"I'm afraid you'll have to leave now. Mr. Bailey needs his rest."
As Scully turned to the nurse, Nigel slipped the paper out of sight under the covers. While he wasn't fluent in the ancient runic languages, he intended to at least attempt a rudimentary translation, no matter what. Scully promised to return with a couple of texts he'd use to clear up the rest. This was his particular gift, and too much was at stake for him to let it go, no matter how he felt. Sydney saved his life countless times, and in this, he would do all he could to save hers.
Surely the killer was aware of his faux pas. While the ancient Hunnic Attila composed letters, he almost certainly employed a scribe to do the actual writing, and it would not have been in this form. The inscriptions on the page were old in style, but they were more like an earlier variation of the Codex from Nicolsburg, the earliest documented written Scythian language. And Nicolsburg, circa the 1400's, was a millennium away from the savage warrior king of world history.
The Scyths appeared in centuries after descendants of the Huns disappeared, their bloodlines mingled with those of the Slavic and Roman people they conquered. Hungary acquired its name from fierce invaders of its distant past.
It was a full five minutes before he was left to pore over the rough script. It was more difficult than he'd expected. His eyes refused to focus for more than a few moments, and his memory was equally unreliable. He had nothing with which to write and nothing to write on.
A couple of hours later he had a grasp of the basics, though details were still indecipherable.
It was a ransom note that promised to kill the hostages, beginning with Mulder, unless Nigel followed the instructions exactly. Unfortunately, until he had his linguistic bibles, he didn't even know what he was supposed to do. And something told him that even when he did know, it might be impossible.
Or too late.
Meanwhile, Monica Reyes had her own problems. With Mulder, Doggett, and Sydney missing, and Scully officially off the case, Reyes caught the brunt of things from the Bureau.
Skinner was only marginally sympathetic. With so many FBI and former FBI personnel now categorized as victims, there was a whole new department set up just to try and track Attila and crew. "You and Agent Doggett were supposed to keep your wits about you. And what do you do? You stand outside while Mulder and Doggett are kidnapped by boat, and you stand by helplessly while the other hostages are paraded in front of you. The newspapers are having a field day!"
The dark-haired woman swallowed. "I know that, Sir. You do know that it was the Bailey kid's translation that pointed Mulder and Doggett to the trawler, don't you? And that we were under direct fire the entire time the other hostages were moved?" Best not to mention that Nigel loped off while they weren't paying attention to him.
"Yes, Agent Reyes, I know that. I also know that hell or high water wouldn't have kept Scully and Mulder away. The two of them are…" Skinner sighed, yanking wire-rimmed spectacles away from his face. " They are two of the most intense individuals I have ever met. And this is about Scully's family."
Reyes noticed how he shied away from saying that it was Mulder's family. She also noticed the tension etched into every inch of the Assistant Director's muscular frame. If his words were terse, low, and abrupt, his body language was practically screaming at her. Not for the first time, Reyes wondered exactly what kind of relationship Skinner had with Mulder and Scully. It was almost as though it were Skinner's family.
They sat inside Skinner's office, but both were perched on the edge of their own worry. Reyes fought against a picture of torture and death for her recently-appointed partner, John Doggett, and thoughts of equal portions of horror for Mulder. Her mind shut down when it broached thoughts of what the monster would do to the baby and to Mrs. Scully. In her job, she saw graphic, sickening examples of what happened to children in the hands of madmen, and each tiny face of death vied to haunt her every waking and sleeping moment. Imagining the horror visited on the sweet infant she'd held and watched grow over the past year –
It was more than she could take, even in the uncertainty of imagination.
"How is the Bailey kid?"
Apparently the lecture was over. Skinner's shoulders slumped in unspoken defeat, and she realized he hated himself for the dressing-down he gave her. He knew all too well that it wasn't her fault. He honestly didn't blame her.
"Better," she replied. "Scully saw him earlier today. She said he's talking and he's working on the translation of our manifesto." Reyes resisted the urge to pluck at some invisible bit of lint on her skirt. Not for the first time, she felt a surge of envy at Scully. The redhead's world was falling apart, and she didn't smoke, didn't cry, didn't so much as have a hair out of place. Psychologically it wasn't healthy, of course, but it still reminded Reyes how different she was.
People expected the cool, collected, logical Dana Scully in the X-Files. Instead they got a tall, dark, gangly woman who couldn't stop smoking and who believed in spiritual realities. Like it or not, she was an outsider.
Maybe she would always be an outsider.
"I'd like to check on Nigel Bailey's progress, if that's all right with you, Sir."
Skinner's reply was a halfhearted grunt of consent.
Mulder groaned, opened his eyes to stare directly into Doggett's stare, and groaned again.
"Well, you ain't pretty, either, Mulder."
Mulder's moan and Doggett's dour remark had drawn Margaret Scully's attention. She ordered softly, "Shhhh – Listen. If I can get your hands untied, do you think you can temporarily disable our guards without hurting them? They're just kids."
"Sure," Mulder replied with a great deal more confidence than he had a right to feel. "Do you think you can find something I can use to cut through the ropes?" He couldn't see her and didn't know she wasn't bound, too.
"No, but since the baby's asleep it shouldn't be that difficult to untie you," she replied dryly. She moved in next to him, wondering if their 'hosts' were listening to the conversation. Years of knitting and crocheting gave her an expert touch at loosening stubborn knots, and she made quick work of the men's bonds.
It was the first time that their guards had left them alone. "I hope I disabled that camera," Mrs. Scully worried aloud. "Every time I tried to use Bill's 35 mm, it was completely out of focus. He said I had a real knack for it. Let's hope he's right."
She held out her palm to display the lens she'd removed.
Doggett glanced up at the crippled instrument. The disabled camera was still suspended from the low ceiling, but its face was notably open. The former policeman chuckled. "I think it's a safe bet it worked like a charm." He pushed himself up and shook the woman's hand. "Thanks. Mrs. Scully, right?"
"Yes, I am. How's Dana? Does she know that William and I are all right?"
"We're working on that. Any idea where we are?"
A siren sounded in the distance, its wail distorting as it moved. "Sounds like we're upstairs," Mulder answered. "Way upstairs, is my guess."
Blinking, Doggett challenged, "How do you know that?"
Mulder shrugged. "Doppler effect. The ambulance moved past us and the tones shifted. But it was at a distance, and underfoot. Had to be pretty far down."
Tilting her head to one side, Mrs. Scully listened. "A city," she surmised. "Someplace big. We were blindfolded once inside the car, couldn't see where they were taking us, but there was a lot of traffic around us when we got here. You could hear street vendors and gunshots. None of the latter very close at the time, but since then we've heard some pretty loud reports."
At the men's expressions, she chided gently, "I was married to a military man, gentlemen. Bill never gave me any national secrets, but he DID teach me some basic survival techniques. Did you think Dana inherited all of her intelligence from her father, or were you under the impression that becoming a grandmother automatically makes you senile?"