ALLEGIANCE
by
Lacadiva
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television series, The X-Files are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission.
Summary: After Mulder and Scully are wounded in a bloody ambush, Scully awakens to find herself in a world
where The Day has come and gone, and a choice must be made between duty and Mulder.
Note: I wrote this story several years ago and archived it at Gossamer. Recently unearthed it and thought I'd put it up at . Don't know if people read X-Files stories much anymore, but I cut my teeth as a fanfic writer on this story and a couple other XF stories. On with the show.
Chapter One
"Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?"
-2 Corinthians 6:14
3rd and Western Avenue
Los Angeles, California
9:47 pm
She should have known better, should have known not to trust, that the wicked are almost always wicked. It was not supposed to happen this way. Gunfire left a loud ringing in her ears that would not allow her to hear anything else. She reached up and touched her forehead, over her left eye. Her finger came away wet with blood. Nausea, dizziness and pain quickly overcame her. Then panic.
Where's Mulder? Oh God, he's down.
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And then she awoke. Bright light assaulted her eyes and she quickly shut them tight again. Pain slowly crept into
her consciousness.
A voice, deep, curt, professional. No doubt a doctor. That's it, she thought. Something happened. An accident?
Shooting?
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes," she said. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She moved to sit up, but dizziness sent her back down on the
examining table. "What happened to me?"
"You were ambushed. A bullet grazed your temple. It wasn't so much the bullet as the fall. You're very lucky."
Lucky? Ambush. Bullet. Her eyes popped open. She remembered only scattered images, brief inner pictures
without sound or true definition. She stared at the face of the man in white standing over her. She tried to sit up
again, and he reached out. Warm hands supported her back and neck as she was gently pulled into a sitting position. And then it hit her.
Mulder…where was Mulder?
"My partner!"
"Your partner?"
"The man I was with, where is he?"
The doctor gestured with his head to a table in a corner. On it lay a body covered by a dingy white sheet. Blood had seeped through it.
"I'm afraid he didn't make it."
"No-"
"He took a shot directly through the heart."
"Mulder, no."
"Mulder?"
The doctor moved to the covered corpse and pulled back the sheet. A beautiful face lay frozen on the table, but it
was not Mulder's.
She saw a uniform hanging on the door, blood staining the front of the fascist black tunic with sky blue and gold
piping. Medals. Shiny gold buttons. Obviously middle echelon. Black pants. Black shiny boots. This was her
uniform. When did this become her uniform?
It made no sense at all. And yet, it made all the sense in the world. The room began to tilt, and everything in it
seemed to be moving.
"Perhaps you should lie back -"
"No!" She pushed him away when he reached for her. She slid off the table, holding the sheet around her. Her legs wobbled under her, but she dredged up the control she needed. She walked slowly around the small room, looking at and analyzing everything.
"What is this place? I recognize it, but somehow, it's not right. I know you, but I don't know you."
"You're in the infirmary. I'm Doctor -"
"Blevins. You're Blevins." Eyes wide, she began to tremble. "But you're-you're not-. Something's not
right."
"It's not uncommon for things to seem somewhat scrambled after head trauma. You need rest, lots of it. Perhaps a good night's sleep will provide some clarity."
She moved to the uniform and ran a hand over the rough woolen material.
"How long was I out?"
"A few hours. Perhaps your injury is more severe than my earlier diagnosis, Sub-commander Scully. I'm going to
order a battery of tests -"
She whirled around, back against the wall to support her.
"What did you say?"
"Tests."
"You called me Sub-commander Scully. You mean Agent Scully, don't you?"
More memories, different memories, flooded her mind. Trench coats, Sig Sauers, rental cars, dingy motel rooms.
Serial killers. Mysterious disappearances. Mutants. Conspiracies. Experiments. Tests. Abductions.
Abduction.
It felt as if the floor had been pulled out from under her and she was simply falling.
Doctor Blevins came to her side quickly and helped Scully back to the table.
"No! I don't want to lie down. I'm fine, Mul- I'm fine. I need to get back to work. There's a lot I don't remember. I need to remember who I am."
"I want it on record that I am in protest of your leaving the infirmary."
"Noted, doctor."
Scully moved away from him and immodestly dropped her sheet. She reached for the uniform and quickly put it on. It felt familiar against her body, yet foreign at the same time.
"May I suggest," the Doctor said as she headed for the door, "that you take a little time to speak with the base counselor on duty? You've been under a tremendous amount of stress with this current campaign. You've lost friends and you almost lost your own life. Perhaps it would be good to talk it over with an objective individual."
"I'll consider it."
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She walked the military camp, not knowing where she was going but knowing her destination was not far away. Other soldiers of lesser rank stopped to salute her. She instantly saluted back, not knowing why she knew what to do. The muddy camp, protected by electrical fences and barbed wire, teeming with soldiers with leashed guard dogs and jeeps, seemed like home, and yet there was the feeling that she had stepped off the elevator onto a floor that only barely resembled her own.
A man stepped in front of her, blotting out the sun. He was huge, at least six feet seven inches, or taller. His face
looked as if it were chiseled stone. His mouth twisted in an attempted smile, but it still seemed malevolent. Scully felt her legs tremble as she looked into his eyes. She had no name for him, but she had a memory of standing, shivering on a freezing bridge in the middle of the night.
She remembered his massive hands holding her by the throat, his intention to kill her. She knew he was not
human. He was one of them. One of the Colonizers. An alien. She had no name for him but Bounty Hunter.
Her hand shook as she reached for her gun. She stopped, waiting for his attack. But he simply walked by and
nodded.
"Sub-Commander Scully," he said as he passed.
Scully watched him walk away. It was suddenly quite obvious that they were on the same side. They wore the
same uniform. He knew her by name. This was as it should be. But she could not dismiss the fear. This was
not her world, she was convinced. Yet here she was.
She found her office and entered, feeling neither safe nor insecure.
She turned on the desk lamp. Things were neat, orderly, organized. She opened her top desk drawer not knowing
what she'd find, but feeling relieved when she found her gold crucifix lying among the paper clips.
"Have I gone mad?" she asked herself.
"Beg pardon, Sub-commander?"
Scully turned to find a very familiar face. She smiled, then the smile turned to a look of confusion as she realized that at some point in her life - whether this life or another, she could not say - she had seen this man die. She saw him take the bullet, saw him hit the floor, stood over him, watched his blood seep between her fingers as she placed pressure against the wound, looked into his eyes as the moment of death occurred. Yet here he was, his bright red hair cut short in a military buzz, his uniform spotless and crisp, a shy, boyish grin on his face.
"May I say," he began, stepping closer to her desk, "that I am pleased you are alive, Sub-Commander Scully. Your
demise would have been a blow to the Project, and a victory to the Resistance we could not afford."
"Thank you," she said weakly.
He moved to her side and pulled her chair out for her. She sat, thankfully. At least the room did not spin quite so
much when she was sitting down.
"I hear you've been nominated for commendation. I am proud to serve as your assistant."
"My assistant?"
"Yes. Is there something I can do for you?"
"How long have you been my assistant?"
"Two years, seven and a half months."
"How has it been?"
"Most rewarding, Sub-Commander."
"How well do you know me?"
"I'm sorry?"
Scully gently touched the thick bandage around her head. "My injury has…apparently there are a few
inconsistencies, gaps, in my memory. Forgive me."
"No need. I understand. And I am happy to help you fill in the blanks, Sub-commander. As for how well I know you, let me say that, simply put, I would die for you."
Scully rubbed her head, wishing the ache away. "I don't think that will be necessary." Not again, anyway, she
hoped.
"Are you sure you're all right? Perhaps you'd like to go back to the infirmary?"
"No."
"Then will you forgive my boldness in suggesting that you take it easy for a couple of days? I will do everything I can to cover for you. I anticipate the rest of the week will be spent putting out little Resistance fires and processing new prisoners. I can handle that for you."
"That's not a bad idea."
He headed for the door. Scully watched him. She had to do it, say it, try it.
"Pendrell?"
He turned with another of his boyish smiles. "Yes, Sub-commander?"
"Where would I find the base counselor?"
"Oh, you mean Doctor Mulder?"
Her breath caught. Her heart beat quickly in her chest. She felt the room moving again.
"Doctor Mulder? Yes. Doctor Mulder."
"When you're ready to go, I'll escort you myself."
Scully stood on shaky legs. "Now."
"May I suggest you change your uniform first?"
Scully looked down at the blood stained tunic.
"Good idea," she said. "Give me ten minutes."
Pendrell nodded then stood outside the door to wait.
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Scully could not stop fidgeting. She sat in a chair in front of the base counselor's desk wondering what would happen when he walked in. Would it be him? Would he recognize her?
Why was this man so important to her? She had asked for him the infirmary, and now the mere thought of his name alone made her anxious, nervous. Somehow she knew he was the key to the strange memories she was experiencing, and could help her unlock the mystery to find the truth.
The truth.
The door opened and a tall dark-haired man entered. His eyes were glued to a file. He was thin, yet strong. His hair was longer than she had remembered (remembered?). He wore a more casual style of uniform, but in the same fascist black with blue and gold.
And then he looked up. Hazel met azure blue. Scully felt her stomach tumble. He smiled.
"Sub-commander. Sorry to keep you waiting."
Hope faded like a forgotten dream. If he remembered, he could have helped her. If he remembered, he could have helped her place those strange memories, find her way back. He was her proof that something odd was happening. But he seemed to remember nothing outside of this world. His eyes did not reveal evidence of any special bond. Hope died looking into his eyes.
Scully sat back and looked down at the crucifix, the delicate gold chain rapped around her fingers.
"I heard about the ambush," Mulder said as he took a seat behind his desk. "How's the head?
"Fine. Hurts a bit."
"Blevins give you something for that?"
"Yes."
"Good. I heard that most of the members of your party are dead. How do you feel about that?"
"What, that they're dead, or that I survived?"
"Either."
"Quite honestly, I don't remember a lot. Much of the incident is sketchy."
"Go on."
"I remember gunfire, and hitting the ground. And I remember being very cold. That's all."
Mulder rose and moved to a small table with a metal pitcher of water and two small glasses. He filled both
glasses and handed one to Scully. She watched his eyes for hints, for clues, but found nothing. But she had to forge ahead. She had to know.
"There is something else. I have this strange feeling that none of this is real."
"Can you articulate?"
"Not without sounding like I'm out of my mind."
"I'm not here to judge you. I want to help."
Scully cleared her throat, searching for a place to begin. "I know where I am, yet I don't. I feel as if there's something else, someplace else I belong, but I'm here. It's familiar but somehow it's wrong. Blevins-Doctor Blevins said it's natural considering my injury, but I don't think it's the injury."
"What do you think it is?"
"It think…" She cleared her throat again. "I think I was abducted once."
"By whom?"
"I don't know."
"And you believe you've been abducted again?"
"I don't know."
Mulder got up and stood behind Scully's chair. His big, warm palms were suddenly, gently, resting on her shoulder.
This was not the kind of thing a doctor should do to a patient, Scully knew. But she did not move.
"Where were you when you were abducted?"
"I don't remember."
Mulder leaned down and whispered in her ear. "I remember, Dana."
Her breath caught, and her heart rate sped up. She felt a surge of adrenaline. Mulder's hands on her shoulders
applied a gentle pressure. A warning - keep still. Don't talk.
Mulder moved around so that she could see him. He held his index finger to his lips. Scully nodded.
"Could it be," he said, "that you dreamed this odd displacement scenario while you were unconscious?"
Mulder nodded at her, his eyes telling her to agree.
"I suppose. Yes."
"And could it be this abduction theory - this confusion - of yours is just some fantasy played out in your dreams and amplified by the trauma you experienced?"
She did not need him to coach her this time. "Yes, it could very well be."
"You see, sometimes, after a stressful event such as the one you recently encountered, fantasy and reality can become clouded, the line of demarcation seemingly erased. And the truth can seem muddied." Mulder pointed at a small picture frame on his desk.
There, in the tarnished frame was a picture of his sister Samantha, still eight years old, smiling. On the side of the
frame, however, Scully could see with closer scrutiny that what at first appeared to be part of the design, was actually a tiny listening device. She nodded.
"I see. So this feeling of unreality is in all probability brought on by stress."
"Exactly," Mulder said with a smile. "Your confusion will dissipate eventually. If you take it easy and take care of
yourself."
Mulder reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small paper pad, then grabbed a pen. "I'm going to write you a prescription. This will help you sleep. Sleep is, after all, the best medicine."
He ripped the page from the pad and handed it to Scully. "Don't lose that," he said.
Scully looked down at the page. Instead of the unreadable scribble she associated with doctors' prescriptions, she saw, written in Mulder's oddly familiar scrawl, "Tonight, 11:00, Walt's."
Walt's meant nothing to her, but she knew she would find it. Scully nodded and stood up.
"Thank you for seeing me Doctor Mulder. I feel much better."
"That's what I'm here for."
As Scully turned to leave, Mulder reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it and gave her a smile. She returned the smile. Hope was rekindled.
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Pendrell was waiting outside the door for Scully. She eyed him suspiciously. What had he heard?
"All is well, I take it?" he asked after saluting.
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Did Doctor Mulder give you a prescription?"
Her heart skipped. To lie, or to tell the truth?
"Yes, he did."
"I can take care of it for you."
"No. I'll do it."
"It's my job."
"Not today, Pendrell."
"Then allow me…" Pendrell pulled a small cigarette lighter from his pocket and passed it to her.
Scully understood. She took the cigarette lighter from him, then set fire to the piece of paper. She let go and watched as black ash blew away.
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Walt's, according to Pendrell, "is a dive, one of the only places around for miles that still serves alcohol. You won't
find many Colonizers there, either. Apparently the owner has enough clout to say who gets in and who doesn't, and for some odd reason, the Colonizers respect that. Maybe once you see it again, you'll remember it."
"Maybe," Scully echoed as she rode along next to Pendrell in the Hummer. It was dark, darker than she could ever
remember night on earth being. The Colonizers had declared curfews to cut down on resistance activities. In
going through her files earlier, to try to determine just what she was supposed to do in her capacity as Sub-commander, Scully found it was her job to battle the Resistance and report directly to the Colonizers.
She also found that she had given the order for the imprisonment, interrogation, torture and deaths of over 200
men and women. The realization made her physically sick. This was not a world to which she wanted to belong.
The Colonizers, for the most part, looked human. But they were alien through and through. Not alien; she
remembered. The use of the word alien as it referred to the Colonizers was strictly forbidden. Any officer or
subordinate caught using that word, even in jest, would be subject to court martial, and court martial meant execution. The Colonizers did not recognize the human concept of mercy.
So many bits and pieces of memory of this existence were flowing back that Scully was finally beginning to believe
the images of herself and Mulder, black trench coats, dark alleys and a cluttered office were the dream. Even snippets of disjointed conversations began to fade the more she thought about them.
I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you, Mulder…
After all you've seen…
I say we don't let him waste another minute of our time…
Do you think I'm Spooky?
Time is a universal invariant….
The Hummer came to a stop and Pendrell turned to her. "This is it."
Scully looked out the window. It looked like one of many old buildings standing like wounded soldiers along the
filthy deserted street. There were no neon signs or glowing chalkboards announcing the night's special. Just the sound of old blues music on a tinny radio. The Colonizers had outlawed almost all forms of music, but for some reason they like the blues. Go figure, Scully thought.
The place was dark and dingy, and smelled of old cheap beer and cigarettes. There were only a half dozen or so
individuals in the place, all of them officers of sub-commander rank and slightly higher, relaxing with a draught and chatting. Eyes turned to her as she walked to the bar, but they soon turned away, uninterested. She didn't know whether to be relieved or ticked off. She chose to dismiss it, and sat at the bar.
The bartender turned around with a mug of beer for her. He was a big man, broad across the chest. He wore glasses and a scowl that most might interpret as unfriendly at first. Beads of sweat had gathered on his balding pate. The scowl turned to a half smile.
"Scully."
"Sir!"
"Sir?" He laughed. "What happened to 'Walt?'"
Memories began flooding back again. Sitting before him, his discomforting scrutiny, pages and pages of reports.
Inconclusive, sir…
The evidence was destroyed, sir…
I can neither confirm nor deny Agent Mulder's claim…
Unofficial channels….
Scully felt the floor tilt. The air was suddenly sucked out of the room, and then lights went off.
END CHAPTER ONE
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