"Schutzhaftbefehl"

Chapter One

X-Files Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

January 4th, 2001, 8:30 p.m.

Mulder opened the top left handed drawer and just like Scully had said, there were his framed pictures. A 5x7 of him and his sister Samantha was the first one he pulled out, followed by a medium close up of his father and mother on their wedding day. The photo of him and Samatha was one taken by his father in West Tisbury just the summer before she disappeared. Both of them were leaning carelessly against the tree trunk after just finishing up a game of tag, and Bill Mulder had just happened to have the camera waiting nearby. It was one of the few things he actually did for his family, Mulder mused. On the family outings, he was the one that took the pictures--never Mom. Course, it all stopped three months later. I never did understand why they took her and not me. He always resented me afterwards--I thought all those years that he blamed me for her abduction--but perhaps his anger was not directed at me specifically. Maybe he was just plain angry, and I just thought that it was my fault because of it.

He would have made a good photographer.

Bill Mulder had two hobbies that Mulder knew about; one of them included drinking, and the other was amateur photography. As time dissipated, the drinking grew into the only hobby, and the pastime of Bill Mulder's snapshots slowly faded to black. The rest of his pursuits would be forever commemorated to the abyss of the unknown history of the Mulder clan. He had a dark room in the house, but he'd never let Mulder come anywhere near it. There was a red light bulb affixed to the wall just outside of it; that was how Mulder knew that his father was not to be disturbed. Bill rarely let anyone view his work, even his wife or children. There was a man once, Mulder remembered, that had come over and requested to see his photos.

It was the only time that he had gotten a small glimpse at his father's talent. He had hidden with Samantha behind the couch playing Cowboys and Indians. Well, the man wanted to buy all of the pictures for National Geographic. Most of them were close-ups of plants and the insects that interacted with them. He seemed fascinated with Bill Mulder's eye for detail and told him so, to which his father shrugged.

Mulder never knew what became of that deal, because at that moment, his mother had come to collect him and Samantha for bed. The common practice of families back then was to operate by the familiar cliche "children should be seen and not heard". However, Teena Mulder took it one step further: "children are neither to be seen or heard" by important guests. When they were both smaller, Teena used to walk them up the stairs and tuck them into bed. By the time he reached the manly age of seven, she usually shooed the both of them out of the living room when guests came over for coffee and dessert with just the waive of her hand without so much of a "Goodnight, my darlings" or even "Sweet dreams".

"Evening, Agent Mulder," Doggett's bass New York accent startled him from the doorway, and Mulder shook his head.

"Didn't you hear? It's just Mulder now," he returned softly and shut the drawer after setting the pictures into a box. "Kersh finally got his way."

"No, that's...that's odd. I was just stuck in a meeting with him that lasted for three hours. He was doing a complete evaluation on our department...among others. And uh, the detail must have slipped his mind. Or maybe, I interpreted his saying of "a few minute changes" too literally. I can't believe he did that."

"Believe it, Agent Doggett. Kersh isn't interested in investigating the truth. He's only interested in getting into the Director's chair--and to quote a former colleague of Scully's, "that's what it takes to get to the top". I'm only too happy to leave this office if that's what we've only become--a stepping stone."

"A stepping stone? Look, I don't know if you've noticed this, but the people that have been coming through and working in this office haven't stepped onto anything or anywhere else. Agent Scully's only going to be leaving because of her maternal affairs, and me, well...I'm staying on."

Mulder's eyebrows inclined as his partner's would.

"Yeah, that's right. I was offered another position--closer to the top--but I turned it down. Now that you're going, too, someone has to keep this department swimming, or else it'll drown."

"Someone once told me something like that. He said that sharks never stop swimming. If they do, they die." He climbed onto his chair and then began to remove the excessive number of pencils stuck in the ceiling. "You know, at first when I met you, Agent Doggett, I thought you were just here for the ride. But now I can't think of handing my baby over to anyone else."

"How'd those get up there anyway?" Doggett leaned against the doorway and glanced up at the yellow objects protruding from the drop ceiling.

"Oh, that's an X-File in itself," Mulder smirked and tossed a handful of them onto the bureau. "Next month marks the tenth anniversary," he sighed.

"Of what?"

"In February 1991, the X-Files Division was officially opened. I was thinking of having a party celebrating that in conjunction with Scully's birthday, but, I don't think it would go over too well, would you?"

"Not particularly, no. She'd probably expect to have some time alone with you, I'd guess. And the kid. When's the due date?"

"A week after the big day. Oh geeze. I'm gonna be turning the big 4-0 this year, too. People are always calling that one 'over the hill'. Well, I've attended parties for 'over the hill' 50 and 60 year olds, too. Which is it? Are they ever gonna make up their damn minds?"

"I guess it depends on the individual." Mulder hopped down from the desk and opened a few more drawers to make sure he had left nothing else personal behind. I've got no pictures of myself and Scully. After all we've been through, I've got nothing physical of her to show for it.

"Do you mind if I ask you what you're gonna do now? I mean, now that..." Doggett started.

"Now that I'm being fired from the FBI? I haven't really thought about it. You'd think that I would have...during all that time I was gone..." he chuckled. "I was once told that I could probably have a stellar career in radio broadcast."

If Doggett understood the joke, he was not laughing. Mulder shrugged and picked up the box. "I was wondering...if it'd be okay with you of course...if I could consult with you for the X-Files. You know, from time to time...cause...I'm certainly not an expert in this field. I've been learning a lot but, well...I'm not as smart as Agent Reyes or Agent Scully. I've got the instincts to be an investigator and a nose for trouble, but when it comes to grasping this stuff...I kind of step back and let the other person handle it if possible."

"I hope you're not planning on doing it from here," Mulder frowned.

"Why not?" Doggett took the box from him and set it down in what used to be Scully's chair.

"This office is under a careful watch, Agent Doggett. And you know why it's now back under the knife, so to speak." The New Yorker agreed; approximately three months ago, AD Skinner had come through the X-Files office and emptied the cabinets of every single conspiracy case there was to be found. The Consortium had threatened both his and Scully's life with the simple push of a button by Krycek's thumb. So now they were extremely careful about which cases were opened. Mulder had become worried slightly with the last one because they were investigating the black oil species, but all that came out of it was his dismissal.

Not that he was entirely thankful for it, but at least Scully's life was not hanging in the balance like he'd thought it would be. Even Skinner was angry with him for disobeying orders again--probably for the same reason he was afraid, too. But he just had to know if the species could be stopped from spreading from sea to shore.

"Okay, so...was that a yes? I mean, if you're worried about money, I think I could perhaps convince Kersh that uh...since he insisted upon overseeing the X-Files Division now...that I'll be needing to call in some extra help from time to time. Monica is thinking of asking for a transfer from New Orleans, but that probably won't happen any time soon," Doggett pressed and tapped the chair with his foot.

"Kersh is head of the X-Files now? What happened to Skinner?"

"He's still an AD, but uh...since Kersh got real chummy with the Director, he got to usurp the power away from Skinner. I'm not sure what he's doing now, but um...Kersh got the Director's blessing, that's for sure. He was gloating over that during the meeting--was wondering if he was trying to rub it in or just brag."

"In that case, now I'm extremely happy to not be working here. No offense intended, Agent Doggett. I know he's a friend of yours."

"Back in the day, yeah. Now that he's a Deputy Director, he's gotten all high and mighty. I think that he needs to be brought back down to earth...and kicked the hell off of that high horse of power he's tripping on." Mulder picked his belongings back up this time and strolled down the hallway, followed by Doggett. "You still didn't answer my question, Mulder."

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot. I-" before Mulder could mutter another word, a gunshot fired from the floor above them. Both agents went for their guns, but only Doggett came up with his; Mulder forgot that he had turned in his issued weapon along with his badge earlier in the day. It was a reflex now, and when his hand touched nothing but his belt loops, he grimaced. "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Doggett asked as they rushed towards a door marked 'emergency exit only' for the stairs.

"My gun. I turned it in today," Mulder grumbled and set down the cardboard box again. "Of all the days that I don't take along my extra gun..."

"It's okay, Age...uh...Mulder. I'll go upstairs and see if I can sneak a peek at what's happening. Since you're unarmed, you'd better call the cops."

"I don't think it'd be wise idea to separate, especially since we have no idea of who or what we're dealing with. There could be several terrorists up there; we just don't know. Besides, I have my cell phone right here." He dug it out of his pocket and showed it to Doggett, who dismissed it.

Doggett opened the door, and they both went through it. "Stay behind me," he ordered.

"I know that!" Mulder hissed.

"Shh! If you're gonna be here, at least be quiet about it. In fact, you'd better stay behind me several feet if you're gonna make a phone call." The former FBI agent rolled his eyes and opened up the flip phone.

"Damn. Well, I don't think there's much of a chance of that happening. I've got no signal in here. Guess I'll have to go back down to the office..." he sighed and sneaked back down the steps.

Unfortunately, when he went for the receiver, there was no dial tone. "Shit. Could this day get any worse?" When another gunshot rang through the air, this time very much closer to the office, he began to regret his sarcasm. "Oh boy."

Mulder ducked behind the bureau as he heard footsteps. Frantically, his mind ran through the furniture and objects of the office, which he could easily use as weapons. It had been rearranged a bit since his abduction and return, but Scully was a creature of habit. His desk had become both of theirs and as a result, had definitely become quite more tidy. She did have a fountain pen in the center drawer--that could be messy, but it might have to do for a concealed weapon.

After he had it in his hands, the footsteps came into the room. Mulder prepared himself for inevitable; it sounded like two people to his trained ears, but he could be mistaken. It was too bad that she only had one really nice pen like that, he thought to himself as he shifted his weight onto his left leg, ready to pounce on them at any second. "No, Yo no quiero hacer eso!" a small voice pleaded. (No, I don't want to do that!)

Of all the languages that Mulder had learned in Oxford, sadly, Spanish was not one of them. But due to his exposure to the well rounded minds of the people at Taco Bell, he knew that the woman did not want something. And it probably had nothing to do with those excellent gorditas.

"Hagalo ahora! (You will do it!)" a voice Mulder could identify as anything but friendly shouted back at her from the hallway. It dawned on Mulder that it was probably a cleaning lady, since she was creeping in very slowly on him, and peeked behind the desk. He put a finger to his lips and motioned to her to be quiet.

"I can surprise him from here," he whispered.

"Losiento, el senor, yo no le entiendo (I'm sorry, mister, I don't understand you)," she told him loudly. That was enough of a giveaway for the terrorist to come into the room and push her aside.

"Get up!" he shouted, and Mulder obeyed. Their assailant brought up his gun, an ACP .50. The bullet was practically large enough to split a skull in half if fired at a close enough range. Mulder hoped that the man did not have this information at his fingertips, for one of them in particular, the index finger, was right on the trigger.

"Too bad you don't speak Spanish," the man sneered and signaled Mulder to put his hands up.

Mulder did and let the pen fall down to the floor. "That's funny. I was thinking the same thing just now."

"You," was all the intruder said and immediately flew off the handle. "Schwinehounde! (Pig dog!) Wo ist ihr gewehr? (Where is your weapon?)" Mulder was completely perplexed. First the man was speaking Spanish, then English, and now German? Who was this, a language professor from Georgetown or something? He didn't look like one.

"Beantworten sie mich! (Answer me!)" he yelled. Mulder directed his hands in an upward motion, and the criminal spun him around to frisk him.

"Who are you?"

"Ihr morder. (Your death)." At that moment, the woman broke out into a loud sob, and he directed his attention to her. "Wartenzeit draußen! (Go wait outside!)" Apparently, the cleaning lady did not comprehend German either, so he pointed to the door and repeated his order. "Schnell! (Move it!)"

This time, she understood and hurried out the door still crying.

"Where's Agent Doggett? My companion? The man you shot?" Mulder was assuming a lot, but he knew that it was very plausible.

"Schweigen sie! (Shut up!)"

"Hey, buddy, look, I don't speak Nazi," Mulder became frustrated. "You were just speaking to me in English a minute ago, why can't you use that instead?"

"Sehr gut. (Very well, then). Ich spreche etwas Englisch, (I do speak some English)" he replied but kept the gun focused on his target. "I hate the language, though." When he spoke a few minutes ago, he had been using a perfect American accent. But now, his words came out more slowly and were accompanied with a German inflection.

"What's going on? What do you want? Why're you here?"

"You Americans talk too much. I told you to shut up, and I meant it."

"Can I at least ask you why you're pointing a gun at me and not disarming the man you shot?" The terrorist smugly pulled Doggett's SIG Sauer out of his trench coat pocket just to prove to Mulder that he had done so and then tucked it away. "Where is he? Is he dead?"

"Sprechen sie nicht Englisch? (Don't you speak English?) I said that is enough from you, Granger."

"Granger? My name's Mulder."

"One more word out of you, Granger, and I shoot you. When I am this close, I do not miss. And the shot is usually fatal." He signaled Mulder to turn around with the gun, pocketed it, and searched him again. "Where are they?"

"Who? Where is who?"

"I will ask you once more in English. Where are they?"

"In a galaxy far, far away?" Mulder tried and that ended up infuriating his captor even more. In return for his wisecrack, he received a swift blow to the rear of his skull, and Mulder could now imagine what it would have been like inside his father's dark room.