From: k.morse@ntlworld.com   
      
   Title Basement Blues   
      
   Author  vavie2003@wanadoo.fr  PoorMulder   
      
   Fanfic rating: Some guidance needed.   
      
   Category: MT and angst.   
      
   Summary: Mulder is trapped. How will   
    he escape?   
      
      
      
   Necessity is the mother of invention.   
      
   Feedback. After contest.   
      
   Disclaimer: Fox and Cc own The X files and   
    characters therein.   
      
      
      
    Basement Blues   
      
   He has to think carefully about his situation. But it's   
   so hard, because he's cold, wet, and exhausted, he has   
   know idea where he is and don't forget, he's hungry too.   
   His stomach growls at its emptiness and the headache   
    that he's been fermenting for hours is reaching meltdown.   
      
    He's in such pain now but he can't afford the luxury of   
   giving into its dark fingers. His right ankle is swollen,   
    sending waves of agony up and down his leg; injured   
    somehow when he was thrown into this dark abyss.   
      
    How does he  keep getting himself into these situations   
   he wonders?   
      
   He begins to laugh softly, half in stupefaction at   
   his own stupidity and at some crushing level of despair,   
   tears running down his face from his tired abused eyes.   
   He could die here in this dark basement. Nobody at all   
   knows that he's here, his cell phone is dead from the   
   first fall and he has exhausted every possibility of   
   climbing out, due to hours of exertion trying.   
      
   If only he'd told his partner where he was going,   
   who he was going to meet with. This could have   
   been a lot different. Or maybe she would have   
   been in danger too. That didn't bear thinking   
   about...no!   
      
   Then it was good that this was his stupid fate alone.   
   He chocked back at sob at the thought of Scully and   
   her lovely face, turning to anguish as the time   
   rolled by when they couldn't find him. Her anguish   
   cascaded into grief when no trace of him could be   
   discovered. He'd keep trying to cry for help, but   
   his voice was little more than a croak, his throat   
   raspy and sore.   
      
   Despite his last unfortunate attempts, he decides   
   he can't just sit here and give in; he has to try again.   
      
   He found something that passed as furniture near   
    the musty wall, just below the dirty little window,   
   after stacking it as high as he could he began to   
   climb very cautiously. But the wood was rotten with   
   damp and without warning, the furniture crumbles   
   under him with his weight and the wet moldy ground   
   comes up to greet him again in the most painful   
   way. He's soon soaked again as he rolls into a   
   puddle of foul smelling water, coughing and   
   trying to regain his breath. He doesn't want to   
    think about what might be in it, trying to wipe   
    the worst of the slime off on his pants.   
      
   His back is now killing him, and he is soaked   
    through just to add to his overall misery and   
    discomfort. Shaking his painful head, he   
   takes a good look around him, trying   
   to gather his thoughts.   
      
   He needs to search another means of getting out of   
    this hell. Shivering now in earnest, he rocks himself,   
    his arms hugged tightly against his chest. The dim   
    light begins to fade and he feels a strong slither of   
    fear and loneliness; he's going to be in the dark in a   
   few minutes.   
      
   'Can't sit here. Just can't give up.'   
      
   Scully's face haunts him behind his eyelids and spurs   
    him on to act. It's almost like she's with him if he   
   thinks about her and keeps her face in his minds   
    eye, like she is guiding him, giving hi incentive   
   and a fresh infusion of strength.   
      
   He pulls himself up, and searches something, anything.   
   His pace is frantic, almost manic. His heart is racing   
    like a hammer against his ribcage, and he knows   
   that Scully would say that he's wearing his panic face   
   now. He can't panic.  Panic means he will almost   
   certainly never get out of hereto see her again. He's   
    been through worst in the past. A fiery boxcar   
    buried alive, Mutants. Conspiracy. Serial   
   killers. He can't die here.   
      
   He owes it to her to escape; to return to her side   
   and continue their relentless search for the Truth.   
      
   But maybe, he thinks ruefully, that's what made   
    him end up here. After the first blow, he saw   
    very little of his attackers and they grabbed   
    him from behind.   
      
   Sweat is running down his forehead in spite of the   
   cold. The shadows seems to want to swallow him.   
   Old fear from his childhood threaten to resurface.   
    The nightmare if his sister's abduction left him a   
    legacy of a thousand night terrors. Shadows   
   eat children. Monsters hiding in damp dark   
   corners. He shudders, suddenly frightened.   
      
   'Don't be such a coward. It's only a basement.   
   A very cold, very dark and horrible smelling   
   wet basement.  It's okay. Keep your head   
   Mulder. You're ok.  Think, think. You can do   
    it. Try using force against this   
   damn door again.'   
      
   Dragging his hand on the floor, he searches for   
   something like a crowbar. He eventually closes   
    his eager fingers over a pipe in a dark corner.   
   Holding it firmly in his trembling hands like a   
    treasure, he climbs the old stairs   
   leading to the basement's door.   
      
   The pipe is rusty but seems solid enough. He   
   holds it against the hinge-pin, takes a deep   
   breath and pushes, hard with everything left in   
   him.  But in spite of his exertions, nothing   
   changes. The door doesn't budge a   
   centimeter. He just succeeds to hurt his   
    hands on the sharp splinters. They are   
    bloody and hurt just like the   
   rest of his body. When did he have his   
    last tetanus shoot? His mind suddenly   
   supplies as he sucks the sore   
    fingers into his mouth, tasting blood.   
      
   He collapses onto the stairs in a messy haze   
    of fatigue, despair and frustration, and a   
   sob rises from his chest.   
      
   'Come on, Mulder! Use your mind! There   
   has to be a solution. I have to get back to...   
   no need to get back to Scully. Before she   
   gets pissed at me.'   
      
   He has never been a practical man. His IQ   
    isn't useful in a situation like this. He's no   
   MacGyver.   
      
   That skinny little window is his only way to get out   
   now that he's failed miserably with the door. He   
    looks at it with mounting anxiety. The tiny slither   
   of light mocking him as he stands there. So close   
   but yet so far.   
      
   How to reach it?   
      
   Despite his generous height, he still isn't tall   
    enough to reach it without the help of standing   
   on something. Even if was to jump up there   
   he needs ropes. The window has cast iron   
   rails. If he succeeds to reach them, maybe   
   he can work them loose from the old fittings.   
    He can climb against the wall. But there is   
   nothing useful here for a foothold.   
      
   He groans as he sees the light fade. His   
    hands and the rest of his body throb like   
   a base drum; there's blood all over his   
   fingers, slippery and slick. He can smell   
   it in the dark, even over the damp decay   
   all-round him and on him.  Wiping his   
   hand on his pants again he cringes   
   against the rough material, and then   
    a thought   
   occurs to him.   
      
   YES! Use it to make a rope. He removes   
   his pants hastily, shivering when the cold   
    hit his bare thighs. He tears them in two,   
   using the rusty pipe and ties it together.   
   It's just long enough to reach the railings.   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)