TITLE: Lo and Beholden AUTHOR: Glass November (glass_november@hotmail.com) RATING: Strong R CATEGORY: SRA KEYWORDS: Colonization, Mulder/Scully romance, Scully/other. SUMMARY: In a future world, a Courtesan makes a deal with her Master and unknowingly, with Fate. AUTHOR's NOTES: This was inspired by Margaret Atwood's book "The Handmaid's Tale," which I heartily recommend to anyone who hasn't read it ;) This is my longest story (yet), as well as the one of the few that actually qualifies as a story, not a vignette, and I would really appreciate any feedback, even if it's just to say that I should stop writing ASAP. Thanks! ***************************************************************************** "Prosperity and serenity," I say to the Women in the kitchen as I leave the small house. It is the common greeting but they do not respond to me. They don't like me, or what I stand for. They are envious because even though I am a Remnant I have a higher position than they, as Blooded, do. At first it hurt, their rejection and the loneliness that accompanied it, but as time passed it became normal, as so many other things have. The costume that I wear, for example, would once have been painful and humiliating, but now I wear the dress with a sense of duty, of belonging. I have assimilated. The street outside is calm and quiet. I once enjoyed these small escapes, these journeys into the new world, but now they, too, are old. I walk quickly, not looking around, because that could be considered disrespectful. It is especially dangerous for me to be disrespectful because I am a Remnant. There is no genetic proof of my loyalty. Once there may have been a tree here, overshadowing the sidewalk and shading it, but now it is steel and concrete. Fences to keep us in line. And so I walk in the sun. It seems to have grown warmer, or maybe I don't remember how it used to be. I count cracks in the stone walls until I reach the shop. The package is waiting, as usual, and I hand my card to the man behind the counter. He doesn't look at me as he slides it through the small black machine. I used to think that it looked like something from a spy novel, until I saw it used in real life. The function and the potential, though, still amazed me, even with my rudimentary knowledge of networks and information and links. He returns the card to me with a gloved hand. I used to think of gloves as sterile, protection, or warmth. Now they are standard issue, and every man has them. I wonder why they wear them - are they afraid of catching some disease, of turning feminine? Of course, in this society feminine is weak, and maybe it is a real fear. I don't know. The walk home is short, and the Women are not in the kitchen when I return. I place the package in the center of the table, where they will see it and not accuse me of being lazy or forgetful. They like that; they like being able to lower me, to bring me down. I can hear them down the hall as I climb the stairs to my room. They are talking quietly, and I wonder what they have to talk about. In older times they would have exchanged comments about the masters, or maybe hints. I am not sure what there is to discuss in this regulated society. The sun shines too brightly through the only window in my room, illuminating my sparse surroundings. They are white. White walls, white linens, white ceiling, white floor. The walls are bare and flat, but if I look closely I can see tiny holes, leftover from the hooks and tacks from Before. Now decorations are unnecessary and a danger. They could inspire knowledge or desire, or they could provide an escape. At the beginning, they didn't think about that, but after the first deaths, they hurriedly removed all threats. Glass, nails, hooks, wires. Ordinary objects that a lifetime ago would have been harmless. In this world, though, nothing is harmless. Anything out of the ordinary is danger and should be investigated and destroyed, but if there is no time for an investigation, that is alright. Strange is evil. At first I thought it was laughable, an impulsive return to the ancient past, but now I, too, fear it. The past has become our present, and what seems like our only future. I am often surprised that I have been allowed to live in this new world. Allowed is not the right term, but neither is live, though both will have to suffice because no others will fit any better. Others like me have been killed. I have yet to meet anyone that I knew from Before, but then, I really don't meet many people. It is not my place. I sometimes wonder if I am the lucky one, or if it is the dead who are lucky. It was my choice, and I chose life, but now I am trapped, embalmed in Life like an insect in amber. Trapped or dead - I knew my options and thought that anything, any life, was better than dying, especially at the hands of the Cause. I don't think that this is life, though, at least in any recognizable form. It is what is normal for my position, though, and I suppose I should be appreciative. I am floating, nameless, but at least I breathe. I often wonder if this near-life, this new way of living, is worth the indignities that I have suffered. The slow stripping of my identity, of who I used to be - is this honor? I chose life because I did not want to die a tainted, nameless martyr. Instead I am suffocating - a nameless traitor. I didn't know what to expect when I chose this life, but I don't think anyone did. Even those that created it - I think they were the most surprised. The new colony that we thought would take our place, the new race, is so different from my expectations. The Blooded, those that have the new blood, are humans, not monsters by definition. The Remnants, like me, leftovers from the past, are treated poorly, as though they are unnecessary. I am lucky to be even a servant. I am living, though, the last memory of the Cause and of the time before. I am fighting, in my own way, and in that way I am not a traitor. I am a rebel, finally, albeit a silent one. I have seen what has happened to those who fought, to the few who fought under the guise of choosing life. Upon discovery they were killed. Of course, it wasn't called killing; it was execution for the crime of betrayal and disloyalty. These are the new words for the new law, chosen to inspire support and belief. The semblance of our public would never have gone along with "killing"; at that early date there could have been a rebellion, the undoing of the Project. Sometimes I wonder if I should have spoken, if my word with the others would have succeeded. Someone said once, a long time ago, that words are flames burning in dark glasses. Does that mean my soul is words, and my body the dark shell? I wonder if anyone else burns like I do. I often have my suspicions, but I can't voice them because it is too dangerous. If I were wrong . . . Is it my fault that we live - exist - in this new world? Should I have traded my life for the freedom of the future? Such thoughts are dangerous and unsettling, and if they knew that I was thinking them, or thinking at all, I would be disciplined. Discipline is sterile and clean; punishment is uncalled for and undeserved. Words are dangerous, now, and I am what amounts to a slave, a servant of the home. I should not have knowledge. I am an object, property of my master. I wonder what Mulder would think of me now. Surely my name, my honor, my dignity were worth too much, were too important to be traded for this "freedom." Or maybe he would have done the same thing, sacrificed honor for a chance, a future opportunity for rebellion. I can't say. Sometimes I think that he would loathe me now, and other days I think that he would be glad I am alive. I wonder if he knows that I am alive; I don't know if he is. He awoke me that morning with a phone call. "It's here, it's started. Pack a bag; I'm on my way." Before I could respond he was gone, and it had taken a moment for realization to sink through my tired mind. I had packed mindlessly, automatically, as if I had practiced the movements hundreds of times and was now just going through the motions. Clothes, food, batteries. Whatever would be necessary for survival. I was waiting when he arrived, not sure why exactly I was doing this. We had been waiting for this day, had been planning it, but surely it could be put off for a while longer. "Where are the others?" I asked, still not thinking clearly, and he looked at me coldly. He had tried the phones; they were dead. The ones who had warned him were gone. He had stopped by their office earlier to find a burnt-out shell. He wasn't sure if they had escaped. "How . . . " I had started, not really knowing what I was asking. He told me that it had started with the bombing, causing the red glow that I had thought was the sunrise. It was to be over by evening. We made it out of town, through the strangely empty streets, as far as a small gas station. He went in to pay, and I waited in the car. I saw the female clerk reach behind the counter, and then he shot her. He turned back to me, and I am still not sure if he was trying to reassure me or to say goodbye, or both. I wanted to save him, to follow him wherever he was going, but then I remembered and I stopped myself. I had promised that I would survive, that I would do what we would have done together. I went on alone. I saw him once on television, which we are still allowed to have, though it is now completely government-sanctioned. They want to make sure that we don't see anything dangerous, though it is for our benefit, our protection. They edited the program I saw him on, trying to use as much real film as possible, but the censoring made it hard to see what was happening. This was still Before, when the government just controlled. Now it creates. He was in a clip about the rebels and the fighters. It was taken by a journalist for the Post; I was almost glad to hear that the journalist was executed the next day because it meant that he had not been captured when the film was taken. He was tired, aged. He was defiant. I wondered if he knew that I was watching him, if maybe his act was for me. Even if he didn't know I was alive, he still hoped. I haven't seen him since, and they say that the rebels are losing. I wonder what I could do to help, and I honestly can't think of anything. I am powerless. I suppose I always have been, but at least I had my illusions. The call to prayer rings, bringing me downstairs to the main room with the others in the house. This is not prayer as it used to be, appealing to a higher deity. They destroyed that soon after the invasions, saying that religion was the cause of war and that they wanted a peaceful society. This new prayer is perhaps the best example of the combination of church and state. We pray daily, a reminder of what we have to be thankful for. I'm not exactly sure who we pray to; they've never said. I think they are afraid to deify anyone, because it would create a new religion. We kneel on the polished wooden floor, and I arrange my skirts to cover as much of my body as possible. The servants kneel submissively while the Master and Mistress sit in chairs behind us. Supposedly this is because servants need the training, the discipline. They have a larger need to be closer to what amounts to a governmental salvation. Does that mean that the Master and Mistress are saved? I wonder what they are saved from. Questioning? The need for knowledge? Rebellion? The Master begins speaking, and we stare at the portrait of the High Dignitary. He is a bald man, smiling faintly. I don't like his eyes; they are dark and too kind. I know he is not kind. He can't be to hold his position, and that his eyes are a lie and disguise. He is hauntingly familiar. I wonder if I knew him from Before, but I doubt it. I am probably just used to staring at the propaganda pictures and the newscasts. "May we live in peace and prosperity forevermore," finishes the Master in a monotone. He sounds tired and I wonder if he believes what he is saying. I hear his clothes rustling as he rises from his chair. He will go to his office now, and the mistress will return to her rooms. I will return to my own room, and I will wait. I wonder if the Mistress is lonely. She does not speak to the servants, and her husband needs her only officially. I know she meets with other women of her class once a week, and I wonder if she is friends with any of them. They all have the same problems, I would imagine, as false Mistresses, and I wonder if they commiserate. Maybe they hide behind the proper facades, keeping their feelings to themselves, as is considered socially correct. I wonder where they meet each week, and if there is opportunity for conversation at all. I wonder if she hates me. Does the Mistress enjoy her role as an accessory for the appearance of the home, or would she prefer my role as servant, taking what is rightfully hers? I am not supposed to have this position. As a Remnant allowed to live, I should be a Sanitorial, or maybe a Donor. My current role should have gone to a Blooded, to someone who has been bred and prepared for it. The master chose me, though, because I am a Remnant, and an educated one. I think it gives him pleasure to know my past, and to ignore it, because he does not want me for intelligent conversation. I am a sex object, existing solely for the master's pleasure and needs. There is no need for reproduction through procreation anymore, as children are born Blooded in the laboratories, but the desire for sex is too strong for it to be abandoned as part of the past. Courtesan, a word sounding rich and exotic, is now a household title. Courtesans, like Sanitorials, Donors, or Mistresses, wear a uniform and are assigned a room. And yet the Master still seems to find me, or my past, erotic and fulfilling. I am lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The bed is cold and reminds me of a bed in a hospital from Before. The sheets are cold and there is a clammy afghan folded neatly at the end of the bed. It is a Wednesday, I think. Days do not hold much meaning anymore, but their names are kept so that we will have some sort of order. Numbering the days suggests uniformity, and though that is the ideal, they do not want to admit it. We are all individuals, contributing to a society that somehow remains exactly the same. If I were to escape, there would be another one to replace me within a day, and the only one who would really notice is the Master. He would miss the humiliation and my attempts to cover it. He would miss my reticence. I wonder what would happen if I died. The Women downstairs would continue cleaning and cooking, and the Mistress would continue to go to her meeting once a week. The master would have a new Courtesan - concubine. And the world would continue to rotate. I miss being unique. At first the idea of equality was appealing, and that is what they used to sell this new idea to the ones who didn't agree at first. They promised that everyone would be equal in the new nation. I wonder how much that is true. We have classes, from the Untouched to the High Dignitary, but most of us are equal in power. The other part of life, the daily living, is just an illusion. Aside from those high in government, we are equal. I wonder if the master realizes this. Do the Women working downstairs understand it? I don't think they would hate me as much if they knew, but maybe they would. Maybe this daily living is all that there is, and the power is the illusion. I am not sure, but it doesn't really matter anymore. My own power struggles are in the past, and the power struggles in this world are almost complete. Not that there was ever much of a struggle. When the invasion came, after the initial bombings, it was peaceful. They took advantage of the shock and the confusion to introduce a new government, one that would organize everything, clean up the messes, punish whoever was responsible. They said punish then, because it was still a usable word. It suggested a terrible end to whomever was found responsible, unlike the clean discipline of today. Thinking back on it, I don't think they ever said who was responsible for the bombings. They, of course, couldn't have claimed responsibility. I think they may have suggested the Rebels, though it doesn't make sense. The Rebels had no reason to exist until after the government took over. It is at times like this that I wish I had paid more attention to what was happening around me then. I tried my best to, but it was hard. It was chaotic, and I kept thinking that we would win and that there would be no need to think about the future under a new government. And then we were forced to admit defeat. I was lucky, then, that I hadn't officially joined the Rebel side. After he died and I went on, I was alone. I was alone until the day they came to give me my choice. I was alone when I gave birth to my son. He was born the day of the bombing. That night, as I made my way through the trees and hills after abandoning the car as the roadblocks became more and more frequent, and the midnight sky above was unnaturally red, illuminated by constant flashes of light from where the city used to be. The stench of gunpowder and debris was almost tangible and, accompanied by the noise of the explosions, it was the Armageddon from a thousand burned books and zealous prophesies. I touched my stomach and felt the storm, and then I knew it was time. He was born at the end of the world, as I lay on my back looking up at the sky and planets that seemed like they were about to fall. But they didn't, and soon it was over. He was in my arms, and I was wondering what had gone wrong. In twenty-four hours I had been reduced to bare survival mode, and now I had a child. Jonathan. It wasn't right, I didn't want him born as the world came to an end, but I had to keep going. I don't remember much of what happened after that. I remember hiding, living outdoors for the most part, and I remember surviving. I suppose it is shock, and my inability to deal with what went on during those few weeks, but I sometimes wonder what I am missing, what I should know. They found me anyway. I was one of the chosen ones, one of the ones that they wanted. They had searched for me after the bombing, because they knew I wasn't at my house, and they had found the car. I was expecting death when they came, and I didn't run. I knew it was the end. And then they offered me a choice. Death or life. I chose life. I often wonder where my son is now. He would be about four, I think. Can he talk, does he remember me? Or did they kill him as soon as I got into the car, though they promised me he would go to a safe place? I wonder if I should feel more attachment to him, if I should be insane with grief over the loss of my son. It is hard for me, though. It seems unreal. There was Before, and there is Now. He is somewhere in between the two, and he always will be. I don't see many children anymore. I assume they are at some sort of governmental orphanages, but I am not sure. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. I am floating, going through the motions, and anything else is illusion. I wonder if Mulder would be disappointed in me. I wonder if he is still alive. I miss him. I miss speaking to him, feeling him near me, knowing that he would protect me no matter how many times I told him to leave me alone. I almost wish that I had pretended to be weak, on that final day, so that he would not have left me. But he wouldn't have believed me, and I would have been betraying him. We would have lost all respect for each other, and the partnership and companionship that I treasured would have been destroyed. Sometimes that is all that keeps me alive - the memories and the hope that they will be real again. Other times, though, I forget, and live completely in the present. I am not real, then, or maybe I just wish that I wasn't. Sometimes I worry that I am adjusting too well to this life, that I am accepting it. I know that in some respects, I have. It is necessary for survival. But the goal of this new society, no matter how much they deny it, is conformity in the guise of equality. When I don't fight it . . . It is easier for the Officials to make decisions that way, when we are all the same and therefore expendable. I hope that he is safe, wherever he is. If he is even alive. He could be anywhere. If he was able to escape earlier, before the gateways closed, he could be hidden in another country. Recently, though, they have shut their borders, blocking out refugees, and if he was not gone by then, he is either here or dead. I am not sure which is better. Should he be dead, unaware of what is happening, or should he be alive and fighting? Sometimes I make up lives for him, and for me. We are a family. Sometimes Jonathan is with us, and sometimes we are alone together. We are happy. The invasion never happened - it was paranoia, an unreal nightmare. We have moved on from Before, and we live in the Future. Now does not exist. There is a noise at the door. One of the women deposits a tray in the open doorway before glaring at me and going back down the stairs. It is my daily meal, all of the nutrition I will need to fulfill my position healthily, without costing the household any more than necessary. I miss the food we used to have, the variety and the choices. I miss the smallest things, though they add up to freedom. I never really appreciated freedom when I had it, and sometimes then I hated it. Before I used to wish that I didn't have to make so many choices, so many sacrifices. I wished that someone could choose my losses for me. Now, though, I miss that. I miss being able to wear what I want, rather than this uniform, and I miss being able to speak freely. I miss being an individual. I wonder what would happen if I had my freedom again - would I really appreciate it, or would I take it for granted after awhile? I think that I know more than the others, because of my role, my job. The Master knows who I used to be, and sometimes he tells me things, news that he knows will worry or disturb me. Maybe it gives him pleasure to know that he is hurting me, as he tried so many times in the past. I often wonder if my assignation to his household was completely chance, and I doubt it. He knows who I was, and it would make him happy to know that I am under his command, that I am his slave. He tried to break me, to break us, so many times in the past, and now he has the ability to. I thought that I would hate working for him, because really that is what I do, but it isn't as bad as it could be. I think that some part of him still respects me as an adversary, even if he tries to disguise it as hate or coldness. He has had the chance to trade me so many times, and he has had the chance to kill me. He has never made the slightest gesture to, though, and I think that maybe, in some twisted way, he loves me. I know who he used to be, and I know his weaknesses as he knows mine. In that aspect, we are equal, as we were Before. I often wonder if he knows where Mulder is. I think that he does, because of his high position, and because he would want to know. He would want to know what his enemy is doing, what he is planning, if anything. Sometimes I want to ask him, but I don't think he would give me a real answer. He never did Before, and I see no reason for this to have changed. I don't want to give him the pleasure and the knowledge that he has something I want, and I can do nothing about it. Even if he answered me, I would have no way of knowing whether or not it was the truth, and maybe that would be worse than not knowing at all. Through my small window I can see that it is dark, and I wonder how I have passed the time today. Thinking - I wonder when I will get tired of reflecting, remembering, and regretting. It is what my days consist of, except for the small errands the Women have me run and the nights that the Master has me. On those nights I wish that I were someplace else, maybe even dead, but I can't let my guard down. Even though he owns me, I am still wary. I do not trust him, and never will. Suspicion is a habit, and at times it has been all that has kept me alive. I remember nights when I would wake up crying, Before. It would be dark, but the sky would be burning . . . I was watching him fight some unknown enemy, but I didn't move to help. I couldn't, or maybe I didn't want to. The darkness would envelop him, and I would awaken with a feeling of loneliness and fear. I asked my sister about them once, and she said they were a message. When I told him about them, years later, he told me that he had them, too. He told me that they were answers to a question we hadn't yet asked. I don't have those dreams anymore. It is quiet. There are no sounds from outside because of the strict rules about curfews and disturbances. In order to have a peaceful society, there can be nothing loud, nothing obnoxious, nothing controversial in the slightest. There is no change in the weather. It is regulated, now, as much as it can be. I'm not sure how they do it, but the only mark of passing seasons is a slight temperature change. No snow, no rain. I remember the last time I saw the rain, the last time I felt it on my face and in my hair. I remember grayness and water splashing against my apartment windows, and I remember being warm and safe. I remember the smell of his wet hair, and his cold hands on my shoulders. I wonder what has happened to my apartment. They said that they knew I wasn't home, and that was why they knew to look for me, but I doubt that they kept my apartment standing just for that. It is more likely that they destroyed the apartment and tracked me . . . somehow. The door opens, and I turn. He is standing there in the hallway, and he doesn't say anything. If it were any other household one of the Women would bring me to him, but I think that he is uncomfortable with everyone in the house knowing what he is about to do. In some small way this makes me happy. I like knowing that he does not like his utopia, even if it is just in this way, though I am sure there are other small, secret hates. I do not rise as I am meant to. I sit up, though, my only concession to his presence. There is a ritual for greeting the Master; it was taught to me in a school for Courtesans. They called it preparation, and the ritual was a greeting. In reality, it is a humiliating way of showing my weakness and honoring the Master. I refuse to do it. I sit neatly on my bed, hands folded in my lap. "Come," he says, a note of irritation in his voice. He does not like my rebellion. I rise, because there is no point in resisting further. I could lose my life for it, and it is not worth that. We walk down the dimly lit hallway. He is in front and I trail behind like a reluctant child. The room is dim, as usual. I wonder why he likes the dark; does it protect him, or me? I walk to the bed, and position myself in what I have found to be easiest. There is only one part of the proper ritual for this that I respect, because resisting then would be only humiliating. The feel of his hands on my body would make me twist if I were not used to them. I close my eyes for this, because I do not need to see. I do not want to. I can hear, and feel, and that is enough. It makes me sick. It is a mockery of passion and love. It is painful, and I want to cry. I do not, though, because he could mistake it for something other than misery. I miss the days when sex was private and respected, when it was not a common ritual. I miss giving myself up because I want to, and not because I am a commodity and it is my duty. I miss dignity and I miss love. When he is done with me, I hear him rise and fabrics rustle. When he is done dressing, he coughs, and that is my signal that I am no longer necessary. I do not spend much time dressing - my costume has been designed for ease in this - and I do not look at him as I leave. He has used me, and though I should be used to it, it is still humiliating. I know that I should face him, because surely this only gives him pleasure, but I cannot bring myself to. It is the one thing that I have not yet mastered. Back in my room, I lie down on my cold bed. I close my eyes, and when I open them I know I am dreaming. I am lying on a table, unable to move, and people, somehow Rebels, are all around me. They are talking, but they do not see me. I am not breathing, but I don't need to. The room around me is black, and Death is holding my hand. Then I awaken, and I pull the clammy afghan higher around my neck. I wonder what it means. Is it a prophecy, or a combination of my worries and fears? Or, in a darker light, is there a difference? Outside the darkness is fading to a pale light, and I am amazed again at how quickly the time passes when I am alone. The call to rise will come soon, an alarm throughout the Village at the time deemed healthy to awaken, to begin the day. So many things are regimented, things that Before I would never have imagined. The day passes quickly, with nothing out of the ordinary occurring. We rise, we pray, we eat, and we retire to our rooms. It is amazing how little we actually do, and how much we think is really happening. I am almost asleep by the time the Master comes to my door. Again, he does not knock, and I do not rise. He sighs impatiently, and I stand. I will not prolong it this time. We enter his room, and I am surprised at the brightness. Rather than the usual dim lighting that he prefers, it is well-lit. He motions to a chair across from his desk, and I take it. He sits behind the desk, treating me like an equal. I wonder what he is going to say, what he wants this time. He regards me cooly, steepling his fingers in what used to be a gesture of prayer. I feel like he is praying to me, the goddess of pleasure and possibly fertility, and the thought is so bizarre that I want to laugh. I don't, though, stifling my nervous laugh, because he would think that I was laughing at him. Even if I was, especially if I was, he wouldn't like it. "Are you happy here?" he asks me, sounding dull and uncaring. I wonder how to answer - surely he knows that I am not happy, but to speak this answer could be grounds for discipline. "It is my position," I reply, avoiding his eyes. "I see." He watches me for a moment, his eyes shielded and unyielding. "Would you be happier elsewhere?" In another home, with another Master? I do not know what he means, and I don't answer. He continues. "Would you be happier with the Rebels?" I hope he doesn't hear the surprise in my voice. "The Rebels are dangerous. Sir." "I am well aware of that, Dana," I wince at the familiarity in his voice. "But would you prefer to live with them, as opposed to living as a Courtesan here?" Yes. The word is unspoken, but I think he sees the answer in my eyes. "The Rebels are planning a raid," he tells me, "and I have been put in charge of . . . foiling it. However, I am prepared to let several Rebels escape . . . " His voice trails off as his words begin to sink in. He is offering me a trade, a deal, a chance to be free. Why? What do I have that he doesn't already own? Or is it simply a trap, a plan? "I see," I hope that my voice does not betray my hopes. "Of course, you could not join them freely. It would be a trade," he states matter-of-factly. "Yes." I am not sure if it is an agreement or a question. "Don't flatter yourself. It's not that I like you, or that I wish to see you happy. I have grown tired of you. You are no longer as young, or as enticing as you once were," he says cruelly. He means to hurt me, but his words have no effect as I think about my possible freedom, about seeing Mulder again, if he is still alive. "What do you want from me?" I ask. "I own your body," he begins, "but I do not own your mind, and that is perhaps what is most attractive about you. It is what I would most desire to break." He stops, and for a moment I wonder if he wants my sanity. But he continues, and I can breathe again. "My terms are these. You will be allowed to escape with the Rebels after their poorly planned raid. In exchange you will give me one night, one night in which I will own both your body and mind." "How . . . ?" I begin, not understanding. It doesn't seem like an unfair exchange. My mind, my last measure of dignity, the one thing that he still desires, in exchange for my life and my freedom. He wants to see me weakened, humiliated more than ever before, bowing beneath him, and he wants me to not be able to control myself. It amazes me that he is willing to give the Rebels a victory, just so that he can get what he wants. I wonder if that means that the Rebels are going to lose, or that he is so caught up in his own desires that he does not care. But for one night, if that is what it takes for me to be free for the rest of my life . . . if I can trust him. "How do I know that you will not betray me?" He does not look surprised at the forwardness, the lack of respect in my question. Instead, he smiles. "You don't," he says, and I can almost hear a smirk in his voice. "It's your decision . . . " I swallow. Humiliation for freedom would be for the best in the long run, but the fact that he can change his mind as soon as the night is over is disturbing. Once I gave him myself, I would not be able to retract the deal, and he would no longer have a use for me. Death, then, would be my end. My decision is death versus life, again, but choosing life last time has gotten me nowhere. "Yes. I accept." "Alright." He rises, and it is a signal for me to do the same. I turn and walk back to my room quickly, wondering what I have just agreed to. Our deal, my sacrifices, are laughably absurd and ancient in their origin. To think that the human race has come so far . . . but we are no longer the human race. Blooded, most of us are Blooded. But we two, the Master and the Courtesan, are Remnants, the last evidence of the full humans. And even in our supposedly advanced society we choose to return to an ancient system of beliefs and values. Sexuality and freedom, is this the basis for our race? I will give him myself, body and mind, in exchange for the hope that he will not betray me. He already owns my body; it is my mind that he wants. I wonder how he will take it. I suppose it is up to him to choose the method; I have basically agreed to it, no matter what. If I back out now, he can have me executed for showing sympathy to the Rebels, for becoming a traitor. His role in this will never surface, and woman will again fall victim to the alleged superiority of man. I cannot sleep, and when the sun shines through the window I am tired and it is too bright. I dress slowly, hating the feel of the manufactured cotton-style cloth on my bare skin. I make my way down the hall to the washroom, where I am allowed thirty minutes to bathe every morning. Anymore would be evidence of sloth, and any less would not be fully sanitary. The door does not lock. None do, anymore, with the exception of the master's chambers and the entrance. There is no need for secrecy among the servants, and everything is regulated, anyway. Still, I make sure that it will not fall open before I slip out of my robe. As I turn the taps for the bath, I wonder why they still allow me to do this. Surely it is dangerous; there is the possibility of suicide by drowning. For the first year after the invasion we were not allowed to go to the washroom alone; perhaps they don't care any longer. The unfaithful ones have already left . . . what does that make me? As the tub fills, I stare at my reflection in the shatterproof mirror. The thin bars make it impossible for me to touch the glass, and they cast lines, blank spaces through the reflected image. I wonder how I have changed in the past four years. My hair is longer, as we are not allowed to cut it, and I am sure that there is evidence of my aging. My eyes, though, are still the same. I wonder if he would recognize me still, and I wonder if the master finds me attractive at all, or if it is the humiliation and the remembrance that he enjoys. I slide into the hot water, relishing the sting against my skin. Quickly I wash and redress, not wanting the Women to have to come check on me again. It is embarrassing for both of us. The air in the hallway is cool against my flushed face as I make my way back to my room. There are no errands today, and so I will spend the time thinking. Once, I would have enjoyed time with nothing to do than think, reflect, but I am running out of things to think about, and so many memories are painful. I barely touch my food that night, looking at the dry colors with disgust. I am nervous, and I know that there is nothing I can do. I have agreed, and going back upon my word is punishable by law. Of course, my actual words and the reasons will not be discussed; my crime will be treason, pure and simple. I wonder when he will come for me tonight, as I sit curled up on my bed, back against the wall. The stars outside, something that we do still have, are cold and beautiful. I wish that I could be among them, serene and calm, above it all and not caring. Soon after the Mistress and the Women have gone to bed, the door swings open. I should have known that he would want as much time as possible. I swallow tightly and make my way to the hallway. I know that I am sweating, and I make an effort to calm myself. I enter the room cautiously, wondering what I am about to do. What I have really agreed to do. What does he want? What will he make me admit? There is nothing that he cannot ask me, that I can refuse to answer. By law I must tell him anything he desires. Or maybe that is it - he does not know if I tell the truth. Still, I wonder how important any small truths may be, if he is willing to trade his ownership of me for them. Of course, they may not mean his possession of me - he can always change his mind. He motions me to the seat in front of his desk, and he stands opposite of me. Ready to move at any moment. He smiles coldly, his way of welcoming me, or perhaps initiating me. I shiver despite myself, and I make an effort to still my body before he sees and takes it as another small victory. "Are you ready?" he asks, his voice full of false concern. I swallow, wanting to ask him how, wanting to say no. "Yes," I reply, hoping that my voice does not give me away. He pulls a small syringe from inside a desk drawer. I wonder what he will inject me with - a truth serum, a hallucinogenic, an aphrodisiac? He bends down next to me, and places the needle against my arm. It is cold, and I look away, not wanting to see it. My skin tingles, and he rises, finished. He returns to his sat across from me, folding his hands on the desk. I wonder how long it will take for the drug to take effect, and why he is watching me. I wonder, bizarrely, if this is the same drug they give to the captured Rebels. Then the ceiling begins to grow black, and my head begins to spin. I close my eyes, trying to regain balance, or maybe perspective. When I open my eyes, the room is different somehow. The colors are brighter, the edges sharper. I realize that this is the drug, and I blink frantically to clear my vision. So this is his plan - attack me with euphoria? Though it seems to be working . . . "You're awake," he says from his place across the desk, and I smile. "Did you miss me?" I ask, and I realize that I am flirting. I am glad that he does not answer me, though I don't know why. My entire body tingles, and my Courtesan's robes feel like concrete on my skin. I glance at him, licking my lips, and immediately chastising myself. I have to resist this; it is exactly what he wants me to do. "I think . . . that we are ready to begin," he says slowly, and each word hangs tantalizingly in the air. He stands and moves to my side. I do not trust myself to stand; I concentrate solely on staying still, not moving at all. Finally he places his hand on my shoulder and pulls me to my feet. My hands are on him instantly, running down his face and to his chest. He guides me to the large, wooden bed in the corner, and I push him away. I need distance, but then he is close again, intoxicating. Something nags at the back of my mind - willingness - but I ignore it, unbuttoning his dark uniform shirt and caressing the skin beneath it. An amazing contrast, the black with the white. And then there's more, and oh, he is beautiful. I slide quickly out of my robes, tossing the red cloth behind me and taking his hands, running them over my pale flesh. I have not been in the true sun for so long, and my skin is so sensitive . . . his hands are soft, like petals on my breasts. I catch one hand and bring it to my mouth. He tastes of the past, the forbidden. Leather, smoke, danger, promises. Everything I have wanted for so long. He touches my face, and I look into his eyes. They are dark and deep, and I can feel myself being swallowed whole. He is smiling, and his lips are lush and full. I want them on me, all over, everywhere. I catch his head, pressing them against mine. I am hungry . . . I need him. My tongue is in his mouth, pressing, frantic, and he tastes sweet, like melting chocolate. Melting in my hands, all over my body. I know there is something I should be thinking, something I should be doing, but for the life of me I cannot remember. All that exists is the moment - my senses. Sight, taste, touch . . . I push him back onto the bed, feeling for the first time the rich satin of the sheets. They are like air to my skin, used to the cheap cotton material used for Courtesan's uniforms. Immediately my whole body is even more alive, and I pull him on top of me. He is heavy and delicious, weighted with promises and what is to come. He moves, turning slightly, and I sigh in ecstasy. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, his mouth harder into mine, and I raise my body to bring him deeper. He takes it as an invitation, sliding inside me to where I am wet with waiting, forcing himself into me. I cry out as he reaches me, forcing my breath out in passionate, live bursts. He smiles widely, baring sharp, feral teeth, and I have the feeling that I have just done something, crossed some first barrier. He pauses for a moment, and it drives me crazy. I have to move; I cannot stay still. I twist and writhe, driving him further into me until my skin screams with pleasure, my vision explodes with color, and my body is on glorious, burning fire. I am alive, radiant, every inch alert and ready. His hands are on my buttocks, tight and strong. They move slowly up my back as I turn, moving him underneath me. He is strong and I want him to hold me, to force himself into me, to meld himself into me and never let go. I want him to keep me, to have me forever. Then we are one again, and I cling to him. I am lost in waves of pleasure, power, ecstasy, and he is the only thing keeping me from drowning. I hear screaming from a faraway distance, and then I am here and it is me. My skin tingles, burns, with wanting. I pull him against me, his flesh taunt against mine, completely. I force his mouth into mine, moving my hips to force him into me again. "Love me," I manage, words choked and harsh. "Love me now!" He responds immediately, and I realize that until now he has been holding back. I feel a thousand kisses upon my bare body, pushing and caressing, and I close my eyes to imagine crimson lips on white flesh. It is overwhelming, and he moves his hands, gaining speed as he touches the length of my body. His fingers are delicate and strong, tracing intricate, erotic patterns upon my skin. He covers my mouth, warning me not to cry out, and I taste him again, burning and wine, promises fulfilled. I am drunk on his skin and his sweet, sweet taste, and I laugh giddily. He grabs my hands, holding them behind my head, in a bizarre version of bondage. Though I can feel my legs bursting with energy, I cannot move them, and I lie as still as possible as he thrusts himself into me again. He reaches for what seems like eternity, and I will die with anticipation, until he finds me again and I am drowning for him. Our oils pour together, mixing and exploding in color and sound. I feel him traveling through my body, and when he is in my fingertips, I place them on his chest, willing him to feel the energy. He does the same, massaging my breasts with light. It spreads throughout our bodies until we radiate, a mass of glowing light, and as it explodes I fall into its darkness clinging to his love. When I awaken, I am under satin sheets, and I turn, feeling the smooth material against my skin. I look over at him, and he is watching me. He smiles lazily, welcoming me back. I run my hands through his hair, relishing the smoothness, but he brushes my fingers aside. I shrug, no longer feeling the desire or the need, just the memories. "You enjoyed yourself?" he asks, and the phrasing is so bizarre that I laugh. "Oh, yes, I did. And you?" He smirks. "Yes, I did. May I ask you something?" "Anything." Anything for him. "Was it better with your lover?" I pause for a moment, memories rushing back. I remember a tall man, with graceful hands, and I remember his hands on my body. I remember him touching me, and I remember crying. "No . . . he loved me, but not as you did," I say honestly, comfortable with this truth and it's simplicity. He smiles, and for once it reaches his eyes. His beautiful, dark eyes. "May I ask you something?" "Of course, lover," I respond teasingly, enjoying how the words feel in my mouth. "Lover" rolls so easily off my tongue. "Tell me about your life Before. Tell me what you thought when you met me." I pause, not certain where to begin. "When I met you . . . I thought you weren't ready. You were inexperienced, not knowing what you would face in your life. And then I found out who you really were, and I hated you. Afterward, though, I started to admire you . . . It took awhile, but eventually I loved you . . . until he came, and you weren't there anymore," I sigh. "For so long, though, I wanted you." He smirks knowingly. "Will you do me a favor?" "Anything you want," I say, caressing his arm. I am safe here, wanted, as I have never been before. "Go over there," he gestures to a table in the corner of the room. "Bring me the syringe." I rise, sliding out of the blankets and feeling the cold air on my body. I hurry back, handing him the needle. I wonder what it is for; the liquid inside is red, swirling. "Give me your arm," he says softly, and I do so. He presses the needle into my skin, and I watch the crimson liquid disappear into my flesh. When the syringe is empty, I look back up at him, waiting. He smiles, and then I am so tired . . . I force my eyes open to a room bright with sunlight. It is harsh on my skin, and I glance down to see that I am nude. I am in my room . . . my clothes are on the floor at my feet, and my head aches terribly. I pause for a moment, as memories come flooding back. Color, desire, love, betrayal. And his smile. What have I done? I pull my dress on, shuddering at the bright material and it's coarseness. I told him that I loved him, and I told him that he was better than Mulder. Is that what he wanted, after all? To know that he is better than Mulder, to me? And in such a cliche way . . . I feel disgusted and sick. Used. What have I done? I have betrayed my lover. No, not my lover. Mulder. I have betrayed Mulder. So this is what it took, after everything else. Threaten me with death and I'll be fine, but threaten me with boredom and ownership, and see Dana jump. See Dana throw off her clothes and roll over on her back . . . No. What's done is done, and what counts is that I may now be free. If he keeps his end of the bargain . . . I spy a small piece of paper on the floor; it must have been in my clothing. I pick it up and unfold it with shaking hands. "Good morning, Dana! I expect you may be a bit sensitive; this is usual. You performed very well last night, and your honesty was quite endearing. Must be why Mulder kept you for so many years, eh? And don't worry - I'll keep my end of the deal." I crumple the page, feeling hot tears sliding down my cheeks. What have I done? I sink to the floor, sobbing desperately. My face is hot, and all of a sudden I want to get him off of me. I want to be clean, free. I pull my robe tightly around me and run to the washroom, hoping that my allotted time is not over. The room is empty when I arrive, and I close the door sharply behind me. I drop my clothing on the floor, turning on the taps full blast, and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I am beautiful. I hate him. The water burns my skin, but I do not mind. It will cleanse me, burn him off of my body. What have I done? A sudden thought strikes me - did I tell him anything else? Anything that he could use against the Rebels? I remember hallucinogenic clarity, sex, and words - telling him that he was better . . . but I did not say anything else. I am safe, in that respect. Someone raps sharply at the door, and I jump. "Just a moment," I call, hoping that my voice does not tremble. I dry quickly, pulling my Courtesan's robes over my head. I pull open the door, not looking at whoever is outside, and run to my room, where I collapse on my bed, pulling the blankets over my body to shield me from the sunlight, and I fall into a restless sleep. I awaken to find him standing in the corner of the room. I sit up shakily, wondering how long he has been here, and he turns to look at me. "Sleeping Beauty awakens," he says, and I know he is laughing at me. "What - what do you want?" I hate myself for stuttering. "Simply to uphold my end of the bargain," he answers me, faking innocence and injury. I let out a deep breath. "Thank you." He nods. "I do have some honor, you see. Unlike others." He smiles sharply, and I feel tears at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, and wait for him to continue. "You still wish to join the Rebels? I can promise you many nights like last . . . and evidently they will be better here than with the others . . . " I hesitate, and I hate myself for it. Surely my love, my dedication to Mulder and the Rebels, my hate for the Master, is worth more than sex. But my body says no. My body wants him to touch me, to feel his hands on my breasts and . . . "Yes. I still wish to join the Rebels," I choke out. He smirks. "As you wish. We will leave tomorrow night; I will come to get you. You will wait in the car until I give you a signal, and then you will join the fleeing side." He turns and leaves, and some part of me was still waiting for him to gesture for me to join him in his chambers. But it wouldn't be the same, and I will not submit to his drug again. I lie back down on my bed, hating myself. How could I not have answered instantly? Surely Mulder would have. But Mulder was stronger, he was always stronger. But I actually, for a second, considered life as a drug-addict sex slave over freedom, over my real life and over my love. I can imagine myself throwing my body at his feet every night, begging him to inject me . . . how could I have thought, even for a moment, that it would have been better that way? I close my eyes. Maybe when I wake up this will all be a dream and I will be at home, safe in Mulder's arms. Maybe. Someone is in the room. I open my eyes quickly to see the Women staring at me. I lick my chapped lips, sitting up in bed and trying to look dignified. One glance at my clothes tells me that I am not, but I clear my throat. "Can I help you?" "We are supposed to clean your room, Courtesan," they say, looking like a single organism in their matching uniforms and cloned bodies. "Oh. Yes. Thank you," I say, flushing. I sit neatly on my bed, watching them spread out and attack my white room with cleansers. They work quickly, neatly, and I wonder what they think. As Blooded, they have been raised to live like this. They know no other way. But do they envy me? Do they ever wish they could trade their matronly uniforms for my revealing dress? I hope not. But it would be different for them, too, never knowing any other love. They finish, and with a unified glare, they hurry out of my room. I sigh and slide back into sleep. Memories, at this point, are too dangerous. They bring pain, and betrayal, and death. I cannot do that now. I am shaken back to consciousness, and he is staring at me. "We are leaving," he says coldly, and turns down the hallway. I hurry to catch up, straightening my clothing and my hair as best as I can as I dash down the stairs. Before we exit the house, he hands me a dark cloak. "You are a Woman," he says, and I nod, pulling the cloth over my crimson dress. As soon as we are in the vehicle, I want to look out the windows. I want to see, I want to experience . . . I flush when I realize that I am thrilled about a car ride, something that I would have been disgusted with so long ago. I bow my head obediently, and the ride passes in silence. My heart is pounding loudly. If he is alive, I will see him tonight. If he is alive. The mantra repeats in my head as the Master gets out of the car, closing the door softly behind him. I stare out the windows at the darkness around us. We are in a part of the Village that I have never seen, which is not surprising, considering my situation. The car is parked in front of a large warehouse, and if I squint I can imagine that I see Rebels in black surrounding the building. Everything is happening so quickly . . . I was a Courtesan, and now I am free . . . Finally, a single gunshot is fired. I do not know if it is my signal, or a signal for something else, but I open the car door and run into the darkness. I am free. Now I just have to stay alive. I duck behind a large truck, waiting to see where the Rebels are gathered. Something light splits the sky, and then the warehouse is burning. It illuminates me, but it also lights the area around me, and I see the uniformed men on one side of the property and the ragtag team dressed in black on the other side. I run to join them, hoping they will not shoot me. I join them breathlessly, and am immediately seized from all sides. "Wait! I'm," how do I explain this? "I was a Courtesan . . . I escaped. Please, I want to join you." There is a general muttering in the group, and then I am released. I suppose I do not pose a threat, as I left my cloak in the car and there is nowhere to hide a weapon in my Courtesan's uniform. "We're going in!" someone shouts, and the band rushes to the warehouse. Shots are fired, and I duck, going into a routine I know so well from Before. Immediately the Rebels rush back, and I am caught in a wave of bodies. Somehow we make it through the trees, out of harm's way, and we stop. "What happened?" I ask the person nearest to me. "Ambush," the woman says grimly. "The Invaders must have known we were coming. Leader's shot." My mouth is suddenly dry. I could have warned them. I could have told them what was about to happen, and maybe their leader . . . suddenly, I know. I push through the crowds of people to where a man lies on the ground. They are gathered around him, but no one moves to help. I bend down beside him, knowing and somehow pleading that I am wrong. Slowly I peel his mask off, and my hopes are dead. It is him. It is Mulder. "Mulder?" I say softly, hoping that it is not too late. His eyes open suddenly, and I am struck by their familiar intensity. They have not changed. "Scully? Dana?" he replies, wonderingly. "How did you get out?" "Sh," I tell him. "Where are you hurt?" It is dark, and I cannot make out any definite wounds. He smiles weakly. "Guess you don't really get the news," he says. "Bullets are obsolete, Dana. Penta freezes the body," he coughs, "kills quickly, and with a higher accuracy rate." "No." This cannot be happening. I cannot have found him, only to lose him again. What will I do now? "I love you, Dana. I've always loved you," he tells me, his voice thin and cracked. "Take care of yourself . . . fight the good fight. You always have." He closes his eyes, and I cradle his head in my hands. "I love you, Mulder," I whisper, and my words are lost to the wind. "We had a son." "I'll never forget." And lastly, "Absolve me." It is too late. We were Before, and we cannot exist in Now. We do not fit. I do not cry as I hold him, as the Rebels watch me carefully, as they begin to leave as the sun rises. Slowly, finally, I understand. Destiny. Denials are worth nothing, and neither is love, no matter how much it hurts.