the Maze, either they strengthened, or they shattered. Bureaucratically, senior management and OPR were beginning to wonder if the results were worth the pain. The CIA and the FBI profilers just shrugged. Better in the Maze than in the field. ********************************* I made it back to the Command Center before the first of my four teams were sent through the doors. My two assistants were busy observing body language and making notes for further study and possible application in the field exercises. Lieutenant (JG) Kathy Kramer, a psychological warfare specialist from the US army on loan to the CIA specifically for Project Pygmalion, was tapping a pen thoughtfully against her lip as she frowned . I stepped up behind her and peered over her shoulder at the monitor. Delta team. Gosh. What a surprise. Lt. Kramer twisted her head and met my eyes. She pointed the end of her pen at a sleeping Scully. "According to her file, that should be extremely out of character." I contemplated the sleeping agent for a long moment, then cocked an eyebrow at Kramer. "Military experience?" She hesitated. According to the files of both agents they had been scooped up by the FBI directly out of their respective university programs. Extremely unusual and someone had pulled more than one string to do it. It had been fairly obvious that the VCU had been doing some hard-core recruiting. It was also obvious that both agents had been dodging some fairly dedicated attempts to patriate them into the BSU fold. Or repatriate in Mulder's case. Those files had been easy to access. What was not quite so obvious was what exactly they had been doing when they were not chasing serial killers. Officially, they investigated reports of UFO's and paranormal phenomena. I had been unable to access much more than the official case report summaries, but Kramer had speculated that maybe it was something like the old Project Bluebook. That opinion had made sense right up until she accessed their medical records. Someone really needed to teach these two how to duck. Both Kramer and I had begun to suspect that this so-called X-Files department was just a front. Whatever these two were, they were clearly more than paperpushers. After running into the third tight-lipped, high security block in a row, I had speculated rather sarcastically, that maybe werewolves existed after all. I mean, why else all the red tape? Kramer had just snorted. Her theory, which made a hell of a lot more sense , was that the two were undercover operators of some kind. Their field agent status gave them the perfect alibi and ability to drop out of sight at a moment's notice. Unfortunately, the first CIA operative we suggested it to nearly killed himself laughing. "Spooky Mulder and Doc Ice? You've got to be kidding. Those two go missing for more than three days and we've got fifty websites screaming that we offed them. Then the FBI gets one hundred and one more requests for their travel records through the freedom of information act. Their photos show up more often on the fringe sites than Elvis sightings. Believe me, if their reports say they were in Montana, you can be sure that some MUFON nut got a photo of them. Hell, that's where we get half our confirmation on what they are up to. Have you seen the clearance levels that get slapped on their after action reports?" Which really begged the question as to why the CIA was keeping tabs on these two agents in the first place. But it also shot our favorite theory all to hell and back. So we were back to square one. Which meant that I was not asking if Agent Scully had military experience. I was asking if her actions made any sense from a military or combat operational sense. I had seen HRT agents do the same thing under different circumstances. Once they all knew what was supposed to happen and it was just a matter of "hurry up and wait". But I had never seen one of them snoozing at the beginning of the game. Not this game. Basically, she was ceding all control of the strategy and planning to her partner. And with it, all responsibility. Technically Mulder was the senior agent, but Kramer was right. Based on their files, I would have expected her to take a more active role. Or maybe it was not the files so much as the looks and comments I had gotten while doing my research. However, the case file summaries were clearly stamped with Mulder's bias and it was obviously his beliefs driving the non- assigned investigations. Maybe she *was* little more than a follower after all. A valuable follower mind, but not the Pygmalion model I had been hoping to find. I was honest enough to admit that I was disappointed. From a couple of the comments about her I had expected someone more aggressive. A little less stereotypically feminine and a little more...something extra. Face it, I told myself ruefully, you have been looking for the dynamic duo all morning. It's not their fault the rumors got out of hand. So I was just a bit unprepared for what happened next. Agent Mulder woke his partner with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He grinned at her and she squinted, groaned once, and yawned. Then they both shouldered their packs. Kramer, BSU profiler Agent Mike Siles, and I watched them with professional care, but no real expectation of surprise. They lined up in front of their door and waited patiently for the staff member guarding the entrance to give them the go-ahead. We had been given a little advanced warning, I realized later. Mulder's eyes drifted to his partner, "I'm in the zone, Scully" Kramer's eyebrows shot up when Scully snorted, "Just don't get our hands chopped off and I'll be happy." "Oh yea of little faith." "Show me the money, G-man." But that was *all* the warning they gave. The staffer clicked his stopwatch and gestured for go and both agents sauntered through the door...and then they were gone. Agents Siles jerked upright in his chair with a single,"What the hell?". Kramer cursed and I found myself a little less disappointed. Without a word, Mulder had sprung into a ground eating lope, his partner an easy two steps behind. Mulder showed no hesitation as he took turn after turn...and neither did his partner. Despite the fact that I knew for a fact that she had no clue where they were going, she pounded along behind Mulder as if she had no doubts about their destination and how to get there. Which answered our earlier question about operational field experience in a backhanded sort of way. These definitely were not pencil pushers. Siles muttered swear words in English, Swahili and Russian as he furiously tapped commands into his system, bringing several unanticipated camera systems on-line. Within ten minutes it was obvious that the agents were not using the map and five minutes after that they left the FBI game grid and ventured into HRT territory. Notwithstanding the annoyance and extra work this was going to generate, I found myself grinning. I was getting even less disappointed by the minute. By taking the route that they had, they had cut several hours off their transit times. Despite the fact that they had been one of the last teams to go, they had not only caught up to, they had passed the first teams through the door. Maybe we were going to see a few fireworks after all. All five of the game zones were pre-assigned and mandatory. Which meant that they could not avoid their fellow agent teams forever. By getting ahead of their teammates however, Mulder and Scully had neatly avoided at least one ambush that had already almost claimed one agent pair. Of course, the agents in question never realized that our staffers had foiled the attempt on purpose. It would not do to have the agents killed off too quickly. Riley's Bravo team got points for the effort, though. Then my Delta team was go for Game Zone One. The stated objective was simple. Go in one door and leave by the other. Everyone but your partner is considered hostile. Easy. Oh Yeah. Right. The room was enormous. Four hundred feet by four hundred feet, the room had a total floor area of four acres and unbeknownst to the game players before they stepped into it, it was three floors high. It was a maze in miniature. An endless series of office style hallways and steel core doors. It was also the first test of the partnership in separation. The doors were computer controlled and the controller sitting in the Command Center not only had the ability to shut doors, he could move sections of walls, opening some hallways and closing others. And if the partners did not move far enough apart to be separated by a suddenly closing door, there was a team of Marines standing by to make sure that it happened. And sometimes the Marines were used just to make life interesting. Five minutes after Mulder and Scully stepped into GZ-1, they were blind-sided. Duct-taped hand and foot, they were separated, blind-folded and carried to different floors of the zone and dumped. Neither stayed that way for long. Fingers soon removed blindfolds and ripped the duct-tape from mouths, teeth soon chewed the duct-tape from wrists and freed hands soon freed feet. Then, predictably, both started hollering for their partner. Actually, Mulder and Scully started yelling as soon as their mouths were free, in both cases, even before the blindfolds were off. Surprisingly though, they both shut up as soon as they realized they were not within shouting distance. I had thought they might keep it up a bit longer but I was not particularly disturbed when they did not. Not yet anyway. It was 50/50 what the agents would do at this point. Obviously, their priority was finding their counterpart, but at the same time, they knew there were hostiles in the area. Yelling at the top of your lungs-while a good way for your partner to locate you, is also a good way to tell the bad guys where you are. Two hours later, both agents were lost, confused and increasingly angry and flustered. Of course, that's what they were supposed to be. More than half the agents started out making maps. We usually let them go on with that for about an hour before we started moving walls around. It was a general rule not to have any designated staff "hostiles" within shooting or strangling distance for about twenty minutes after the agents were made aware of this fact. It usually made for a hell of a show on the camera footage though. Some of the temper tantrums were...impressive. In this case, Scully simply stared narrowly at the wall which had rumbled into view and destroyed the validity of her painstakingly drawn map. Then she carefully placed both paper and pencil back in her pack and continued to head in the same direction she had been going. Mulder gave his wall a petulant kick and flipped a bird to the nearest camera but did pretty much the same. Considering that the whole point was to raise frustration levels to the breaking point, this was a disappointingly calm response as far as I was concerned. Everyone I had talked too had mentioned the agents' devotion to each other, and I had expected this exercise to trigger some interesting emotional outbursts. I did not expect to nearly get Mulder killed. Well, maybe not killed. The walls were programmed to stop if the sensors detected anything between the rising wall and the roof. Things like hands and fingers. But he could have broken his neck easily enough. The goal had been to push the frustration level. Both agents had quickly made their way back down to the first floor and steadfastly stayed there. Logically, this made sense since this was presumably where the exit was located and that made the most logical rendezvous point. Since I could not lure them into wandering fruitlessly on the second and third floors, I decided to let the agents get close enough to see each other and then separate them. The judicious use of hostile Marines got Mulder moving in the right direction. With six of them hot on his tail, he was just rounding the corner of a long hallway when I dropped the wall at the far end to reveal his partner. Predictably, Mulder started racing toward her. Scully took up position and started picking off his pursuers. She had taken out two of them when I hit the button that started the wall raising between them. The expressions of sheer fury which swept over both agents' faces when they realized they had been played and were about to be separated again was frightening. Watching the tape later, I was struck by the instinctive and absolute co- ordination of purpose between the agents. At a dead run, Mulder holstered his pistol, abandoning the Marines behind him to his partner. The Marines at this juncture were focused solely on keeping him from rejoining Scully. A point, the Marine sergeant said later, which was not lost on her. Considering that the next three KIA Marines went down with paint pellets to the groin, I had to agree. The wall was almost four feet high and still moving when Mulder hit it. Slapping hands to the top, he launched himself up and over with a tremendous heave of his shoulder muscles and with all the built up inertia of 180lbs moving at full speed down a 300 foot hallway. He shot over the top of the wall, then tucked and rolled awkwardly, the bulk of the pack throwing his balance and direction off as he came to his feet. Sheer momentum would have carried him right past his partner except for the fact that she threw herself into his path, left arm snagging his right. Her counterweight pulled them into an ungraceful spin and as they both held on tight, they were slammed up against a nearby wall. Obviously fearing that any separation would bring down another wall, both agents had their weapons in hand and scanning the hallways before they completely recovered from the impact. Mulder had his arm wrapped tightly around her waist and if the deathgrip she had on his forearm was any clue, Mulder would be wearing finger-sized bruises for days. Kramer and the Marines were impressed. Siles muttered something about taking games way too seriously. Considering his job on this project was to promote exactly that, I had to wonder if there wasn't a second agenda to that remark. Either that or sour grapes. I, myself, wanted a chance to review the tapes before I made up my mind about how I felt. But I was beginning to understand some of those backhanded remarks. This was not a pair you wanted to find yourself coming between. Ever. We also learned quickly that their unity extended into other areas. With my best tool for raising frustration levels gone, I decided to let them stew for a couple of hours while I reviewed tapes. GZ-1 was the longest of all the game segments and there were actually three agent teams moving through the game zone at the same time. That was the other reason for the movable walls. To keep the teams separated and unaware of each other. So I was totally comfortable leaving the agents to wander pointlessly. Unfortunately, no one told them they were supposed to get frustrated and start taking it out on each other. Kramer just shook her head as they spent a hour in serious debate over the merits and shortcomings of various rental cars. "Definitely field agents" was the consensus. They knew how to handle boredom, and fruitless and aimless wandering did not seem to bother them in the slightest. Hell, once they got started profiling Hannibal the Cannibal they actually seemed to be having fun. That was until Mulder decided enough was enough and started engaging in some psychological warfare of his own. The way his partner's eyebrows shot up when he launched into a rousing rendition of Henry the Eighth might have been amusing if Kramer and I were not busy watching Command Center heads pop up all across the room. When Mulder started emphasizing the word "Henry" and singing directly into the button microphone on the lapel of her coveralls, I saw one of the most evil grins I had ever seen spread across Agent Scully's face. Then she joined him. Funny how I never realized just how annoying that song could be. "You want to know the best part, Scully?" I did. Maybe then we could do something about it. The bastard actually smirked right into one of the cameras. Considering how well hidden they were, that was a feat in itself. "They're not allowed to turn off the mikes." Oh fuck. Hell if I know how she did it, but that grinchy grin got bigger. Then they linked arms and started down the hallway like Dorothy down the bloody yellow brick road. They even had the gall to do that damn sideways step hop skip. They had definitely seen way too many movies together. The Marines thought it was funny. By the end of the next hour the betting pool was also a hell of a lot bigger. The issue at hand was who would crack first. The odds were running three to one against the house. I will always think that that had been some sort of sign. It was interesting to note that despite caroling at the top of their lungs, the agents still managed to take out another set of hostile Marines. These ones were just there to herd, not separate, but the agents did not wait to find out. Mulder did not even stop singing. Four "dead" Marines later, the agents looked at each other, paused, then took a deep breath. Half the Command Center groaned. The other half were fingering weapons and wearing tight smiles. Kramer finally surrendered and triggered the hallway sequence that would lead them out of GZ-1. From the looks of gratitude around the room, she could have asked for anything at that moment up to and including volunteers to father her children. Agents: 1 ; House: 0 On the upside, they stopped singing. They then breezed right through GZ-2. Although if it was not for the fact that it was marked clearly on the map-the map neither had pulled out to read- they could have been forgiven for missing that point. The zone was dimly lit, filled with boxes and crates that made great places for hostiles to hide. Four steps into the room, the strobe lights came on. It was supposed to be disorientating. Agents were supposed to find themselves confused and under fire and cautious about shooting barely visible figures who may or may not have been their partners. That was the theory, anyway. The reality was that both agents seemed to have an almost preternatural instinct for the other's presence. Which meant that anyone else was dead meat. One of the Marines took advantage of a moment when Mulder was temporarily out of her field of vision to try and sneak up on his partner. She did not even turn around to look first before spinning to shoot. Whatever it was that alerted her to his presence must have also told her it was not her partner. The Marine took a paint pellet square in the chest. The Marine sergeant studying the action over Kramer's shoulder had a slight frown between his eyes as he watched all of this. He started to open his mouth at one point, then just shook his head and sighed. The only comment he made was something about them being in the wrong program. Then both agents were through the zone and pounding down the hallways and back into HRT game space. I gave them full credit for not dropping their guards even when it should have been obvious that they were alone. Sixteen hours after entering the Maze, they disappeared into the ductwork to sleep. By what was obviously longstanding tradition since there did not appear to be any discussion needed, Mulder took the first watch while Scully slept. They also took paranoia a bit further than I or any of the game designers intended by treating the food rations as a potential hazard. A short debate over the merits of eating at all ensued briefly and finally it was decided that they would only eat individually, right before sleeping. That way if the food was drugged, only one of them would be incapacitated at a time. Siles and I were mute with astonished disbelief, but both Kramer and the Marine Sergeant were nodding with hard-eyed approval. I also had the sneaking suspicion that HRT was about to get a new wrinkle added to their program. One of my teams had already managed to get themselves eliminated despite the Command Center's best efforts. Willis and Holden, Computer Crimes, had fallen apart in GZ-1 and never gotten it back together. They blamed each other for the pointlessness and lack of progress with an unexpected vengeance. Then Willis stalked away from Holden and when the Marines attacked, they defended themselves individually instead of as a unit. The Marine aiming to miss actually hit Willis accidentally when she did not turn back to her partner like he expected. At which point they had both gone stark raving loony tunes, each screaming that the other was at fault and dragging up irritating habits and quirks they had lived with for three years as proof. The Marines had to physically restrain them from attacking each other. OPR was going to be thrilled about this one. I , on the other hand, thanked my lucky stars none of us would never meet that pair in the field someday. I have no regrets about what we did to them. None at all. Like Mulder and Scully, the other two teams had gone to ground for some snooze time. Satisfied that the nightwatch could handle the next few hours, I decided to grab a few hours of sleep myself. I still tell myself that there was nothing I would have noticed. Nothing I could have done. But seven hours later, Mulder and Scully entered GZ-3 and everything went to hell. ****************************** Darkness. The game zone was pitch black and the blaring shriek of several alarms interfered with her ability to sense Mulder. He had been several steps ahead of her when the lights went out and the alarms went off. She held herself motionless, pistol ready. A male hand suddenly touched her lightly on the shoulder and made a familiar sweep down her back and came to rest where it always did. She relaxed with a small sigh. Mulder. A gentle pressure directed her away from their previous heading and Scully moved unhesitatingly in the indicated direction. She was four steps away before she realized that something was off with his gait. Senses alert for anything, she concentrated on keeping her footsteps steady. Two more steps and a prickle of unease crept down her spine Then the shock of what was wrong crashed over her. Hours of running had seen both of them sweating into their fatigues. Every time he had come close she had found herself bathed in a scent as familiar to her as that of her favorite shampoo. In the darkness it had been reassuring in the same way it had reassured her sleeping mind during all those hours on stake- outs. A scent that was conspicuously absent. Eyes widening uselessly in fury she whirled, pistol coming up to fire. Instantly , arms wrapped themselves around her from behind, the fake Mulder grabbing the paint pistol from her hands. She opened her mouth to yell a warning to her partner and instantly a gloved hand clamped down over her face. Through the alarms she thought she could hear Mulder cautiously moving in her direction, drawn by the noise of the scuffle. She heard him call her name and the worried note in his voice triggered something totally unexpected, something uncontrollable deep inside. Scully trembled slightly, her body starting to shake , not with fear, but with a primitive rage that should have terrified her. Part of her forebrain yammered at the howling madness. This was a game. Only a game. These were just players. Other instincts examined that thought carefully. Coldly analytical. Then considered the betrayal of trust, the uselessness of the deceit and the absolute cruelty and potential for damage of the deception. Not a game, her mind judged. Not anymore. Primordial instinct took over. Her hands were still trapped by whoever had taken her gun and her arms were pinned to her side by the man behind her. But she still had her legs. Ruthlessly she kicked upward, feeling combat boots slam into bone and muscle. A masculine yell as the hands wrapped around her wrist were ripped away by the force of the blow. Instantly she bent her knee and, letting the man holding her take all her weight, yanked the back-up weapon from the makeshift holster on her ankle. She fired twice in rapid succession at the swearing body directly in front of her then twisted her hand and fired into the man behind her. Ignoring the pained grunt he gave as the paint pellet connected at close range, she sank her teeth into the palm of the hand holding her silent. With a curse, the man released her and she was yelling for Mulder to get down even as she took aim at the place where the traitor waited. The sound of a body hitting the floor released her hold on her trigger finger and she fired blindly in a deadly overlapping pattern. Seven bullets later she hit the clip release, letting the empty clip fall to the floor and slammed in her spare. This time she held her fire and waited for the bastard to make a move - any move. Obviously trusting his night goggles over their hearing, he made a run for the door. Two paint bullets from two separate guns nailed him on the way out. The alarms died. In the silence, the two agents waited through the sounds of retreat until all that they could hear was the harshness of their own breathing. "Scully?" "Yeah?" "What the fuck just happened?" Scully could hear her own breaths getting shorter as she struggled to contain the explosively expanding rage that threatened to shatter the containment vessel. Instead of easing, the shaking grew worse. The genie was well and truly out of the bottle...and she found she welcomed the release of the floodgates. So much anger, so much pain...too much control. For too long she had had no target...just shadowy men and shadows who took again and again ...her certainties, the life she could have lived...and now they had tried to take her partner. She tried again to tell herself that this had just been part of the game. There was no reason to suspect that this was another Consortium test...another attempt to make them doubt their loyalties to each other. Swirling in and around this thought was the burgeoning desire to stand up and tell everyone once and for all what they were letting themselves in for if they tried again. Her actions had stated her beliefs before, but she realized with a flourishing sense of freedom that she wanted to explain it to them more directly. Wanted to hurl it into their faces. Dana Scully was not resigned and she would not go quietly into that good night. They wanted to see a reaction? She would give them a goddamn reaction. "Mulder?' "Yeah?" His voice was cautious. "Who sets up these little tests?" Slight whispers of fabric on concrete as he pulled himself to a sitting position. In her mind's eye she could see the tilt to his head, the hesitant curiosity...and the growing conviction that someone had just pushed his partner too far. A small quirk of her lips acknowledged the unseen tension and protective anger that would be filling his eyes as he looked in her direction. "VCU and the CIA for the most part." "And can you think of a good constructive reason for anyone to try and lure me away by pretending to be you? A very good imitation of you?" A slight indrawn hiss of breath was the only reply. She smiled grimly then snapped her head back and yelled a challenge to the unseen cameras and microphones. The darkness was liberating and she found it easier than she expected to get the sheer volume she needed to express her rage. The echoes in the large empty room were particularly satisfying. "What was it you bastards? A warning? Don't be too quick to follow your partner? Look how easy we can take you from him? Look how easily we can use you as bait? Well fuck you." Mulder's mouth dropped and ten startled heads swiveled as Command Center watchers stared at camera screens in bemusement as Special Agent Dana Scully, Ice Queen extraordinaire, totally fucking lost it. They watched the multicolored silhouette of her partner stand cautiously, gun out but doing nothing to calm her down. On the green-tinted screen reflecting the night-vision lenses they could see that he had managed to close his mouth, but he was still standing mute in wide-eyed astonishment as his partner insulted and threatened an entire FBI department with CIA witnesses. "Was it a joke? You VCU bastards get a little bored cooped up in your lair and decide to come out and yank old Spooky's tail? You little pissants still upset about Patterson? Well fuck you too. You ever profiled a profiler? Get ready to duck, assholes." VCU jaws dropped in a comical imitation of Mulder's earlier shock. A muttered "Holy fuck" echoed from the back of the Command Center as Scully flung her crazy partner onto the battlefield and the idiot just started to grin. "And for the CIA bastard up there taking notes for the enemy. You want an answer to take back with you? You want to know just how far I'll go? How's this..." Her low-voiced growl was deadly in its arctic intensity. "...if you ever try that in real life I will find you. Then I will crack your chest and rip out your lungs and feed them to my partner's fish for breakfast. " One of the younger BSU profilers reached out a hand as if to touch the screen, his face a murky combination of fascination, arousal and that odd glaze to the eyes that said he was trying to get inside her head. The digital Scully slammed her once back-up pistol into her holster and headed back in the direction Mulder had been going before they got ambushed. No one in the Command Center had a single doubt she meant exactly what she said. "Come on Mulder. I've got a sudden urge to go blast the crap out of something." "I can't mind-fuck the entire CIA, Scully." "Then we're going to do what you do best. We are going to piss them off." I turned my head as I became aware of a silent presence standing at my shoulder. One of the CIA shrinks - Detweiller was his name - was studying the screen with an intent expression that bothered me more than it should have. Uneasily I recalled Scully's comment about note-taking spies. Surely that was just paranoia talking. "What's Mulder's reaction to all of this?" I shared a wry look with the profiler next to me as we both glanced at an infra-red scan showing the familiar heat pattern of a man extremely turned on by surrounding events. "Will he try to stop her?" I smiled politely at the CIA agent, "I doubt it." As if in answer, Mulder's voice echoed in the Command Center as the two agents slipped from the darkened room into the next. His tone was a smug combination of contentment and anticipation. "Scully is in the zone." The CIA agent snorted and reached for his cel- phone. *********************************** Thirty minutes after the first call to battle, VCU and CIA team members watched with amusement as Mulder and Scully captured a team of infuriated agents and offered them a choice... join the fight or die now. Twenty minutes after that,the FBI stopped laughing. It took the CIA another three hours to realize what the VCU had already figured out. Mulder and Scully were good at what they did. And they had a plan. Off duty VCU profilers studied the screens with fascination. A make-shift table had been dragged into the back of the Command Center and the CIA and Navy personnel eyed the lunatics taking over the back of the room with varying degrees of disbelief and concern. I did not blame them. Manic energy seethed through gimlet-eyed bodies as they peered through red-rimmed eyes, tossed file folders back and forth and sent terrified administrative assistants scurrying between coffee maker and photocopier. Bits and pieces of conversation, argument and amazed commentary exploded into the air over the regular sounds of the game in play. "...how the hell did he guess about the ...?" "...haven't broken any of the rules? Unbelievable." "...were you there when he...?" "...Doc Ice has gone off the reservation..." Still more people - CIA analysts, ex-VCU agents and several people I thought I recognized from CIRG - slowly slipped into the room. Spooky stories from the good old days were unearthed and retold in hushed tones by those who had been there-or who had known someone who was. Somebody managed to crack open a few of the less classified X-files and suddenly the stories had a new addition...Special Agent Dana Scully. "Agent Farrow?" I turned automatically, then swallowed as I matched the voice to the face glaring at me coldly. "Sir. Good afternoon, Sir." "Cut the crap Agent Farrow. I send you two of my best agents for a performance study and the next thing I know, I'm getting calls telling me that one of my agents has gone off the deep end. So give it to me short and to the point. What did you do? What has Mulder done? And what are you doing about it?" "I hope you'll be able to appreciate the irony there, Walter. " I turned to see one of the men who had been lurking quietly near the impromptu VCU command post walking over to join us. I had seen him flash CIA credentials to get into the room and from the reactions of the other spooks, they knew who he was. I had also gotten the impression that they were a bit surprised to find him here. Glancing at AD Skinner I saw that the man had adopted a closed expression, although his body language seemed cautious more than alarmed. Interagency politics if I had to make a guess. "Excuse me? " Skinner's tone was even. The spook grinned,"It wasn't Mulder." Both the AD's eyebrow climb skyward,"Scully? All of this because of Agent Scully? What the hell did she do?" "Nearly broke the arm of one of the staff, challenged the VCU after kneeing them in the collective groin and declared war on the CIA." He flashed a genuinely amused smile,"I think that about covers it." Skinner groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Fuck it Chalmers, if you've been messing with my agents..." "I swear, Walt. It wasn't us. This project is on the level. Pygmalion is exactly what it says it is. You did warn the administration what you were sending them though, didn't you?' Skinner growled,"What the hell are you talking about? They asked for my best male-female team of agents. That's what they got. What else was I supposed to tell them?" The CIA agent stared at Skinner in disbelief. "Jesus, Walter. You let the VCU play mind games with these two without giving them a heads up? Even we're not that stupid. " He paused contemplatively, "Or that suicidal." I was still trying to work my way through the subtext when the AD spun back in my direction and pinned me with a deadly glare. "What's been going on?" I took refuge in the familiar structure of a situation report. "They started taking over the game grid about four hours ago. Instead of advancing toward the objective, they've been systematically capturing their fellow teams of agents and convincing them to join the revolution. They've been...amazingly successful." Chalmers gave a low-voiced chuckle,"What you are not being told is that they have been twisting the VCU's tail. Quite well I might add. Your agents work very well together." Skinner growled,"Are you just going to keep rubbing in the salt or are you ready to tell me what's been going on?" Chalmers sighed, then nodded," They're challenging the profilers directly. Each pair of agents they come across they...well, see for yourself. " He reached out and punched up a digital file. 'This is a record of the last confrontation." Skinner watched quietly as the camera dutifully recorded the dimly lit silence of an empty corridor. Movement at the far end of the corridor captured the eye and three sets of eyes watched as two agents unknown to him made their way cautiously down the hall. They showed good form and the ex-Marine silently applauded their professional attitude as they advanced toward the invisible camera. The capture was swift and unexpected. One moment the agents were moving, the next they were holding their weapons in the air as ceiling tiles were punched to the floor and the agents found themselves boxed in between the visible arms and heads of Fox Mulder and his partner Dana Scully as they leaned down from their hiding places in the upper ductwork. Once the enemy weapons were dutifully placed on the floor and kicked away, Mulder and Scully swung down into the hallway and swiftly secured the agents with their own shoelaces. Chalmers leaned toward Skinner, "This is the good part." In one of the most seamless tag team approaches I have ever seen, Mulder and Scully didn't just flip the enemy...they subverted them. Even knowing the two agents, Skinner obviously had never suspected this aspect of their working dynamic. Somehow the two agents had pieced together a fairly accurate guess regarding the purpose of Pygmalion. Scully took the lead, letting them see her anger, her affronted sense of honor and all the accumulated frustration of being treated as a rat in a maze...then she let them break their teeth against her control. What made it all the more amazing was that mad as she was, I suspected that other motivations were driving the agent. But her stated motivations were doing the job nicely enough. Both of the captured agents were so focused on Scully that they forgot about Mulder watching and evaluating from the shadows. Forgot about it until he swept in with a few well chosen observations-usually aimed at the male agent of the pair. By the time the stunned and surprised agents recovered, they had joined the war effort. "Hell of a strategy, huh?" Skinner shrugged,"Mulder's always been good at figuring out which buttons to push. So everyone's in a snit because they're breaking the rules? " Chalmers studied the AD with a look of mild surpise,"Hell no. VCU is pissed because your two agents are giving them the figurative finger. We've been trying for weeks to get these guys to open up. Hell, half those agents have refused to officially admit that they've even noticed that their partners are female. Mulder and Scully saunter in and suddenly they're having a regular group therapy session down there. If I wasn't so busy laughing my ass off I'd be foaming at the mouth." He sighed. "We totally overlooked how pissed off the men were. We knew they might be insulted on their partner's behalf, but we were so concerned about convincing the men that they could depend on their female partners we never considered the fact that we might be preaching to the choir. These guys are mad Walt. I mean really pissed. We give them female partners, tell them to deal with it...and when they do, no one believes them or gives them any credit. If they are sleeping with their partners, then she's somehow less credible as an agent. If they are not...then they must be gay. They are told to see their partners as equals and then when the inevitable happens and some of them fall in love with the person behind the badge, they are given no support whatsoever. Christ. It's a mess. And those close- mouthed macho male agents haven't stopped talking since your team got them started. Listen" Before Skinner could tell him that these were things that Bureau management was actively trying not to notice, Chalmers had hit another switch. Unknown voices overlapped in conversation. "...What the hell does that say about me huh? I felt like yelling that I was more than just a walking Y-chromosome that only thought with his dick..." "...my wife doesn't believe we've never slept together. Sometimes I've just got to talk to her...I mean she's my partner. But Mary doesn't understand. ..." "I get so turned on watching her mind work sometimes. Hell, we were covered in garbage, we're surrounded by cops, I'm standing there like I just got hit with lightening...and all I can think is...I love this woman." " ... she's my partner. But she's not my type. Why should I have to feel like apologizing for that?" "...We're not particularly close as people..." " ...so we're laughing our asses off and this shrink just looks at us like we're nuts and says ' couldn't you have chosen a phrase that was less demeaning to your partner?' and Rebecca looks at her and says "Demeaning? Lady, I'm the one that said it!..." Chalmers silenced the speakers and gave Skinner a serious look, " Their little group of commandos started taking hostages about two hours ago. The staff members that went in looking to play their little mind games are now sitting under guard in one of the bunkers." Skinner frowned,"So why the hell are you all getting so excited. If it's a problem, pull the plug." I twisted my lips in a rueful smile," Because it's a pissing contest now. Between Spooky Mulder stories and X-Files about monsters under the bed your two agents are being turned into the local bugaboo. Everyone wants to be the one to bring them in. Hell, I'm hearing rumors that HRT wants a crack at them. All in fun, of course" Skinner gave a short laugh,"Of course. Shit." he sighed again,"Urban legends in their own time." Chalmers and I waited patiently as the AD considered the situation from whatever angles he needed to. Finally he looked up,"So what's being done?" I shrugged lightly,"We're playing by the rules. We're also expanding the mandate. Originally we weren't looking for combat reactions, but ATF, HRT and the military all want to see how the male-female teams respond under fire. The mind- gamers use night vision but for now we're banning the equipment from the combat teams to keep it relatively fair. We're also prepared to expand the game beyond three days if necessary." Skinner sighed, considered his problem children with less than total affection and then took it like a Marine. So began an eighteen hour game of cat and mouse. Sixteen more staff members got taken hostage without casualties to either side. Mulder demanded money and safe passage, HRT cut the power. ATF sent in a four man rescue squad only to find that the hostages had been moved, the cameras deliberately rigged to send a false feed and the bunker was booby trapped with paint pellets from the extra clips. Scully agreed to let one of the hostages go - a man with an alleged heart condition - in exchange for food and water. Ten seconds after the hostage was safe, the hostage negotiator made the mistake of telling Scully that her father would be proud of her. Scully picked another hostage at random and shot him in the head. Grumbling in annoyance, the VCU got together with HRT and set off a two pronged attack and unexpectedly captured Mulder. Scully's forces managed to pin them down in one of the bunkers where they lied and told her that her partner had been injured in the attack and if she surrendered that he would receive critical medical aide. Reportedly, Mulder told the HRT Commander that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life when ex-ATF smoke bombs and live bodies started dropping from the ceiling. Scully's team reported two minor injuries - all eight HRT died in the onslaught. Scully herself took out the HRT agent taking aim at her duct-taped partner. More than a little annoyed about the deaths of their teammates and a bit embarrassed at the fact that they were not succeeding quite as rapidly as they had thought they would, HRT decided to revisit Waco and started playing golden oldies at brain thumping volumes. Mulder fell over laughing when they started playing Walking in Memphis , then held out his hand to Scully. Surviving agents and hostages watched in surprise as the Ice Queen smiled, pulled him to his feet and the two agents waltzed their way through the impromptu concert. The rest of the agents jumped up to join them while the VCU and HRT glared at the camera screens as their weapon of torture was turned into a junior high sock hop. Meanwhile, some of the more enterprising computer wizards at the Quantico campus had overheard that something odd was going on and it involved the VCU. Human curiosity being what it was, four of them hacked into the video feeds coming from the cameras inside the Maze. Before you could say "illegal access" they had created a website on the internal server and uploaded their favorite moments including one of Scully standing protectively over her partner as she took out one of the elite HRT. The IS department thought they were under attack when hits to the server threatened to drop the system within three hours. Deciding it was better to give in gracefully rather than encourage half the population of the Quantico base to commit computer espionage, the FBI looked the other way as the IS department hastily erected a high volume mirror site and set up live time access to some of the cameras inside the Maze. Within hours, unofficial FBI, CIA and ATF office pools across the country numbered in the triple digits. One FBI accountant noted jokingly that they should have sold banner space and pop-up ads. Unsuccessfully trying to access earlier footage from the game- and thus settle a few of the open bets that were speculating on how this whole thing got started, the four computer wizards were suddenly shocked to find their own system under attack. Before they could pull the plug, the phrase "Better than Doom, Man" scrolled across the screen and an anonymous server was dumping gigabytes of data into their system. All of which explained how Scully's rant and earlier footage of the partners' astonishing performance was suddenly being accessed by thousands of law enforcement and governmental personnel across the country. Bewildered as they were by the popularity of the revolt, the FBI and other senior government administration were even more bemused by the questions coming up in the newly created chatrooms dedicated to the event. After spending two decades carefully looking the other way about the possibility of male agents sleeping with female partners, the issue was suddenly exploding across the web at the speed of cyber-light. There were a few snide comments and the expected questions about whether the agents were sleeping together. What shocked the administration however was how quickly the more disrespectful of the commentators were flamed off the site. Hundreds of law enforcement officers under fake names and using anonymous email addresses started asking pointed, bluntly honest questions of each other...and the administration was stunned by the pain and confusion implicit in the conversations. No one questioned whether or not Mulder and Scully or any of the other agents were sleeping together. They did not care. What many of them wanted to know was the next step in the equation. Once you've gone that next step...how do you make it work? An anonymous military officer admitted to sleeping with a fellow officer and asked if any of the police officers had any suggestions how to juggle the public and the private relationships. The officer admitted that both of their careers were at risk despite the fact that they were outside the same chain of command and neither were married. The general reaction was one of honest support and genuine confusion about how to proceed. Like gates torn off a dam, thousands of military lurkers came up out of the shadows. Air Force, Army, Navy...every field, every rank, every department from the motor pool to military intelligence. The military discovered to its surprise that most of the male soldiers thought it was just a matter of when, not if, women would be admitted to combat positions. Their biggest concern was whether promotion standards would be the same across the board. A curious admiral lurking on one of the chatrooms posed a cautious question. What about sexual tension in tight quarters and stressful situations? The general answer? We're all adults. We'll deal with it. And so, over one hundred thousand people who knew exactly what it took to trust your life to another's hands were watching when HRT and ATF made their final move. Thousands of law enforcement personal groaned as the paint mines Mulder had sent their ex-military agents to dig up and reset exploded in hallways, painting HRT and ATF body armor in blood red acrylic that showed black on the green tinted night vision cameras. Despite the fact that most were rooting for Mulder and Scully directly, more than one law enforcement officer shuddered as he or she considered the damage the FBI guerrillas were inflicting. More than one teenager stood silent in a doorway and shivered as they watched as tears shimmered in their parents' eyes. It was just a game after all. Wasn't it? Those with DSL cable got to see it all in real time. Those without used a buffered connection or downloaded the file and played it over and over again. Somehow the camera accidentally caught the exact spot, the exact angle needed to capture the faces of the two agents who had started all of this when the end came. Thousands saw the flashes of the HRT paint pistols, the bodies falling in simulated death that felt all too real in imagination and thousands saw the realization of failure pass over green tinted faces stark with shadows and hiding nothing. Eyes captured eyes and, unaware of the camera's cruel honesty, Mulder grinned at his partner and Scully saluted ruefully. Three thousand miles away, a woman who had never seen her husband cry stared in horror as he wept for the partner he had lost in the line of duty twenty years before. Then darkness swept over Mulder's eyes and Scully's smile faded as she searched her partner's face. He hesitated, then in a hoarse voice he uttered words that echoed through one hundred thousand living rooms across the US and would re-echo in a million more before the week was out. "There's a way." One hundred thousand people held their breath as faith and trust and something no one was willing to limit to the word love crossed his partner's face. Her voice echoed his in simple commitment. "If we quit now, they win." Then the camera lost them, and they were gone. Despairing cries reached out as hands grabbed for keyboards and tumbled through camera windows, desperately trying to find one which would answer what came next, where the pair had gone. IS fingers danced through circuits seeking the right codes, the right frequencies. HRT and ATF visuals were dumped into secondary windows as everyone tried to locate the fleeing figures who had become the tragic heroes of the Maze Revolution. Watching sixteen monitors at the same time, the FBI tech support crew edited the video feeds on the fly and dumped it straight onto the web server. The result was a remarkably complete record of the agents' flight intercut with supporting visuals of the HRT pursuit closing in on their heels. The transition from dimly lit hallway to complete darkness was shockingly abrupt. Camera feeds shifted to green tinted night vision and infra- red, and viewers saw both agents come to a halt twenty feet into a cavernous room. Shoulders tensed and teeth clenched as they watched the agents fumble blindly in the darkness for a ladder that could be seen clearly in green tinged light. Explosive sighs of relief as Mulder found it and both agents launched themselves upward into the dark. One of the IS techs isolated and boosted the audio feed and living rooms echoed with the haunting sounds of labored breathing. Then the agents were on the catwalks fifty feet above the ground. A mid-air run of unconnected staggered metal catwalks, watchers heard Mulder pulling the length and position of each catwalk from memory, saw Scully pace forward with crime scene precision then stop and feel around cautiously for the next section. The agents held their balance carefully as the walkways trembled and swayed with their passage. And then the HRT arrived. Cutting to a second camera, viewers watched as the team froze, adjusted night vision goggles and tilted their gazes upward. The whispered curse captured and edited into the footage by a creative IS tech was the only warning to the watching public. "Holy Mary Mother of God. They're doing the Catwalk in the dark." Startled eyes widened in horror as the IS techs cut back to the final stage of the journey. The final catwalk was much more than two or three feet higher or lower. This one...was impossible. The sound tech switched back to the audio feed capturing the low-voiced conversation between the agents. "How high up is this one Mulder?" Silence. "Mulder?" "Eleven feet. And there's two feet of horizontal air between us and it." Mulder's voice was quiet. For a long moment neither agent moved. Then Scully's voice came back quietly. "I'll need your fatigues for a rope." Viewers watched in horrified fascination as the male agent immediately slipped out of his one- piece coveralls. Scully wordlessly removed boots and socks and stuffed everything into her pack. The watchers joined the HRT team in a round of quiet cursing as Mulder boosted his partner to his shoulders and she used his upheld hand to balance as she carefully straightened. In that moment, one hundred thousand people ceased to breathe. She tightened the strap on her protective goggles. There was a safety net but no one really noticed. All they could see was an agent balanced trustingly on her partner's shoulders as she stared blindly into the darkness at a catwalk she couldn't see. At a landing point she had only her partner's word existed. "Now, Mulder." One hundred thousand people cried out as Mulder placed his hands beneath his partner's feet and threw her upwards and out. One hundred thousand people cursed as her outstretched arms slammed into the top of the catwalk and she started to fall. One hundred thousand hands clenched as fingers grabbed, caught, then held. As she hauled herself to safety, one person allowed himself to breathe. Scully rapidly pulled on socks and combat boots while stunned HRT agents gaped upward. Suddenly eyes failed to meet eyes as HRT remembered the awkward bitter truth that there was to be no heroic escape. Even as they acknowledged that between the two sets of fatigues the agents might have enough rope to haul Mulder past the last obstacle, the two renegades didn't have enough time. Both agents turned their heads as they identified the sounds of HRT agents swarming up the ladder. Having reconsidered the use of night vision goggles and unhampered by blindness, the HRT raced toward them. Unbelievably the watchers heard good humor in Mulder's voice as he bantered with his partner. "Fuck Scully, this is going to be undignified. You want to throw back the coveralls?" "Shut up and climb Mulder." The watchers held a collective breath as Scully seemed to fall backwards over the end of the catwalk, her knees hooked around the metal rung at the end of the structure like a six year old on the monkey bars. The tied legs of Mulder's coveralls were wrapped around her wrists and the arms hit him in the face. His face registered astonishment, then the clang of boots on the far catwalk propelled him upward. Scully hissed as his weight hit the makeshift rope and her voice was strained . "I've decided that you owe me for this, Mulder." He laughed almost soundlessly, "Would that be female logic or Scully logic? Who's idea was this?" Even strained she managed to inject a note of prim certitude, "The leap in the dark? Yours." "I stand corrected. What do you want? Assuming we survive, of course." Mulder had reached her hands and after a brief hesitation decided on the fabric at her shoulder as the most structurally sound place to grab hold. "I want a sea monster." Her voice was contemplative, but determined. Mulder almost lost his grip at her waist and both agents swayed back and forth as his legs kicked in reflex. "Jesus Scully. A little advanced warning before you do that." "I mean it Mulder. I want something we can photograph. And ocean Mulder. No wimpy-assed ponds, lakes or rivers. Honest to god ocean. Blood and tissue samples. Something we can by god shoot if tries to eat us. Got it?" Mulder's delighted grin was so unexpectedly brilliant and his answering laugh so joyous that cops across the country found themselves smiling in response. His left hand grabbed the fabric at her thigh and then his right was hitting catwalk and Scully wrapped her fingers around his boot and pushed upward. He crawled over her body, then reached back an arm and helped haul his partner back to safety. She unhooked her knees from the metal rungs, unknotted the legs of his fatigues and handed them over . Both agents flattened themselves on the catwalk as the HRT took aim despite the distance. Then, laying down defensive fire by sound alone, both agents ran for the end of the Catwalk and left the HRT cursing behind them. ****************************** By unspoken agreement, both agents were ready to finish the game. It was unlikely that any of the other teams had survived the last attack and it was only a matter of time before they ran out of places to run to. "Hey Mulder, do you think that last exercise qualified as our problem solving exercise?" Her partner grunted and compared the symbols on the wall to the map in his head and took an abrupt right turn. " It's got my vote, unfortunately it was an HRT game zone. I think we've pissed off enough people that they'll be picky about it." "That's what I thought you'd..." her voice cut off abruptly as they suddenly found themselves in a brightly lit, white painted room. The door they had entered was the only entrance or exit. "Uh, Mulder?" "Shit, this wasn't on the map Scully. This should be a hallway." As one the agents whirled as the door behind them clanged shut with a bang. Instantly the two agents separated, running fingers lightly over the walls and meeting on the far side of the room. No doors, no seams, no exit. Eyes searched for ductwork, movable ceiling tiles, grillwork - again, nothing. Both agents froze when a barely felt tremor vibrated through the soles of their boots. "Scully?" "Yeah?" "Tell me that was just too many burritos for breakfast." "Look on the bright side Mulder. We must have really pissed them off." Her partner threw her a wry look. "Go team." A clicking sound near their feet had both agents leaping backwards just as a six by six piece of the floor dropped out from under them. Scully peered over the edge carefully. She looked up briefly as her partner grabbed the back of her coveralls, then turned back to her investigation when he smiled depreciatingly, but didn't let go. "It looks like a slide of some kind, Mulder." "Wherever it goes, Scully, it's not on the map. There's not supposed to be anything under this part of the building. I think we should take another look for another exit before we try this one." Scully frowned consideringly, then nodded. "Maybe we tripped something accidentally. Did the map show anything under construction?" Mulder shook his head "But they may only mark it if it's completed." "Or maybe this is something for one of the military teams. SWAT maybe." "Maybe." They backed away from the opening cautiously. Before they could start searching however, another rumbling vibration, this one much more pronounced, shuddered through the floor. Mulder and Scully exchanged glances, then stared in open-mouthed disbelief as the walls started closing in. Mulder swiveled his head in wide-eyed alarm, "I think we can absolutely positively say that we've pissed them off, Scully." "I don't friggin' believe this." The agents backed toward each other as they moved away from the steadily advancing walls. "I'm willing to pretend this is a drug induced hallucination if you are." "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Jump!" With a yell, both agents abandoned caution as the walls lurched forward with increasing speed and hurled themselves into the yawning cavern at their feet. The slick sides of the slide provided almost no resistance and Mulder and Scully shot down the incline totally out of control. The slide made a sudden turn upwards and, yelling, the two agents found themselves briefly airborne before slamming back to earth in a great splash of water. Instinctively recognizing that none of the howls each was hearing was induced by pain, they indulged themselves with a few seconds of virulent cursing and sputtering as they hauled themselves upright in the knee deep water. Finally, limbs straightened, faces wiped and teeth chattering they eyed each other, automatically taking inventory and checking for signs of superficial injury. Scully scowled as she saw Mulder's swiftly hidden grin as he took in the sopping locks plastered to her head and dripping in her eyes. "Not a word, Mulder." "Did I say anything?" He grinned, she snarled, then they both shivered. "I don't think this water is a good sign, Scully." "It's warm enough that we should be okay if we keep moving. It's not the water that's cooling us off, it's the air temperature." Both agents peered around the tiny room. Dim lighting from recessed underwater lamps bounced off stone walls and generally gave the agents the impression that they had fallen into some medieval crypt located deep beneath the streets of some Middle-Eastern city. "I give it an 'A' for atmosphere, Scully." "You think maybe this is part of the training grounds for some of the HRT doing work overseas? Anti-terrorism?" "I hope so. Otherwise we're going to be very hungry before they find us." "I've found a hole in the wall, Mulder. Over here, just above the waterline." "Can you see anything at the end?" "Yeah. Light. What do you think?" "Okay. But this definitely counts as our problem solving exercise." Chuckling softly in response, Scully squirmed into the tunnel. After a moment, her partner followed. ****************************************** "You lost them. What do you mean you lost them?" I pulled my attention away from the monitor I was studying and tried to locate the source of that baritone rumble. Agent Siles was on the phone trying to explain to a harried IS support crew that it wasn't the Command Center's fault. IS, in turn, was trying to explain that they really didn't care whose fault it was, but the email traffic wanting to know what happened was threatening to overload the servers, so could they please just fix the cameras. Please. AD Skinner was glaring at a hapless CIA analyst - Detweiller again - who cringed even as his eyes darted towards Chalmers in desperation. Unfortunately for him, the spook appeared equally as agitated as Walter Skinner. "They removed their tracking devices and audio transmitters several hours ago. I was tracking them using cameras when we had a power surge. The cameras were only out for a few seconds, but when they came back on-line the agents were gone." Skinner opened his mouth, definitely geared up to verbally splatter the analyst across half the Command Center when Chalmers reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder. The AD growled and glared at the spook, but held his fire. Chalmers pinned the analyst with a penetrating stare. "Was there any place they could go that you might have missed?" Detweiller swallowed, then offered tentatively, "They might have gone back in the air ducts." Chalmers looked back at the AD. "Could your agents have caused the power surge?" The AD started to shake his head, then paused. A thoughtful look appeared on his face. " I don't know" He finally admitted. "I've learned not to underestimate anything those two might be capable of doing. But you'll have to ask the techs if it's physically possible from where they were when it happened." I studied the trio for another long moment before deciding that everything was under control. My fingers danced over the keyboard as I called up another time stamped computer record. There was something about the action taking place on the screen, but I could not place what was bothering me about it. The last of my three pairs of agents were enjoying a large supper and would expect to meet with me in another ten hours regarding a performance debriefing. I was actually looking forward to the debrief. Not only had the agents survived almost to the very end, it was the team I would have sworn would have died in the first few hours of play. I hid a quick grin. It turned out that the lack of synchronicity I had seen was a very practiced, very well established role the agents played to hide the fact that they had been lovers for almost four years. I was looking forward to talking with them. For now however...my fingers slide across the rollerball and advanced the picture another few frames. For now I had a mystery to solve. ************************************** They had emerged into a dimly lit tunnel built of more stone walls. The far end of the tunnel was hidden in shadows and the ceiling curved low enough that Mulder had to bend his head awkwardly to avoid scraping his scalp. Scully turned to ask Mulder a question only to flounder as a sudden groan and explosion of water knocked her off her feet. A heavy weight fell on her, pinning her briefly under water as Mulder tripped when his feet tangled with hers. Both agents came gasping to the surface, yelling over the torrents of water spewing from the walls. Within minutes, the water was swirling around Scully's knees and almost as one the agents started racing as fast as possible through the water jets, heading for the far end of the tunnel. Knocked back and forth through by the force of the water, Mulder almost missed it when his hand, dragging across the ceiling for support, disappeared into thin air. He lurched, grabbed onto Scully to keep her from disappearing into the deluge and felt around cautiously. It was another tunnel, this one drilled straight up into the ceiling. He was about to thrust his arm all the way into the hole when Scully grabbed with both hands, restraining him. A moment later, she thrust her pack into his grip. He paused and then thought about the fact that this might be an air vent of some kind. His fingers twitched spasmodically as he considered the sick image of his hand thrusting up into the blades of a spinning fan and he swallowed back a sudden urge to vomit. Smiling weakly at his partner, he pushed the pack up into the hole. Nothing. No sudden drag indicating that the pack had caught on anything, no sudden upward yank as blades grabbed hold. Nothing. As he yanked the pack out of the hole, Scully placed both his hands around her waist and indicated that she wanted a boost. They both already knew she wouldn't fit, but he guessed she had to try. Her head fit easily enough, but there was no way she was getting her shoulders into that narrow space. Not unless she had taken lessons from Tooms when he wasn't looking. He felt her chest vibrate and could only assume she was calling for help. The sound of the water seemed to get louder as the tunnel filled and his eardrums were starting to complain. Scully indicated that she wanted down and he didn't even bother trying to yell a question at her. The look in her eyes and the negative shake of her head said it all. He looked down the tunnel and turned to ask if she wanted to see if they could find an exit, but she had already followed his gaze and had started moving in that direction. They found the end of the tunnel within five minutes. Both agents stared in disbelief at a solid stone wall set with several six inch pipes across the top. Mulder considered them briefly and concluded they were probably part of some form of overflow system. There was a steel hatch set into the wall at the left. Unfortunately, even if the handle had been unlocked, it was obvious that the hatch was meant to open inward. They would never be able to open it against all this water pressure. Ergo, it wasn't meant to be opened during the exercise. If this was an exercise. The terrifying thought that they had stumbled over some automated environmental system or unfinished game zone was reflected in Scully's horrified eyes. Then she turned abruptly and surged back the way they had come. "We have to get back in the other room, Mulder." He could barely hear her shouting over the water, and the level was high enough that she was swimming more than walking. He wasn't doing much better. He considered her plan. Obviously they would have to swim through the entrance tunnel. He grimaced at the thought of doing it underwater and in the dark, but it was doable. Hell, they had both done worse. At least this water was clean. The walls of the slide would be slick, but he assumed that at worst they could wait until the tunnel filled up with water and use it to float up. If the water didn't go high enough...well, hopefully by that time someone would take pity on them and come drop them a rope. Assuming anyone even knew where they were. Mulder told himself he was just being paranoid. That the games were set up the way they were to trigger just this sort of fear response. They were doing a good job. Mulder was just passing the hole in the ceiling when the world seemed to explode. He had a brief vision of Scully turning a startled face toward him when it felt like the ceiling caved in. Weight slammed into his shoulders and he barely had enough time to draw a deep breath before the water closed over his head and the weight carried him to the floor. At first he was too stunned to panic, and then he was too busy trying not to panic to move. By the time his body was pinned flat against the floor, the option to move was taken from him. Desperately he shook his head, trying to get his face clear, and he was loosing the battle with panic when a familiar and welcome set of hands wrapped themselves around his face. Scully. The sudden burn in his chest told him that he was running out of oxygen. He tried again to claw at the stuff holding him down only to feel her hands tightened. He froze. She wanted him to hold still. Scully needed him to hold still. Fighting every instinct he had, Mulder clenched his teeth and froze. Instantly her hands brushed across his face, carefully clearing away something that felt like mud. He wanted to scream at her to hurry and do whatever it was that she was going to do or he was going to be out of air and out of time. Unexpectedly she pinched his nose and he waited in terror and confusion for her next move. She tapped the side of his jaw. When she tapped it again he knew she was trying to tell him something, but he didn't know what. Then she was gone. He almost cried out after her. It was only by telling himself that this was Scully, that he managed to hold himself still. This was his partner. She wasn't going to leave him. Not unless she had no choice. He forced himself to think it through. Obviously he was trapped under something she didn't want him trying to move. The stuff on his face had felt like mud. Had part of the wall caved in? As he latched onto this puzzle, his panic receded just enough that he became aware of signals his body had been trying to deliver. Pain radiated down his right leg and the pressure across his chest would have made it hard to breath if he had had any way of breathing. It was the slight tremors he was feeling through the floor at his back that told him why Scully had wanted him to stay still. Something in the pile of stuff holding him down was still shifting. He was out of oxygen, his lungs almost beyond the point of excruciating pain when he felt her hands slide over his face again. He had one almost incoherent thought that at least she would be there when he died when she pinched his nose roughly, jammed two fingers between his teeth and yanked. The unexpected betrayal didn't even have time to register as the useless air in his lungs exploded outward. Before he could inhale however, lips were fastening over his and air, blessed air was being forced into his mouth. He inhaled greedily. Reflexively he held his breath as she disappeared again. Three more times she came back, three more times she breathed air into his lungs before his mind cleared enough to begin calculating what had happened. What was still happening. They slipped into an unthinking rhythm, broken only once when she took longer to return and he nearly panicked thinking that she had drowned. The trips took longer after that and the likely reason for it slowly filtered through his sluggish brain. The tunnel had obviously filled with water and Scully was forced to go further for air. The image of the narrow hole in the ceiling popped into his brain and he could only hope that whatever water was coming into the tunnel was matched by the water flowing out the overflow pipes. Otherwise they were both about to die hideously lonely deaths. Or no, not so lonely. Somehow he knew if Scully found the hole filled with water one of the times she returned, that she would come back to him. They would die, but they would die together. Oddly enough, the thought was reassuring in a strange way. But the actual thought of dying still sucked. Mulder fastened his hopes on the people upstairs noticing that something was wrong and coming to get them. Because that was the only way either of them were getting out of this alive. Even if he had a way of telling Scully to make a run for the slide, there was no way she would leave him. Not as long as he was alive. He examined that thought carefully. He wasn't suicidal. He would hang on as long as possible. But...it was an option. If it took too long, if it got to the point where Scully got too exhausted to continue, but where she was to damn stubborn to give up until she died with him. Well...it was still an option. He smiled as he felt her hand slide gently across his face. ********************************************* "What the hell are you looking for? You've been staring at that scene for almost two hours." I glanced up to find AD Skinner studying the screen over my shoulder. Then I rolled my shoulders painfully and stretched to get the kinks out. "I'm not sure exactly. Something set your agent off and it's been bugging me. I can see WHERE it happens. I just can't figure out WHY." Skinner dragged a chair close, sat down and leaned closer to the screen. "This is where Scully flipped out?" I nodded and forwarded the tape to the relevant portion. On the screen a green tinted Scully was frozen in the arms of a large Marine, her boot in the process of connecting with the arms of the burly Sergeant in front of her. Both men wore night goggles and the agent looked excruciatingly tiny next to the two men. " Everything up until this point was more or less normal. They were intense and serious about the game play but that's about it. But here. Here something happened and from her body language your agent started taking this deadly seriously. She was shooting with paint pellets, but I'm not sure her conscious mind was aware of anything other than pulling the trigger. I'm damn glad she didn't have a knife...because I think she would have used it." The rustling of fabric behind me had me turning my head to see Chalmers moving up behind me. The CIA operative just stood quietly, eyes intent on the screen, obviously interested in my explanation. He started to say something, then stopped. Skinner fixed him with a steady gaze obviously waiting for whatever it was the CIA agent was so reluctant to say. Finally the spook exhaled slowly. "We've been assuming that she just...overreacted to the game. That we inadvertently triggered a hot button response. But..Walt. What if her instincts were right?" I frowned, confused. Surely Chalmers wasn't suggesting what I thought he was suggesting. I glanced over at the AD expecting to see a reflection of my own disbelief and was shocked to see serious contemplation. His eyes were fixed on the CIA agent's face as the man continued to sort through his thoughts. "Both of these agents are field operatives, Walter. You and I both know the kind of shit they get caught up in. Maybe she sensed something, something that set off the alarms. Maybe she didn't even know why she was reacting. Her mind would have been telling her it was all a game. But what if..." his voice trailed off as the AD's expression hardened. I found my breath getting shallow as I stared between two men who shouldn't be...couldn't be saying the words I was hearing...and were. I had to make two attempts at swallowing past the lump in my throat when Chalmers pinned me with an intent gaze."Play that back in real time." I immediately tapped in the request and watched as the screen obediently replayed the scene. As it came to a halt, Skinner sighed then looked at Chalmers, who shrugged. "You didn't see anything? You don't know why she got so angry?" Despite everything else, I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my voice. I had been hoping that someone who knew the agents might have seen something I had missed. "Oh I know why she was angry...your Judas there pretended to be her partner and almost led her to abandon him. Believe me, that would have been enough. These two are...extremely protective of each other." I was studying the screen as I defended the game strategy."The whole point was to make partners more aware of their partner's identifying characteristics so that something like this wouldn't happen in real life. The whole point was for her to recognize that it wasn't her partner." Chalmers' voice came back laden with disgust,"Seems like you stacked the deck a bit much didn't you? That little trick with the hand on her back. What the hell was she supposed to recognize- his breath?" The unexpected attack threw me enough that I glanced toward the AD hoping for some support, or at least an explanation- and found a mirror image of Chalmers' disgust. Glancing back toward the screen I rolled the tape back until it showed the part where the staff member playing her partner reached out and pushed her toward the waiting Marines. My eyes narrowed as he studied the image. I hadn't realized how deliberate that action had actually been. "Is this the trick you mean?" Chalmers snorted, "Bastard even got the exact place on her back. " He darted a guilty look in Skinner's direction and mumbled, "Surveillance tapes." as a hasty explanation. Ignoring the implications of a why exactly an FBI agent would be under (illegal) surveillance by the CIA, I tapped the relevant frame. "Are you two telling me that you recognize this gesture. That it's enough of a trademark for you to recognize it as Mulder's?" Chalmers' snorted," Recognize it? Hell, it's one of the reasons the water cooler crowd thinks they're sleeping together. Agent Scully isn't touchy feelly at the best of times, but she hasn't taken his hand off yet. Figuratively or literally." For the first time, I thought I understood what it meant for blood to freeze in one's veins. I should have noticed. Why hadn't I noticed? Because obviously this gesture was reserved for circumstances other than combat. Either that or it had been overshadowed by the high amount of physical contact required by the game. I recalled again that Mulder and Scully had spent much of their time in ductwork and darkness. Not the sort of situation where a gesture like that was needed. "Assistant Director Skinner, Agent Chalmers. I didn't ask that man to do that. I certainly would never have done something like that under these circumstances. It would be ... extremely counterproductive." And not just because it pissed the agents off. This sort of thing could actually damage the sort of recognition we were trying to develop. The fact that these two agents had enemies who knew them well enough to use their instincts against them was...disturbing. Those were not the sorts of enemies that FBI agents were supposed to have. Two heads came up like bloodhounds and I swallowed tightly at the look that passed between the two men. "Agents Scully and Mulder are still missing." I wasn't sure why I felt I had to emphasize that fact. The words were out of my mouth before I realized that I was going to say them. But instead of laughing at me or giving me odd looks, both men were suddenly on their feet and grabbing for cel phones. Within minutes, every able bodied staff member and agent pair were combing the Maze. Every light was turned on, every camera cycled through. They had been searching fruitlessly for over an hour when I suddenly heard a horrified voice from three consoles away. "Oh my God, there's water in the tunnel overflow." I stared at the white-faced VCU agent monitoring the cameras from the lower levels and wracked my brain for a matching reference. Then my eyes widened. Oh shit. Snatching at my keyboard I punched in the relevant codes even as I heard my own voice shouting for the HRT Commander. Please. Please. Please. I found myself praying for unnamed things. Finally the camera brought up the section of the Maze I was looking for. Groans and gasps behind me only confirmed what my own brain was telling me. Water was pouring from the overflow vents and despite the fact that there was no reason to believe that this was where the missing agents were located, somehow I knew... It was the same feeling I had gotten every time I had gone rushing into a suspect's hideout, hoping against hope that this time we would not be too late. The days I got that feeling...we always were. Through my earpiece I could hear the sound of combat boots echoing on cement and then the sound of cursing and something about a door welded shut. I was too busy calling up the cameras. Then the HRT commander was yelling something in my ear about explosives and sending divers down the slide. The cameras in the first chamber were unresponsive and it was with no real surprise that I heard another set of voices cursing and yelling that the entrance to the tunnel had caved in. The feeling ...that feeling...started to get worse. Finally the underwater cameras came on-line and the first thing I did was bring up the ones by the Blowhole. Assuming they weren't trapped under whatever mess had closed the tunnel, this was their only hope. A sudden ragged cheer behind me greeted the sight of Agent Scully rising into the tube for a lungful of air. But the euphoria was short-lived. Before we could do more than note that she was still alive, she had dropped back below the surface of the water and headed for the bottom of the tunnel with determined strokes of her legs. The cheers trailed off into fear and uncertainty. No long-limbed body took her place, sharing the single source of air available in the Tunnel. Just the green-tinged sight of Agent Scully disappearing below the range of vision on this camera lens. Hastily I typed in directions and the camera was tilting down and down even as the body of Agent Scully flashed by on her way back to the Blowhole. No one suggested changing the camera angle. We knew where she was going. We wanted to see where she had been. Dread jackhammered in my chest, and even with the night vision it was hard to make out the scene at the bottom. The water was murky, the result of a partial wall collapse. The obvious conclusion was that Agent Mulder was trapped somewhere under all of that mud and stone, but no one shouted out in recognition. Was he buried? Was Agent Scully just too grief-stricken or too stubborn to leave her partner's body to be recovered by the rescue teams? A sudden yell and I was staring as Scully's compact little body arrowed into the camera's field of vision. Aiming straight for the base of the collapse, she checked her pace, cautiously inching closer as the gentle disturbance of her passage brought more mud drifting down from above. And then her hands were moving in the water and a sudden rush of bubbles from the end of the pile marked the missing agent's location. "Oh my god." The curse was soft and I could not have turned my head to see who said it if the fate of the free world rested on knowing the man's identity. Not if it meant turning away from the drama unfolding across my console screen. Not a person in the room drew a breath as Agent Scully dipped her head forward, the purpose of her action implicit in the situation. And then she was gone. Back to the surface. And Agent Mulder remained motionless, a light coating of mud and silt drifting down to cover his face once more. "How the hell can he just stay there, without struggling?" The horror in the young CIA agent's voice ignored the possibility that the agent was not moving because he could not. Somehow, everyone knew that he was staying still because he had too. Because too much pressure one way or another would bring the rest of the tunnel down on top of him. So it was a question without an answer. Surprising me though, AD Skinner found one. "Because she needs him to." The next ten minutes passed in a haze of frenzied concern and speculation. It was obvious that we couldn't blow the door-not without risking a secondary cave-in. But we could at least get air to the agents. Up in the Command Center, three dozen people watched as scuba tanks were lowered into the Blowhole. We winced in sympathy as, exhaustion in every limb, Scully slammed headlong into the metal tanks before her brain could process what she was seeing. Then we saw her peer through the murky water and saw her hands reach out with sudden desperate energy. Without even pausing to take time to refill her lungs at the Blowhole, she wrenched the tank from its rope, and headed back to her partner. There were two mouthpieces connected to the first stage octopus, and Scully made good use of one as she got her partner connected to the other and found a safe place where the tank wouldn't be ripped away by an unexpected shifting of the debris. Then she was back to the surface to see what other goodies the HRT had left her. There wasn't much they could get to them. Masks to let the agents see, a tank for Scully and a spare for Mulder. Flashlights were out of the question as the engineers needed to see what was going on, and the additional light would have interfered with the night vision cameras. Two- piece wetsuits to help conserve body heat. No one actually thought that Mulder would have any use for his, but no one wanted Scully to have any reason to suspect that they might harbor doubts of digging him out from under the mud. Hope was the only real gift we had to give. One of the HRT donated an underwater watch with luminous oversized numbers and after agreeing to check in every 30 minutes, Scully returned to her partner. Using the new freedom supplied by the scuba tank, she carefully explored the debris field. Even through the murky water and less than optimal camera angles, the watchers could already see that it was a futile effort. Any attempt to uncover or shift the pile, brought more sliding down from the wall. From the cautious looks Scully kept giving the roof above her, there was also some doubts as to its stability. By the time her first check in rolled around she had exhausted thoughts of digging Mulder out. She suggested checking out the tunnel back to the slide, but the HRT Commander wanted to wait until they could get air-lines connected to above ground compressors down to her partner. He was worried that if the tunnel was unstable and Scully herself became trapped, that they would then only have the air left in their Scuba tanks. Independent lines connected to an air source above would at least ensure a constant supply of oxygen as long as they didn't get the lines twisted. So we waited. Except for periodic trips to the surface to check for updates, Scully spent the next two hours sitting quietly by her partner, hand touching his shoulder, letting him know that she was still there. For his part, if it wasn't for the fact that bubbles streamed away from his face in steady exhalation, no one would have known he was still alive. He was conscious. That much we knew. But the agent did not turn so much as his head as his partner moved in and out of his field of vision. Only AD Skinner had any concept of the cost of that seemingly unremarkable feat to his normally hyperactive and twitchy agent. And he was at a loss how to explain it. He later described looking around at the room full of CIA analysts and VCU shrinks and wanting to yell at them to open their eyes. To see that the ultimate goal of all our partnership games and exercises was right there on our camera screens. How do you tell a room full of active agents and physically courageous people, that the purest form of love and trust and bravery it had ever been my privilege to witness was in the action of an active man actively doing nothing. Finally the word from the engineers came back. Whatever had caused the collapse had ruptured one of the main water lines. The overflow was handling it, but there were problems. First, the dirt behind the wall was saturating with water, becoming heavier and more unstable. This was bad enough, but the extra weight was putting pressure on the already compromised wall and the entire tunnel was one big cave-in waiting to happen. Worse, they weren't sure what would happen when they shut off the water. There was a considerable amount of water pressure behind the break, and the resulting shift in counter-pressure could cause the very collapse they were hoping to avoid. The entrance chamber was totally blocked and it looked like deliberate sabotage. In fact, they suspected that the collapse which had trapped Mulder was actually an unexpected ripple effect from the original explosion. They would have to check the debris field later, but tentatively they didn't think collapsing the tunnel had been the bomber's original purpose. He had just wanted to block access to the slide. The collapse had been an unfortunate accident resulting from an unknown structural weakness in the tunnel wall. Mulder just happened to be standing next to it when it fell. The engineers had looked shocked when AD Skinner unexpectedly dropped his head into his hands and started laughing. Finally they just decided to cut through the steel door. The door itself led into an airlock that could be flooded with water to equalize the pressure on both sides, allowing the door to be pushed gently inward. Rescue divers would then rush in with all the protective equipment needed to extract the trapped agent - hopefully before the rest of the wall came down on him or the roof caved in. The engineers however, were adamant that the ruptured water main had to be shut off immediately. By the time they got underwater arc welding equipment out to the site and cut through the steel plate hatch, it would be too late. If they shut off the water now, they might only trigger a mud slide in the already compromised wall. If they waited, the whole damn tunnel would probably go within the hour. Agent Mulder was already trapped, Agent Scully was not. And the minute that door was open, there would be more people going into that tunnel. Did anyone really want to compromise the integrity of the structure any further? The answer, of course, was no. At her next check-in, Scully was told the news. There was no real way to get across details and no time, but they managed to make one thing perfectly clear. Agent Scully had five minutes to get her ass away from the wall. They might have told her that they wanted her away from the wall so that she could dig him out after the slide. The fact that it would have been only half a lie should have given it credibility. Would have, if she had stopped to listen to them. But Scully had had two hours to consider the likely ramifications of a mudslide or cave-in and she had made plans of her own. Her earlier attempts to dig around Mulder had resulted in the partial clearing of his head and shoulders. She had taken the wetsuit top the HRT had sent down for him and worked it carefully under his head and about six inches under his upper back. It had had the result of insulating him somewhat from the cold floor he was resting on, but that wasn't the reason she had done it. She had threaded the above ground air lines through the right arm of the jacket, and now, picking up a six foot length of four inch pipe she had dug out of the debris, she threaded that through the left arm. The spare Scuba tank was already buried securely in the mud, both mouthpieces tucked between Mulder's neck and shoulders. It was a back-up system in case the slide damaged the air-line connected to the compressor above. Scully had zipped the right side of her own wetsuit jacket to the left side of Mulder's. Now, we watched open mouthed as she slipped her arms out of her fatigues and then kneeling beside Mulder's shoulder, brought her wetsuit jacket over her own back and with some difficulty, zipped the left zipper to right. Both of the agents heads and upper shoulders were now enclosed in a rough tube of neoprene and one of the HRT divers sucked in a quick breath as he figured out what she was doing. The tight squeeze made it difficult for her to move, but from the cameras it looked like she was stuffing the gaps between their sides and the neoprene with the arms of her fatigues. Then her fingers grasped the necks of the suits, and arching her upper body protectively over Mulder's head, she rested her forehead on braced forearms and pulled the suit in tight. "Off. Tell them to turn the water off." The diver's voice was hoarse, but there was no doubt in his face. One of the engineers cursed as someone grabbed him, showed him the screen and then he was grabbing his cel-phone and ordering someone else to shut down the main valve. For a long moment, no one moved. No one even wanted to breath least the shallow movement here set off disastrous motion there. And then it happened. Someone moaned aloud and several others cursed as the mud shifted above the two agents...and slid. The camera went momentarily black as mud and dirt engulfed the agents. Tense minutes passed as they waited for the silt to clear. Meanwhile, the rescue team wasn't waiting for anything. The arc welding equipment had arrived a full ten minutes earlier than expected and they were making good use of the time. Fifteen minutes later the door fell. The silty haze had cleared enough that the rescue divers were visible as they dug through the mud and dirt covering the agents. The mudslide and resultant release in pressure had moved enough earth that another collapse was not an immediate threat. The ceiling was still an issue and the mudslide, surprisingly, had had an unforeseen benefit. I stared at several jagged edged pieces of cement that had fallen from the ceiling and landed on the mud covering the trapped pair. Any one of those pieces, connecting with unprotected flesh would have been enough to crush bone. I swallowed back nausea at the thought of what one of those lumps of rock could have done to an unprotected skull. Now if only the sheer weight of the mud hadn't killed them both already. "Can you tell if they are still getting air?" The diver kept his eyes glued to the screen and AD Skinner realized that he hadn't even heard the question. He touched the man's shoulder gently. The diver nearly leaped out of his chair in shock. "Can you tell if they are getting oxygen? Are they breathing?" The diver glanced at the screen helplessly, "There's air going down, but there's no way to tell if it's getting to them or if the line is ruptured and is bleeding off somewhere." "But they still have the spare tank right?" "Yeah, but even assuming they can physically breath under all that weight, the air itself isn't the problem. They can inhale all they want. Isn't going to do them a damn bit of good if they can't exhale. That's the problem with mud. No air pockets. It doesn't leave anywhere for the air to go." "So that's why..." Skinner gestured at the screen. "Yeah. She was trying to create an air pocket. Unfortunately, even if she did that, the air they are exhaling is trapped down there with them Eventually the pressure will build and..." "Squash their skulls?" "Something like that. She was probably hoping to bleed off some of the pressure with that length of pipe, but I don't see any air bubbles so it may be covered in mud or..." His voice trailed off, but it was easy enough to guess what he was about to say next. Either the end of the pipe was covered, or the agents weren't generating any air to create bubbles. As if in answer to that very thought, a sudden explosion of bubbles from where he had been digging knocked one of the rescue divers flat on his ass. In a flurry of motion, experienced hands cleared away rock and silt until a ragged cheer echoed across the Command Center. The unmistakable shape of two bodies appeared, air bubbles bleeding from the edges of the neoprene now that the sealing weight of the mud was gone. Both agents were barely conscious and there was still a need to go slowly. Aside from the still present danger of cave-in, it was more than possible that Mulder had injuries that had been obscured by the mud. Their care was rewarded when it was discovered that somehow in the fall, his leg had broken. The heavy weight of the mud had acted as an impromptu splint, keeping him from damaging the leg further. It was only after the doctors got a good look at the x-rays that they realized how closely the broken edge of bone had come to severing the artery. One of the interns commented that it was a good thing that lack of oxygen had probably made him too weak to struggle. It had probably saved his life. The attending physician, six interns, a resident, three nurses and several curious onlookers simply stared in confusion as the caustic voice of the AD bit out that the only weakness involved was the weakness of the brain that had a wet-behind- the-ears child making comments about something he knew nothing about. Then he told them that if they were planning on making idiotic and ignorant statements of that sort anywhere in the vicinity of the red-headed nuisance they kept trying to evict from Mulder's room, well then... "You might want to make sure that your death and disability policies are up-to-date." ********************************** Epilogue ********************************** Several weeks later... Scully took a deep breath and pushed her hair slowly back from her face as she stared at the woman in the mirror. The eyes. Had she ever belonged to those eyes? Before Mulder? Before...everything? The glass was cool and slick under her fingertips, reminding her almost of marble and that famous line about the sculptor not creating the vision in marble, but simply let it out. Who was the woman she was about to set free? She found herself slipping into her skin so easily, this stranger who had lurked beneath proper suits and federal regulations. Had she always been there or had she found her genesis in the molten kiln called Truth? Justice. Sacrifice. There was no gentleness in this woman. Not in this aspect. This woman was distilled anger, purified vengeance and unyielding in her judgment of the sins committed against her. Her eyes studied her body dispassionately, then discarded the severely cut suit and equally proper shoes. Mulder would be there today, watching. He had always known this woman waited behind Dana Scully's daylight persona. With his profiler's soul and watchful eyes, her suits had never disguised those rare flashes of personality which betrayed her. But he was not the one she was dressing for... Her hands reached for the clothes she had laid on the counter in earlier preparation. Why was she doing this now? This was more than a warning. It was a clarion call to battle to those who had the eyes to see. Assuming she was simply not sinking into an odd form of madness, envisioning a role for herself that was as pitiful as it was melodramatic. No. No doubts. The woman she needed to be would have none. Not about this. The black long-sleeved knit turtleneck was a gift from Mulder. Had they broken into an Air Force base or an Army base that night? She frowned as she realized that she couldn't remember. It did not matter. The thin knit material hugged her body closely. Comfortably smooth beneath the shoulder holster it left nothing that would accidentally snag on loose objects that could go crashing to the ground at inopportune moments. The shoulder rig had started life brown in color, but had been carefully redyed two days ago until it matched the rest of her outfit. Black guns, black belt with a blacked out buckle and a leather case for her handcuffs - also redyed to match. She had almost worn combat boots. Had tried them on and stared at them for a long moment in the mirror in her bedroom. They had been comfortable, but they were not quite what she needed. She was a stiletto today, not a machine gun. She needed something a bit more...feline. Combat boots were exchanged for a pair of black-soled leather ankle boots with sturdy toes an heels. In her mind's eye she had almost seen the soles gripping the edge of a balcony as she slipped over the side. Could feel the impact those toes would make when driven against the inside of a knee-cap or up into a groin. She had handed the saleswoman her credit card without a moment's hesitation. And finally the guns. The Beretta was holstered on her left shoulder, angled for a fast downward draw that would not pinch and would not slow her down by dragging across her breast. Her Sig was at her back and Mulder's back-up gun was snuggled up tightly against her right ankle. Two spare clips rested in each of the military style pockets that ran along the outer thighs of her black cargo pants. A deadly looking pocket knife shared space with a black knit watch cap and mini-maglight in the pocket on her left calf. Staring at herself in the mirror she waited for the first feelings of sheepish regret. She was wearing more hardware than the average SWAT officer and carrying enough bullets to take out a platoon. She waited for the image in the mirror to start looking ridiculous. She waited for some sign that she was having second thoughts. She wondered if she had time to buy an ankle holster for her other ankle. She reached for the last of her accessories. Ostensibly, the wide band of black neoprene and velcro wrapped tightly around the wrist of her right hand was a slightly trendy watchband. In reality, she marveled at the feeling the additional support gave her as she pulled her Sig and sighted experimentally down the barrel. Maybe it was time to reconsider parts of her wardrobe. The woman in the mirror smiled a slow dangerous smile as she tugged her sleeve down over the band. It didn't matter if it was visible or not. It was how it made her feel that was important here. State of mind was everything. She started to turn away, and then hesitated. Something...something was still missing. Some inner edge that she could not quite put her finger on. The gel in her short hair had given the swept back locks a wild and tangled look that was as efficient as it was feral. Her eyes went to her ears. Reconsidered earrings of some kind, then shook her head. The woman in the mirror didn't need them. They were a hazard. Something that could get snagged. Not to mention the possibility of an unexpected glint of silver or gold giving her location away. No, the woman in the mirror had no need or desire for ornamentation. Except. Her hand reached and hovered briefly. This felt right. Prompted by some inner instinct, she fastened the tiny cross back around her neck. The gold showed clearly against the black of her turtle-neck and it should have looked out of place. Something hovered, some understanding of herself was waiting just outside her reach. She fingered the necklace and wondered what her subconscious was trying to tell her. Was this just part of the image or something deeper? The lady in the mirror had no answers. Would they see what she meant them to see? No more practice. If they wanted to play, they better be prepared for her to play for keeps. She had given them fair warning.. Right there in the darkness she had told them what she would do. It was their own fault if they did not believe her. The woman in the mirror smiled a cold, merciless smile. Because if those bastards thought they were taking her partner from her, they were in for a surprise. **************************************** She let Mulder's black leather jacket slip from her shoulders as she stepped from the driver's seat of the bronco and uncoiled from the vehicle. The jacket landed in the passenger seat and the FBI credentials she had just shown the CIA parking attendant slid into the right thigh pocket with the clips. She had wondered about the bronco. Considered whether or not the woman in the mirror would drive a sports car. Then she contemplated the places you could go, the things you could carry...the bodies you could hide. Her smile was cold and held feline anticipation. She scanned the damp gray concrete pillars and parked cars openly, making no secret of her suspicion, her intent to react with deadly force to any threat. She imagined the sudden consternation of the security guards as they viewed her attire in black and white camera screens. She paced toward the building entrance, letting the feelings that came from the smell of the guns, the weight of the spare clips wash through her blood. Intent. That was the key The best salesman in the world is the one who believes in his product, because it shows. In his voice, in his eyes, in every line of his body. Live the role. Believe the lie. Believe. A half step left of the Abyss was a world where shadows waited. A world where men like Alex Krycek, Luis Cardinal and CGB Spender lived. Where death was the price of admission and you learned the rules by surviving the first round of play. A world of innuendo and make-believe. Power built on fear and belief. Intangible control easily broken, easily lost. The game had only one purpose. To maintain control without losing too many of the players. You are only as powerful as the strength and numbers of your pawns. Death then, was not the ultimate objective. Just a possible tool. One of many. Threat was the knife edge of control. Push too softly and your pawns refuse to react. Push too hard ...and they'll turn on you like cornered rats in a desperate bid for life or salvation. And you never knew who you might need in the future. Image. Belief. The foundations of illusionary power. But death laughs in the face of illusion. Death has no respect for threat. Death is threat. Look at me and see what I have become. What you have made of me. *I am become Death, destroyer of worlds*. I am the Assassin. I am Death. I am Threat. Use me well... Lest the knife in your hand become the knife at your throat. For the Assassin is the minion of Death. And I fear no illusions. Startled eyes, puzzled eyes, these she ignored. They were not the ones with eyes to see the world she was walking within. There. Those eyes there, and that pair over there. The man she had come to see had barely joined the game. Yet he would know those eyes, if only by reputation. Now he would watch their eyes, watching her. Would he see what they saw? Or would he see what he wanted to believe? The clips, the guns, the clothes, the walk. All props. But the woman. At this moment, the woman was real. And she was extremely pissed off. ********************************************* "What the fuck does she think she is doing?" The minute he said it, he regretted the loss of control. But Christ! His agent looked like an escaped extra from a Tom Clancy novel. Or a b- grade movie set. How many bloody guns was she wearing? He watched in disbelief as cold blue eyes went first to her partner, openly assessing his condition, publicly establishing her priorities. Icy suspicion studied the men at his back, clearly evaluated the potential hazards surrounding him and sent shivers down the ex- Marine's spine. Echoes of gunfire and distant jungle swirled in memory, and as she met his eyes, for the first time since he had known her, Walter Skinner felt a flash of fear of her rather than for her. This was not the naive young woman affronted and confused by the betrayal of her government. Nor was she the haunted victim of a shadowy conspiracy whose personal losses evoked equal measures of respect for her determination, guilt at his own inability to prevent the loss and anger at the foolish blindness that sent both these agents bumbling and stumbling headlong into one avoidable disaster after another. They played larger games in ignorance, and seemed so offended when it came back to bite them on the ass. Who was this? He ran his eyes slowly over her body, reevaluating her attire. Not FBI, no. But who would he have assumed that she was if he did not know her? Old memories flickered and he looked again at shoulder rigs with no reflecting metal pieces, clothing chosen for functionality and weapons rigged for speed...and far too many clips. Her outfit said assassin. Those clips said something else. Extreme lethal force. Looking at Mulder, he expected to see horror or embarrassment at his partner's bizarre attire. Instead, the agent was watching with a hard light in his eyes that Skinner did not recognize. Was that fascination? Approval? Anticipation? It was a rather sudden shock to realize that for the first time since he had known him, the agent's face accurately reflected the darkness that sometimes moved in his eyes. Unease shivered its way across his spine as he looked, really looked, at his agent for the first time in years. He knew better than most that looks could be deceiving. He had known that the man was a profiler. Had even seen the effects second hand. But Mulder had always seemed so damn young. His passion seemed to manifest itself as exuberance, his features...delicate, unfinished somehow. Mulder was a problem because of his enthusiastic and unending ability to hurl himself into the hunt. But if he had been asked, Skinner would always have said hound dog, not wolf. When you looked at Mulder, dangerous was not the first word that came to mind. He lacked that hard edge, that ruthless quality that Hollywood was so fond of stereotyping. But there was nothing boyish about his features now. All that passion, all the energy that normally seethed and rolled off the agent in a hundred chaotic directions was suddenly leashed and bound. The body that twitched and bounced and shifted in a constant state of motion was held motionless with a hungry anticipation that was excruciating in its predatory patience. Hard coiled explosive potential. Watching. Waiting. And most terrifying of all, under absolute control. More eyes than his were watching her. More precisely, Agent Cory Detweiller - CIA, wannabe player and recent terrorist - watched the men who he aspired to become watch her. His initial look of disdain changed slowly to caution and then surprised apprehension as he realized that men who he had assumed feared nothing watched a tiny woman in black with their eyes blank and their empty hands held casually near weapons. "I think Agent Scully would like to speak with the prisoner, Sir." Mulder's low-voiced comment caught Skinner off- guard, and for a moment he just looked at the man with emerging anger. What the hell were his agents up to? This wasn't their case - not considering that they were involved. But it was Scully who had left her partner in the hospital and spent the next two weeks of her "vacation" tracking the man down. She had been smart about it too. There was nothing connecting her to the anonymous tips which had led to his arrest. Nothing that could lead to a charge of interference with an official investigation. Nothing provable, that was. No one, however, had any doubts who was responsible for connecting the dots. And she had been standing there watching when the CIA and FBI had made the arrest. Not surprisingly, no one had seen where she came from, no one remembered calling her, and no one saw her leave. Now, as Detweiller was led into the interrogation room, Skinner saw several agents remember the rumors. That this was the woman who was REALLY responsible for Detweiller's capture. That he had been the one responsible for setting off the explosion which almost killed her partner. That the CIA had been unable to get him to drop the attitude long enough to get him to finger the men who had paid him. Or even to give a reason why. Skinner shifted uneasily as he realized that Scully was following the prisoner into the interrogation room fully armed. Amazingly, no one had the guts to protest. Not even him, it would seem. Chalmers motioned both Skinner and Mulder into the room next door. A wall to wall one way mirror made up the connecting wall and Skinner eyed the other occupants uneasily. He recognized them. Not who they were, but what they were. Eyes too shadowed, stances off by just a hair, a few too many weapons. He'd go long odds that half of them weren't even CIA. And they were all watching Scully. Skinner felt the frown gathering slowly and for the first time in too many years, felt lost regarding his agents' political agenda. It was his job to save their asses, damn it. He was the one who negotiated the political minefields and kept them from getting their legs blown off. Their positions were shakier than ever. The old guard was dead. The men who had protected them as often as they had threatened them were gone. A dozen dozen people in shattered projects with incomplete information fought among themselves for new positions of power. Some knew part of what was actually happening, some clung to what was supposed to have happened, but none, he realized, were Mulder and Scully. He turned that thought over once or twice, carefully. The Consortium, which had held equal parts hope and equal parts damnation for mankind, was dead. The easy power which they had wielded, the rewards for the inner circle which they had been able to offer, all gone. Even assuming that their successors knew what the hell the larger picture was supposed to look like, no one had the time or the connections to put it all back together again. These were new agendas, with new players and new loyalties. New alien factions. How many of them even knew about the aliens? They could deal themselves right out of the war. Right here, right now. Walk away and never look back. Did either of them realize that? Mulder had never had a choice before, regardless of what he might have thought in the early years. His father's legacy had seen to that. And Scully? Scully could no more walk away from what had been done to her, her family and her partner than she could sprout wings and fly. So they were both flies in amber, trapped by their pasts and their natures. Until now. No one was left to punish. No one was pulling the strings, dangling hints and oddly shaped pieces of an unknown puzzle in order to tempt them into the game. No one particularly wanted them alive, but no one truly wanted them dead. If they kept their noses out of it, they were just another couple of civilians...unless... Unless. What do the crusaders do when the quest is over but still unfinished? What do you do when you suddenly realize that there are no people standing at the top. Nobody holding the reins. Nobody to follow or to blame. Just bits and pieces and foot soldiers who may or may not even know what war they are fighting. Soldiers who needed generals. Who needed a rally point. Something they could recognize. Someone who could give them answers. Maybe that bomb had done exactly what it was supposed to do after all. He had thought that they could walk away. He had never really thought about the roles they would need to take on if they did not. It wasn't just a power vacuum, Skinner realized suddenly, but an absence of direction. All those foot soldiers and no senior officers. All those newly promoted officers...and no map to the war. But if Mulder was the natural heir-apparent to a cause that spanned decades and claimed countless lives, then Scully was Jeanne d'Arc. Not the woman burned at the stake for her beliefs, but the soldier who raised an army for the King of France. He had forgotten. Wars need leaders, but leaders need generals. And generals needed soldiers like those gathering in this room. Skinner had always known it was a war. In his head, he had known it. But his emotions had never made the connections between the battle to come and the agents he had always seen somewhat as its victims. But who else was there? Their honor, their motives were unassailable. Their names were known. They knew the larger picture of what the Consortium planned...and what it had hidden. Their bodies harbored the chance for immunity, the possibility of a vaccine the Consortium would have used only after the aliens had decimated the old world order and left the empty seats at the top free for the taking. Who, afterall, would resist the only men with the cure? But Mulder and Scully could become what the foot soldiers wanted. Figureheads cast in the image their followers needed. Created whole cloth from belief, need and mutable reality. Symbols. Rallying points. And they would allow it. Duty would let them do nothing less. Mulder was the natural heir to the projects his father worked on and the natural ally of his father's enemies. And Scully? The men who would follow her would lay their lives at the feet of Mulder's cause for one reason and one reason only. Because she believed. Because the strength of her convictions and the passion of her support would lend credibility to the cause and because of the wistful hope that by following, the followers might somehow touch just a bit of reflected light from the fire that burned between them. Mulder and Scully. The Martyr and the Soldier. Justice. He had been wrong. They could never walk away. Not now. Perhaps not ever. And neither could he. In the interrogation room, Detweiller had been handcuffed to the table and the two CIA guards had left Scully alone with him at a nod from her. Detweiller had a frozen half-sneer on his face that had been his stock response to any and all questioning. He never gave an inch, not even to confirm information they already knew. Scully just looked at him with the same detached curiosity with which she might have watched a routine autopsy. Significant in a professional sense, but not something from which she expected to learn anything. "There is no honor in their war." There was no heat in her voice. No burning hate. Simply judgment. Moral values weighed and found wanting in the eyes of one who had shed blood to draw the line he had crossed. A mortal archangel fallen to earth to render her verdict with a cold fury born of offense and anointed in sacrifice. Implacable. Immovable. Retribution reborn. Wingless but not crippled. Carrying a gun instead of a sword... Detweiller fastened his eyes on a ring of scars visible on Scully's exposed right forearm. As he studied those marks, badges of a battle he could only guess at, Skinner frowned. He didn't remember those scars as being so prominent. So visible. As she casually rested her hand against the table, naturally drawing Detweiller's eyes to the ripple of muscle beneath damaged flesh, Skinner realized that this too was part of the play. With one simple action she established beyond a doubt that Detweiller was a mere puppy in a dark war she had survived for seven years. She did not brag. She did not threaten. She simply was what Detweiller longed to be. A warrior fighting for something worth saving. Worth dying for. Someone who knew the potential cost of losing the coming battle...and who rejected Detweiller's actions as unworthy. Men like Alex Krycek were lost when they sold their souls too cheaply. Foot soldiers who trusted their lives and honor into the hands of men who did not value what they held. Whose flaws could have become strengths in another's grasp. Who would Alex have been if he had met Mulder first? Dark twins. One lost, one found. Who would Mulder have been without Scully? One had only to watch the desperate way Krycek circled them to see every soldier's nightmare. Back and away, then back again. Coming as close as his sins would allow. Trapped like a moth to the flame that burned between the two agents he might have given his life to had the butterfly beat its wings just a little bit differently. The cost of betrayal. Trust given too lightly or too soon. Gazing ever in at something he had forever barred himself from touching before he knew enough about the game he was playing to judge the price of his actions. That was the true tragedy of a shadow war. Men who learned to trust no one still trusted their orders. And took the blame. Because once they lost their names, their orders were all they had. Flies in amber. Trapped forever unless someone set them free. And the men in the observation room were looking at a hammer. Detweiller was staring deeply into ice blue eyes, searching for answers to a question he did not know how to ask. He saw choices. He saw lines drawn. An unflinching loyalty that paled to insignificance anything he had ever felt in his life. Even as he shrank from the heat of the blaze, he yearned for the power of its touch. Just once. That was the longing Skinner saw reflected in the window of his soul. To feel that certainty, that searing commitment. To know he was capable of even a fraction of that incandescent passion. Just once. "Why Mulder?" His shattered whisper held a million questions. She answered only one. "Because he is the last gift left in Pandora's box." A prize worthy of her soul. The last hope of the world. Or no. Mulder had hope. Enough hope to fling himself into the fire that would blaze across the sky and take the race of mankind with it. He generated it within him. Hope for himself. Hope for the world. Enough hope to fight a war. Detweiller's breath came in shallow pants as he tried to find meaning in the answer she had given him. Then he asked the words that gave his life into her keeping. "Then who are you?" Lady Justice. Hope's Guardian. The other half of their combined soul. Her smile held a million answers, but her voice betrayed none. Detweiller jerked his head up as two CIA guards opened the door. Confusion crossed his face as they came to his side of the room. "Wait." He searched her eyes, looking for the questions, the demands. The lies. "Wait." Scully merely watched silently and he began to resist as the guards hauled him to his feet. Detweiller's eyes were frantic, his voice desperate. "Don't you want to know why?" She did not answer. Detweiller's struggles grew to a fever pitch as he fought to stay. "What do you want from me?!" The cry was ripped directly from his soldier's heart. And with that, he was hers forever. Every man watching saw it happen. Saw the sorrow in her eyes and the loss and despair crashing into Detweiller's soul. The sentence came gently. "Nothing at all." **************************************** The silence in the interrogation room was absolute. Blank eyes in blank faces. And then they left. Slowly. Giving long thoughtful looks to the man meeting his partner's eyes through a one-way window. Nothing was ventured. Nothing was said. And the silence spoke louder than words. Neither Mulder nor his partner moved. Skinner was held trapped by the spell woven between his two agents. Had he really seen what he thought he had seen? And where would this day's work take them? A tiny ripple of motion, a shivery breath as Mulder suddenly seemed to stir to life and the agent turned his head , eyes still burning with something Skinner wasn't sure he wanted to understand. Then he smiled. A curiously edged twist of the lips that echoed the darkness swirling in his eyes. "I said I couldn't mind-fuck the CIA." He glanced once more through the glass and the edges grew pointed fangs. "I never said that she couldn't" ************************** Skinner and Chalmers both lingered, perhaps out of morbid fascination. They watched Scully lift her head guardedly as the door opened and Mulder limped through. He paused just inside the door. Fleeting expressions came and went, too rapid to truly be analyzed...at least by outsiders. And perhaps, too quickly even for those caught in the middle. Suddenly, Mulder flashed his partner a blinding grin and brought his hand to his chest and swept her a graceful, old fashioned bow. He tilted his head to look up at her and hazel eyes gleamed slyly through roguish, half-lowered lashes. "My Lady Retribution." Beneath the black sweater, shoulders relaxed and Dana Scully shot him a half exasperated, half amused look even as she playfully nodded her head in regal acknowledgment. Mulder straightened, his smile widening, "Shall we go save the world?" Skinner found himself holding his breath as he thought about a game turned reality and reality played like a game. He thought about the fact that he did not know these people at all. Had only scratched the surface of what they were becoming. For all the humor in his voice, Mulder was dead serious. Scully paused, then smiled a slow secret smile as she pulled the Beretta, checked the clip and shoved it back in the holster with a snap. Her words were a truth that Skinner knew to his bones. "I got your back." ************************************* ~The End *************************************