- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Resurrection (4/32)
by darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

     /Think cold shower. Think icy, icy, shower. Think of the 
Smoking Man.../ Eww, that did it. He shuddered in disgust.
     "Sweep for bugs." The words came out like an order, and 
she glared at him like Scully used to when he said something rude.
     "Yes, Commander, *Sir*." That was Scully's sarcasm too. "I
was about to anyway." She crossed to the wall and punched in a
three digit code into a keypad hidden behind a sliding panel. A
metallic humming filled the air for a moment then died into 
silence.
     "We're clear. I'm going to go get out of this crap." She 
headed for the bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable. The 
beer should be here soon. Then we'll talk."
     He watched her go, guilty for staring so long. Of all the 
people the Resistance could have set up as his contact, they had 
to pick the living breathing doppelganger of Scully. What had 
they been thinking? That he'd respond better? In a way, the 
opposite was true. He wanted to respond in certain ways so 
badly that he tried to keep his distance whenever possible. 
After a while, he limited their meetings to once a month.
It took him that long to rebuild his self control.
     A knock on the door sent razors along his nerves, and his
gun was in his hand immediately, a finger on the trigger and 
ready to shoot. He glanced through the peephole to see a waitress 
standing at the door with two bottles of brownish-yellow beer. 
Mulder lowered the gun but his fingers did not leave the trigger
as he took them from her.
     "Do I get a tip?"  He could barely hear the words over the
incessant smacking of her gum.
     "No." 
     Her eyes raked him from head to toe. "How bout after you
get done with Ivy?" 
     Mulder pulled a five-credit mark from his wallet and handed
it to her. "Stay away from this room and keep everyone else 
clear. We like our privacy. You think you can do that?"
     "For you, doll, anything." Her tone let him know that she 
meant "anything" in the truest sense of the word. "My name's 
Crystal. I get off at two." 
     He shut the door quickly. This was not the ideal place to carry
out Resistance business. The cold bottles began to numb his 
fingers, and he sat them on the table. It was tempting to go ahead
and open one. Just drink a little bit to loosen him up. His fingers
played alongside one of the bottles.
     He picked up the bottle, open the window, and casually 
tossed it into the street. A homeless man yelled something 
unintelligible and vile up at him. The finger he was waving 
translated his words easily enough.
     "Not thirsty tonight?" Ivy's-Scully's voice caught him by
surprise and he turned to see her walking back into the room. 
The black leather number had disappeared; in its place she wore 
a pair of faded blue jeans and a gray t-shirt that bared her 
tiny waist. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that left a few 
strands falling free around her face.
     "No." He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the breeze 
would cool his fevered thoughts. Dressed like that, she looked 
almost exactly like Scully. When he opened them again, she was
taking a cigarette out of her pocket and placing it between her 
lips. A tinge of relief. The real Scully hated smoking. Always had.
     "Hand me that lighter, darling." She pointed to a small silver 
lighter on the counter. When Mulder picked it up, he noticed
an engraving. Trust No One. It rang familiar notes inside his 
memory, and on impulse he turned it over. In little block letters
were the initials C.G.B.S.  CGB Spender. 
     "I see you've made friends in high places." He tossed her the 
lighter. 
     She laughed as she lit the cigarette and blew a kiss of smoke
toward him. "That's what I'm here for. Director Spender is my
current assignment. He likes my face. Says I remind him of a 
woman he used to know."
     /I'll bet. Between his little picture files and that face, he's got 
himself a regular charade./ The thought soured in his
mouth when he remembered that now the Smoking Man could
get the real thing if he wanted it.
     Which brought him to the point of the meeting. After he
cleared a few questions from his mind.
     "My partner says he saw you at Headquarters last week. That
you were looking for me."
     "I needed to meet with you."
     "No, you didn't. Not that bad. I told you and your people,
I'll work for you but only on my terms. It's not just my life on the
line." 
     "Orders are orders. They said to find you, so I tried. When 
your tasty little Russian friend paid me off, I took the money and
figured I'd try again later."
     "What do they want?"
     "They were going to alert you about the assassination 
bombing." Her eyes caught his flinch, and her voice softened. 
"But I guess you already know." 
     "What's to say I was involved?"
     Ivy rolled her eyes and took a sip of her beer. "Everyone is
talking about the dark lanky man who saved the Chancellors life
then went a bit nutty and tried to knock off the Guardian. I 
figured you'd be stopping by soon to find out why you hadn't
been informed."
     "Did you know it would be a little boy?"
     "No." His face said he didn't believe her. "Honest. They just 
told me to keep all my girls clear of the Capitol because there'd 
be an attempt. I don't like it anymore than you do, but I'm just 
the errand girl." She slid onto the couch, leaving her beer 
half-finished on the counter. "Is Krycek all you came here to 
discuss or do you have something else for me?"
     She left that comment wide open for his private 
interpretation.
     "I have what you asked for last time." He pulled a disk from 
his pocket and set it on the table. "These are the complete 
schematics for the weapons facilities. Three of them are 
biotech, so watch out. I included all the clearance codes so they 
shouldn't have any trouble getting in." She rolled off the couch 
to go pick it up when he held out his hand to stop her.  "First 
you do something for me."
     "So you're asking for payment now." A sardonic twist of 
her eyebrows. "I wondered how long the free donations would 
last. How much do you want?"
     "I don't want money."
     "Then what?"
     "Certain...circumstances...have come about that make my 
position here useless. You are going to get me out. Tonight."
     She stared at him for a minute, inhaling a deep lungful of
smoke from her cigarette. "Baby, it ain't that easy." 
     "We'll make it easy. You pick up the phone and tell them to
figure out some way for me to defect. I'll still work for them.
But not here."
     "Just because of some kid that died in front of you? Children
die every day in this city. It's sad but you don't let it interfere with
the mission-"
     "It's not just that." The sharp edge of his voice cut her off. 
"You didn't approach me with this job. I volunteered. And 
now I want it changed. Can you do that for me?"
     Ivy shrugged. "I can try."
     "There's something else. Two friends of mine are currently 
living in Chile. I need you to bring them back here. They are
both members of the Humanity Corps, just like me, and they'll
die if they stay there."
     "I'm not sure if we can do that."
     "If I shred this disk, you won't be doing anything."
     "Boy, you don't ask for much. You sure you don't want
money like a reasonable person?"
     "Just tell me if you're willing to cooperate or not." 
     She looked at him, her eyes reading his resolve, then crushed
the butt of the cigarette on a ceramic ashtray. "I'll make the calls.
Nicolas is going to have to okay this one personally, so it might
take a while." 
     Mulder leaned back in his chair. "We have all night."
     It took three hours of waiting and exasperation, but 
finally Ivy handed him the phone and told him it was Nicolas. 
She seemed more than a little surprised they had gotten through. 
"This line isn't totally secure." she said, handing him the phone.
"It's protected by a scrambler code, but it's an older one. You've
got five minutes to state your case."
     "Hello, Commander Mulder." The voice reminded him a 
little of the Chancellor's. There was that same quiet assertion of 
power that need not be mentioned, because it was sensed.  But yet
there was something more, the barely contained electricity of 
a man who carried his passions at the forefront of his mind, just
one breath away from his words. It was not hard to tell that he
was speaking to the single most powerful man in the 
Resistance. Nicolas had united several of the largest undergrounds
into one common unit, the Humanity Corps-- priority one on
the Enforcer hit list. Rumors said the Corps actually dominated
a few of the western states. Revolution waited just around the 
corner and Mulder refused to sit on the sidelines.
     "Just Mulder will be fine, thank you." Be polite, be polite. 
     "That's what Ivy told me. You want to seek new 
employment."
     "Not new. Just different. I am no longer of any use to the
Corps as an Enforcer."
     "You continue to supply us with valuable information. 
That is a use." 
     "Things have changed. I...can't do it anymore. I won't."
     "Those are strong words, Mulder. But I have a feeling you're
the kind who wouldn't speak them lightly." Something in
Nicolas' voice made Mulder feel like the man understood him.
Empathized with him. He decided to press his point.
     "I took this job to protect certain interests which I can no
longer guard where I am at."
     "By that you mean your two friends in Chile. General
Skinner and the woman Scully."
     "How did you-"
     "I have my ears and eyes even in the Capitol. What would
you have to offer the Corps if you defected ?"
     "The full military and tactical knowledge of an Enforcer."
     "We have strategists already. And good ones."
     "But none that have an inside knowledge of the enemy." 
(C'mon, buy it. Accept it. Let me out.) "I have spent a year 
looking at the world through their eyes. That's a view I'm sure
you'd like to have in your battle plans."
     A pause, deep with thoughtfulness. "All you want in
return is to fight with us?"
     "There is one more thing. Scully and Skinner are to be 
evacuated from Chile immediately if I am to defect. Once I
disappear, the Enforcers will go after them. Your people need to
get there first."
     Another pause. "Thank you, Mulder. Please hand the phone 
back to Ivy now."
     When he obeyed, he noticed his palms sweated. The man was 
just a voice on a phone, but that voice had the power to fulfill or 
deny. Mulder knew he would eventually find a way to Scully no 
matter what the answer was. But with that came full awareness 
that if he didn't have the help of the Corps, all that might be left 
for him to find was skeletons in the sand next to a burned out 
cabin.
     Even though it was a distant nightmare, it chilled him. 
     Ivy had walked into the next room, her words too jumbled
and quick for him to pick up. How long had she been
talking. Seconds, had they become minutes yet? It felt like an 
hour. The half-full beer bottle on the counter seduced him as 
he waited. 
     He turned his back to it. /Not now!/
     After a few eternities had taken their toll on his sanity, she 
walked back into the room and sat the phone on the counter. 
He waited. She picked up her beer. He waited. When she 
started to finish it without so much as a word to him, Mulder 
decided enough was enough.
     "What did he say?"
     "That you're too impatient."
     "That's it?"
     "Of course not." She shook her head, a not-quite smile 
pulling her lips apart. "You really need to take a vacation."
     "Just get to the point." He fought the urge to throttle her,
no matter what she looked like.
     "Ok, here's the deal. He's going to help you. But like I said,
it's not easy. Especially because you don't exactly have the
history of a company boy-"
     "Will he get Scully?" Mulder couldn't contain the question 
until she finished.  
     "Take it easy. Yes. And your friend Skinner too. As soon as
Nicolas receives the schematics disk, he'll dispatch the helicopters--"
     "That's not soon enough."
     Now she glared at him, as if annoyed with his interruptions. 
There was enough of Scully in her eyes to shut him up. "I'm 
sorry if we're not up to your timetable, but this is the way it's 
going to be. You can take it or you can leave it and start 
walking to Chile."
     He bit his tongue to keep back his sarcasm. It wasn't nice to
anger the people responsible for smuggling you out of 
Washington.
    "Go on."
     "It'll take at least two days for you to reach Freedom City--
the capital of our western territories and location of our base 
camp. Most of our people live there too. You'll be working in 
the psych division of Tactical."
     "Psych." He hadn't expected that one, although he should
have seen it coming. Sometimes he suspected that a transcript of
his entire life had been handed out in general to the world at 
large, with his sensitive spots highlighted in red. /Push this button
to make him squirm. Use this talent to your advantage./
     "Nicolas says you have some sort of knack for it. And a 
degree, which makes you good as gold." She said it like she 
wasn't sure whether to take her boss' word for it or not. 
"But back to our travel plans. You're leaving tomorrow 
morning."
     "You people don't waste any time-"
     "We need the disk as soon as possible. In fact, it will
probably be sent ahead of you." This was Ivy's "operative
side." She talked fast, thought faster, and expected you to
keep up. "Listen quickly and listen well. In three hours, you will 
leave this building and return to your building. We need 
Krycek to see you there, even better to talk to you, before you 
leave again, ostensibly to follow a hunch on the suicide bombing. You will
be "captured" by our agents...we'll make sure there are lots of
witnesses, of course. One hour after the initial reports have 
reached Director Spender-- probably through Krycek-- a 
ransom note will be delivered. I guess we'll ask about a million 
for you, given that you're a Commander. It ought to screw 
with their heads quite nicely."
      "That's not going to work. I know the Director of 
Intelligence. He will see through it in a moment."
     Ivy shot him the kind of look his high school calculus teacher
used to give him when he said something exceptionally dumb.
"The purpose isn't to convince. It will only distract them for a 
day, if that, but it's is all we need to slip you under their radar."
     "What about satellite scans? They can pick up our location
easily..."
     "We have dark cover technology. One of your Enforcer 
buddies sold it to us last year. It will let us move without their
knowledge for up to three days. Again, more than necessary." 
     "And what about my friends?"
     "With any luck they'll get to Freedom City ahead of you."
     He tossed her the disk. "Tell Nicolas I look forward to 
working with him." 
     She looked at him for a minute, her eyes changing color from
light blue to a burning sapphire. "Don't leave until you absolutely 
have to. Make a convincing show."
     "I planned on that."
     Now she was standing, moving toward him as she pinned 
him down with the Scully eyes. "Since we're here...." She ran her
hand down his chest and he shivered despite himself. Her voice
was smooth as caramel syrup and twice as sweet. "You might as
well take advantage of my other services."
     "What, do you want my money as well as the disk?"
     Scully-- he meant Ivy-- leaned closer until all he could see was
her face. The face that wasn't her face. Scully's face. "No charge."
     For a moment he forgot who was who. Until he smelled the
smoke on her breath. It managed to jolt him from the 
enchantment of living memory. "No. Thank you."
     Ivy (He was certain now who it was.) leaned back, 
disappointed. "Baby, it's your loss. Whoever she is that's keeping 
your heart all locked must be some woman. I remind you 
of her though."
     The irony was not lost on him, and he nodded, grinning just
a little. "You could say that." 
     "Tell her she's lucky." Ivy smiled again, but this time it seemed
genuine. Not a Scully smile, but pretty. "Tell her she's very lucky."    
>From the back of the bedroom, a baby began to cry. It seemed
to shake her out of her thoughts, because she turned away. 
     "I'll be right back. He's probably hungry."
     Mulder's eyebrows shot up. "Yours?"
     She paused, the self-assurance in her voice cracking for the
first time since he'd met her. . "Mine. I usually let him stay with 
the lady across the hall, but her kid's got a cold and I don't 
want my baby to get infected. That's why you haven't seen 
him before." 
     "Why didn't you-"
     "Why didn't I kill it?" A defensive bite edged her tone.
"Remove the inconvenience? The annoyance?" That edge faded
into a sigh. "Mulder, I do what I have to do to survive. It turns 
out I can serve the Corps while I'm at it. I make no claims to be 
an angel. Nothing like the one who's living inside your head. But 
you know how we all have one redeeming   grace?" The 
ever-ready smile turned bittersweet. "He's mine."
     He couldn't think of a fit reply as she walked into the 
bedroom, his mouth sore from sticking his foot into it and his 
brain busy digesting her words. One redeeming grace, she'd said. 
Even for people like her. For people like him.
     In two days, he'd find out if that grace was strong enough to
save him. Even if Scully wasn't, he would gladly burn forever if 
he could do it at her side.

                         * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

     As dawn began to break, as hope began to breathe, a man
picked up his pen to share the news with his angel.

          Dearest Samantha,
    
          I write this to you on the way to rejoin the resistance you
so bravely supported, long ago. Would you like it to be your 
legacy? Say but a word and I shall wear you on my heart into 
every battle, my shield and my emblem. My armor may be 
dented, my sword dulled, but your fallen knight loves you still.
          Soon I will be back where I belong, back with the 
woman who belongs with me. Do you think I will frighten 
her, Sam? Her soul has stayed pure while mine rots inside of 
me. Part of me wants to turn back and let her live with the 
illusions of the man I was. 
          The rest of me cannot breathe without her, so I go. 
Escape, at last.....
          But for how long?

            Love Always,
                        Fox. 



                                          
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Resurrection (5/32)
by darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
   
                  Between the desire
               And the spasm
               Between the potency
               And the existence
               Between the essence
               And the descent
               Falls the Shadow
                              -- The Hollow Men
                                  TS Eliot

     Evening in Paris was always beautiful, especially when
the moonlight played off her skin. He had flung all windows 
open in attempt to coax air into the room, and the slight
breeze brought with it a whisper of roses and wine. The 
luxury of the villa bordered the ridiculous, but she 
loved to be spoiled and he gladly obliged. Her pleasure meant 
his, in so many ways.
     He found the wine and filled his glass, rolling over in
bed so he could watch her as he drank. She slept now, the
slender curve of her back rising and falling in time with her
breathing. Even in sleep, she retained a delicate, almost feline 
sensuality about her. She wore it like normal women wore 
Chanel No. 5. Every move of her hand, curve of her lips, did 
things to him he had thought impossible.
     The chardonnay by no means replaced good Russian
vodka, although she considered that a peasant's drink so he
put up with the softer, more sophisticated wine. Yes, he'd
had to work quite hard to convince her he was more than
uncouth hired muscle, but tonight the success was obvious.. 
     She was beautiful. And deadly. Their affair was
two-headed serpent, on one side paradise and the other 
poison. This night, however, was not a night to think of that.
Only to savor, to enjoy. Tomorrow they would kill each
other if they had to. Tonight, they were lovers.
     He bent over to plant a shadow kiss on her lips, and
came away tasting her in his next swallow of wine. As the
drink passed down his throat, the moonlight flickered then
died as if it were a candle that had been snuffed in a flame. 
The breeze turned into a wind and carried a northern chill 
that did not belong to Paris in summer. 
     Instead of a hint of roses, the air now stank of decay.
     "Malish?" He called for her in Russian, using a pet name
he had given her once in a fit of whiskey and adoration. His 
hand groped in the pitch darkness, a strange fear dripping 
acid into his gut. 
     When his fingers touched where she had been, he found
only blood. Nothing else. There was no body, but out of the 
inky black, her voice began to scream. And scream. And 
scream...... He staggered from the bed, flailing through the
darkness like a mad man but finding nothing. The sound of
her terror was sharp and raw against his brain like daggers 
dragged along a chalkboard. 
     Then someone lit a cigarette, the flame from the lighter
as bright as a torch in the ebony room, and began to laugh.

      "Malish!" 
      His body jerked into a spasm of muscle and bone, 
arching upward. into a sitting position, beads of stinging sweat
rollling down his foreahed and into his eyes. The cold metal
of his gun rested in his hand before the rest of his body had 
fully awakened.Krycek blinked, half to clear his vision and half to 
convince himself reality was reality. 
     They were in a hotel room, not in France but in 
Washington DC, and the light of early morning spilled 
through the blinds to paint the room with a watery shade of 
gray-blue. There was no rotten-smelling darkness. Marita did
not occupy his bed, or even a look-alike of Marita, but a
strange girl-woman who sat up suddenly and stared at his
gun with wide eyes. It took a moment for him to recognize her 
as the girl he'd picked up the night before. 
     "What is it?" She clutched the sheets to her chest
as if she had some sort of morals left in her, her eyes wide 
and afraid. Marita had never showed her fear. Not even at 
the end... 
     "It's nothing." Looking at her caused a sudden disgust that
he could not explain, and he stood abruptly to his feet, crossing
the room to his vodka. A glass would take too much time,
he reasoned, and poured the liquor straight down his throat.
/There, let's see if any dreams can survive *that*..../
     For the next few seconds, his senses crackled with clear
fire, his eyes squeezing shut to lessen the intensity. Instead, he
saw her face on his mind, a coldly breathtaking sketch of black 
and white memory. He hadn't dreamed in colors since she died.
Only in black, white, gray-- all the shades befitting a man who 
could not even remember what color the eyes of the 
woman he loved had been. Sometimes he imagined they were
blue, because he could remember thinking she had Russian
eyes. He'd told her that once, meaning to compliment, but
she had merely laughed. Sometimes, when the vodka was too
strong in his blood for reason, he heard her laugh again.
     His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle and he
threw down another dose of forgetfulness. Once he felt he
had control of his mind, he turned again to the girl in his bed.
     "Get dressed." He picked up his pants from the floor and 
pulled a fifty-credit mark from the pocket. "Then get out. I am 
tired of looking at your face." He threw the money on the bed, 
wondering why he'd paid the little brat for an all-night session 
anyway. 
     /Just because you miss waking up beside something
other than your gun..../
     She obeyed, awkwardly, for his eyes never left her the 
whole time and he sensed her consciousness of it. Why it
would matter to some city slut, he didn't know. It felt like
something *Mulder* would care about, Mulder with his 
one-woman loyalty and devotion..... Krycek could hear the 
taunt inside his head. /At least the woman I love is still alive..../
    He spat a curse into the vodka bottle as he raised it to his 
lips again. /I can have twenty women./ But he didn't want 
twenty. He wanted....
     A fast swig of vodka cut the mutinous thought short. 
     "A little early to get wasted, isn't it?"
     His head snapped up in annoyance at the interruption, but
he grinned when he saw Mulder walk into the room. "Ah, my
friend, back at last. Might I ask what kept you?"
     "No."
     "Oh, c'mon. I want to know her name so I can congratulate
her on the honor of replacing Dana Scully for a couple hours.
Not many women can do that, but of course you would know
better than I--"
     "Save it." Mulder tossed the words over his shoulder as he
walked over to his bed. Krycek watched his partner grab a duffel 
bag and begin to fill it with an odd assortment of books, 
photographs from a folder, and ammunition..
     He took another drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve
before he spoke. "Going somewhere, comrade?"
     "I have a hunch about the suicide bombing. Gonna meet with
an informant of mine down in the bar strip."
     "And you feel the need to pack?"
     Mulder's eyes darkened from hazel to green, spinning his 
words from casual conversation into something entirely different.
"Never know what you might need on a mission."
     "I see." Krycek set the vodka down long enough to pull
on his jeans. Mulder was crazy if he was thinking about trying
another escape. /You pull a stunt like that once and you survive,
it's luck. You pull it twice, it's a death sentence./ "So is this
going to be an...extended....mission?"
     A hesitation. "Quite possibly."
     He sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the bottle
again as he watched Mulder pack twin Sig Sauer automatics into
the bag, concealing them carefully beneath a shirt.
     "Expecting trouble?"
     "Enforcer motto #457. If you aren't prepared, they will be."
     "Since when did you start quoting the rulebook?"
     "You know me." A grin, double-edged, revealing secrets
without words. "Always a company man."
     "Just don't want to stick around for the retirement plan?"
     "The competitors have better perks."
     There it was; official admission of the insanity. Time to 
end the double-talk and talk some sense into the man. Maybe
he didn't go so far as to count Mulder a friend, but after a man 
saved your life in the field five or six times, you owed his at
least a respect.
      He took another gulp of liquor, letting it wash down his
throat and into his stomach before he spoke. 
      "They'll kill you this time, you do know that."
      Mulder didn't even bother to look up, his attention 
focused on a black and white picture of a woman he held
in his hands. The woman had Scully's face. "Maybe."
      "And her." 
      "Maybe."
      "You stopped to think about that?"
      A longer pause. Mulder's fingers traced the surface of the
photograph as if he could touch the skin through the paper. 
He spoke in an abstract whisper, and Krycek wasn't sure if the 
man talked to him or to the picture.  "I've thought about it. 
There is no other choice. I can't live this anymore."
    "Is that what this is all about?" Another drink, another rush
of satisfaction at the welcomed burn. "You just woke up and
decided you were too good for the rest of us and that you were
gonna go back to saving the world?"
     "Something like that." The photograph disappeared into 
the duffel. 
     "And you're willing to risk her life just to keep your own 
hands out of the dirt. Sure, that's love."
     "She'll be fine." His voice held no concern but a sheet of
worry stretched tight over his eyes. "Arrangements have been 
made."
     "Arrangements can go wrong too. Just what is so bad about
this life? I mean, think about it for a moment if you can clear
the delusions of grandeur from your head. The world is
ruled by an alien dictatorship but we have power to move freely
within that framework. We are the ones wielding the guns to
back the threats. We get anything we want. Money. Liquor. 
Women. Anything."
     "What about freedom? What about the ability to live with
yourselves?"
     "No one is free, Mulder. You of all people should have 
learned that by now. And the ability to live with yourself?" He
held his vodka bottle out. "That's what they make this stuff for.
I know you have a taste for it already. I've seen you in the bars."
     "All the more reason to leave."
     "You're a greater fool than I thought if you're going to give
all this up on the slim chance it'll make you human again. You 
and me passed that long ago. Or is it for her? No woman is
worth that kind of risk. Believe me."
     "You would have taken the risk for Marita."
     "I killed Marita, remember? Two shots to the forehead. Bang.
Bang." Ouch, that stung more than he had planned. A quick grab
at the bottle. Liquid absolution. Only it was never enough...
     "You still love her. I can hear it in your scream when you
wake up at night---"
     "Shut-up. She has nothing to do with this." He pushed the 
conversation forward, away from the memory and something 
inside him that felt too much like pain. "I should turn you in. Call 
up security right now and have them haul your butt down to 
neuropsyche. Because you're insane. Flat out whacked."
     Mulder zipped up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder.
"You could come with me, you know."
     A casual, off-handed statement. A chance for freedom,
simple as walking out the door and out of the city and...
     What was he thinking? The madness must be contagious.
He didn't care what Mulder said, he had exactly what he wanted
in this life. Everything he needed for a perfect world.
     Everything except....
     But he refused to think about her. Instead he smiled, the best
and brightest denial he could offer.
     "Thanks but no thanks, comrade. I told you. I like my life
just fine the way it is. But here's to your glorious insanity." He
lifted the bottle in a toast. "Now get out of here and carry out 
your 'mission'. You'll be worth more once you've escaped. This
little conversation can bring me, oh, about ten thousand dollars
if I play it right."
     "And they say capitalism is dead." He grinned, but his
eyes held an odd sobriety as he nodded once. "Goodbye,
comrade."
     "Goodbye."
     Krycek would always remember the way the silence suddenly
grew lead heavy, the way a strange notion filled his head that he
had just lost his one and only chance at freedom.
     He shook himself to rid his bones of the feeling. He had done 
the right thing. Mulder was the fool, not him. He had everything 
he wanted. Everything and more.
     A flash-memory of  Marita's voice, a question she had asked
him their first night together.
     /Don't you ever want more than survival? Don't you ever
wonder what it would be like just to live?/
     He had avoided the question with a kiss.
     Now there was nothing to hide behind besides her ghost and
a bottle of cheap vodka. 
      "I am Alex Krycek." He spoke aloud, the words ringing in
the empty room. "I make my own rules and I am as free
as I want to be."
     Silence.
     "I don't need her. I never needed her."
     Silence. 
     /I killed Marita./
     /You still love her. I can hear it in your scream.../

     Silence.

     Too fast, too fast, the memories came, and there was not
enough vodka in the world to stem the flow.

     /Midnight again, but you're not in the Paris villa this time. 
This room is damp, cold, the walls rotting with the stench of 
urine and vomit and fear. You're spitting up blood on the stone 
floor of an Imperial prison cell, and out of the corner of your 
eye you see her doing the same thing. Even through the 
darkness, you can watch her ghost white hands turn scarlet as 
she tries to wipe it away from her mouth. But it's never gone. 
There's always more. That's when you hold her hand, fingers 
laced through fingers. That's when you tell her it will be all 
right. That's when you know it is a lie./

     Fingers twitched. Breathing quickened. His hands dug under
his pillow until they came into contact with the hard metal edges
of his gun. Metal cold in his palm as he screwed the silencer into
place.

     /The guards come to visit her later--in the "unofficial" 
capacity-- and they put you in solitary for a month because you 
kill one of them. When they come in to beat you at night, you 
remember holding her hand. This is why you do not flinch. 
When the officially sanctioned torture begins, you have reasons 
not to break. At first, she's one of them. She's beautiful and 
someday you might have told her you loved her. At first, you 
want your freedom more than anything else.
     For seven days of hell, the will is enough to overcome 
the body.
     On the eighth day, the pain is too much. Mind dissolves and 
instinct takes over./

     The scars ridging his back burned as if they were the ghosts 
of the past coming to life again. Pupils dilated. Memory surged, 
convulsing into a seizure before the rest of his mind had a chance 
to catch up.

     /Your body dangles from a metal hook, hands tied above 
your head and stretched until the shoulder muscles are strained to 
the point of tearing in two. That pain is slight compared to the 
fire that burns the naked flesh of your back....or at least what is
left under the blood and torn skin. Between the crack of the 
whip and your own screaming, you promise you'll come back 
to the fold. You'll pull triggers and kill humans for them. They 
tell you to prove it. They bring her in, and she is thrown at 
your feet, small and trembling beneath the dirt and the blood. 
     They cut you down and put a gun in your hands. One bullet. 
Prove your loyalty to the cause. Her eyes widen and her lips 
form your name like a prayer to her only god./     

      The pressure built to critical mass. He exploded, his fingers 
pulling the trigger in jerky spasms that he did not initiate and
could not stop. Then came the rage, emotions careening through 
his dried-out veins as the mask over his emotions slipped just
enough to break. Then came the hate, no longer merely ethereal 
but transubstantiated into cold metal and hot lead. One bullet. 
Two bullets. Stop the memories.....stop......

     /And you blow her brains out from three inches away./

     By that time the clip had emptied and the floor riddled with 
bullet holes. His fingers kept working the trigger, mechanically. 

     /This is what you pay for freedom./

      With that, the memory died. Not a muscle in his body 
moved, hands frozen into place around the hard, familiar angles 
of his weapon as the caustic scent of burnt powder ate away 
at his senses. His mind, panting from the exertion of restraining 
darker forces within his soul, whispered to him what had just 
taken place. A crack in the stone. A lapse in the professionalism.
     Krycek stared down at the gun, at the floor, disgust 
pooling in his eyes. With one sudden flick of his wrist, he hurled 
the weapon across the room and watched it dent the plaster of 
the far wall. He reached for the vodka bottle, knocking it over 
upon accident. The clear liquor splashed onto the floor, onto 
the bed, across his hands.
     That didn't matter. He could get more. He could always
get more.

     "I am Alex Krycek." He whispered, softer than before. A
mere scrape against the smothering wall of silence. "No man 
owns me." 
     The words bounced off the floor and ceiling and walls
and sounded very, very small. He said nothing more as he
pulled on his shirt, then his jacket, then his gun. 
     Then Alex Krycek walked out the door to get drunk.
     
    *       *       *

     A living cloud of rage emanating from the office of 
Director Spender, and you didn't have to be a empath to tell 
that heads were going to roll. Intelligence Specialist Brian 
Midgette ran one hand across his uniform, ensuring every crease 
was straight. His palms sweated onto the folder he carried in his 
hand. In it rested all the latest details of the disappearance of 
Commander Mulder-- including the recent testimony of 
Commander Krycek, not that the man would be of any use for 
some time. Midgette could still smell the vodka on the man's 
breath. It went beyond disgraceful, the way some Enforcers 
used their status to blatantly disregard every rule for conduct 
the military had ever created. The interview had, to say the 
least, not gone well. 
     The boys in Intelligence had drawn straws to determine
who would give the report to the Director. He had lost.
      "He wants you now." He very nearly jumped when the
secretary's voice broke into his thoughts. She flicked the words
in his direction like someone would flick a bug from a
windshield.
     He straightened his jacket one last time, coughing to clear
the cobwebs from his throat, and entered the lion's den.
     "Mr. Midgette." The Director puffed away on his
stick of happiness, but judging from the mound of cigarette
butts in the ashtray, it wasn't working. "I do hope you have
answers for me."
     "Commander Krycek was inebriated, sir. My men have him
in custody now but it will be sometime before he will be
sober enough to answer any questions." 
     "We do not have time. Send him to medical and let them
sober him up for us. I want him interrogated as soon as possible."
     "Do you think he was involved in the kidnapping?"
     The old man glared at him through a thin veil of smoke and
anger. "This is no kidnapping. This is a defection."
     "At least twenty witnesses attest to a capture by force and
the ransom note itself indicates that--"
     "You Intelligence fools have the brains of two year old 
children if you are deceived so easily." A momentary pause
as Spender blew a cloud of bluish-white smoke into the air and
then sucked it back into his lungs. Disgusting. "I know 
Commander Mulder.  The capture and the ransom note were 
simple tricks to divert our attention-- which it has." 
     "Do you want us to shut down the borders?"
     "Yes." Midgette could practically see the wheels turning inside
the old man's mind. "Dispatch infiltration agents to every
known Resistance transportation center. But follow a policy
of observation, not interference. I want him to think he's gotten
away with it."
     "Why not arraign him when we have a chance? If he makes
it to Freedom City, we will have lost him."
     "I think not." The Director stabbed the butt of his cigarette
into the tray. "Mulder will come to us."
     "How, sir?"
     "He has a woman, a Dana Scully. She is quite beautiful, really,
and the perfect sort of leverage we need to instigate his surrender."
     "We considered that option, sir." Midgette said. "She is
off board. There has been no sign of her anywhere for some
months."
     "She has been in hiding in Chile. Do not bother to ask me
how I know. I do. I dispatched a retrieval team an hour ago.
I don't expect it will be too hard to locate her and her 
guardian, a man you have in your files as well-- Walter Skinner. 
I want them alive. You will oversee the retrieval and ensure
everything goes according to plan."
     "And then what--"
     "He'll be sent to the processing center in Texas, naturally."
     "And Scully?"
     A thin smile stretched over the old man's teeth, and his
eyes turned black with a sort of predatory glimmer. "She will
be delivered into my care."
     "Yes sir." A taint of disgust curled around Midgette's stomach
at the implications behind the smile. "Is that all, sir?"
     "Yes. You may go."
     Midgette saluted sharply and walked directly from the office
to his quarters to change uniforms. The one he wore 
smelled too much like sweat and smoke and fear.
     In a way, he pitied the woman. But she was the enemy and
therefore the pity did not last long. Who cared what the Director
did with his prisoners? All he had to do was bring her in and do
his job. 
     He did not want to think what would happen should he
stand in that office empty-handed.

                         * * * * * * * * * * * * *  

TWELVE HOURS LATER

     A north wind rippled panic through the sand dunes,
whispering of menace unforeseen and as of yet, unknown. 
Something in her soul churned restless and on edge like a storm 
brewing without the clouds or the thunder, only lightning in her
veins. Scully had not wanted to sleep, because when her eyes 
closed she could no longer keep the dreams from coming. 
     The nightmares were so real she swore at times they were 
really a secret universe lurking just inside her subconscious. They
had plagued her for so long she had come to expect it, but that
did not lessen the fear. Nothing could. Except for that one 
blissful week when Mulder had been with her again; not a 
demon had crept into her sleep then. He always did have that 
power about him, to cast out her devils..... 
     But when the cat was away, the mice would play. 
     Post-traumatic stress syndrome, Skinner had told her, with 
memories of Vietnam in his eyes. It would last long after the 
scars on her body had faded. She owed sanity to him for 
everything he had done to ease the healing process. When they 
had first arrived and she had been physical and mental wreck 
from the brutality of the alien monster Pavlov, he had been the 
one to shake her awake when she was screaming, to place an 
awkward hand on her shoulder when she cried. Those were
wretched days. She had been alone, terrified, and haunted by the 
belief that her soulmate was lost. Skinner respected her grief, 
although more than once she had seen him sit outside her door 
when he thought she was asleep, watching her just in case she 
tried anything rash. 
     Scully wanted Mulder to put her back together, but it 
had been Skinner who collected the pieces and eased them into
place again. But as dear a friend as the man became, he 
could not help her with the dreams. Only one could, and he 
was somewhere far away from her side if not from her soul.
     No, she had not wanted to sleep but her eyes had grown 
heavy and all too soon she had slipped away, into the
clutches of her nightmares. 

     "Scully!" 
     "No! Get out of my head!!!" Panic, fear.....who touched
her? Skinner's voice. Skinner was a friend. 
     "Scully, wake up! We have to get out. We have to go, do 
you hear me?" The hand on her shoulder jerked her into reality,
and half-pulled her from the bed before she could even open 
her eyes.
      "What?" Sleep hung heavy in her words, in her mind.
      "Listen!"
      Scully desperately tried to connect her brain with her ears
but all she could hear were screams. Hers, Mulder's. The laugh
of a strange and cruel man.....
     Then she heard it. Helicopter blades, close and moving 
closer by the heartbeat. Her senses jumped to full alert as if 
someone had touched a live wire to her bare nerves. /They 
found us./ "How??"
     "Get dressed." He pushed a crumpled wad of clothing 
into her hands. "I'll start the jeep." His voice urged her to hurry
There was no time for questions, only for actions, and seconds 
may cost them their lives.
    She dropped her nightgown and pulled the dress over her 
head in one frantic motion. The instincts she built during 
her time on the run with Mulder served her well. She did not 
even have to think, only react. On the way out of the room, her 
hands reached behind the door to snag a sawed-off shotgun 
and two boxes of cartridges. They prepared for such a danger. 
     No one took either of them without a fight. 
     Out the door, out from her home, into the chaos of the
night. The wind died to a mere breeze, its howling beaten 
by the chopper blades until it was only a terrified murmur. She
could see the lights of the helo now, the red and green running 
lights and the great yellow spotlight that was the eye of the 
beast.
     This terror was no dream. It wasn't after her mind. The 
bullets were real this time. 
     Skinner floored the gas pedal as she leapt into the seat beside 
him, her fingers fumbling with the shotgun and cursing her 
clumsiness. The beach rushed by in a blur of sea, sand, and 
distant mountains.  Her whole world unravelled around her 
again and all she could think of was how to get the stupid 
cartridge in right. Her sole focus became a readiness to shoot. 
And kill.
     She refused to let herself think why the enemy had returned.
Mulder had said he had made a deal. Mulder had said he was
handling it. Even if he was in trouble, she knew he would 
never willingly reveal her location. They would have had to 
torture him....
     And even still she knew what it took to break him.
     Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
     /What if..../ The voice of the wind in her ears did not sound
entirely unlike Pavlov. /What if he died in their dirty torture cells
to hide your precious little paradise?/  Scully pumped the 
shotgun to make sure it was primed and ready to avenge his 
blood if it indeed had been spilled. It had been a while, but she
had not forgotten how to kill a man. 
     Even as the jeep sped toward the sanctuary of the 
mountains, the bird of prey behind them shortened its distance.
One meter, one gunshot, at a time. As it drew near, she could 
see the black silhouettes of the machine guns and the even 
deadlier ICBM missiles. Once the battle itself begun, it would 
as good as be over. 
     "You have been placed under arrest by the Imperial 
Government of the United States." The voice of the pilot filled 
the air through a megaphone. "We do not wish to resort to 
violence. Please stop the vehicle. Please stop the vehicle now."
     The engine groaned as Skinner pushed the jeep into another
gear. 
     "Please stop or we will open fire."
     She glanced over her shoulder to gauge the distance to the
mountains. "Are we going to make it?" 
     He took his eyes off the road long enough to look her in 
the face and shake his head. The lines of his jaw pulled taut with 
anger and desperation. "If we stop now, there's a chance 
they'll let us live. Do you-"
     Instead of speaking her answer, Scully swung the gun up 
around and squeezed the trigger. The chopper veered away as 
one of the high-powered rounds hit the windshield. /That's 
right. You're not taking me back./ Wind whipped her hair 
across face but her eyes met Skinner's with a fierce smile that 
needed no words. He understood. "Just checking."  
     A barrage of machine gun fire ended their conversation, 
and Skinner shoved her to the bottom of the jeep as he 
attempted to duck and drive at the same time. The vehicle 
swerved back and forth as they played a deadly game of tag 
with the stream of bullets. Winning, for now, but only barely. 
     She stood up again to shoot but his hand closed around 
her shoulder and yanked her back down so hard her teeth
shook. "Stay put." It wasn't a request. 
     Her spine stiffened, her fingers tightening around the
gun. "You are not pulling this gung ho crap on me now." 
     His face showed h was insulted. "Save your bullets until they 
get close. Aim for the pilot."     
     The rumble of the chopper was almost deafening now, 
nearly loud enough to hide the thunder in her veins. Sweat from 
her palms was turned into steam by the heated barrel of the 
shotgun as she quickly reloaded. She placed two extra cartridges 
in her pocket. No more than that. If all three missed, she 
would be dead anyway. Only a few more seconds.....
     There was a loud !pop! as the chopper's machine gun fire
cut across the back of the jeep, blowing the two back tires. 
The resulting jolt sent her body flying hard and fast into the 
dashboard; for a moment stunning her. As she pulled herself 
back into position, priming the shotgun for their one chance at
survival, something sharp and strong bit into her nostrils.
     Gasoline. 


                                          
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Resurrection (6/32)
by darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

     A glance in the side mirror confirmed her suspicions. One 
of the bullets had ricocheted off the gas tank. Only the angels 
had kept the entire jeep from bursting into flames, but now 
they were leaking their guts all over the beach. They were 
losing speed fast. Too fast. Her view disappeared as a bullet 
shattered the mirror. In seconds the helo would be right over 
head and then it would be too late.
     /Hail Mary, Mother of God bury me beside Mulder/
     The universe slowed to the motion of a finger on a trigger 
as Scully pushed herself up, her arm bringing the gun toward 
the cockpit in one fluid motion. Bits of sand were flung into 
her eyes by the wind until tears came. Her free hand wiped 
them away as her finger tightened. The pilot realized her intent 
and the barrels of the machine gun swiveled to cut her down. 
This was the deciding second. Life or death. Freedom or 
slavery.
     She fired.....and missed! The shot went wide as the jeep 
lurched forward, brakes squealing as they tried to gain traction 
on the slippery terrain. It pitched her over the seats, slamming 
her mercilessly into the back of the jeep. She kept rolling until 
she hit the side. Something felt like it had been dented.....
whether it was the metal or her skull, she didn't have time to 
find out.
     The first bullet grazed her kneecap and delivered an urgent 
reminder of her exposure. The second bit a tiny chunk 
of flesh from her shoulder as the vehicle buckled into a 
forty-five degree turn.  "Skinner, what the-" Her words 
shriveled inside her mouth as she looked up to see a *second* 
chopper appear from over the mountains, bearing down twice
as fast as the one on their tailpipes.
     The abrupt turn proved to be the last straw for the 
struggling vehicle. It tipped to the side, the force of the motion
hurling her back into the air to greet the not-so-soft sand face 
first. Her ribs shrieked and Scully choked on her own breath as
it was pounded from her lungs. The acrid scent of burning 
metal forced motion back into her paralyzed limbs. She nearly 
snapped her own neck from the speed she jerked it in the 
direction of the wreck. 
    In the flame-kissed darkness she saw both the man, 
struggling to drag himself to his feet, and the pool of burning 
gasoline that soaked through the sand mere inches from his legs.
Nightmares of burning flesh and charred bone spurred to her 
feet, and she ran. There was no time to listen to the pain. 
     In a moment her arms locked under his shoulders, 
pulling up with a fervor. He groaned, half-rising but collapsing 
again. "Go...." The words slurred. Concussion, the 
doctor inside her mind shouted. Might be slight, but he might 
already be bleeding to death inside his skull.
     "Move!" She screamed, throat raw and burning from the 
gas fumes assaulting her face. The breath of the fire pressed 
heat onto her skin, prelude to the tongues of flame that desired 
to lick the flesh from their bones. Her ears recognized the 
sound of the chopper's blades as it hovered above them. 
Vultures, she thought. Just waiting their pick of bones. 
     /No time. No time. Do you know what it is like to die in 
a fire, Mulder?/ A spark flash of memory, burning firework 
bright in her mind and just that quickly. His voice, his words,
another moment when death had seemed to be the victor.
     /You stay alive, you hear me! No matter what occurs! I 
will find you./ And he had. 
    He was not dead. She felt that much inside her. It set off 
landmines within her veins, a keen desire for *life*. Scully 
gritted her teeth and pulled with the combined strength of 
muscle and resolve. He slid away from the fire what might 
have been an inch, if she was that lucky. 
     "On your feet, Marine!"  
     Skinner's legs began to dig into the sand, gouging deep 
ruts into the face of the earth as he attempted to help her. 
His arms pushed down on her shoulders as he pushed himself 
up and the weight of his entire body ground mercilessly
against her bruised shoulder bones. She pushed back, trying 
to nudge him to his feet as red oceans of pain threatened to 
sweep her away. Then he was standing. 
     They ran. It was more like a half-stumbling, half-falling 
rush of panic, but they escaped from the fire grave that hissed 
angrily over the sand where they had been moments ago. The 
distance was not enough to cushion them in any great degree 
when the gas tank finally exploded. It was enough, however, 
to save their lives.
     The shockwave picked them up like the invisible hand of a 
petty god, and carried them a good twenty feet, bits of metal 
nipping at their heels, then simply dropped them. Scully 
winced in advance. 
     Impact.
     Her world cut to black. After a moment, reality flickered 
back to life, but it was as if she had been caught in the limbo 
between consciousness and oblivion. A heavy film seemed to 
coat her mind, clogging her thoughts and actions alike. Her 
body was lead heavy; she could not move. 
     A sense of childlike fascination curbed her fear as the
first chopper moved directly over them. The still-burning 
wreckage of the car sent beams of orange light sliding down 
the smooth black metal belly. Any moment the beast would 
give birth to its children and they would consume her. 
    No, she would not go. She would not......
    But something happened. The helicopter wasn't 
stopping. It passed over them as if it had lost all interest, the 
rat-tat of its guns suddenly turned on something to their right. 
Her head protested even the small movement, but it was 
worth it.
     The second chopper. In all the commotion, she had 
forgotten about it. What was happening? Uncertainty was 
worse than fear. The second craft was smaller than the 
Enforcer helo, but it positively bristled with a hodge-podge 
of weaponry. At first glance, it seemed that someone had 
merely taken random missiles and guns and stuck them in any 
available place. /Not professionals. Bounty hunters?/ Who
knows what the price on her head was, and Skinner's would 
probably be double that, from what he had told her about his 
position with the resistance. Someone might want it bad 
enough to take on even the mighty Enforcers. After all, 
Chile was a long way from DC and no one would be 
coming to ask questions about body count....
     From her past experience with bounty hunters, Scully 
believed she would rather take her chance with the Enforcers..
     Her thoughts were distracted as a trail of white smoke 
shot from underneath the Enforcer helo toward its rival craft. 
So now they were playing with the big toys. The second 
helicopter danced out of the way, humming angrily as a 
disturbed yellow-jacket, but the missile arced up toward the 
stars then back toward it. A heat seeker.  Whoever the second 
party might be, they were finished. 
     But the little chopper picked up speed, it's forward 
machine guns roaring as it charged the Enforcers. How 
oddly brave of a bounty hunter. In the last seconds before it 
came within range of enemy fire-- and certain death-- the helo 
banked up sharply. Here was where its lighter weight and
superior maneuverability paid off. Before the larger chopper 
could counter, the second craft was *behind* them and 
quickly creating a buffer zone of distance. 
     The Enforcers were now in path of their own missile. The 
irony made a lovely fireball. An explosion lit up the beach 
in a regular Fourth of July celebration.
     Although she doubted she'd be able to celebrate her
independence for much longer. The victorious helicopter swung 
around and moved toward them. 
    Scully reached across Skinner and pulled his .45 Magnum 
from its holster. /You want this bounty, boys, you're gonna 
have to get your hands dirty./ His eyes met hers, thick and 
clouded with the drugs of pain and semi-consciousness. 
Between the livid cut across his forehead and heaven only 
knew what kind of internal injuries, she was surprised he still 
clung to reality. His mouth moved to form words but no 
sound came out. 
     She squeezed a momentary reassurance into his shoulder. 
/I'm not going anywhere./ A taste of warm blood soured the 
back of her mouth as she forced her fingers to close around 
the pistol. Her hands shook and it took nearly all her strength 
to cock the weapon.
     The lights from the craft shone burned her irises as she 
turned her face toward the threat, but she refused to look 
away. Wind and sand rushed over her, pelting her skin and 
blowing her hair back from her face. Slowly, and oh so 
painfully, she began to pull herself up to at least a sitting 
position. Back ramrod straight, face set in stone. Defy until 
the end. 
     /Well, Ahab, Starbuck still remembers some of your 
lessons./
     The helo touched down a scant fifty yards from them. 
Dim black shadows of men began to disembark. Her skin 
tingled from the cold metal of the gun. Her ears popped 
from the adrenaline acid in her blood.
     A voice came out of the light. "General Skinner and 
Dana Scully-" General? Who were these people? Scully 
forced herself to pay attention as the speaker continued. 
"We are not with the Imperial Government or the Bounty 
Hunter Guild. We have been sent by the Humanity Corps to 
escort you to safety. Do not shoot."
     She turned back to Skinner, eyes searching for some sort 
of confirmation. His head moved in a slight nod. Growing 
awareness of her injuries began to settle over her, a fog of pain 
that tugged her down towards unconsciousness. Relief 
washed the static from her nerves but still she sat frozen in 
her position and her fingers would not release the gun.
     Shock, her doctor mind told her. You have to fight it. She
couldn't fight it. She was drowning in it. 
     And then the men reached her, soldiers in brown 
uniforms who carried no guns. The leader wore the insignia
of a Healer on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
     Scully nodded, a lie of course, because she did not want 
the man's hands anywhere near her. Strange hands. The medic 
passed her by to kneel beside Skinner. "Get a stretcher!" he 
barked over his shoulder. Somewhere inside her, protective 
instincts flared and she placed a hand possessively on Skinner's 
shoulder. His hand moved weakly toward her, fingers brushing
her leg as the soldiers pulled him onto the stretcher. 
     They tried to help her to her feet. She did not move. She 
could not. /What if they're lying?/ Her voice hid from her
to her, but her thoughts spoke loud as ever. /What if this is a 
trap?/ The gun, cold in her fingers. A choice to be made.
     Her own body decided for her. Consciousness went out 
like a candle into darkness, and Dana Scully did not even feel 
the strange hands that invaded her space to move her onto 
another stretcher. 
     The chopper rose into the air and vanished over the 
mountains as the fire of the abandoned wreckage continued to 
eat at her home. But she did not know this. Therefore she
could not look back to mourn.

                         * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

     Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
     The pounding of her heart echoed inside her skull, 
inside her skull, slow and deep as thunder over the ocean's
horizon. She felt as if she was floating in a warm sea, 
underwater yet breathing while her body drifted with the
ebb and flow of the current.  Thin shafts of light pierced 
the surface to color the water with the palest of golds. 
There was such peace, an entire ocean world of peace that 
she did not want to leave. Pain existed, but it seemed
to grow less and less by the heartbeat. She did not know why.
    Yet now she moved, pushed by the tide, toward a 
dark shore, shrouded by mist and fire. That was Awakening.
That meant she would have to face reality-- she had
been taken from the haven which had sheltered her so many
months. She had washed up on the shores of the
true world, and that place was cruel and frightening. She 
remembered that much.
     With growing awareness of self came awareness of 
another, a foreign consciousness that surrounded her like 
the ocean. Wherever it touched, it destroyed the pain. She
began to realize that this Consciousness worked inside
her mind without her command. That it controlled her mind.
     Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom.
     Her heartbeat sped in her ears as an icy undercurrent 
of fear began to chill the waters.
     /Just like with Pavlov. Just like in the camps. While you
were lying here asleep they could have done anything..../
     As her outer senses returned, her skin began to tingle
as she realized someone else's hands were wrapped around 
her head. Someone else existed inside her mind. Touching her
thoughts.....
     She screamed, hands instinctively flying up to fend off 
the attacker. The Consciousness abruptly vanished, taking its 
hands with it before she could break them, but she didn't 
stop swinging until she hit flesh.
     "Give her some room, you idiots!" 
     Someone grabbed her shoulders, holding them in a 
gentle yet firm grip as a familiar voice pierced through her
hysteria. "Scully. It's me. Open your eyes. It's me."
     Skinner? His gravelly voice, warm with concern, called her to
logic. "They're not trying to hurt you. Just open your
eyes and see for yourself." She had to remind herself that 
this was Skinner. She was not alone. She still had someone
she could trust. 
     /He let them inside your mind./ A razor whisper in the 
back of her head slashed words into her thoughts. /He's 
trying to save himself. He'll give your mind over to them to
save his. This is the real world. No one trusts anyone. All
that matters is survival. Remember that if you want to see
tomorrow..../
     Scully did not want to listen, did not want to believe, so
she opened her eyes. She was not afraid. Not of the camps.
Not of Pavlov. It had been a year and she was not.....
     The first thing she saw was Skinner's face, creased with
worry yet calm around the eyes. She felt his gaze lock onto
hers, slowly draining the paranoia from her body. Her voice 
was rough from sleep when she tried to speak. 
     "You let them touch my mind." Disbelief. Accusation. She
saw him flinch, his eyes dropping away from hers.
     "They have a healer. You were bleeding internally....we
couldn't wait for you to wake up. Something had to be 
done, so I gave them permission." 
     She swallowed hard, trying to stop the shaking in her 
bones. Every word he said was firmly grounded in logic and
common sense. Every word, she knew, was true. Still, there 
remained a part deep inside her that logic could not quickly reach.
Pavlov had infected this part long ago, and it ate at her even
now, as she nodded to acknowledge Skinner.
     "My apologies, Dana Scully." A strange man spoke to
her, and she assumed it to be the healer. "My name is 
Che. I am sorry if I frightened you. We don't make it a 
practice to enter minds without consent of the patient." In his 
words she read a strand of defensiveness, the kind that grew
on a person after so many false accusations. After all, the man
was a hybrid. Among the colonists he might have been 
accepted-- to a degree-- but among the rest of the world, his
people were openly despised. 
     It said something about the strange reversal of fate when 
she was no longer surprised to meet one face to face. Or 
felt any shock to learn of their talents. They were based not in 
mysticism but in science, abilities fostered by the alien DNA that 
intertwined with their human genes. Each hybrid manifested a 
singular "trait"-- empathy, healing, enhanced mental or physical 
powers. Survival tools, she thought. Nature's "forgive me" 
gift for turning them loose in a world that wanted them all
to die.
     "You did what you had to do." She forced her lips to
turn up into a smile. "I'm just a little unstable when I first
wake up from mild concussions." She meant it to sound
like a joke, admittedly a lame one.
     Che nodded in understanding-- of what she wasn't sure,
because his eyes had a strange sense of comprehension as if
he knew what really made her shake. Well, the man....no,
the *thing*....had been inside her head. A fresh surge of
nausea washed up from her gut, and she pressed her teeth
into a thin line before she further humiliated herself by
throwing up Skinner's shirt. 
     Now that she had seen the presence that had been
mingled with hers, she could search his eyes for malice, and 
she found the opposite, a warm sense of compassion. 
Almost humanity. How odd.
     But it was still her mind, and they still had not asked, so 
she refused to relax. Even if she was grateful.
     "Thank you.....Che."  Scully barely remembered to
attach his name, and forced herself into awareness. "For healing 
me." The hybrid smiled. Another sign of almost-humanity. 
     Skinner had retreated a bit to allow her the personal space 
he knew she would want, but his gaze hovered close to her. 
He could see through her thin smile, see her fists gripping the 
edge of the bed with a desperation that didn't quite stop the
shaking visible around her wrists and knuckles.
     "All right, she's awake now." he addressed the room in 
his don't-make-me-repeat-it tone. "Give her a bit of
privacy." The room cleared in moments. A satisfaction warmed
his gut that he could still give orders.
     "You don't have to worry about Che." he said. "I've
talked to him and he's on our side."
     She hadn't moved, still sitting ramrod straight on the bed,
her eyes not quite focused on anything. It disturbed him just
the tiniest bit.
     "Are you-"
     "I'm fine." She cut him off before he'd even finished,
not even looking at him as she stirred to her feet. Well what 
had he been expecting? The truth? It wasn't so easy with her.
     He didn't regret giving the hybrid permission to heal Scully, 
but he hadn't expected her to react so violently. /You should 
have explained to them. You should have told them she had 
scars in her mind./ He hadn't wanted to betray a confidence. 
Scully had only spoke of Pavlov to him once, explaining in 
supreme detachment only the bare facts. He knew the alien had 
interrogated her and Mulder when they were in the camps. 
He had learned of Pavlov's reputation early on, as a 
high-ranking official of the Resistance privy to all intelligence
briefings. The creature had preyed on minds. With vicious
relish.
    Skinner had decided long ago that the monster had tried
the same trick with her; after that he hadn't wanted details. It
was more than enough to know that she woke up screaming, 
and he had to be the one answer her cries even though he
was not the one whose name she called.
      Now she claimed to be done with her demons, but
he sensed them inside her. Maybe Mulder free her from them.
If the man's own darkness hadn't consumed him, by now...
     "They healed you too?" Scully said, more to break a silence
than to ask a question. He had been staring at her too long
without speaking, and she didn't like it.
     "Yes. A few hours before you." He omitted the fact that he
had been dying at the time.
     Her eyes turned around the room in a methodical 
examination of her surroundings. The ceiling and walls were
made of adobe brick, and several open windows allowed
the morning sun to share its brilliance with the room. Outside,
she could see miles upon miles of desert, flung carelessly 
in every direction under the azure sky.
     "Where are we?" 
     "Somewhere in Mexico. I'm not sure of the exact location,
but we'll be here until we get cleared to move into the States."
     "And Mulder?" She tried to keep the anxiety out of her
tone. "Did you ask them about him?"
     When Skinner nodded, she felt like she could breathe safely
again. "They said he'll meet us. From what I can gather, he's
left his former.....employers." The word caused a stagger
in the air, several silent moments when each of them were
reminded just what that meant.
     /Employers./ Scully nearly shivered. She knew he
had murdered his sister, and that he had done it to earn her
freedom. That alone caused her to wonder if she 
could look him in the eye. But there was more. He never
told her how many men he'd killed, but her instinct knew he
had done things. Terrible, Colonist things that she wasn't
sure she wanted to find out about. Ever. If she did, she
might not be able to live with him.....
     "Where do we meet him?" She didn't really need to know,
but the question served as a convenient distraction from 
her fears. 
     "Freedom City." he told her. "It's the capital of our
territories." 
      Her eyes widened. "The Resistance has territories?"
      He hadn't realized she'd been out of the loop so long,
but then again she and Mulder had always preferred to keep
to themselves. "Over the past two years, we've acquired
substantial holdings in the northwestern quadrants. Freedom
City is the central headquarters. Most of our people live there,
in between assignments. The territory was still disputed when
I left, but from what they tell me, it's been securely ours for
quite some time....."
     She tried to listen to what he was saying, but her mind
inevitably slipped back to Mulder. What would she say to
him? What would she do? The questions went beyond the
initial meeting. She had to decide how much she wanted
to pretend. The last time he had visited her, they had avoided
the truth. Oh, they touched the surface when he told her
about Samantha, but both of them had known it was merely
the tip of the iceberg. Something fundamental in both of
them had changed. It had been easy to ignore that.  After all, 
they had been apart so long, and the sheer need to be near, to 
touch, was tremendous. 
     So tremendous they played a weeklong game of
make believe. A wonderful, beautiful game in which they
were both the idealists they had been once, where she didn't
taste the blood of innocent men inside his kiss.
      Now she stretched her eyes out the window, scouring
the desert from corner to corner, knowing that she could
not pretend anymore. 
     "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" Skinner's 
voice filtered slowly through her thoughts like a dust particle 
floats through a ray of light. 
     She shook herself out of her mind long enough to 
smile ruefully. "Is it that obvious?'
      A cloud passed over the sun, turning the room into a 
patchwork quilt of shadow and light. A splotch of gold 
slid across his face as he spoke, slowly and carefully. "You
don't have to meet him if you don't want to. If you need
more time...."
     "No." Scully stood to her feet, rubbing her hands up and
down her forearm to shake away the chills she told herself
were leftover from sleep. "I want to see him again. I just
don't know what will happen after that." She turned back
to face Skinner. "He isn't one of them." Her tone wavered,
unsure even of itself. "He isn't." The core of her eyes raked
Skinner's for some affirmation, some agreement.
     "You'll have to ask him that."
     /What if I don't want to?/ She whispered the thought
softly to her innermost mind. /What if I just want it to be
like it was?/
     "What do you think?" 
     He didn't answer her immediately, crossing the room and
picking up his gun as if he meant to inspect it. She wondered
if he ignored her, but soon enough he spoke, slowly and 
deliberately. "I think he was a good man. I've never seen anyone 
like him. I think that you two had something remarkable. I've 
never seen anything like that either. 
     It was not lost on her that he spoke in the past tense.
     "And?"
     "We'll meet him in Freedom City. Talk to him. Ask him
what you think you have to. If you find that you want to leave,
all you have to do is say the word and we'll go."
     His words settled into the air, and somehow they comforted 
her in the tiniest of ways. Her face eased into a smile that was 
pale yet genuine. "Thank you, Skinner." 
     Without warning she picked up her gun and left the
room. Skinner watched her leave, noticed the gleam in her
eyes that might have been a tear, and in his mind made a 
promise that if Mulder ever tried to hurt that woman, he
would be dead before he laid a finger on her.
     He said it knowing Mulder had been a friend once.
     He said it knowing how killing changed a man.


to be continued.