Title : Becoming Judas II : Resurrection Author : darkstar Email : clone347@aol.com Feedback : adored and craved Website : http://members.tripod.com/darkstar_phile/index.htm Archive : I would be honored, only please let me know. Category : MSR/Angst/Post-Colonization Spoilers : None Rating : PG-13 for war violence Disclaimer : See Introduction Summary: He sold his soul. Now he wants it back. Disgusted with the life he is living and the man he has become, Mulder breaks from the Colonists and risks everything for one last chance at humanity with Scully. But redemption, like betrayal, has its own price. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (19/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - Love without truth is hypocrisy. Truth without love is brutality. - Anonymous Three weeks later: This day the sky caught fire, this day the clouds burned to ash and blanketed the ground as charred snow. A thousand tiny flecks of black ash stung her lungs with each breath. It seared her eyes to tears which ran as blood under the light of the scarlet sun. The wind whipped her hair about her face, cutting into her skin with the invisible sting of the most delicate razor blades. The voices rode the wind into her mind, a sea of whispers without form or body. Only fear. /Help us Dana.Youweresupposedtoprotect usbutnow we are torntorntorntorn torn.../ This day the earth froze, this day the ground turned to ice and the sea hardened into crystal. The numbing cold cut through her bare feet straight to her bones. No, it cut deeper. She felt the chill as an icicle impaling her heart and lungs. Daring her to breathe. She couldn't breathe. She was fire and she was ice and she would be consumed. Again the voices swelled from the silence to skitter across the edges of her thoughts. Again, the whispers, and again the terror. /Help usDana.You said wewouldbe safe butwearetaken away takenaway pleasedana help Find us.../ "Where are you?" She screamed, stumbling forward, arms wrapped around her body to shield herself from the razor wind and dagger cold. She saw herself lying slashed and cut to pieces against the surface of frozen oceans, her blood trickling between cracks in the ice to harden into rubies. Before she had time to blink, the image was gone. /Find us,please save us, wearehurting heishurtingus/ "I can't see you!" The wind forced her eyelids together until all she could see was the ash and the sanguine horizon stretching before her without beginning or ending or relief from the pain. "Tell me where you are!" The earth beneath her feet trembled, and a second vision welled up from the depths of her mind. A metal chair in an empty room. Straps biting into her skin, pinning her to a nightmare that was neither dream nor reality but stretching over both. Red-hot pain exploding through every corner of her mind as sanity ripped in two... Pavlov's voice, thick with delight. Intangible hands pressing against her forehead until the skin blistered. /You want to save them, Dana? You want to take them from me? Are you willing to give yourself to me in their place.../ Pain... "Mulder!" /The dead cannot save the living.../ She opened her mouth to scream and the vision shattered into ash and wind. The whisper returned, louder than before. More desperate. /Hewilldestroy us, theywill killus, pleaseDana. Help us, help us./ Frustration, boiling her veins. "You have to tell me where you are! I can't help you if you don't tell me where you--" The words died in her throat as the clouds of ash formed the shape of a man. A man with no face, no body, only Eyes. Electric blue, full of hate and lust and evil. A voice, not Pavlov's, but just as twisted as it lashed toward her mind. /You want to see them?/ The ash wreathed into a devil's smile that brushed deeper than her skin, burrowing into her mind with dirty fingers that reached to her thoughts and scraped the innocence until it bled. /I will reveal them to you. I will reveal anything you want if you will open yourself to me./ She blinked and the eyes disappeared. The wind fell silent and the ash drifted more slowly through the air. The voices whimpered, or did the sound come from her? When she looked up, she stood at the edge of the petrified sea, and she was not alone. A body at her feet....a girl, with black hair frozen against her skull and dark eyes filled with terror as her hands clutched her swollen stomach. /Aida.../ /Dana...run...he's coming back..../ The voice of the whispers. The voice of the fear. Out over the ocean, the breeze began to pick up, the ash swirl and come together in the form of a man. The Eyes opened slowly, and Aida screamed. His voice, again, inside her mind. /See, Dana, she belongs to me too./ /No! I won't let you hurt her!/ A demon caress against her mind. /Jealous, my pet?/ /Mulder will-/ /Mulder is beaten. Look into his eyes and you will believe that./ /Look into his eyes and you will see me. You will have to destroy me before you conquer him./ The Eyes flashed white anger and a blast of wind screamed toward her, knocking her back against the rocks. Bones shattering, ribs screaming. Aida's body, lifted by the wind and pinned between the white earth and bloody sky as she was dragged toward the Eyes. /No!/ She forced herself up, gritting her teeth and driving against the wind even as it increased in fury and intensity. She reached the edge of the ocean, the ice chafing the skin of her feet until it was red and cracked. The razor blade edge increased and whipped the blood from her veins. Until she collapsed, too weak to save even herself, against the ice. She had been warned of this in a vision, a dream within a dream, and she had not listened. Now it was too late. Aida screamed again, the sound tiny and helpless against the laughter of the wind. /Leave her! Please....she's just a girl.../ Begging now. Fingers outstretched, pleading. His voice. /And would you be the one to save her, Dana? Would you be the one to bleed?/ Her body, jerked up by invisible force and flung against metal. Leather straps trapping her arms into helplessness, just as before. And the voice, ever louder. /Would you give me your mind..../ Burning inside her mind....bleeding.... A scream. /Would you give me your soul..../ Hands reaching out for her forehead. The skin would blister and burn and peel and she would be lost. He would be inside her mind, just as Pavlov before him. He would own her..... Fear, paralyzing her lungs. Numbing her mind. /No....leave me....leave me! Take her! Take her! Please....don't hurt me anymore..../ Her body dropped back to the ice. The Eyes disappeared and she was alone. Guilt. Shame. Tears. And in the distance, behind the back of the wind, laughter... /I didn't mean it....come back...take me....I didn't..../ Darkness. "No!" Her body jolted as if a live wire was pressed again her spine, arching up into a spasm that pulled her back into reality. Her eyes flew open, greeted not by burning skies and frozen worlds, but by the watercolor blue of pre-dawn light. Scully fell back against the bed, her fingernails digging into her blankets as she gasped for air, half-expecting it to taste of ash. It did not. /You're awake./ She still felt...it...inside her mind. /You're okay./ Her eyes traveled to Mulder's bed in search of mute reassurance, but landed on nothing more than air and shadows. The remembrance came that he was gone, called away on a week long reconnaissance assignment, and that he was not here to calm her fears. He could not hold her, soothe her, put his fingers on her forehead to heal imaginary burns.... Who was she fooling? He hadn't held her that way since he left her in Chile, a year ago. Maybe he would have, but now he was never around long enough for her to find out. It had been exactly twenty-two days-- she had kept count-- since he had come to her with news of his reassignment to some big-shot field unit. His chance to make a difference, he'd said. Well, he'd made so much of a difference that they were more strangers now than when she'd arrived. At least he hadn't felt the need to drink since the reassignment. For that, she could almost put up with his almost continual absence in the name of "duty". She could be strong. Except for moments, like these, when she woke with sweat dripping from her skin and demon voices inside her brain... Perhaps if she asked him to stay, he would, but then he would know her weakness and he would know how stained she really was, and then where would they be? Scully rolled out of bed, half-disgusted at her weakness for even considering such an admission of fear. Skinner had told her, time and time again, to expect the dreams as part of her mind's natural healing process. He'd told her of the nightmares he'd had after coming back from Vietnam, how they faded in time, and she clung to belief that these demon visions would do the same. /But if they are dreams.../ A tiny doubt inside her mind whispered to her as she wiped the sweat from her forehead, /if they are just dreams why do you still feel him inside your mind when you wake up? If they are mere fancy, why do you run to the shower and hold your head under the water until you can barely breathe, hoping to cleanse your soul?/ "Victims of psychological interrogation often undergo severe post-traumatic stress for long periods of time. This may include dreams, visions, and even physical sensations they remember from their captivity. In your case, your encounters with Pavlov. These feelings are normal and will fade given time." She had recited Skinner's logic perfectly, almost word for word. A tiny smile of triumph broke out across her lips. She had survived the end of the world and the beginning of the new regime and she would *not* be cowed by something so simple as a nightmare. Regardless of that assurance, it took her thirty minutes of scrubbing before she could convince herself she was clean, and even then she could not reconcile her finest logic with one cold question, eating at the inside her mind like a tumor. If it was her nightmare, then why had Aida been the one to scream? * * * * * * * * * * * * * The underbelly of the rose petal flowed beneath his fingers, softer than his wife's skin on their honeymoon and perfumed with subtle incense no less as powerful than the candles that had burned that night. Nicolas closed his eyes as he traced the outline of the flower, inhaling the sweetness it left in the air until his lungs were filled with the savor. He'd given her roses on their wedding night, fifty of them to cover their bed and her silver gown and her rosewood hair. They had always been her favorite flower. Two days after he escaped the scalpels and the straps and the bleeding, he had stumbled across a wild rose in the desert and had carried it three hundred miles in his pocket until he reached the mass grave where her bones lay tangled with so many others. By then the petals were brown and dead, and he did not feel it worthy of her. It was then that he realized that he must make it worthy of her. Not just the flowers, but the world. He must purge out the weak, the corrupted, and leave only those who were as pure and loyal as she had been. Already he had perfect roses, thanks to the creative genius of the genetics department. Soon the rest of the world would be cleansed as well. He would see to that. He pulled the petal from the rose, watching it flutter down to the windowsill in a silent scream. An unblemished flower was one of the few true beauties left to life, he believed. Of course, all of the flowers he kept in his office were perfect, thanks to the creative genius of Corps scientists. They offered him whatever he desired-- lilacs, tiny and glowing as if washed by the first spring rain; sunflowers, warm and full as the August sun; roses softer than Korean silk. His fancy strayed from flower to flower but inevitably the artist in his soul was drawn back to the scarlet beauty of the rose. It was, perhaps, the embodiment of innocence in its most natural form, stripped of all but the inner softness and fragility. His fingers tore a second petal from the rose, half-imagining it shivered in pain at the loss of another limb. He smiled at the thought, then reached for a third petal. The beeping of the com link on his desk momentarily halted his hand. "This is Nicolas." He inserted the listening piece into his ear and continued his game with the petals as he spoke. "The Quarter raid was successful. We apprehended twenty unregistered Impures." A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. That was Domingo's voice. He'd know it anywhere. The man was one of the oldest friends he had, and also one of the only to understand his particular....needs. Domingo headed all raids on the Impure population, with special instruction to bring any "interesting" subjects in for a little painting session. Perhaps his old friend had a little treat for him today... The fourth petal tore away between his fingers. Then the fifth. Nicolas flicked his tongue across his lips in anticipation. It had been nearly five days since the last girl died-- amid quite a pathetic show of whimpering for mercy. The hunger rode strong and thick in his blood. There was always Mulder's woman-- who would no doubt make a splendid feast once tamed-- but the time was not yet right for that conquest. For now, he needed something more readily accessible. Something he could feed upon. "I trust disposal was not a problem?" "Not at all. We cremated the bodies in the western furnaces, so that the wind would not carry the ash back into the city." "Excellent. Do you have anything else to report?" The strands of alien DNA within his brain tingled in ready delight at the very thought of a new, untouched mind to bend. "I think I have something you'll be interested in." Nicolas could hear the smile in Domingo's voice. "We caught her in the market, and would have killed her with the others if I hadn't noticed her reaction to their deaths. I think we got us a real, live empath here." "An empath?" He shivered. It was rare to find such a creature, and even more to capture it alive. He had only experienced one such delicacy, but it was a pleasure that had kept him warm through many nights after. Now to find another specimen....it was incredible. Six petals. Seven petals. Eight petals on the ground, deep red like tiny tears of blood. "You heard me. She's a real prize. Her talent is stronger than any I've seen, and she's got a sweet little body to match. She's kinda young, but I think you will be pleased. She grows on you. In fact, once you're finished sponging her out, send whatever's left to me for a while. You can play with her mind all you want, but there's no use letting the rest of her go to waste." They both laughed at that. "You've done well, as always." He spoke quickly, though he tried to keep his voice from sharpening too much in excitement. "Take her to my quarters immediately. I'll meet you there." He shut down the com link, pocketing it quickly, and headed for the door. The stalk of the rose stood naked against the window, the thorns bare and ugly in the sunlight that shone also upon the torn petals littering the ground. Five minutes later, Nicolas stood in his private studio, a room linked to his bedchamber by doors to which he alone had a key. It was a pleasant little room, lit by a skylight panel in the ceiling and brightened by more of those exquisite roses. After all, every artist had to have a little atmosphere to get him in the mood.... He lined up his brushes one by one. Each had a special use, a special significance. The large, thick brushes would be used to produce loud, screaming emotions such as fear or hate or passion. Tiny feather-thin brushes could trace the filigree of love, hope, and tenderness. His paints had every color for every thought that ever passed through a woman's mind, and he, Nicolas, could capture those thoughts as he saw them. He could bend them into whatever he desired. He could lift a soul into bliss and just as easily cast it down into despair. He could enter the mind with gentle caresses of love or he could rip it apart with every violence of hate. The choice was always his. They were merely vessels to fill his hunger with their minds and fill his canvas with their souls. Last, but not least, he set a fresh canvas on the easel, running his fingers against the rough surface. How exactly would he recreate the world of this empath? Large brushes or small? Soft strokes or hard ridges and lines? A knock on the door to his quarters brought electric goosebumps to the surface of his skin. She was here. He could sense her even from this distance, and she was beautiful. The scent of innocence clung to her mind, a perfume not unlike that of his roses. Oh, she was perfect. He knew this before he even saw her. He wiped the sweat of his hands on his pants as he walked into the main room, his ears ringing with the dull roar of anticipated pleasure. "Come in." The door opened and she stumbled into the room. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (20/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - Domingo was right....this one was young. Eighteen, nineteen at the most. Her eyes betrayed her age if nothing else did, wide and childlike in their fear as they looked at him. Her lips parted slightly with the rapid breathing of terror, a sound, Nicolas had come to discover, not so very different from passion. He found it hard to decide which was more intoxicating. He withdrew his eyes lazily from hers, his gaze wandering over the rest of her features. It was a pleasant journey. The smooth tanned lines of her skin cut pleasing contrast against soft raven hair that brushed her chin but not enough to hide an vicious bruise across her jaw. There was a cut across her left cheekbone, still bleeding and spilling the crimson down her face. Anger burned through him, sharp and hot as magnesium powder kissed by a match. "Who bruised her?" The right to mar perfection was his alone. How dare anyone else so much as touch what belonged to him... "I don't know, sir." The soldier nearest him saluted sharply, his voice betraying his nervousness. "We received custody of her after the arrest, but I was told she resisted." "I see." Resistance? Could it be that between those delicate bones flowed real spirit? This would be sweet....he could taste it now like honey wine across his lips. "And does she have a name?" Nicolas stepped closer to her, until he could almost smell her fear. As the heat of his gaze swept over her eyes again, she shivered, dropping her head so that her eyes met the floor. The gesture was not quick enough to hide the burn on her cheeks. She picked up on his desire already....this was a most promising sign. He pressed the emotion against her, rubbing it against her skin until the heat of it seeped through her pores. He wanted to be inside her blood. "Her first name is Aida, if she's telling the truth. She wouldn't give us a last name and we couldn't get it from any of the others." "Aida." He repeated the name to himself, and smiled at its simplicity. "How lovely." He trailed his fingers down one strand of her hair, following it to the contour of her face. She flinched away. He took the opportunity to sweep his gaze over the rest of her body. It was then that he noticed, for the first time, the swell of her stomach. Pregnant. His stomach tightened in disgust. The little whore... "And what of this?" He gestured to her stomach. "I was not told that she was with offspring." "Do you want us to exterminate her, sir?" The soldier reached for his sidearm, and it was then that the girl's head snapped up, eyes flaring and voice pleading . "Please....let me live....I have a child....I haven't done anything wrong." Her lower lip trembled and tears shone in her eyes. "I haven't done anything....let us live..." The words died away into silence. "You are a member of an animal race, corrupting our city without permission or cause." The words were almost a snarl. "For this you should die. But I am merciful.." His eyes flicked back to the soldiers. "Wait outside. I will call you when I am finished for the day." They left without question, saluting sharply as they went. Nicolas locked the door behind them, then turned back to the girl. She stood with her head bowed, her hands clasped together in their shackles as if praying. When he looked at her again, he noticed her lips indeed were moving, a steady mumble of words he could barely hear. "So," He said, his voice twisting into a mocking smile as he walked back toward her. "She prays to God." He stopped directly behind her, placing his mouth against her ear. "He can't save you. If he even existed, he wouldn't care about filth like you. I am your god now." His hand slid up her back to rest on her shoulders. "Please me, and I might allow you and that little worm inside you to live." "There is a God." She stiffened, and he sensed the pulsing defiance inside her mind. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she spoke, never looking back at him. "And he will punish evil." "Is that what you think I am? Evil? " His sneer turned sharp and his hand tightened on her shoulder until she winced. "I don't see any angels here to stop me." She did not reply. He stepped away from her enough to look at her again, easing back into a chair. "So tell me, Aida, how you came into my city. Be a good girl and answer all my questions. I am still deciding whether or not to kill you." He extended his mind toward hers, reaching out for the first contact. There was no obstacle to overcome. The empathy trait within her did all that for him. She would sense all his emotions. All he had to do was provide a little extra push here and there, and she would be his. How to begin.... Ah yes. Desire. He wanted the tiny lips to move in the whisper she had prayed with, but this time calling his name.... The muscles of her throat worked in a slow swallow, as if she knew exactly what he was doing. The silence stretched one more long heartbeat before her answer snapped it like a taut rubber band. "I bribed a trader to smuggle me into the city." "How terribly ingenious of you." She certainly must have suspected, for Nicolas felt the push of her mind against his. Brave child. In his mind's eye he could see her consciousness tuning itself to his emotions by instinct, yet she resisted. What did she think she could win? "And were you alone?" "Yes." The word was a bare whisper. "Aida, dear, look at me when I'm talking to you. You have such pretty eyes." She did not move. "Look at me!" He leaped from his chair, grabbing her chin and jerking her face back toward him. "You will do as I say, you gutter whore, or I will have your child torn from your womb this very hour! Do you understand?!?" She nodded, a tear at last overflowing her eyes to slide down to his finger. He captured it unbroken on his skin and held it to his lips. It was the taste of her pain. He wanted to taste more of it. All of it. When he thought she'd had enough-- for the moment-- he let her go. So much for soft emotions and desires. Now it was time to make her fear. That emotion intensified whenever he approached her, flaring up inside her mind with images of screaming angels and serpents in gardens. To sharpen the image, he began to circle her, his body close enough to hers to ensure she picked up on the want emanating from him. In a moment he would touch. Just the shoulder, or the hair, or the face, or the curve of the back. Just enough to make her cringe. "So where were we? Ah yes. Did you come alone?" "Yes." "Where did you get that?" He pointed again to her stomach. "I was raped by a soldier." "Lying is still a sin, even for little girls." He knew she was hiding something. Her consciousness reeked of it. She was protecting someone and he determined to find out who. "Do you want to know what I think? I think you're a little slut who attached herself to one of my soldiers and convinced him to bring you here so you could live off our society like some parasite." With every word he moved closer to her until he was face to face with her, so close his breath disturbed her hair. She quivered, the tears running down her face, but her voice remained steady. "I am not a slut." "Tell me his name." "I told you the truth." "Do you want to know why I know that's still a lie?" He placed his hands at her temples, stretching his mind until it filled hers as a storm cloud moving over the sun of the landscape of her emotions. Now he would take her. Her stubbornness wearied him and now she would pay. He would tear her mind to shreds and throw what was left of her to Domingo and his boys. Stupid little sow. "Because you're not the only one with a gift. You feel me, don't you? Inside your head?" He pushed harder, shoving against the feeble defenses she tried hastily to erect. "It's deeper than thought. It's pure consciousness, the kind you sense in others. Well I can feel it too, my dear." His fingers tightened on her forehead. "And I can control it." "You won't control me." The girl impressed him with her relentless cling to hope even as her body shook with increasing pain. "I will feel nothing for you." Rage bubbled from his soul, a caustic acid that washed over his senses, eating away at his restraint. It turned the world to red, the color of blood. Her blood, and he wanted to see more of it. "You will feel what I want you to feel!" His backhand would have knocked her to the floor if he hadn't grabbed a handful of her hair, twining it around his hand. "If not in your mind, then through that beast inside you!" He jerked her body against his, pinning her against him as he wrapped his hands around her womb. He could sense the child's mind, a whisper of a scream so far in the distant it was barely audible, yet growing louder each time he pushed himself further into the mother's mind. He would reach the child. He would destroy the son for the mother's defiance. She was screaming, fighting, pushing against him with every fiber of resistance in both body and mind. It would not matter. He would triumph. He pushed pain throughout her subconscious, as blinding hot and vicious as nuclear fire, again and again until blood began to drip in tangible drops of crimson from her ears. Yet still she resisted. It was as if she were shutting down one part of her brain at a time, focusing all her energy as a shield around her child. It was a shield he could not break. He hammered against it with every trick of mind and emotion he knew, but she stood firm. Defying him. How dare a mere girl, a *hybrid* deny him his pleasure? Soon enough the fury erupted through his fists. He threw her down on the floor, stunning her with a kick to the base of her spine, and drove the next kick straight into her womb. She curled up in agony, arms folded in desperate attempt to shield her unborn, begging him to stop. /Don't hurt him! Please! Tell me what you want me to feel and I'll feel it. I'll feel it....Please!/ But he did not listen. He did not stop, until her screaming changed in pitch and her body began to shake in contractions. Blood began to flow, but it was not red but an inhuman green. How utterly disgusting. The slut was going to give birth right there in his floor... At least the fumes wouldn't effect him. He saw the shock in her eyes at that, the slight sense of disappointment. His lips curled in contempt that she, a tiny woman-child, would think she could hurt him. "Your blood doesn't sting me, little one." He smiled. "Your alien brothers decided it wouldn't be helpful if their servants went around passing out every time we breathed their blood. They gave us immunity." She groaned as another contraction hit her. "Help...me.." "Let your God help you, if he can." He snarled, slamming his boot into her side one last time before joining his men in the hall. They stiffened to attention immediately, discomfort at her screaming lurking around their eyes, but Nicolas knew they would ask no questions. Only obey orders. "Call a medic and send that filth to the infirmary. She's a hybrid...take the usual precautions. Make sure the offspring is disposed of and then send someone up here to clean up this mess. She is to be kept alive until I give further instruction." He wasn't finished with this one....no, not yet. Not by a long shot. He needed his brushes. They called to him, cajoling him to release his passions while they still roared in his mind. Yes, he would answer them. He would paint her as he desired her to be, as he saw her in his mind. He painted fervently, the colors flowing from his fingers as if they were cut from his own blood. Two hours later, the painting dried in the sunlight. An image of the Virgin with child-eyes and raven hair just to her chin. Our Lady of the Crucifix. She hung and she bled from her hands, from her feet, and from the gash across her abdomen. Across her womb. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully closed her eyes as the warm water flowed over her skin, as the soapsuds cleansed her hands of another birth. Six hours of sweat and screaming and bloody latex up to her elbows as she tried to coax another life into a world that would never appreciate it for its innocence and beauty. It was only a baby to her and to the wide-eyed twelve year old who had given life to it. To the other doctors, to the Corps, it was a future soldier. A killer. A nameless, faceless boy that would take his first life by the time he was thirteen, and grow up into a good little devotee to the Cause, except for perhaps his dreams when he imagined life without bloodstains. They all dreamed of that life. She looked down at her hands, at the reddish-pink water dripping from her fingers down the drain. Dreams or not, there would always be blood. A soft knock on the door disrupted her thoughts. "Scully..." It was Che's voice, low and tense with something that sent a chill through her spine even before she turned to see his face. The man was terrified. He was doing a good job of hiding it, every place but in his eyes. They screamed at her. "What is it?" She dried her hands quickly on a towel, ignoring the smudges of red still left behind, her throat tightening. In the back of her mind, she already knew the answer. She knew it but she would not accept it. After all, it had just been a dream. Nothing more; it couldn't be. Che shut the door behind him, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. "On my way home for lunch, they told me there had been a raid on the Quarter. Nicolas orders them from time to time....searching for unregistereds." He swallowed and his voice trembled when he spoke again. Whether from fear or hatred or both, she could not tell. "They told me Aida was stopped in the market. The others were killed, but she....was taken...." "Taken." The inside of her mouth shriveled into sun-baked dust. "Where?" His hands tightened into fists, the fear in his eyes partly overshadowed by obsidian hatred. When he spoke, his words dripped disgust. "Our glorious leader sometimes chooses to amuse himself with his prisoners before he executes them." He turned his eyes back toward her and Scully cringed at the pain. Now his voice was back to a whisper, a plea for denial. "She was pregnant....what could he want..." Scully's stomach tightened as if someone had shot a staple into it, anger and disgust flaring through her, but she forced herself to think. To remain calm and rational and all those other things she knew she was supposed to be. "Does Skinner know?" "He left this morning to settle a land dispute in the western territories. He won't be back until tonight. By then it may be too late...but even if he was here, what could he do?" A dangerous hint of desperation wrinkled around his eyes when he said it. As if he was only a moment away from charging Nicolas' quarters himself. She knew he would fight bravely. And die quickly. No, she had to think. Had to calm him down. Had to figure out what to do. The voices from the dream hissed through the back of her mind, not helping at all. /Find us please, save us. He is hurting us./ She pressed her fingers against her forehead to silence the demons. "I will go to Nicolas and barter for her release." she said. "Perhaps he will allow me to buy her from him." "Buy her?!?" Che spit the word out like it was a piece of dead meat clogged in his throat. "She is not a slave to be bought and sold like-" "I know that." Scully cut him off, her voice rising momentarily as she tried desperately to keep him thinking rationally. Love was blind, but when mixed with rage it became a blinded bull. She had to keep him from giving into the hate. It was hard, she knew. In the camps, when they tortured Mulder, she had thirsted for the spilling of their blood. Che's muscles shook with that same lust for vengeance. "I know that." she repeated herself. "But it doesn't matter how we get her back, does it? As long as we get her and the baby safe again." He nodded. "I have money. I've been saving it to buy land in the northern territories. We were going to be safe...." She ached for him, but it was not a new pain. How many times had Mulder promised her the same thing? How many times since had they been torn? "Keep your money," She said. "Buy your land. I can take care of the expense myself. Don't worry." She tried to smile but she had never been a very good liar. "We'll get her back." Her hand moved toward his shoulder but froze in the air when the sound of shouting filtered through the door into the room. "Get her into the delivery room! Quick! Watch her blood....call the doctor. We have a termination order and it's going to have to be fast. He wants the woman back alive." She felt her breath die in her lungs, saw Che's eyes kick up the heat until they seared her face when he looked at her, and then she saw him move, faster than she'd imagined anyone could. He spun, jerking the door open, moving forward as a predator gliding in for the attack, but then his body jerked to a stop. His fingers dug into the doorpost until they turned white; his knees shook like he would collapse. "Oh God..." His voice shook like a man living his worst nightmare. She knew he'd seen Aida. Or whatever was left of her. And Scully did not want to look, but she did. Three orderlies wheeled the girl into the delivery room, her body convulsing with labor pains and a feeble attempt to free her wrists from the straps binding her in place. Not that she could run even if she was free, even if she wasn't giving birth. If the bruises covering her face spread to the rest of her body, it would be a miracle if she could even walk. She screamed, begging them not to hurt her baby, the words were distorted by pain until it was more an animal wail than a human voice. Her face twisted with each new contraction, but Scully sensed that it ran deeper than purely physical agony. Innocence was dying. You could smell it in the air. Scully caught the tension of Che's muscles right before he began to move forward, and for this reason she was able to stop him. Her hands lashed out and closed around his shoulders, jerking with every bit of weight in her until she turned him to look at her. His eyes were hollow, wild. They were the kind of eyes Mulder had the night the both of them were captured. Like the world was ending and for the first time you knew you couldn't do anything to save the one you loved. "Che." She spoke firmly, her hands keeping tight grasp on his shoulders. His muscles quivered under her fingers, rage and hatred and pain all rolled into one. She was the only thing holding him together, the only force keeping him from flying into his passions. She would not let him fall apart. Not like Mulder. This time she was not the victim. She could save them both....she had to save them both.... His eyes stared straight at her but focused on nothing. "Che, listen to me." She drove her eyes into him until he had no choice but to look at her. "You can't save her if you get yourself killed. And they will kill you, if you rush out there like some kind of animal. She needs you to be strong, right now. She needs you to wait." "I can't stay here and let them-" "I'm going in there. I'm not going to let them hurt her or your baby. I'm a doctor, remember? I can protect them, and I'm asking you to let me do that now. Are you hearing me?" He nodded and she continued. "You need to leave. If they even suspect you're with her, you'll be arrested too. Don't go to the Quarter...they might be watching your house. Go to my apartment." She fumbled in her pocket until found her keycard and pressed it into his hand. "I'll call you as soon as it's safe for you to come." He hesitated, an agonizing pause, and then his fingers closed around the keycard. His shoulders moved up and down in a sigh that held all the pain of a helpless man. "Go. Save them. I will do as you say." Scully tried to smile for him again, her hand squeezing one last reassurance into his shoulder as she rushed toward the delivery room, promising to burn incense to every saint she could remember if only she would not be too late. Three steps away from the door, an orderly stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Authorized personnel only. This one is an Impure." Aida screamed again, the sound cutting through Scully's soul. If her gaze had been fire, it would have burnt him to a crisp within minutes. "My name is Doctor Dana Scully and I am one of the delivery doctors this shift. Get out of my way or I'll have you arrested for obstruction of treatment." "There is already a doctor in attendance. I have my orders." "Get out of my way, son." Her lips thinned into two steel lines. "I don't care what your orders are, and I don't think Commander Mulder would either once I told him you threatened me." Their eyes locked for one moment longer, for two. He moved. Scully grabbed a breathing filter and yanked open the door, just in time to see the doctor pick up a syringe filled with a pale yellow solution. She had seen them use it before. It was an neurotoxin genetically designed for use on fetal tissue. And that monster was going to use it on Aida's baby boy, the one who talked to his mother inside her head and told her he loved her even though he had never seen her face... "Wait!" The word ripped from her throat in a half-strangled cry as she held her hand out toward the doctor. She advanced toward him, trying to appear professional and detached while burning inside. "Dr. Scully," The man looked up in mild surprise. "Is there a problem?" "A termination, doctor? Doesn't that seem a bit hasty?" "The order came down from the Leader himself. Besides, it's the law. All Impure fetuses must be terminated to prevent contamination of society." What a boy scout, she thought. He says it just like it's coming out of the Corps manual. "I am aware of the law. My only concern here is the health of the mother. She is in no condition for the strain of an toxin-induced termination." It was no lie. Neurotxoin treatment was often as dangerous to the mother as it was to the child. It was only used as a last resort. A punishment for those who dared to give life without an official stamp of approval. "We will have to take that risk." "I do believe your orders were to keep her alive, weren't they doctor?" She was growing desperate, and now she became afraid that they would sense it in her voice. He eyed her a moment, then nodded slowly. "You're right." For a moment, Scully dared to breathe. Then he spoke again. "Give her 10 ccs of neural stimulus. It should neutralize the toxin's effects on her mind long enough to prevent any serious damage. We can address any minor injuries after the birth. But we have to inject the fetus now, before it leaves the womb." He smiled back at Scully, as if he had done her a wonderful favor. "How's that sound, Dr. Scully? Does it satisfy your conscience?" No, she wanted to scream. You murderer! She might have resisted. She might have fought them. She might have, if it was not already too late and the needle was not already inside Aida's womb. But there was something she could do. She could hold the girl's hand. She could whisper words of comfort that meant nothing because there was no comfort she could give. She could stay beside her until the birth was finished, and the baby's body wrapped in plastic for disposal. Aida had lost consciousness somewhere in the final labor pangs, and she did not have to watch. Scully watched. Then when it was all over, after she slid her hand away from Aida's limp fingers to let the orderlies move her to a bed, she walked into the cleansing room. The water hissed from the faucets when she turned them on, hissing like Pavlov's voice inside her dreams. /You want to save them, Dana? You want to take them from me? Are you willing to give yourself to me in their place.../ If she had said yes, would it have made a difference? Even if it was in a dream? Although she wasn't sure that's all it was, not anymore. She didn't know what she was sure of. Not of herself, she knew that. Not of humanity, that was certain. Faith? Truth? Love? Where were they when the girl screamed? She held her hands under the water until it burned, scrubbing until the skin turned pink. What was it about this place that she could never feel clean? Save them, Che had said. He had been in pain and he had been afraid and he had trusted her. It was then that the tears came, spilling from the corners of eyes that had been dry far too long, streaking down skin that had not even felt rain in months She cried for the pain in Che's eyes, and the broken innocence in Aida's, and the emptiness in her own. Mulder would have understood. Mulder could have intervened. Mulder was not there. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (21/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - Four hours he waited. He paced until he feared he would wear a path into her floor, and then he found the liquor under the cabinet. Tequila. Not his brand. He didn't drink the hard stuff. He filled his glass anyway, tossing it down his throat in one putrid wash of fire that he hoped would burn away the fear inside him. He was a soldier, and soldiers were never supposed to be afraid. But he couldn't feel her mind and there was the terror. The telepathy between them had not been strong, surfacing mostly in images of thoughts and dreams rather than words, but it had been a constant warmth inside him from the first time he kissed her. He remembered every detail of that kiss-- the tremble of her lips, the burn of the blush on her cheeks, the tears in her eyes. /Why are you crying?/ He had been afraid he had hurt her. She was so fragile. Stardust and sunlight, sewn together with the softest skin... /Because someday we'll wake up from this dream./ He had known this day would come. Every few nights he would wake up in sweat and terror with nightmares of it. But he had always counted on being able to feel her through whatever happened. To be able to close his eyes and find her in the back of his mind, tucked up safe and warm and happy. Now the nightmares were real, all around him, and when he stretched out for her mind, he felt nothing. Only darkness. Not the soft, natural darkness that filled her as she slept, but a cold and cruel black. Underneath it, he almost thought he sensed another presence. A stranger's fingerprints inside her mind. If he admitted it, that's what really twisted his gut. The thought that someone had forced themselves inside her mind, a place where he alone walked and he alone touched, and that they had hurt her using her own gift. Who would take pleasure in something like that? He suspected he knew the name, but he dared not speak it aloud. It was treason to speak against the Beloved Leader. But if Nicolas was responsible-- there, he'd said it-- and if Aida died then he would kill the man. He was considered a healer because he could restore life energy. Repair souls. They feared those like him because if he could build up, he could also tear down. Che glanced down at his hands. It is a strange life when your touch is your greatest weapon. A strange life he had not asked for, so why did they hate him? Even then, he could bear the abuse, but not Aida. Everyone was jaded in the world, everyone but her. He'd loved her for it. He'd love her even when that innocence was gone but oh, it hurt. A knock on the door. He knew, when he opened it to see Scully's swollen eyes and the stain of tears on her cheeks, that something terrible had happened. Something had been lost. "I'm sorry." she whispered. Her eyes clouded over with a distant pain. How could she know what he felt? Had she felt it before, herself? But then there was Mulder....perhaps she really had known pain. It eased his mind but not the burning within his chest. "Which one?" He feared the question. He feared the answer even before it left her throat. But he had to know. Was his a father without a son or a husband without a wife? Or both... "Your son." She walked into the room, dropping her coat on the floor beside her and not bothering to pick it up. He shut the door behind her, leaning his forehead against the wood as the grief hit him. Another child, lost. He was supposed to have been able to protect this one. He had promised. Scully was still talking, not meeting his eyes. "I tried to stop them....but there was nothing I could do." Her lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "Nothing." Speaking was difficult but he tried anyway. "You tried." Strange, this pain inside him. The news of the death had not boiled his blood as he had expected, but rather froze it. He could feel it hardening, drop by drop within his veins. Hate did that to a man. "You did all anyone could do." He felt his mind slipping out from under him and struggled to retain control. There was yet a reason for sanity. A reason to live. "How is Aida?" His voice trembled but did not break. He must not break. "How much do you want to know?" She looked up at him now, that same delicate almost-pain in her eyes. And such weariness.... He sensed she had poured her soul out in the delivery room, and in the tears that had followed. Why, he could not imagine. No other humans cried over the death of a hybrid child. Che suspected Dana Scully would mourn the death of any child, human or otherwise. And what was it she was asking him? How much did he want to know? In other words, how much truth can you stomach today? Can you stand here and hear what they did to your wife or do you want to take another drink first? He dared not indulge in another. He had enjoyed the first too much. "All of it." He battened down the hatches of his soul, ready to hear every detail of it no matter how much it hurt. Aida was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. Soul of his soul. He would not turn away from her pain any more than would her kiss. "Tell me everything they did to her." "The good news is they want her alive. That means she will be given any medical treatment that is needed to ensure her survival. But she's going to need every bit of it. He really did a piece of work on her." He saw her jaw tighten as she spoke of it, heard the coldness in her voice that sounded like the metallic click of a gun against a man's head. He imagined she spoke like that when she killed. "What are her injuries?" "Extensive bruising to her face and lower back. Three of her ribs are broken and two of them are bruised. I wasn't able to find out the extent of the internal damage. The....termination procedure....only weakened her further She has yet to regain consciousness." He closed his eyes. Breathe, he ordered. You remember how to do that? In-out. In-out. You can heal her, remember? You can take all the pain away. "I need to get to her." He said. "I need to heal her." More than that he needed to be near her again. To touch, to hold, to protect. He had tried so hard, how could he have failed so miserably? "They have her in a separate room to prevent injuries if she starts to bleed again. She's under constant guard. They barely let me through and I'm a doctor." Yes, well he wasn't exactly planning on asking. "Do you know what they're going to do with her?" Her eyes wavered, as if she was debating whether or not she could tell him. "He wants her back. Whatever it is he's trying to do, he's not finished. I think the birth got in the way." All this she said without breaking the glassy calm to her voice. What was the facade for, he wondered, his fears or hers? "He's not going to touch her again." The words came out in a growl. His hands itched around the fingers as he imagined the look on the Leader's face as his life drained from his body. One touch was all it would take. "We have to get out of the city." Scully nodded. "I've thought about that. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Nicolas with money to buy Aida from him. Skinner and his people can help you get out of the city once she is freed." Tomorrow. So much could happen in a night... "You think he will actually listen to you?" He tasted the bitterness of his own words, sour and rotten on his tongue, but it was not something he could help. Scully was a friend, and a caring human being, but she could not understand what was happening because she was not a hybrid. She accepted him as a total equal and therefore was blind in some ways to the fact that others would never do the same. Nicolas would take her money and keep Aida for his fancies. There was only one option here....yet he dare not speak it aloud. "If I pay him enough, yes." "He is not interested in money, Dana. He has as much of it as he needs. He hates us because we are different, and he wants to wipe our people out because of that. He won't listen to your logic." "What do you recommend? There is no other way." For two, maybe three, seconds, Che thought about telling her everything he had planned during the past four hours. About escape, about freedom, about not having any choice but to run and, if necessary, fight. But he couldn't involve her in it, just like he couldn't involve Skinner or any of the others. Their lives were far too valuable to the Cause to be risked over something as insignificant as the lives of two hybrids. "You are right." He lied, hating the sound of it, but knowing it would save her life. Maybe Aida's life too, if he got there in time. "I'm sorry for my difficulty...I can't think..." He sighed, and his shoulders sank with the weight of it. "Don't apologize, Che." She half-smiled at him, her eyes a warm shade of blue like the ocean in summer. He had never seen eyes like that in a human. All others were twisted, clouded with hate or fear. "I understand what you're feeling. You probably don't believe that, but I do. I've seen those I love in pain, too many times, and it never gets easier. You would do anything in the world to save them, to keep them safe. Sometimes you succeed." She looked down at her hands and the smile faded. "Sometimes all you can do is pick up the pieces." Mulder's eyes were broken, he remembered. They were scarred. How many times had she picked up those pieces, and had they cut her skin as much as this cut him? A tiny space of silence followed her words, then she stood to her feet and headed for the table. She cleared away the liquor and the shot glass without a word, then abruptly turned back toward him. "You might as well stay here until Skinner gets back. You need rest, and I need someone to talk to." She tried to smile like it was a joke, but he saw the loneliness behind the laugh. Mulder, he thought, you are a fool. This woman deserved to be held, to be told she was beautiful, to be loved. She shouldn't have to sit alone in a small apartment in a strange city. She shouldn't have to wake up alone. And she shouldn't risk a life for a cause that wasn't even her business. He then knew what had to be done. "You are a good woman, Dana Scully." He walked toward her as he spoke, smiling even though he didn't know how he could. "And I'm sorry." He placed his hand on her arm. "For what-" Her words died away as he entered her consciousness, pulling her mind into darkness. For one horrid moment, her eyes flared wide with shock and betrayal, and then she collapsed, totally unconscious. Che caught her as she fell, trying to ignore the heavy guilt pressing against his own mind. After all, she wasn't hurt. She would only sleep, and the rest would probably do her good. It was the only way he could keep her from being hurt, and didn't she deserve to be protected? If Mulder wasn't around to do the job, then someone had to. All this he told himself as he carried her to her bed, draping a blanket over her in case the air grew chilly. He tried to believe it. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but it was the only thing. He had already lost a child; he might yet lose a wife; and he would not lose a friend. Besides, there were battles a man must fight alone. It was time, now, for such a battle. Already he could see the sun sinking into the west, a brilliant tapestry of gold tinged with the darker shades of night. There was beauty in the twilight. Peace. They would not be expecting an attack now. They would expect it to come late at night, when the air was dead and spoke of secrets and hidden daggers. Che took Scully's clearance card from her pocket, knowing he would need it to breach the security doors. She could honestly tell them he stole it... He searched her drawers until he found the gun, and tucked it in the band of his pants. He did not want to kill any of them. They were blind, they were ignorant, and until this day he had almost pitied them. In a way, that feeling increased now. They did not even see the violence that was twisting them, consuming them until they were little more than animals. For that he allowed himself to pity. But if they tried to stop him, he didn't know how much he could hold back the hate. Or if he would even try. * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Scully..." The vapors of the man's voice coalesced from every corner of her darkened mind, calling her from sleep back to the cold hard plain of reality. She did not think she wanted to answer. She had not slept this well in months. There was no Pavlov. No strange eyes. No dreams of anything at all, only soft, warm, sleep. "Scully...." More urgent now. Afraid? She felt hands on her face, large and callused at the fingertips but gentle, like the voice. A tinge of guilt slithered across her soul despite her resolve to remain in oblivious bliss. After all, she didn't want him to be afraid. She opened her eyes. Skinner's face floated above hers, blurry at the edges but unmistakably him and undeniably worried. She was a part of that worry, but there was something else. Something... Then she remembered the blood and the dead baby and Che's hands on her arm, his mind behind her soul. Suddenly the sleep was not so innocent; it turned ugly with betrayal. He had touched her mind without permission. Again. It had not burned, and it would cause no nightmares, but for a brief moment she hated him anyway. No one touched her like that. Not even Mulder. But no sooner had the hate swelled did it disappear, calmed by a whisper of pity. She had felt his desperation. She knew he believed there was no other way. "Did he make it?" The words came out all in a breath, rushed yet hesitant. Truth was hard to swallow in its raw form, and she had already choked on enough of it to sour her on the taste. Skinner shook his head, helping her up into a sitting position. "He used your card to break into the infirmary. Killed three guards doing it. Security found him unconscious on the floor beside Aida's bed. It took a lot for him to heal her. More than he planned, I think. It's a mercy he wasn't awake when they got there. He'll get it bad enough as it is." Scully twisted the edge of the blanket around her fingers in silent resistance to the implications of the thought. "Why couldn't he have waited?" It was a useless question. She could have easily found the answer without his help but she did not want to find her own answers right now. She wanted someone to give her a reason why, and it had better be a good one. "He knew Nicolas would never accept a bounty for her. So he did what he had to do." "We could have helped them." "No, Scully. We couldn't have. We would have tried but in the end we would have lost her. It's happened before." His eyes were very old, now. So very sad. "And now we're going to loose them both." No, that was unacceptable. She searched his face for hope, any hope at all. He was the leader of the true resistance....he should have an answer, or a reason, or a plan. Anything but defeat. "We can go to Nicolas with double the bounty for them both," She said, feeling very much like a four-year old child refusing to give up a favorite toy to a grownup. Just that small. "He'll have to accept..." "Obviously you don't know our beloved Leader," Skinner snorted. "It's not about money, it's about vengeance. Che's broken his rules, defied his authority, and for that blood must be shed." "There has to be something you can do. Object. Call the generals together and protest. Anything but stand by and watch." The anger inside her was quiet now, but she felt it grow with each moment. "I'm sorry. Our hands are tied-" "He'd die for you, sir!" She cut him off, not even noticing she had used his formal title until she saw the surprise in his eyes. Well, let him be surprised. She was. This felt like the old days. Back when he'd refused to choose a side, refused to intervene until it was absolutely necessary. Before he became her ally, her friend. What was wrong with him? "He'd die for the Cause. All he did was try to protect his wife and his child. Are you going to let them kill him for that? Just so you won't have to risk your own neck?" Her lips curled into a snarl. "And I thought you said you cared for them." Skinner let her words strike him full force, making no attempt to reply until she had spent her energy and waited in burning silence for his reply. Scully spoke like this when she was afraid. She was terrified now that she was without control and helpless, that she'd have to watch two more people she cared about die before her eyes. He'd tell her it got easier the more it happened, but that would be a lie. "I'd die for Che just as easily as he for me. That's what being a soldier is all about. Loyalty. But that loyalty can't just go to one man and one woman, no matter how important they are to you or me or anyone else. There are other lives at stake that deserve equal protection." He chose his words one at a time, justifying himself to the judges in his head as well as the woman standing before him. "Every man in our movement would risk his life and his family's life if I asked him to. It's my responsibility to know when to ask and when to keep quiet. I can't involve them in this. It wouldn't be fair. Che has killed, Scully. We might have had a chance at convincing the generals to let Aida go before, but now the full force of the law is against both of them. If we speak out, it will be just the opportunity Nicolas has been waiting for. He'd call us onto the carpet for conspiracy and then execute us right along with Che." He paused for a moment, watching the understanding spread from her eyes to the rest of her face. It twisted him to watch the realization break her. She was not made for decisions like this, where lives must be sacrificed to save other lives. Her world had always been black and white, good and evil, light and dark. Even now, fragments of that remained. That's why she and Mulder had never joined the organized resistance. Both had a knack for the business of war but not the politics of it. He had thought he could handle the weight of leadership, even welcomed it at one point in time, but now his shoulders were beginning to weary. Too many good people had died. Her eyes eased shut, squeezing the pain back into her mind before it showed too much, and he searched his brain for something he could say to soften the blow. "I did try, Scully." He spoke in low, please-believe-me tones, wanting to wrap his arms around her until she stopped aching but afraid she would break. Sometimes even iron needed to be reassured she was strong. Even beauty needed to reminded it was loved, to be reminded that it was safe. Did Mulder tell her that, anymore? Did he hold her? Or was he too busy killing Imperials and anyone else Nicolas told him to.... "I went to Nicolas as soon as I heard, and I offered him five thousand for each of them." He saw her eyes widen; it was a huge sum these days. "When that failed, I tried to barter for a lighter sentence, at least for Aida. I did everything I could. I did take the risk, Scully." "I know you did," She said, arms wrapped around herself as if she was trying to keep warm. "I'm sorry for what I said... it's just..." She shook her head, her voice fading in and out like a bad radio connection. "They're so young. They remind me of..." The words faded away again, but she didn't have to finish it. She and Mulder had been just like that once. Young, idealistic, blind to the fact that evil was sometimes stronger than love. He had hoped to shelter them from that truth, even though sometimes they had resented him for the precautions he took. Yet now he walked no more fences and in turn their eyes had been torn wide open. Wasn't that what they'd always wanted? To see it all? /No,/ he thought, /that's what they thought they wanted. Now they're all grown up and they've seen their truth, and look where it's gotten them. She wakes up every other night screaming because the demons who tore her mind still walk her dreams, and he's killed his sister./ He realized the room had grown silent around them, and that the morning air was cold. "You want some breakfast?" he asked. He tried to smile because one of them had to. It should be her. She was the most beautiful woman in the world when she smiled. "I could make those cheesy eggs you used to say would give us both heart attacks before lunch. Or if you want to live until dinner, I could put on some coffee." He really thought she was going to smile-- her lips began to turn up into a grin and her eyes began to lighten-- but then she shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I want to go see Che and Aida....while I can." Skinner nodded, pretending to agree. She was going to beat herself into a pulp over this one, wasn't she? He'd seen it happen once before, after she was released from the camps and had believed Mulder died to buy her life. If she slipped into that kind of hole now, there was no nice secluded beach cabin to hide in, and no peaceful ocean to wash away the world. /Mulder, get your sorry carcass back here and heal her before she falls apart. You're the only one she'll even let close. Don't you remember that?/ "When is it?" "Is what?" Her question caught him in the middle of his thoughts, and for a moment he didn't understand. "The execution." "Noon." he said, glancing down at his watch in appreciation for any excuse not to look at her as he gave the news. "The town square. Expect a mob. Nicolas wants to make a point, and he wants plenty of people to see him do it." She slid on her shoes in silence, walking toward the door. Her hand closed on the knob as her head turned very slowly back toward him. "Promise me you'll kill that man someday." She did not wait for his answer, but walked out into the hall and left him alone. He stared after her for a moment, like he had meant to say something but forgotten it, but the words never came to his mind. Instead he picked up his com link and began to compose a message for Mulder, one that would be delivered immediately over his own private channel. It was time for someone to stop playing soldier and come home to the woman who needed him. If Mulder didn't have the sense to see that, then they'd have a little chat and if he still denied it.... Skinner would break the man's jaw. He'd do it with nothing but a friendly spirit, but at the same time he would make sure Mulder learned a few things that would not be forgotten, at least not until the bruises healed. to be continued.