This chapter is rated PG-13 =========== Chapter One =========== Since my introduction into this world thirty-seven years ago, I've had some pretty odd ... unusual ... okay, let's not mince words -- fucking bizarre -- experiences. When I was twelve, my sister was abducted by aliens. Since then, a domino effect of strange circumstances has followed. One could argue that they found me because I pursued them, and to a certain extent, that's probably true. But half the time, I'm as surprised as the next person by the turns events take. I'm constantly walking on a rug I know is going to be pulled from under me, and I don't know when it's going to happen and I don't know who's going to do it. But at least I know it's coming. As a result, I've developed a certain aptitude for expecting the unexpected, and for the most part, I think I have a pretty good attitude about it all. I'm not easily thrown, and experience has taught me to keep my cool even when events have spiraled out of my control -- which happens with depressing regularity. Being flustered only gives my opponents the upper hand. But until that night they'd never pulled a David Copperfield on me before. I suppose I should have been used to people disappearing, but I wasn't. Don't know if I could ever get used to that. I briefly considered the possibility that I was dreaming -- that I was actually still in the car with Scully, we were driving along, and I'd just closed my eyes for a little nap. The problem of course, was that I'd been driving the damned car, so if I =had= fallen asleep ... Clearly, that wasn't the answer. I may not know what the hell just happened, but I was pretty sure I hadn't killed us. I looked around, and I as far as I could tell, I was exactly where I was before the ship ... before everyone vanished. The chilly desert night started to cut through my body heat and the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and it occurred to me that if it got any colder I could die of exposure. Maybe that was their plan all along. But who the hell were "they"? Those soldiers? More accurately, the people they worked for? Could it be that the long arms of the Consortium had finally gathered me into their clutches by the most obvious of ploys, the possibility of an informant within Area 51? Paranoia is normally a good friend of mine. But as tempting and easy as it was to allocate culpability to that cigarette-smoking bastard and his cronies, I didn't think it was the answer. So what the fuck =had= happened? Okay. Deep breath. I told myself to take it from the beginning. There had been a craft. A craft with pulsating lights that hovered. I was willing to bet Knicks season tickets that it was alien -- or built with alien technology, which amounted to the same thing. It had done something. I felt it do something when it passed over us. But where was everyone else? Where was =Scully=, dammit? It really was getting colder, and I had to cross my arms to keep warm. That made it better, but not much. I was by the same stretch of highway we were on the last time I saw Scully -- only a minute ago -- with miles of desert on either side. Well, on this side of the road, at least. I could only guess about the other side, given the darkness. And it was dark. Dark like you don't remember dark being, living in the city with lights on every street corner. What I wouldn't have given to see some source of manmade light -- a garish neon glow from Vegas would have been a welcome sight. But there was nothing. Nothing except the stars ... and they were breathtaking. They gave off just enough luminescence to assure me that I couldn't see for shit more than ten feet in front of me. A pity I wasn't in a frame of mind that would have allowed me to enjoy the view instead of having to wonder if I was going to die out there. I didn't want to die, for a whole bunch of reasons. Right at the top of that list was the fact that I hadn't even kissed Scully yet. Not for real. Her 1939 doppelganger didn't count -- that had been insurance, in case I never got to see the real Scully again. It was better than never having kissed her at all -- any manifestation of her. But ever since, I'd been looking for just the right moment to make my move on the real Scully. I hadn't found the perfect opportunity yet. The scary part was that there wasn't a convenient boat to jump off of if she decked me for real. That didn't keep me from looking for =the= moment. I hadn't given up hope that it would arrive. Of course, that train of thought presupposed that I'd see her again, ever. That stopped me short. I felt a moment of sheer, unadulterated panic before I started rationalizing. Whatever had happened, it was temporary, I told myself firmly. It had to be. The idea that I wouldn't see Scully again, wouldn't smell her subtle perfume, wouldn't be able to hold her hand, wouldn't ever again hear her shoot another one of my theories down in flames, was inconceivable. But the unease spread to my stomach, and then I was cold =and= nauseated. Wait a minute. Cell phone. Duh, I had a cell phone. A tide of relief rushed over me as I realized that I did have a link to civilization, albeit a tenuous one. Was it too much to ask for a phone to work in the middle of nowhere? After all, the site of an intricate government conspiracy to hide the existence of extraterrestrial life was right around the corner. Surely they would have cell phone towers. Apparently, it was too much to ask. I got nothing but dead air. "Fuck!" The expletive was less than satisfying; it sounded tinny and weak in the vast open expanse of the desert. I needed to be in a canyon. That would provide a ringing echo that'd be more impressive and gratifying. As it was, the air was barely disturbed two inches from my face. I realized that I was constantly turning around in circles, as if Scully and everyone else had been hiding from me, waiting to pop out from behind a cactus. Scully involved in an elaborate hoax with MIBs from Area 51 to play a joke on me. Right. It suddenly struck me that I felt completely alone. It was true that I had good reason to feel that way. But it wasn't just my current physical dilemma ... it was the kind of loneliness that begins as a small cut in the vicinity of your heart, then rips wider and wider until it's a big gaping wound that people can see through. And it doesn't matter how many people are around. At times, =more= people only makes it worse. You can be completely surrounded by living, breathing bodies and feel more alone than if you were by yourself. Trust me on this one. I =know=. That sensation seemed to seep into my arteries, congealing them with fear and the visceral, unquestionable certainty that I didn't belong there. The thing was, it was not an unfamiliar feeling. I've been acquainted with such feelings since I was young ... but loneliness is something you can learn to live with. I'm not sure when I made the transition from ceasing to notice it was there to not feeling it at all, but now that it was making its unwanted presence known once again, I realized I hadn't felt that lonely for a very long time. Those morose realizations were not helping me get warm. More than ever, I needed to move about, not only to get my blood flowing, but to distract myself from another kind of chill waiting to bring me to my knees. My first instinct was to start running -- in any direction, as long as I was going somewhere, as long as I could feel that I was actually making an effort. I needed to find Scully. I knew that if I could just see her face, hear her voice, that irrational panic lodged in my throat would subside. The problem was, I was reluctant to move from the general vicinity. What if whatever happened, happened again to undo itself, and I missed it? It didn't look like that was very likely, but I kept waiting and hoping. After a few minutes, trying not to feel too idiotic, I started to jog in a small circle because there's nothing more annoying than jogging in place. This went on for a while as I tried to keep my mind blank. I didn't want to think about the fact that this was a temporary expedient to keep warm, that eventually the sun was going to come up and it was going to be not just uncomfortably hot, but dangerously hot. I most especially didn't want to think about Scully and what might have happened to her -- what might =be= happening to her -- at that very moment. And, of course, I didn't want to think about the fact that I was literally running in circles, out there in the middle of the desert in the dead of night, and that such behavior really wasn't getting me anywhere. Eventually, though, I had to face up to the facts, and one of those facts seemed to be that this strange event was not going to conveniently reverse itself while I waited. Reluctantly, cautiously, I started venturing up the highway a little, then back. I didn't feel quite as cold anymore, but I knew that the relief was temporary. I must have made that small trek a hundred times before I finally saw lights coming toward me in the distance. They were headlights, and as they got closer, their cylindrical rays could have been the lights of heaven, I was so relieved to see them. I waved my arms -- not that anyone could have missed a lone person jogging on an empty desert highway. The car was moving so fast I thought for a moment it wasn't going to stop, that it was actually going to speed right by me. After only a brief hesitation, I headed toward the center of the road. It could be my only chance to get back to civilization tonight, and I wasn't going to let it pass me by. Feeling in my back pocket for my badge, I pulled it out and held it in front of me. I knew there was no way the occupants of the car could tell what it was -- I might just as well have been holding a checkbook -- but the gesture =looked= official. Too late, it occurred to me that the occupants might not be the kind of people I wanted to run into alone in the night, and I suddenly realized that I didn't feel the familiar weight of my gun on me. Crap. Not that I had much choice, but -- crap. My SIG was never around when I really needed it. I didn't normally wear my holster with jeans and a t-shirt, so it was still in the car. The car that no longer existed. The approaching vehicle stopped a few feet in front of me, three men immediately jumping out. Two were soldiers, their weapons pointed in my direction. I sighed. Not this again. I didn't know if these were the same guys -- I hadn't too closely last time, because I hadn't been thrilled then, either. The third man, dressed in civilian clothing, was almost certainly not the same civilian from before. This one was not quite as smarmy- looking, and he was taller and thinner. "Where are your friends?" Before the last word even left my mouth, the soldiers had me pinned up against the side of their car, and I was being frisked. "What's the matter guys, don't you get any at home?" One of the soldiers grabbed my badge and handed it over to Civilian Guy, who perused it with a flashlight. "What are you doing out here, Agent ... Mulder?" "Communing with the cacti." His flashlight was shining in my face, so I couldn't tell whether he appreciated my wit or if he was about to order the soldiers to kick my ass. Before I knew what was happening, I'd been unceremoniously shoved into the back seat of their car. I tried the handle on my side, but of course, it didn't work. "What the hell's going on?" I asked, knowing perfectly well it was probably a futile effort. "Where's my partner?" No one even glanced my way. The soldier behind the wheel started the car and we were moving, the dark outside my window flying by. Suddenly, it just felt too fucking familiar. How many times had I been somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, then got caught and had my memories tampered with? The answer: once was too many. "We going to Vegas?" From the front passenger seat, Civilian Guy deigned to turn his head. "Agent Mulder, you are trespassing on a U.S. Government testing ground." "I thought the highway =bordered= the testing ground," I automatically corrected. Another beat of silence, and I was getting aggravated. I was cold, I was in a car with people who might or might not screw around with my brain, and I didn't know where Scully was. "Do I =look= like I'm equipped to break into a high-security facility?" "I don't know what your business is out here, Agent Mulder, but I assure you that you won't find what you're looking for." I barely stopped myself from asking what he was hiding. Honestly, at that point I didn't give a shit -- but I couldn't help those gut reactions. What was important was that I got out of the situation intact, so that I could get to the bottom of the whole comedy of errors and find Scully. She was probably worried about me, wherever she was. And pissed. Well, I was worried and pissed, too. If only we could have been those things together, I might not have been feeling so reckless. "Have you seen my partner? She's got ... red hair, little legs?" I hated the desperate edge to my voice, but I had to ask. If they knew what had happened -- which, in my mind, seemed likely -- then I had to try and get it out of them. Unfortunately, I could also feel myself losing it -- the fine thread of my control almost visibly fraying before my eyes. The light ... a craft ... testing grounds ... Scully missing ... shit. "What kind of tests are you conducting out here?" My voice was louder than before, and even more strident, but I couldn't control myself. So much for keeping my cool. "What have you done to my partner?" They'd taken her again. Takenheragaintakenhertakenher ... It might have been pitch-black outside and not much brighter in the vehicle, but all I could see was a haze of red. I lunged forward, grabbing Civilian Guy's neck in both hands and beginning to squeeze. The buzzing in my ears made it hard to hear anything else, but I know there was shouting and the sound of panicked voices. Someone had his hands on my shoulders, trying to pull me away. Then something hit my temple, hard, and the red was replaced by the blue-black hue of unconsciousness. *** Maybe I wanted to get knocked out, so that I'd be able to wake up and discover it was all a dream. A nightmare brought on by eating two jelly donuts before bed. It's been known to happen. I opened my eyes, and for a moment, I could almost believe it was true. It was bright and sunny, nothing like the dark desert highway in my dream, and I felt warm, not cold. Those effects were ruined by the hardness of the ground I was lying on, the pounding ache in my head, and the rather sharp boot poking me in the ribs. Groaning, I tried to shove it away, but even that slight movement compounded my headache to agonizing proportions. "Christ!" Cursing might not have made the pain go away, but it was satisfying in other ways. "So you're alive," said the owner of the boot -- a male voice. I squinted at him, but the sun was blazing right behind his head, casting his face in shadow. I didn't answer, sitting up gingerly, rubbing everywhere that hurt. It was too many places at once, so after a few seconds I gave up and just pressed my palms to my eyes. "Thought I was going to have to call the police. Come to work, find a dead man on the ground." If my head hadn't been hurting so much, I might have told him that I empathized completely. Twenty minutes later my head still hurt, but at least I was inside, out of the sun and the heat. It turned out that the assholes who'd picked me up had dropped me thirty feet from a gas station. I was guessing that they'd left me there intending that I be found alive; it would have been easy for them to make me just disappear. The way they had apparently made Scully disappear. God. Scully. I'd tried my cell phone again, thinking that perhaps last night the network had been down for some reason. No such luck. Not even a dial tone. "You gonna buy somethin'?" I looked over at the man who had found me outside, now standing behind the cash register with his arms crossed. He was forty- ish, with black hair, a weather-beaten face, and a stony expression. Clerk or proprietor? We hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words since he'd grudgingly pulled me to my feet and helped me inside. Apparently that was the extent of his hospitality. "Well?" "Uh, yeah, sure," I replied, moving over towards the counter. Anything to appease the natives. My eyes fell on a small rack of junk food next to the register, and almost by reflex I grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds. The man continued to watch me, his face expressionless, as I slid some money across the counter and waited while he made change. "Anything else?" he grunted. "Uh ... telephone?" "There's a pay phone outside," he replied. "Around the corner, by the restrooms." Then he turned away, ending the conversation. A moment later I was outside again. The sun was now well above the horizon, the heat and light reminding me once again of my headache. I glanced around, squinting against the light and the pain, and finally spotted the phone. For a minute as I stood there, I actually couldn't remember Scully's cell phone number. I've had her on my speed dials for so long that the occasions when I've actually had to dial it manually have been few and far between. But at last I dredged it out of my memory, used the change I got when I bought the seeds and punched in the numbers. And got a recording. "The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again. If you believe you have reached this recording in error, please remain on the line and an operator will help you." I worked the flashhook until I got a dial tone, then tried again. "The number you have dialed is not in service --" I hung up carefully, because the alternative was to beat the receiver against the side of the phone until one or the other of them shattered. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Next, I called our cell phone carrier (toll-free numbers are the best kind), explaining that I had to reach Scully, that it was an emergency, that it was a matter of life or death. It wasn't exactly a lie -- if the MIBs didn't come back to kill me, the man who ran the gas station seemed quite capable of homicide. Five minutes and a whole lot of shouting later, I hung up the phone. The jangling noise it made had the finality of a death knell. Okay. So Scully's cell phone was out of service. No, not just out of service -- according to Robert Street Atyourservice, there was no subscriber assigned to that number, and there was no number assigned to anyone named Dana Scully. Which was impossible. I remembered when she got that account -- it was right after her abduction. Her previous account had been terminated while she was missing, and getting her a new one had been one of the trivial chores I'd done, as I tried to convince myself that I was helping her rather than hurting her, by making her return to work easier. Was it possible I'd remembered the number wrong? It =had= been a long time, after all. I pulled out my wallet and dug through it until I found the copy of her business card that I always carried. The number was correct. Dammit. I stuffed my wallet back in my pocket. Automatically, I started to rip open the bag of sunflower seeds while I continued to consider the matter. So someone had taken Scully. That much was clear, and I even had a pretty good idea of who. What I didn't know was why, and while I thought it likely she'd been taken to the nearby military base, I didn't actually know it. Hell, I didn't actually know shit. I found myself frowning, and realized that my eyes were focused on the package of seeds. The damned thing didn't seem to want to open, and I was about to throw it aside in disgust when I realized what it was I was looking at. //For peak freshness, use before April 12, 1993.// 1993? I shook my head, trying to make my eyes focus. I blinked rapidly and looked again, but the date was still there. It had to be a misprint. I had no idea what the shelf-life was for sunflower seeds, but it was probably supposed to say 1998 -- and why did it not surprise me that a grubby little place like this would be selling seeds that were six months past their expiration date? But I couldn't stop staring at the bag, and the longer I did, the more I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. It was impossible; I could almost hear Scully's voice in my head telling me so. It was impossible. But ... it =wasn't= impossible, I reminded myself. Jason Nicols had done it; he had traveled in time. I'd seen the evidence with my own eyes. I knew for a fact it could be done. I shook my head more violently, trying to dislodge any remaining mental cobwebs. But Nicols' process wouldn't be perfected for decades -- if ever -- and all I had right now was the label on a package of sunflower seeds. Even =I= couldn't build a theory out of such tenuous evidence. Still, it would be easy enough to check and line up some additional help at the same time, if needed. I picked up the phone again and dialed another number. "Lone Gunmen." "Hey, it's Mulder," I said, suppressing a sigh of relief. This was the first thing that had gone right since Scully and I had been stopped by those troops. "That you, Langly?" "Yeah." A brief pause. "What are you doing in Nevada?" "That's a long story," I replied. "Oh yeah? Shaking it up with the showgirls? Ooh la la." "Scully's with me," I said automatically. Only, of course, she wasn't. I hesitated. How best to approach this? "Look, Langly ... what day is it?" He snickered. "What =day= is it? Too many margaritas, huh, buddy? Don't worry, we won't say a thing." I reigned in my impatience. "I'm not drunk. Look, I've, uh, kind of lost track, and there aren't any calendars where I am right now. And this is important." I could almost hear him shrug. "It's Thursday," he stated. "The 28th." "Uh huh, uh huh. That's fine. Um ... the 28th of =what=, exactly?" "All right ... you're =not= drunk. Now, what kind of drugs did you do?" he asked matter-of-factly. "Humor me," I said. Sounding desperate was my new forte. "Okkaaaay." He pitched his voice an octave higher. "Today is February 28, 1993. At the tone, the time will be 12:01 p.m. =Beep=." His voice returned to its normal register. "Do you need anything else? Or are you now fully oriented to time and place? I've got 'The Washington Post' sitting right here, just tell me what you'd like to know. Here we have Section A ..." Langly kept talking, but I stopped listening. Shit. It =was= 1993. ==========END CHAPTER ONE==========