The gray stone floor is an unforgiving cradle to his wounded body.
Dark, slimy walls conceal the outside world. In the time before,
whip and nightstick had fallen sharply, one after the other. Mulder
breathes in panting gasps, the freezing air stabbing his lungs. He
can't prevent the low rumble of pain from escaping his raw throat.
He feebly attempts to raise his head and get his bearings, but no -
his moans are a signal for the guards' return.

Fingers scrabble in the dirt as he is turned onto his stomach, his
arms pinned spread-eagle under rough work boots. Mulder's back
arches in reflexive spasm as the whip cracks down hard, and his
hands clench ineffectively at the air. Lines of fire eat at his skin as
the whip flays his shuddering back. He feels warm, wet rivulets
lazily trace the outline of his ribs and he screams in pain. His
captors appear as white smiles in the gloom. They seem to be
admiring their work and savoring the desperate tears running down
his face. Mulder strains to hear shouted questions he can't begin to
answer. His world begins to gray like the walls of his cell. He
feels himself sinking, hopeless.

At the dim edge of consciousnes, Mulder sighs as the beatings
pause. He feels his hair grabbed and pulled back, but he loses
track of the procedings. Mulder is dropped to the ground in an
untidy heap. The last guard to leave spits in his direction, then
leers. Their crude jokes echo inside his head.

****************************************

The next time he awakens, Mulder bites his lip hard to keep silent,
but he can't prevent the shakes. His stomach quivers with fear. His
ribs are prominent, his ashen skin clammy with pain sweats. He
closes his eyes and smells his own acrid sweat and blood. He
knows he's in trouble. He might not make it, but this thought is
strangely distant. He feels himself sinking into apathy. When he
forces his eyes open, they are glazed and unfocused from long-
term sleep deprivation.

Suddenly the cell door is thrust open, and Mulder shudders even
more violently, shouting, "No, don't..." as they jam a needle full of
viscous fluid into the back of his neck. The hot, stinging drug
travels throughout his body, paralyzing his limbs. The guards lift
him up and carry him awkwardly out of his cell. Mulder's arms and
legs dangle down, swinging, as he sees the ceiling of the hallway
scroll past. A trail of saliva runs down the side of his face.

He feels so empty, so insignificant, that he's ashamed of himself.
He knows Scully would want him to resist with everything in him,
but he is just too weak this time. He cannot imagine what they
have waiting for him. Mulder regrets coming to this place, but he
finds some reassurance in the knowledge that Scully is safe, far
away from here. He cares for her above all else, and he could not
stand to see this happen to her, too. That would be unbearable.

The pounding of his guards' boots slows as he is brought into large,
high-ceiling room. The smell of fear permeates the air, and he
hears the screams and cries of men echo throughout the cavernous
space. The guards drop him onto a raised slab. The cold surface
raises goose bumps on Mulder's bare skin. His field of vision is
covered by a hexagonal grid as they pull wire fencing down tight
over his vulnerable body. He is immobilized, and can see the
shadow of others out of the corner of his eyes. His heart fills with
dread as an evil laugh floats down upon him, followed by a dark,
thick substance that pours onto his face. He squints and gags as it
invades his mouth and nose. He feels some of it crawling deeper
inside him. The viscous intruder will not let him breathe. The
indistinguishable lights on the ceiling are slowly covered by a
black veil.

Muscles strain against unyielding bonds and his feet kick futilely.
He panics with the sensation of drowning in the oily liquid. His
fingers twitch, and his vision begins to swim. Before succumbing
to darkness, a whispered word escapes his lips...

"Scully."

The X-Files and related entities belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox.