From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Mon Dec 09 16:37:06 1996 Please don't forward to ATXC - I'll post it there myself ___ "The First Stone" part 1 of 4 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: NC-17 for violence (well, later on, anyway.) SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder makes a painful discovery that puts him in very real danger of becoming the fourth. ____ DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and its characters are the property of Fox, 1013 and Chris Carter and I torture them without permission but with no mercenary intent. FEEDBACK: Yes please WARNING: This story isn't that gory. It's not even particularly graphic. But it _does_ contain violent and potentially disturbing subject matter. I'd hate to upset people needlessly, so if that sort of thing bothers you, please go away. ********** Shades of grey. Nothing but shades of grey, burning into his eyes, his memory. Her skin was the palest of shadows, smooth as smoke. Her hair were wisps of ash, dry and arid, all life and vibrancy drained away. Dark folds slashed the slate grey of her clothes. All grey, all the same colour, yet at the same time cruelly different, showing him every detail, showing him.... Black. Splashes of black on her clothes, in her hair, on the ground beneath her. It had been _so_ red.... Black in the photograph, red in his mind. Red on her body, black in the gaping darkness of his soul. His fingers were stiff, aching. How long had he been sitting there, staring at the photographs clutched in his hand - pictures he knew so well now that he could recreate every detail with his eyes shut? A minute? An hour? An eternity? What did it matter? He would be dead soon. He glanced one last time round the room, saying farewell to the trappings of a hollow life he'd once thought so full, a day ago, a lifetime ago. Now, they seemed so worthless, so futile. His name on the office door. Shelves of books. Pictures on the wall. Photographs of.... of her. Bright hair, bright smile, bright eyes. Her _smile_.... Would she ever smile again? He pulled his gaze away, feeling her picture swim before his eyes. Not _her_. Not _that_ photograph, all smiles and colour and life. This one. _This_ one. A black and white crime scene photograph where death was faded into painful greys, harsh contrasts like a dagger in his heart. He laughed suddenly - a grim sound with no humour in it. God! The files. The notebooks. The profiles. They were all still there, filed away in triumph after the successes of years. Ironic that he'd devoted his career to understanding the criminal mind, when all the time he'd been so wrong about.... about everything. What would it be like, a bullet in the brain? Would he feel anything? Would it hurt like.... like...? No! No more. I can't! Where had _that_ come from? A little voice of horror that still wanted to forget, wanted to carry on, wanted to live. No, he _had_ to think of it. Mustn't fight it. Think of it. That memory, that thought, pounding at his head, attacking his mind, forcing the gun to his head. Whirling shapes, writhing before his eyes. The twisting images of a screen saver, covering his work, his unfinished profile. Someone else would finish it now. Perhaps _him_, his visitor of an hour ago. Would _he_ learn the truth too, and his blood join the others'? Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered any more. Just the truth, and his conscience speaking in his mind, and the cold hard ring of metal pressed against his temple. And then, slowly, slowly, a finger tightened on the trigger. ********** Her footsteps were the only sound in the silence. No-one moved. No-one spoke. No-one breathed. "Agent Scully? Is.... er...." Agent Jacobs broke the silence first, his words faltering into an awkward cough. "How...? I mean...." Another cough. A nervous shuffling of feet. Mulder stared at the words on the computer screen, not ready to look up quite yet, sharing the older agent's feelings. The sound of sobbing had become so much part of their world that its sudden absence had halted words and actions, making everyone fall silent with awkward guilt at how such vocal grief had become simply background noise, of no more import than the distant sounds of cars. "How is she?" Jacobs tried again, his voice still hoarse. "Will she.... will she be all right?" "Of course she won't be all right!" Scully's voice was fire. "Her fiance's dead, for God's sake. Of _course_ she's not okay!" Mulder looked up, a slow deliberate movement designed to catch Scully's eye. When their eyes met he gave a tiny shake of the head, gesturing with his eyes to Jacobs. He was confident she would get the message, even though anyone watching would no doubt be unaware that any communication had passed between them. "I'm sorry." Scully sighed, wearily. Her muscles were taut and he could tell she was struggling to keep control. "I shouldn't have snapped. But she's.... Of course she's not okay, but her mother's looking after her now." "That's good." Agent Jacobs tried to smile, but it was closer to a grimace, and he quickly gave up the pretence. "My God!" he burst out suddenly, kneading his temples with his clenched fists as if trying to drive out the truth from his memory. "_Three_ of them!" Mulder stood up, crossing the room to Scully's side, trying not to glance at the body on the floor. She looked up as he approached, smiling wanly. "Are you okay, Scully?" He spoke quietly, touching her lightly on the arm. She shrugged. "I'm fine, Mulder. It wasn't pleasant, but.... I'm fine." He gave her a quick smile, acknowledging the truth and the lie behind her words. Over an hour with a bereaved woman, searching for vain words of comfort - no-one would be fine after that. But still, in contrast with what they could have gone through - with what they _had_ gone through in the past - this was nothing. So much death, so much suffering over the years for _this_ to be nothing. "And you, Mulder? Are you....?" She was talking again, her eyes clouded with concern and wariness. He smiled, absently pulling a loose hair from her sleeve and twisting it around his fingers. "No. I know. I _have_ thought about it, but...." The hair dug deep grooves in his fingers and then snapped. He shook his head slowly. "I didn't know him. I couldn't have changed anything." But the man's anguished face was still there, still talking in the back of his mind, and he knew he wasn't telling Scully the whole truth, just like she was lying to him. In all likelihood, he was the last person to see Agent Feldman alive, having spoken to him in his office long after the others had gone home. Perhaps he _could_ have seen what was going to happen. Perhaps he _could_ have prevented it. Perhaps. But until the case was solved those thoughts had to be kept strictly at bay. There was just too much guilt. As Scully always said, he should try to approach a case unblinded by personal feelings. "Agent Mulder?" Jacobs' voice made them both start, lost as they had been in each other's feelings. "Are you.... I mean, do you have...?" The man was scarcely coherent. He was a seasoned ASAC, with a reputation for remaining calm under pressure, but the loss of three of his agents in as many weeks had evidently pushed him to breaking point. "I'm sorry." Jacobs took a deep breath, visibly trying to compose himself. "It's just.... Why are you here? I didn't have time to ask yesterday, with.... with that girl's murder. It's.... it's not the murders, is it? Is it.... do you suspect something about...." He ran out of words, gesturing silently towards the body on the floor. "Agent Jacobs," Mulder began, then paused, searching for the right words. He sensed rather than heard Scully's quick intake of breath, felt the ghost of a touch of his hand, and flashed her a quick smile with his eyes, acknowledging her silent warning. She was right. This was no time to push his theories on a man so lost in grief and confusion. Better to be tactful, to play it cautiously. "Agent Jacobs," he started again. "I.... I don't know. But you know we specialise in the.... unusual. And when three agents all working on the same case kill themselves, it does seem unusual." "_Appear_ to have killed themselves." Jacobs' eyes were desperate, as if even he knew how flimsy the hope was. Scully took a step forward, her voice warm with sympathy. "There's no sign of forced entry at all, just like the others," she reminded him, firmly, though her eyes were apologetic. "There's no reason to doubt this was suicide." "But he was.... They _all_ were...!" Jacobs was shouting suddenly, a cry of anguish that had the other agents looking away in embarrassment. They'd looked the same when the woman had started screaming, leaving Scully to step forward and take her in her arms and hold her while she'd cried. But this time, even Scully seemed at a loss for words. "God!" Jacobs' pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. "He had so much to live for. I know some profilers have.... problems sometimes. But he.... God! He never gave any sign he'd.... he'd do.... something like this." Mulder shook his head, doubtfully, wishing he could provide some reassurance. The truth was, he was seriously doubting whether this was an X-File at all. Seeing the body, playing back the conversation he'd had with Agent Feldman - they only made him more ready to believe that these were just normal suicides after all. "Agent Feldman?" It had been after seven that he'd knocked at the office door. "This is Agent Mulder. Can I talk to you for a minute?" The face that had answered had been grey and ravaged, and the man had shrugged without a word. "I hear you've been working on a profile on this serial killer you have in town?" Mulder had prompted, trying to get a response - any response - from those dead eyes. "Can I see it?" Feldman had started, although his eyes still hadn't left a black-and-white photograph he held clutched in his left hand. "I.... It isn't finished. I.... couldn't understand him." "I'd still like to hear your ideas," he'd persisted. Two men had killed themselves while on this case. Although the murders were nasty, they were no worse than many others they would have seen in their careers - nothing to indicate why this case had pushed them over the edge. Maybe there was some clue in the profile - something chilling in the mind of the person who could do such things. "I understand now." The words had been barely audible. "What?" Mulder had taken a step forward, but the man had started to close the door in his face. "I understand now. I understand the killer. I.... Come back tomorrow morning and I'll show you.... You'll begin to understand." But he didn't understand. Not then. Not now. There were just more questions without answers. "Come on, Mulder." Scully's voice recalled him to the present, reminding him that the scene had been recorded and photographed and the room was slowly emptying. "There's nothing left to do here." He smiled, shaking his head. "I guess not." He patted his jacket pocket, reassuring himself that the print-out of Feldman's incomplete profile was still there, ready for him to study later. "Let's have breakfast. Your place or mine?" "Well, seeing as they're both about two thousand miles away, how about that place we saw yesterday - the one with the pink tablecloths, _not_ the one with the alien in the window." She hissed these last words through gritted teeth in a pretence of anger, reminding him of the previous night's friendly disagreement over eating places. "Your wish is my command, my lady." He ran in front of her, holding the door open theatrically, getting rewarded with a light swat. It was fragile, but it was holding - this lightness that was sometimes the only way to make life bearable. They could laugh and joke and smile, both fully understanding what lay beneath the facade, fully knowing that the other emotions were there, but knowing when it was best not to push. But then he felt his smile falter, saw the sudden anxiety reflected in Scully's eyes. Feldman's voice, a ghost in his memory, muffled by the closed door. "Tomorrow you'll begin to understand. But.... But I hope for your sake you never understand it all." ********** It was time. Scully turned her glass slowly round in her hand, watching the ring of reflected light dance across the table cloth, watching Mulder's smile fade as he took in her sudden change of mood. "Mulder...." She put the glass down, leaning forward with both hands on the table. He'd been almost lively during the dinner, but, while part of her had enjoyed smiling with him, deep down she knew they that sooner or later they'd have to talk - that they would very possibly have to argue. The light drained from his eyes. "Are you okay?" His voice was quick, concerned. "I'm fine, Mulder," she assured him quickly. Then, before he could the initiative away from her, she asked, firmly, "Why are we here?" There was a long silence - too long. She'd expected Mulder to come up with all sorts of reasons - reasons which would make little sense to her, but which he would passionately defend. "I don't know." He shook his head, sighing. "It's just that I've been talking to people today." Although she was surprised by his reaction, she decided to carry on as she'd planned. "From all I've learnt, I.... Well, I see no reason to assume this is anything more than meets the eye. These agents.... You know how traumatic it can be working a murder case. It's probably no coincidence that each one of the suicides took place shortly after another body was found." Mulder nodded slowly, though his eyes were full of doubt. "Perhaps. But I checked their records. They'd all been on cases much worse than this one." "Who's to say what a person will find traumatic. Everyone..." And then she faded away, remembering. Donnie Pfaster. _She'd_ dealt with numerous murder cases, but had nearly been pushed over the edge by one which, to an observer, was no more traumatic than the others. "It's just...." She struggled to frame her words, to keep them objective. "It could have been an accumulation of circumstances. And if a colleague's killed himself recently.... It looks like a coincidence, but if each suicide partly caused the next, then...." She shrugged, knowing Mulder understood her, that she didn't need to finish her thoughts. "I know, Scully." He was clutching and unclutching the table cloth, eyes dark with regret. "I know, but...." "You hoped you were on to something?" She kept her voice gentle, leaning forward so he could catch her every meaning. "Yes. I.... When I heard about it, I thought..... It just seemed such a coincidence that two - now three - agents on the same case would just kill themselves, despite showing no previous signs of depression. I thought the murderer was somehow able to take control of their minds, forcing them to kill themselves, removing the people who were working to catch him." "Mulder...." There was such regret in his voice, such a desperate need. But she didn't believe. How could she find the right words? "Scully...." He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his coffee cup as if he was terrified to look at her, terrified to see rejection in her eyes if he confided in her. "You said once you were scared to believe? But I.... it scares me _not_ to believe. If these deaths were somehow the work of one man, then that's more comforting than believing that three people, doing the same sort of work we do, found that work too much to live with." "Mulder." Was _this_ what was worrying him? That he might be seeing his own future? "There might be more to it than that - more to it than meets the eye." He laughed, though whether with real humour or not, she couldn't tell. "I thought that was my line." She smiled quickly, acknowledging his attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but wasn't deterred. "Not like that, Mulder. All I mean is - it's probably not just the case that pushed these men over the edge. Who can tell what else is going on in someone's life - in someone's mind. There could be all sorts of factors no-one will ever know about." He nodded wearily, but said nothing. "Mulder...." She broke the silence at last. It was time to address that other issue that had haunted her during the long day. "Are you thinking..... I mean, Agent Feldman was half way through profiling the killer when he.... killed himself. I heard Agent Jacobs saying...." "No." His voice was firm, but then he shook his head, as if trying to explain his vehemence. "I don't think so. I did think of it, but I've looked through the crime scene photos, and read his notes. I.... I just can't see a way into it. This man - this person," he added with a smile, "has killed four people in a month - no discernible pattern - no.... It just seems to be murder for the sake of murder. I can't.... Oh, I guess if I put my mind to it I could understand him, but I just can't seem to get into his mind. I...." He met her eyes, speaking with a simple honesty. "I don't want to try." She was surprised to find tears pricking in the back of her eyes at his confession. She'd heard the stories, of course. She'd even seen for herself just what it could do to him to immerse himself in the mind of a criminal. But she'd seldom heard him talk about it, and was strangely touched that he was opening up to her. "Good," she said at last, knowing her look conveyed meanings more than her words. "I'm.... Just don't change your mind, Mulder. Don't be pressurised into anything." "No," he said simply, but she could read his eyes, and knew he shared her worries. If it _was_ something disturbing in the case that had driven these men to suicide, then Mulder was the last person she wanted anywhere near it. They sat in silence for a while, her hand still resting lightly on his. There was no need to talk. "I'd like to stay a few days, anyway." Mulder broke the silence first, looking almost embarrassed at his desire, his fervent hope, that there would be more to this case than met the eye. "You needn't stay if you don't want to." She affected a stern look. "You don't get rid of me that easily, Fox Mulder. You know you always end up hurt when I'm not there to look after you." She moved her hand, planning to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, but he reached out and encased her hand in both of his. "Thank you, Scully." His voice was low, sincere. There was a long silence. His hands returned to his coffee cup and he leant back, as if almost embarrassed by what he'd said, but she was glad for it. These last few weeks he'd been considerate of her beliefs, honest about his plans, and open about his feelings. Perhaps it was the approaching New Year, making him reassess his life and try and change direction. Perhaps it was simply that their last few cases had been free of stress. But whatever it was, it was most welcome. "Six o'clock." Scully broke the silence first, speaking abruptly, even awkwardly. It was shifting gears again - returning from confidences to business. "They'll have finished the autopsy now. They said I could see their findings, look over the body." Mulder pushed his chair back, quickly draining the last of his coffee. "You take the car. I'll walk back to the hotel.... think things over.... see what I can find." He didn't meet her eyes, and she knew he still hoped to find something paranormal, but was embarrassed to tell her how important it was to him. "Mulder...." She was about to reassure him, to tell him that she understood, but her words were drowned out when the man at the next table stood up quickly, his chair legs scraping obscenely against the floor. When it was quiet again, the moment had passed. "Call me, if you like." He turned round in the doorway and coughed, awkwardly. "I mean, if there's anything unusual in the autopsy." "I...." But then she had to break off to thank the man from the next table who took the door from Mulder and held it open for her. "I'll call you, Mulder," she said, once out on the street, but he was already a few paces away and she wasn't sure he'd heard. ********** The blood was still there, black against the dirt. There was no sound but his own breathing and the rhythmic flapping of the crime scene tape, needlessly fencing off an area that had already been forsaken. Blood. Dirt. Dark.... Nothing. Mulder stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, wishing he could wipe the feel of death away so easily. Why had he come here? He wiped his hand across his brow, wondering. He certainly hadn't intended to come out to the place where the latest body had been discovered. Visiting the crime scene, trying to feel the murderer's presence.... He was _not_ going to go that way. He'd promised Scully. He'd promised himself. But yet.... Out for a run, letting the thoughts and theories work their way through his mind, he'd suddenly realised how close he was, and had felt the pull, and, like some drug addict, had been powerless to resist. Just for a minute. Just one look. Just in case.... Just in case the answers are there. He laughed bitterly. Was there no end to his desire to understand, to find answers? Alone in an alley at night, in a city he didn't know, for.... for what? For the truth. But what if.... what if the truth _killed_ those three agents? What if to understand the suicides, he had to understand the murders, and to understand the murders he had to be like them - to learn the truth that had killed them? Was that a price worth paying? Scully. Smiling in the restaurant, her hand beneath his, her eyes full of understanding. Christmas. God! Christmas. Lonely days in his apartment. But _this_ year.... His mother. He'd nearly lost her, realised how much she meant to him. This year they'd neither of them be alone. The truth? _This_ truth? Some little truth about a murderer who may or may not be able to control minds? The truth about three agents who may, after all, have had their own very different reasons for doing what they did? Was it worth the risk? Agent Feldman's haunted eyes. His brains scattered across the carpet. His fiance's screams. Was it worth it? Scully. Did he even need to ask the question? Four days before Christmas. Scully's smile. Why cloud Scully's smile by clinging to a case that was at best insignificant, at worst positively dangerous? His footsteps echoed in the alley as he turned and slowly walked away, heading back to the lights and sounds of the city, turning his back on the darkness. Scully. Smiling and promising to stay with him for as long as he wanted to pursue the case. So willing to give up the last days before Christmas, even though he knew she wanted - _needed_ - some time to rest with her family. He reached for his phone, planning to tell her he wanted to go home tomorrow after all, then remembered he'd left it back in the hotel, still inside his suit jacket. No hurry, though. It didn't matter. He'd tell her in person - see her eyes light up at the thought of a long Christmas with her family, untroubled by cases, untroubled by him. Nearly out of the alley now, and sounds of movement scurrying in the dark corners. Rats. Cats. Eyes in the darkness, watching him.... He quickened his pace as a shiver passed through him, reminding him he was dressed for running, not for the long minutes he'd spent crouching at the murder scene. Twenty minutes back to the hotel - perhaps twenty-five. Have a quick shower. Wait for Scully, and then.... Forget about the case. No murders. No suicides. Nothing to worry about. They could see a movie. They could go to a bar and just talk. They could walk beneath the Christmas lights and think. They could.... A sudden noise cut into his thoughts, making him stop quite still, his hand on his gun, his whole body tense, listening to the darkness. Nothing. Then a quiet rattle, a soft padding. A cat. God! Just a cat. He put his gun back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and took a step forward. A car sped past, only a few yards away now, where the alley opened onto the road. Just a few steps from the light.... But then a shadow moved and something slashed through the air and the sudden burst of pain in the back of his head drove him to his knees. Everything went cloudy and he struggled to push himself to his feet, struggled to make his arms obey him, but then came another blow, and the darkness engulfed him. ********** end of part 1 ******** Please send feedback to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ___ "King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains." from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White. From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Mon Dec 09 16:37:23 1996 Please don't forward to ATXC - I'll post it there myself. ____ "The First Stone" part 2 of 4 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: NC-17 for violence SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder makes a painful discovery that puts him in very real danger of becoming the fourth. ____ He still wasn't answering. Relentlessly ringing, again and again, but still no answer. Just one more ring.... He was probably in the shower. Or out running off his surplus energy. Or.... or.... Just one more ring. Mustn't stop now. He might have rushed out of the shower, dripping water all over the carpet, and be reaching for the phone even now. One more ring.... He could be.... She racked her brains, desperate to find cause to hope. What else could have happened to separate Mulder from his cellphone? He could be....? One more ring...? "This is stupid!" Scully put the phone down, firmly, trying to talk herself out of her worry. He'd be okay. She was over-reacting. There was no cause to worry. Just an hour and a half since she'd seen him. No reason to assume the case posed any danger. Nothing to worry about.... But the bruises. Yellow and brown, blue and grey. "I don't know why you're so interested in this case." Michael Hughes, who'd performed the autopsy on Agent Feldman, had walked across the morgue with exaggerated weariness, evidently trying to make Scully feel guilty for wanting to double-check his work. "There's no question about the cause of death." "I know." She'd used the tactful voice learnt from long experience of soothing the feathers ruffled by Mulder in the course of his investigations. "I'm not doubting your findings. But this is the third suicide among this team in as many weeks." Hughes had sighed theatrically and pulled out the drawer, drawing back the sheet that shrouded the body. "Cause of death is a bullet wound to the head. No sign of any drugs, if that's what you're thinking." He'd smiled, evidently thinking he'd pre-empted her question. "If you're thinking someone's drugging these men, driving them to depression and psychotic behaviour, then you're wrong." But something else had caught Scully's eye. "What about these?" She'd gestured towards the spreading bruises across Feldman's body. "Oh, those were sustained some time before death - 18 hours - perhaps more. Had a fight with his girlfriend, I'd guess. Maybe that's why he killed himself. Who can tell? But it's nothing to do with his cause of death." But she hadn't been so sure - she still wasn't so sure. Little facts, innocent enough in themselves, had suddenly taken on a new significance. How did it all fit together? She leant her head back against the wall, reviewing the evidence, forcing her mind to think of the case. He'd be okay. Nothing to worry about. _Think_. The facts... Agent Feldman, usually so punctual, hadn't arrived at work until after eleven the previous day, with no explanation for his lateness. No doubt about _that_ one. Several of his colleagues had remarked on it. At some time shortly before this, Agent Feldman had been soundly beaten. No doubt about that either. She'd seen it with her own eyes. It was only after his beating that Agent Feldman had displayed any signs of depression or mental instability. While everyone agreed he usually appeared happy, that last day he'd shut himself in his room. Thinking he was working on some fresh inspiration derived from the new murder, everyone had left him alone, but Mulder had spoken to him, and had spoken eloquently on his apparent mental state. So, what conclusions could she draw? "Agent Scully." A voice made her start. She'd had her eyes shut, thinking. "Here are the reports you asked for." As she took the proffered reports, she was surprised to find her hands shaking. Had her subconscious made connections that her conscious mind wasn't ready to make, not just yet? The autopsy reports for the other two agents. She skimmed through them quickly, looking only for one thing, dreading that she'd find it. It was there. In both of them, it was there. Bruises. Cuts. Strained muscles. "Oh God!" The pages fluttered to the floor as she reached for her phone again. All three of the dead agents had been ill-treated shortly before they'd taken their own lives. And Mulder was missing. Probably nothing. Probably nothing at all. Four rings now. He'd answer before the tenth. Nothing to worry about. But still..... ********** It was dark even here. He _thought_ he was conscious, but he couldn't see. Just a deadening blanket of darkness, all one texture. Why was there no depth to the darkness - no shadows? Even the darkest of nights had shadows when you looked hard enough with a dark-adapted eye. _Why_ was it so dark? It _bothered_ him, intensely, irrationally. He was still unconscious. He was dreaming. He was.... he was dead. He was.... Where was he? He shook his head fiercely, a last desperate attempt to clear his vision, but the pain in his head welled up like fire and pushed him down into that other darkness where there were no questions. ********** Still the darkness - always the darkness - but this time there were other perceptions too. His hands, restrained behind his back, something hard pulling on his wrists when he tried to move. Something tight around his ankles. His cheek.... A cold rough surface beneath his cheek, making him suddenly desperate to change position, although he knew the fire in his head wouldn't allow him to move. His face... His eyes.... _Why_ was it so dark? Such total darkness. Complete absence of light. Some quotation he'd heard somewhere and never bothered to think about - hell is the total absence of God. Hell. Utter utter darkness for all eternity. And silence. A terrible silence which pressed on him like a suffocating hand, making him breathe faster with terror until the sounds of his own breathing, his own heartbeats, resounded in the darkness until it felt that the whole room was full of people leaning over him, watching him dispassionately as they planned his death. "No!" He tried to cry out loud, desperate to hear a voice - even his own voice - in the darkness, but something consumed his voice, turning it into the littlest of groans. Something.... Something in his mouth, strangling his voice, choking him if he tried to speak. And then.... He concentrated, trying to pin down perceptions through the pain in his head. Yes. There was something there as well. A soft pressure against his face, across his eyes. Something across his face, keeping him from the light. Fettered to the darkness, alone in the silence. Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy? It started as the weakest of questions in the back of his mind, but swelled until it filled his whole being. Help me Scully! Help me! Voices in the darkness, and light. Shining hair burning like the setting sun. That rare smile that lit up all her face. "I would never put myself on the line for anyone but you...." Remember that. Cling to that. Pictures in the darkness, voices in his memory. Think of them. Feel them. Make them real. Not the darkness - not _that_. Scully. Think of Scully. "I was certain they would have killed you, Mulder." I need you, Scully. Help me again. "I just knew...." How did I....? I felt her then - I _spoke_ to her, although we were far apart. How....? Help me, Scully. Talk to me, somebody. Tell me why I'm here. Help me.... ********** He hadn't thought there could be anything worse than being alone in the darkness.... A noise. A small, small noise, scarcely there at all. Breathing. Someone was watching him. Closer.... closer. Breathing. The slow creak of soft footsteps. The rustle of clothing as someone crouched down next to him. Then.... Silence. Speak to me. _Do_ something. Talk to me.... The monsters of childhood, the horrors only imagined, more terrible than anything that was seen, that had shape. Talk to me. Do _anything_, but just tell me _why_.... Then came the lightest of touches on his throat. Cold as ice, soft as feathers. Half a breath, then it was gone. "Where?" A voice, hissing in his ear. It touched him again, sliding lightly down his arm towards his wrist. "Here?" Then it moved again, sliding across his chest, moving in broad spirals down his body, whispering quietly as it touched his clothes. "Here?" Then the touch was on his inner thigh, moving slowly, oh so slowly, upwards. "Or here? Shall I go higher?" He didn't dare to move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The touch was everything in his world, the voice hanging in the darkness like a sentence of death. "No." The voice sounded regretful. "Not yet. Later, perhaps...." The touch disappeared, and there was a long silence. Darkness. Breathing. It was there, _somewhere_. It was watching. It would come again. "But for now...." Whispering close to his ear. The touch at his throat again, moving downwards towards his chest, pressing harder against his shirt, leaving a thin line of pain in its path, leaving a sudden feeling of cold air and flapping cloth against his chest. "Here." The touch stilled, the voice faded to the softest caress. Silence. A long, long silence. "Here.... here.... here...." The word echoed in his memory, but nothing moved, nothing happened. He exhaled, releasing a breath he never knew he'd been holding, relaxing the muscles he'd tensed, expecting.... what? Silence. Still nothing but silence. Then a tongue of fire lashed across his stomach, and he felt the warm wetness pour across his skin and pool beneath him, and he tried to curl up, tried to clutch himself round the pain, but was held tight by the metal at his wrist and ankles. "Yes." It was a purr of satisfaction. "Here." ********** "I don't _want_ to hurt you." How long had passed, with the darkness and the breathing? Only minutes? An hour? "You can stop this any time." The blood was still trickling across his stomach, though slower now. Not enough to kill him, he knew that. "It's your decision." The voice was calm, relentless. "Why don't you ask me how?" He rolled away from the voice as best he could, knowing he only managed to move his head a few inches. He knew the voice wanted him to groan, to try and speak through his gag, but was determined not to give it that satisfaction. His earlier terror had faded. The faceless presence had a voice, footsteps, emotions. It was a man - just a man. "Ask me how!" Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him roughly onto his back, crushing his bound wrists against the floor. He could sense the face just inches from his own, hear the fury in the voice. "Say something!" The hands moved again, one grabbing a fistful of flesh at his shoulder, the other digging its fingers deep into his side, and they pulled violently, pulling his onto his side again, then tipping him heavily onto his front. He was dimly aware of fingers working on something at the back of his head, of the pressure in his mouth loosening, but all sensations were like a distant mist, viewed through the fiery agony as the wound on his stomach was forced against the floor. "Talk!" Hands again, pawing, clutching, pulling.... He was on his side again. He could move his jaw properly. He could swallow without feeling he would choke. But he wouldn't make a sound. He _wouldn't_. Then a bolt of agony kicked him in the stomach, and a great cry echoed through the darkness, and from the raw feel of his throat he knew that the cry had been his, although it hadn't sounded like him at all but like someone.... someone tortured. "I'll show you!" A grip like iron around his ankles, pulling. The rough floor, scraping, burning. His wrists weeping as he toppled over on to his back, his weight forcing his hands into the raw burning floor. Warm moisture on his stomach and in his eyes..... "You _will_ understand." A door opening. A different textured floor - warmer, smoother. Another door. "Here." The movement stopped. He curled on the floor, willing the pain to subside, willing the world to stay will. Silence. He wouldn't speak. He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't speak. He _wouldn't._ Then a great blow landed on his face, and he heard his teeth cut into his lips, tasted the iron red of blood in his throat. "What?" His own voice sounded so weak, so unlike him. Silence. Then, faint as the rustle of a bird's wing, came a noise. Breathing. Whimpering. A groan.... A woman. Oh God! Not her. Not Scully. Not her. _Please_ not her. Do what you like to me, but _not_ Scully. He couldn't see. He couldn't move his hands. He couldn't.... The voice laughed, a low chilling sound, as he started to inch across the floor, slowly, desperately following the sound of the whimpering, expecting any minute to feel a blow on his back, but not caring. He _had_ to get close. He _had_ to find out. They were so close now. Whimpering entwining with his own breathing. Her breath on his face in short terrified bursts. He couldn't see her. He couldn't touch her.... "Scully...?" A cruel laugh behind him, but no movement. He leant forward, resting his cheek on her cheek, rubbing his face up and down against her face. She was alive. She was warm. She was breathing. But.... Her smell.... The smell of terror, but behind that, very faint now, an unknown perfume... Hair on the floor, around her face.... Long. Too long.... Not Scully. He rolled away, almost smiling with relief. _Not_ Scully. "Kill her." The voice had crept up close behind him, whispering in his ear like a devil sitting on his shoulder. "Kill her, and you can go free." He couldn't find any words, overcome with the horror of what he'd been thinking. She wasn't Scully. He'd even _smiled_ at that, as if she was of no consequence in herself, simply because she wasn't Scully. "Kill her, and I won't hurt you again." He tried to recoil, but the hands held him by the shoulders again, and he could feel the eyes boring into him through the blindfold. And then the voice laughed, and a finger traced the course of blood on his chin. "It's so easy, Fox. You don't even have to kill her yourself. Just tell me you want it done, and I'll do it." "No!" He spoke at last, his voice choked with tears of remorse. "Ah, but you don't have to decide yet." The voice was like silk as a hand entwined itself in his hair and pulled his head back, slowly, slowly, until his neck felt as if it was breaking and he could scarcely catch a breath. "Anytime you like, you can change your mind. After all, we have all the time in the world." ********** end of part 2 ******** Please send feedback to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ____ "King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains." from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White. From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Mon Dec 09 16:37:31 1996 Please don't forward to ATXC - I'll post it there myself ____ "The First Stone" part 3 of 4 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: NC-17 for violence SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder makes a painful discovery that puts him in very real danger of becoming the fourth. ____ After eleven, and still no word. Scully sat on the edge of the bed, rocking gently to and fro, her arms wrapped tightly round her middle to keep the tears in. Ring, damn you. Ring! Her eyes were fixed on the phone, muttering the command over and over like a mantra, hearing the silence of every second like a physical blow. Oh God, she thought, as her hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically, in time with her heart. How often....? Long nights on his couch, waiting, dreading. That terrible night when Skinner and Mr X fought outside, every second taking Mulder closer to death. Running to her mother to escape the fiery images of the burning in the desert, knowing that the sight and smell would be with her always, however much her mother held her. Waiting with Skinner in a hospital, eyes always on the door, watching for him as the minutes turned into hours and still he didn't come. But he'd come back. Every time, however hopeless it had looked, he'd come back. Battered and bruised, with scars emotional and physical, but he'd returned. So he'd return this time, right? She said it over and over, willing herself to believe it. But deep down the little voice of her fears was whimpering and afraid. You've been lucky before, it told her, though she tried not to listen to it. Now's the time for your luck to run out. "No!" She spoke aloud, jumping to her feet, reaching for her gun. Now was the time to _do_ something, not just sit and wait. "Oh Mulder." She shook her head sadly, knowing she might have left it too late already. She'd suspected he was in trouble, right from the start, as soon as she'd found out about the other agents' injuries. But how could she launch a search when very probably he'd just run off following a lead of his own? Like the boy who cried wolf, he'd run off so often that she never knew when he was really in trouble - never knew when to call in help to find him. But now was the time, she _felt_ it. "I'll find you, Mulder," she said out loud, wishing there was some way she could let him know. "Don't give up.... Please." ********** It was rich and warm and it was the smell of coffee. A warm brown smell - not the rusty sharp brown of the blood in his mouth. Strange how there were colours in the darkness now - how his eyes were so starved of colour that they painted sounds, smells, tastes.... even feelings. The rusty brown smell, always there now. The fiery red flashes of memory - of _her_. The darkest of greys of his own thoughts. The deep brown of the resonant footsteps that came near, then faded away.... near, and away.... near.... Then a hand raised his head, and there was a flash of the purest crystal as a drop of cold water trickled past his swollen lips, stabbing his parched throat into a pang of awakened desire. "More!" he mouthed, unable to stop himself, but the water was withdrawn and the hand lowered his head gently to the floor. Gently.... Who? The softest of touches on his stomach, as something wiped and cleaned - cool material washing away the rusty stickiness of blood. Stroking, stroking.... _Gentle_.... Scully? Bending over him, her fiery hair falling towards his, hiding the pure crystal blue of her eyes. Her face was tight with worry, but she was smiling through the tears that dripped onto his face. Hey, Scully! I'm okay. I'll be okay. Now you've found me, everything will be okay. I didn't give in. I didn't let him kill her. It'll be okay. "Sc..." He struggled to move towards her, tried to move his pounding head from the floor, but the movement shattered the darkness into a thousand pieces, and Scully's face dissolved into nothingness. "It _could_ be like this." The voice. Oh God! The voice. Still here. Still whispering, soft like a caress. "Rest. No pain. Light...." There was a scraping sound against the floor, and the smell of coffee moved closer, then passed and was gone, leaving his mouth aching painfully in longing. "You know what you have to do." The tumbled hair and the smell of fear and distant roses. "Think about it. Scully will be so worried. You know she doesn't need that, not now." Oh God! He _knew_. The voice, speaking his thoughts, playing on his deepest fears, tempting him. "Think of how she was smiling. Think of the light on her hair. _Think_" The wet cloth ran in small circles, gently on his stomach, and the voice was soft as down, seductive as the devil. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for her. Don't be so selfish. Think of _her_." He could feel the breath on his face as the voice reached under his skin, entwined its fingers in his mind. Scully, her face ravaged with grief as the tears flowed as if they'd never stop. "Why were you so stubborn?" she shouted to the empty air. "Why didn't you do what he said, then you could have come back to me?" But then her face changed into a vague misty female form, its features distorted with blood and its eyes devoid of life, and he knew he _couldn't._ "No!" It was the merest of croaks, though he'd shouted it with all his being. "I won't." "Oh, _she's_ of no importance - don't think of _her_. A faceless stranger. You haven't seen her, haven't spoken to her. What does _she_ matter. People die all the time - strangers. What does it matter." "It - matters." He spoke through gritted teeth, clinging to the image of her unknown dead face, letting the picture drown out the sinuous soft words of temptation. Silence. A long, long silence. "Very well." The faintest of whispers, hissing from the silence. A crumpling of fabric as someone stood up. Soft pad pad of footsteps across the floor, fading into nothingness. Silence.... Alone in the dark. Silence. Don't leave me.... Not alone. Panic fluttered like wings in his chest. He hated the voice. He _needed_ the voice - needed to know he was alive - needed to know he was sane - needed to know _someone_ knew he existed. Come back...! Pad pad of footsteps, an eternity of seconds later. A radiating warmth, close to him. "You're still bleeding." The voice was honey, soothing like a mother to her child. "There's too much blood...." Then a slash of agony opened up in the middle of his mind and he reeled in confusion, struggling to make sense of the tongues of fire that radiated from his stomach, the bitter smell of charred flesh that choked the back of his throat. "That's better." There was a clash of metal against the floor, distant through the thick mist of pain, and the voice sounded a million miles away, slurred and pulsing, fading into nothingness. "Because you mustn't die. Not before...." ********** I can do it, Scully. I can be strong. I won't give in. I won't let her die. She smiled in the darkness, her hand touching his brow. "I know you won't, Mulder. I'm proud of you." I'm sorry, Scully. If I never come back, I'm sorry.... "Don't talk like that, Mulder. You'll get through this. What can he do?" Lie still. Don't move a muscle. The slightest movement and the pain would return and the memory - the vision - would shatter and his mind would be an echoing void, without her voice. I can do it, Scully. You're right. What can he do? What has he done? A cut, cauterised now, not even bleeding. A few bruises. Nothing. I've had worse. I've survived worse. I can get through this. "That's my Mulder." The tone of her voice brought tears to his eyes. "Always strong. I _know_ you won't give in. I have faith in you." Then the door was thrown open and he started at the sudden noise, breaking the spell. Her voice faded away like a ghost and he was left alone, bereft, even though he knew she was only his own conscience, trying to persuade him by using her voice. Footsteps. The sound of something being plugged in. Then.... silence. He tensed every muscle, knowing now that the blow could come from any direction, at a time completely unexpected. Counting slowly in his head - one.... two.... three.... four.... Nothing. Twenty-six.... twenty-seven..... His muscles ached from holding then tense and the wound on his stomach screamed at him to let it relax. But he couldn't. It would come.... Forty-five.... forty-six.... Then a whirling screech that started low and rose until it filled the whole world. Oh my God! Scully! Help me! Images of blood and the coming agony. A drill, gouging through flesh, shattering bone. Slow, oh so slow. Hearing it approach, bracing for the first gentle touch, then the agony as inch by inch it would bury itself in the flesh, throwing up a fountain of blood. Scully! He groped in his mind, wildly searching, trying to find her comforting presence, but she was gone. He was alone. He could feel its passage close to his cheek - feel the cold air as it rushed past. The panic in his head, the screaming in his ears, but still, through all that, a still small voice of menace, whispering close. "Where?" No! Scully! Help me! I need your help! Then he felt the rain on his face - hard fragments falling from above, dust choking him. Rain falling as the world split apart in thunder - in the scream of the drill as it bit into.... The pulsing after-image was loud in the sudden silence. Silence. No drill. No screams. No.... Slow dust on his face, falling, falling.... "That's better." The sound of hands being rubbed together in the satisfaction of a job well done. "Wh....?" He shouldn't ask. He couldn't ask. He _had_ to ask. "What...?" "Stand up!" The voice hissed, angry. "Stand up!" Strong arms pulled at him, wrenching at his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. He _tried_ but his feet were tied, his hands were tied, he had no leverage. An arm under his shoulders, pulling, and then, suddenly, somehow, he was upright, the wall cold against his shoulders, his hands crushed painfully behind his back. His feet, numb with lack of circulation, could scarcely hold his weight, but he knew that to fall would bring even worse pain. Somehow, he stood. Then an arm wrapped itself around his neck and pulled his head and shoulders forward, and another hand snaked behind for his hands and pulled them up, up, up.... "No!" It was an involuntary cry of pain, forced from his throat by the screaming pain in his shoulders and arms as they were pulled higher behind him. No! No further! I can't. No further! It hurts. God, it hurts! A clash of metal on metal and his arms lowered a fraction, just a fraction, as the handcuffs dug into his wrists and his weight settled. "See?" The voice was smug, triumphant. "A hook. _So_ effective. So..." A blow crashed onto the side of his face, driving his body to one side, jerking his shoulders and arms into a white- hot fire of pain that drove tears from his eyes. "So....?" The voice was silky soft again. Another blow, not a fist this time, up into his ribs, forcing the breath from his lungs until he burned with the aching need to wrap his arms around his stomach and cradle the pain. "Have you changed your mind?" The other side of the face, this time, making the warm wetness trickle down his neck, making his whole spirit ache with the pain in his shoulders. "Have - you?" Hissing, hissing.... A serpent in the garden, tempting. A knee, hard in his groin, and he pulled instinctively to curl over the throbbing agony, only to pull back even faster as his shoulders erupted in an explosion of pain. "Have - you?" He licked his lips, struggling to muster a sound - any sound. "Kill...." It was the smallest of croaks, forced out through ragged gasps of pain. The blows stopped. Strong arms held him round the body and he was lifted slightly, taking the worst of the pressure from his shoulders. "Her?" Peace. Resting, free from pain. Light. Scully's smile.... "Kill her?" The serpent's apple, sweet and tempting. Death. A woman dead. A woman - maybe a girl. Blood on his hands.... "Kill..... _me_....." Breath on his ear, whispering, incredulous. "You'd _die_ for a stranger?" "Yes...." The voice laughed then - a harsh and bitter laugh that went on and on until he wanted to scream with the horror of it. "You really believe that?" The words, fractured through the laughter. "You know so little about yourself." Blood on his hands. A woman dead. _Think_. Think of this. Don't listen to him. This is the only way out. "Kill me." It sounded so much like a whimper, though it had sounded so firm in his head. "Kill me. Not _her_." "But would you _live_ for a stranger?" The arms let go without a warning, and his bound feet scrambled for balance, putting the full weight of his body into his shoulders for a second - just a second. But it was enough to wrench a scream from his throat. It was a scream that ended in a choking agony as a great blow landed across his stomach, making his head rush with the sudden dizziness of breathlessness and the white fire of his shoulders and the wound on his stomach. "Your death is not an option." A hard wooden bat across his back, driving him forward, jerking his shoulders.... "I'd kill a dog to end its suffering, but you...." His face again, and a fresh iron taste in his throat, choking him.... "Would you _live_ for her - live like this?" A fist in his stomach again and again, nearly knocking him from his feet, pulling.... "Say it." He was a child again, powerless against a stern adult, remorselessly logical, impossible to resist. Leave me alone! I didn't mean to be naughty. Please smile at me again. "Say it!" A hand twisting in his hair, holding his face steady for the fist to land.... "Say it. Just one word. Say yes." Go away! Leave me alone! I don't want to listen to you. I _won't_. Hiding inside himself, searching his memory for sounds to drown out the voice. "I had the strength of your beliefs." Scully's voice, distant as through the deepest ocean, struggling through the fire of pain that was no longer in his arms, his shoulders, his stomach but was the whole world. "Say...." No! I won't listen to you! Scully! Talk louder. I need your voice. It's so quiet. I need to hear you. I need the strength of _your_ beliefs. I _can't_ listen to him. "You're the only one I trust." Her voice was quieter now, distorted by distance, barely there at all. I need your trust, Scully. You trust me to get through this. You trust me to be strong. You trust me.... "Say it." Blows on his shoulders, his face, his ribs, his legs. It _hurts_, Scully. "Say it." But it's so.... it's so hard, Scully. I don't think I trust _myself_ any more.... A sudden wrench on his legs, pulling them out from underneath him, throwing his whole weight onto his arms. A scream echoed through the room, unearthly, inhuman, not _him_. "Scully! I _can't_!" ********** End of part 3 ******** Please send feedback to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ___ "King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains." from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White. From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Mon Dec 09 16:37:38 1996 Please don't forward to ATXC - I'll post it there myself ____ "The First Stone" part 4 of 4 by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) CLASSIFICATION: XA RATING: NC-17 for violence SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder makes a painful discovery that puts him in very real danger of becoming the fourth. ____ The night had gone, and most of the day, and still she saw the blood. It had been dawn - red in the dawn. A pool of blood at the end of the alley where the last murder victim had been found. Blood. _Mulder's_ blood. "We don't know that, not for certain." Agent Jacobs, eyes haunted with the deaths he'd seen, had tried to reassure her, though his own face showed he'd long since forgotten how to feel optimism. "It might not be." She'd tried to smile, acknowledging his sympathy, but had been closer to tears. "Oh, it's his all right. I know it. He'd come to the crime scene. He said he wouldn't, but I know him. He wouldn't have been able to keep away." "But none of the others...." "Oh God, sir. I just don't know." Her voice was been taut with strain, snapping at the easiest target even as she knew how unfair she was being. "If they'd been taken for a night, who would have known? They were all living alone. They could have been held for hours before.... before...." And then Agent Jacobs had looked away, as if he had only just realised what she had feared with a quaking terror right from the start. At last he'd managed to speak, stammering and awkward. "Surely he won't.... You don't think...." "I don't know!" She'd passed her hand over her eyes, dashing away the tears she couldn't let anyone see. "I don't.... I hope.... He will be okay. He _will_!" She'd almost shouted the last words, as if his survival depended only on the vehemence of her hope. But that was hours ago now, and there had been no leads. A girl had been reported missing somewhere else in town, but that was all. No clues about either disappearance. No reports of suspicious activity in the area. Nothing. She leant against the wall in the office, hearing the buzz of activity that surrounded her as the local agents went about their business. Phones ringing, people talking.... Nothing.... "Agent Scully!" She was jerked into an instant alertness by Agent Jacobs' voice. He was out of breath, even hopeful. "A woman's just called in. She heard our appeal, and she thinks she knows...." He paused and appeared to consciously collect himself, as if afraid he'd been saying too much, been too optimistic. "She says," he continued, more quietly, "that she's seen activity in an empty house near her. She thought she heard a scream once, but thought...." She didn't wait for him to finish. "Where is it?" She checked her gun, reaching for her coat. "I can send out someone else to check it out," Jacobs cut in, touching her shoulder with concern. "You've not slept all night." "Of course I'm going," she snapped, then took a deep breath, collecting herself. "I'm sorry. But I _have_ to go. If it's him, and he's like the others...." She didn't finish the thought, but the prospect filled her with dread. If she was right, all the others who'd been taken had killed themselves within the day. She would _not_ let that happen to Mulder. She wanted to be there for him - the first person to see him, the first person to speak to him, the first person to hold him and soothe him and comfort him until he had recovered from.... from whatever it was that had been done to him. Jacobs nodded, accepting her decision, but then he reached for her arm, his eyes clouded with sympathy. "It might not..." he said, unable to look her in the eye. "I mean, it _might_ be, but don't.... don't expect too much." "I won't," she assured him, but she couldn't look at him either. She _was_ expecting too much, she knew that. She'd already convinced herself that this was the one, simply because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate. But if it wasn't.... What would she do then? ********** It was sharp and it was sweet. It was everything in his world and it was nothing. It was repulsive and it was beautiful. It was blood - his own blood. He snaked out a tongue again, picking up another bead of the warm liquid, revelling in the feel of it. Liquid in his parched mouth. A movement that was of his own volition, not forced on him by the voice. The sharp tang that was the only proof he had that he was still alive, the only sensation that wasn't pain. More. I want more.... He reached out again, licking the floor, finding only the earthy taste of bare stone. Where's it gone? I want more. I _need_ it.... He moved his head, ignoring the pain that blossomed at every movement, reaching out blindly for the life- affirming liquid. Tears were pricking his eyes. It mattered. Somehow, it mattered immensely. It was more important than why he was here, more important than who he was, more important than anything. Where is it? There must be more. Not far. Wildly, he scrabbled with his hands, trying again to push himself up with his useless arms, knowing it was in vain. The voice had unlocked his handcuffs, letting him plummet face-first to the floor, but his arms had refused to move, refused to break his fall. I need it. I.... I don't know why, not now. But I _need_ this. It's more important than anything. But there was something else. A little voice from somewhere far beyond the pain, whispering that there was something else. Something he _mustn't_ say. Something the voice _wanted_ him to say. The reason he was here. The reason there was nothing left in the world but pain. A trickle of liquid ran down his face and he caught it greedily, an oasis of liquid in the desert. Tears? Blood? Sweat....? Sweat? It was _hot_, he realised that now, frowning with concentration as he struggled to find a sensation - any sensation - through the pain. Heat in his face, heat on his hands, heat everywhere. Why was it so hot? He forced his sluggish mind to drag itself through the fog. Why was it so hot? Somehow he sensed that he _needed_ to ask - that the moment he stopped asking questions was the moment he stopped living. Think. Listen. Feel. _Focus_. The heat, everywhere. A crackling sound. The choking winter smell of smoke.... "No!" He cried aloud, drawing a lung-full of smoke and wracking his bruised body with an agony of coughing. No! Scully! Help me! Not _this_! He clawed at the floor with his hands, stabs of pain lancing through his fingers, struggling to pull himself away, but his arms wouldn't support him and the heat was all round him and inside him. Where are you? Talk to me. I _can't_. Talk to me. Ask me. I'll say yes. _Anything_.... Crackling of flames. The sound of whimpering, low and guttural. But no footsteps. No voice.... Talk to me! I can't.... Not alone. Not all for nothing. Ask me. Burning, burning.... Words, distorted by terror, dancing across the charred pages of memory. Burning burning.... Oh Lord Thou pluckest me out.... The fire.... the fire and the rose... Fire... Ixion on his wheel of fire.... bound on a wheel of fire, tears like molten lead.... Ask me. Ask me to say it. Anything.... Anything not to feel the flames eat my flesh. Anything not to hear my skin crackle and burn. Anything.... "Shh, it'll be okay, Mulder." Scully, soothing, stroking his hair. "Don't...." "No!" He forced away the image. Not _her._ She couldn't help now. She mustn't see. Not her and the light. Only.... "Say it!" A shuddering sigh of relief. It had come. It could stop it. Everything would be all right. "Say it!" The voice was barely there through the crackling, and he felt the panic fluttering in his throat as he felt it withdraw and leave him. "Say.... say what?" It was the tiniest of whimpers. "Say what?" Help me! I can't remember. Only the flames. Nothing else. Just the flames - the bright light. Tell me, Dad. Talk to me. What do you want me to say? How can I make it better? Tell me.... Please. "Say yes." Water sheeted down his face as the flames moved closer, making his skin sting and burn. "Yes!" A cracked whisper, distorted by smoke. What is it? Why? A word, no meaning but escape. "Yes...." "Louder." The relentless voice with the tongue of flame. "YES!" And then everything fell away and he was left in a darkness that was without sound, and alone. ********** "After three." The gun was slippery in Scully's hand as she mouthed to the other agents, tensed and waiting outside the house. He's in here. He's in here. He's in here.... You _have_ to believe that. The simple faith of a child, wrapped in her father's stories. Believe it strong enough and it will be true.... "One...." Take a deep breath, steady the gun.... Concentrate. "Two...." Can you hear me, Mulder? I'm here. I'm coming "Three...." There was a crash as the door burst open, and feet pounded across the room, guns flashing in the torchlight. "Mulder!" She called aloud, knowing that surprise wasn't an issue now. "Mulder! Where are you?" She ran through the downstairs rooms, searching, searching. They were empty, hollow caverns, with only the barest ruins of furniture, grey and bereft. No hiding places, she could see that. No hiding places at all. But still she looked - she had to look. Peering into corners that she knew were empty, hoping.... "Freeze! FBI!" She whirled round, blood pounding in her head, at the sudden cry from upstairs. "I said, freeze!" Dust flew up in clouds as she pounded through the empty room, following the voices up the stairs. Oh God, Mulder, I'm sorry. I should have been the first to find you - not some stranger. Someone who can hold you and comfort you and.... and _understand_. I'm sorry. But I'm coming. I'm here now. I'll.... It was a frozen tableau. Two agents, pointing their guns at the bed, and there, white-faced with horror, a boy and a girl, wrapped in the dirty sheets and each other's arms. "What are _you_ doing here?" She stormed forward, bitter disappointment needing an outlet, although she knew full well that it wouldn't make it better - that _nothing_ could make it better. "I.... We...." The girl spoke first, pulling the sheet closer around her body. "We wanted.... Our parents won't let us, and we haven't got a car, and it's too cold outside. We thought.... No-one lives here. We didn't think we were doing any harm." Suddenly knowing that nothing could keep the tears from her eyes, Scully turned and left without a word, running down the stairs as if all the demons of hell were after her. "Oh Mulder!" she cried silently, wrenching open the car door. Her nail broke on the handle but it didn't matter - nothing mattered. "I'm sorry. I thought.... I was so _sure_ it was you." She leant forward, resting her head on the steering wheel. She could almost see him - alone and frightened, crying out for her, too quiet for her to hear. What clues had there been that _his_ quick mind would have noticed, had the situation been reversed? Always so good at getting into the mind of a criminal, would he have done it any differently? Would he have _listened_, rather than running after a shadow, so convinced that it was the truth just because it was the first lead to present itself? "I'm sorry, Mulder." Had she _ever_ found him - ever been of any real use? She'd have lost him in Alaska if it wasn't for Skinner. She'd left him for dead in New Mexico, and only Albert Hosteen had realised the truth. Someone - some unknown person - had saved him on that train. And all the others - all the other times he'd gone.... What had she done then but just wait until he decided to return? "Oh God, Mulder. What can I do? Where are you?" ********** The gun was cool beneath his finger tips. Nearly there. Just a fraction more, and he'd have it, could wrap his fingers round it, and slowly, painfully force his arm to lift it, and then.... Agent Feldman, eyes glassy and staring. "You'll begin to understand," he'd said, face ravaged by guilt. "I hope, for your sake, you won't understand it all." "But I do understand!" He spoke the words aloud, knowing he was too weak for the words not to get blown away by the winter night. "I do understand it all." "You were so arrogant, just like the others." The voice had been without accusation as a hand had reached out and given him water, coaxing his body away from the world of pain. "You didn't want to understand." He'd hardly listened, then. It had been soon - too soon. The fire had still crackled in his memory, and his skin had still remembered it's heat. "I heard you, sitting there with your partner, talking about me. You didn't want to understand. You had nothing but contempt for someone who could take the life of a stranger." The life of a stranger.... How could he have been so touched by the fire that he hadn't remembered, even at that, the terrible thing that had given him no peace ever since? "Just like them. They were even worse. That first one, standing over the body, face full of revulsion. I heard him. 'The death penalty's too good for people like that' - that's what he said. But he.... He only lasted two hours, and he was begging for her to die." He'd pulled away then, memory crashing over him like a physical blow. Oh God! What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? "You all think you're so superior, you cops. So quick to judge and to hate. Always so sure that you could never for one second be tempted to do what I do." Her hair. Her tumbled hair, and her faded perfume. Her scream. He hadn't heard her scream. Had she screamed? How had she died? "How can you live with yourself now, and still presume to judge? _You've_ killed now. For purely selfish reasons, you killed someone. _You're_ a murderer now." Blood. Was that blood on his hands, slippery and warm? A welling tide of blood, pulsing from the floor, washing all over him until he choked in its thick liquid, unable to breathe. But the gun could _end_ that.... "Can you live with yourself?" The voice had hissed in his ear much later, when the night air was cold on his face and the grass wet beneath his cheek. "It's here, if you want it - if you decide you can't judge others now you've been found wanting yourself." "No!" he'd whimpered then, hearing again the imagined scream that replayed itself endlessly in his memory - now shrill, now low - now long, now abrupt. How had she screamed? How had she died? He couldn't bear to think of it, but he _needed_ to see it. A black and white crime scene photograph, immortalising his sin, showing him her face for the first time. Flash flash of camera, maybe even now, somewhere else in the city. He still heard the dull thud as her body was thrown from the car, somewhere else, before they'd driven to this place. Death in a dark alley, far away from here, when she should be entwined with him, her blood on his hands as it was surely in his soul. What would it feel like, a bullet through the brain? Could it hurt more than.... than _this_? The last words he'd heard, a long eternity of minutes ago, as fingers had untied his blindfold, leaving him free - as if he could ever be free. "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone...." He who is without sin.... He who is without sin.... Thou shalt not suffer a sinner to live.... No! That's not quite right. That's not it. Help me, Scully. Help me, Sc.... No! Not her! How can I even utter her name? So principled, so strong. "You can be strong, Mulder" - I heard her say it, back then. She trusted me, and I let her down. I was weak. How can I..... God! I can't! I can't _look_ at her again. The gun. Just one little movement of the finger, and then.... Tempting, _so_ tempting.... Just a little movement - like this.... Finger on the trigger, easing, easing..... "No!" There was a crash of metal as he cast the gun away with all the force that his useless arms could muster. "I _can't_!" Thoughts, scuttering across his mind, panicky and rapid. I can't! To pull the trigger is to end the pain, and to end the pain is to be weak. End the pain - that's what I did earlier. The fire.... End the fire. Selfish, selfish. The coward's way out. I was weak. Couldn't face the pain - _couldn't_. Mustn't..... Mustn't be weak again. Face the pain. _Suffer_ the pain. Can't run away. Penance.... Footsteps, echoing in a confined space. A woman, screaming, "Oh my God! Call an ambulance!" He wrenched his eyes open, forcing himself to look into the night. Grass beneath him. A building above him, the wall close to his face. Windows, empty and faceless. A hotel - God! It was the hotel he'd been staying in with.... with _her_. Panic pounded in his chest. She.... _She_.... Light on her hair, face clouded with worry, still believing he was worth worrying about, not knowing the truth. She was close. She was _here_. She was close.... He rolled over, shoulders screaming with pain, and curled into a tight ball, hiding from the light and the voices. He couldn't look at her, not yet. ********** end of "The First Stone" AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was inspired by an article I read long ago, and, sadly, have mostly forgotten. All I remember is that it described an experiment in which psychologists gave their test subjects a button and led them to believe that a stranger in the next room would receive a painful electric shock if they pressed it. I can't remember what incentive or threat the people were given (if any), but I do remember that many of them showed few qualms about pressing the button. If anyone knows more about this, I'd be very grateful if they could tell me. ******** Please send feedback to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk ___ "King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains." from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White.