Melvin Frohike crept silently past a row of file cabinets, gun in the ready position. He nimbly avoided a tangle of cables nearly blocking the end of an aisle, and slid to a halt at a corner, taking a deep breath. He leapt out, finger on the trigger, ready for anything that might happen. A flash of pale hair in the darkness, and a single sheet of paper drifting gently to the ground. Damn, he could have had that bastard.

He retreated behind a set of shelves, swift fingers searching blindly for the night-vision goggles. There! He slipped them on and waited for his vision to adjust to them. Now he had the advantage. He'd need it. HQ this night was crawling with opponents, all of them armed and flushed with adrenaline. And all with one objective—to be the only one to survive.

Frohike's own chances had just gone up. Now, with a little luck… He heard the smallest of noises behind him, and spun around, firing wildly. He heard a gasp as he ducked around the shelves, a muttered curse word. Something hit the ground loudly, taking pieces of hardware clattering to the cement floor. That was a hit, he figured. It had sounded like the big guy.

He beat a hasty retreat, knowing the sound would give his position away as surely as a flare. He worked himself into a niche between two more filing cabinets, trying to do it silently. Moving slowly could get him killed, but moving quickly had its own dangers—too much noise, and too much risk of catching someone's eye.

He kept low, knowing the others would likely be searching the darkness at their own eye level—closer to six feet, he figured. He made sure his weapon was still functional, and propped it gently on the top of a metal box, waiting. The noise would have brought the others, and he figured he could pick them off, one at a time.

He tried to quiet his breathing, unnaturally harsh and loud in the close heat that had filled the warehouse all summer. Moments like this—every sense stretched to the breaking point, every nerve tingling, every move calculated, and any mistake certain to be his last—he lived for this. The danger made him feel alive. It was a rush almost better than sex. And as always, it made him horny. After this—after this, like always, he'd have to escape, to get to Mulder. The sudden, sharply remembered smell of Mulder's sweat threatened to seduce him right there, but he fought it down. First—he had to get the others, without them getting him.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head as slowly as possible, knowing the others could sense his own movements. A hand, a gun, leading past the end of an aisle. He aimed carefully, ready to shoot the second the man appeared in his sights.

The hand with the gun snapped up, suddenly, as the man pulled back, startled. The man still on the floor, the one he'd hit earlier, groaned softly and started to get to his feet. Damn! Frohike had been sure he'd gotten the guy.

Frohike assessed his position—way too vulnerable—and moved silently for the more open part of the warehouse. Tactically questionable, but they were all converging on him now, he assumed, and he figured once he reached the electrical panel, he could create a distraction.

Too late he spotted the discarded pizza box and stumbled. He caught himself, but the damage was done. Hearing the noise, the others had apparently abandoned stealth for speed, and he could track their movements toward him. He hastily ducked behind a desk, cursing under his breath.

In the next second, he yelped as the goggles overloaded from a sudden burst of light. He scrabbled them off and blinked, trying to clear his vision. He heard a triumphant yell, the clatter of equipment, and the slam of the warehouse door.

"Fuck!" came Langly's voice somewhere off to his left. "What was that?"

Jimmy cleared his throat. "Uh, guys? It's Agent Mulder."

Frohike sighed and stood, a little unsteadily. The flashes started to fade, and he took stock of the situation. Jimmy was standing, covered in dust and red dye, by the video monitor.

Frohike shrugged. "Well, let him in."

"I think he let himself in," Langly snickered from behind a chair, brushing himself off.

Jimmy swung the door open, and leapt back as Mulder pulled his own gun. "Hey, whoa! Relax!"

Frohike grabbed the agent by the arm and dragged him inside to stand under the lights.

Mulder put a hand to his chest and it came away dripping. "What the hell?" he asked in bemusement. He stared from one Gunman to the other. "I'm… blue?"

Frohike snorted. Langly and Jimmy laughed, and Byers tried to hide his weapon behind his back, blushing furiously.

"Good shot, Byers!" Jimmy cheered.

"Friendly fire," Langly explained. "That'll teach you to try sneaking in here."

Frohike shook his head. "Someone find him a towel. I could've sworn that was a trunk shot, Jimmy."

Jimmy looked down. "Shoulder, sorry."

"Damn. Well, fair's fair. But next time, you're mine."

"Not a chance, Elf," Langly told him. "I still owe Jimmy from last time. I'm painting his ass green."

Jimmy grinned. "So does Byers get points for Agent Mulder?"

Frohike laughed. "Status kill. Game's over, boys." He slung his arm around Mulder. "What are you doing picking our locks anyhow?"

Mulder sighed. "I was going to see if I could interest you in beer and pizza, Fro."

Langly snickered. "Sure. That's all you wanted to… interest him in."

Mulder pouted, and it had the usual effect on Frohike. "Gentlemen, I'm outta here," he said cheerfully. "See you later."

Mulder took a last look around the room. "Is this really what you guys do with your spare time?"

Frohike grinned and grabbed his jacket. "Sometimes Yves plays. But we have to run her through the metal detector first. That girl does not like to lose a game."