Retrieval - revised (minor)Subject: Retrieval - revised (minor) Date: Sun, 25 Oct 1998 Title: Retrieval Author: Daydreamer Author E-Mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: R - for violence and disturbing imagery Category: SA MSR Archive: Yes, please Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and CSM are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, and William B. Davis. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Thanks to my X-Phriend Vickie Moseley, for her wonderful support and encouragement! Summary: Mulder and Scully mysteriously disappear, and Skinner must face his past to save them. Retrieval 01/03 Mulder lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped over and around Scully, holding her close to him, tucked securely to his side. Her hair tickled his nose, a minor discomfort, but one he would willingly submit to for all eternity in exchange for the pleasure of being here with her, like this. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how something, anything, in his life could be as wonderful as this. He blew softly through his mouth, watching the wisps of red rise gently, then settle again, tickling, teasing his nose and lips. Across his chest was a river of soft auburn, flowing from Scully's head, covering his torso, neck, and shoulder. She slept with such abandon. It amazed him, to watch her like this. So controlled, so reserved in her waking life, but so free, so unrestrained in sleep. And in love. It had come as a tremendous surprise to him, the enthusiasm, the elemental wildness, the *passion,* she brought to their lovemaking. Whoever said redheads were the most passionate of lovers, certainly knew whereof he spoke. At least where Dana Scully was concerned. He sighed contentedly, the sigh of a man sexually sated, replete with the euphoria of good love, and kissed her tenderly, softly, not wanting to wake her. It was the sigh of a man wholly at peace with his life. Since he and Scully had become lovers, he felt complete. Whatever loss Samantha had created in his life had been filled to overflowing by the presence of this woman. She settled him, she balanced him, she filled the empty places in his soul. He was whole, the future was before them, and life was good. While his work was still there, still engrossing, still enthralling, still calling him for answers, it was no longer the focus of his life. His focus was here, a compact redhead, curled trustingly next to him. One who valued him completely, cherished him above all, wantonly fulfilled his every desire, and loved him with an intensity that both frightened and amazed him. Amazed him because he had never been loved like this in all his life. Frightened because it was all so wonderful, so unreal, that old niggling doubt would resurrect and whisper, "not you, never you," and he would have to find her, touch her, be with her to lay it to rest once more. Never had he been the center of the universe for another person. Oh, Scully was reserved, restrained, refined, but when she gave her heart, she did so unabashedly, with no holds barred, and a take no prisoners level of commitment that sometimes kept him up nights, contemplating that depth of emotion. And he knew his own commitment was no less. His own obsessive personality had displayed itself repeatedly since he had known her, and now, he knew, he channeled that particular trait into her. Everything was Scully, and Scully was everything. He was quite sure that if the world came to an end tomorrow, but Scully were with him, they would continue on together for all of eternity. What was between them could never end. He sighed again, pulling her even more closely to him, his hand making lazy circles on her bare back. She half waked, moving her head to nuzzle his chest, her tongue darting out to dance tantalizingly against his overstimulated nipple, before she snuggled more deeply into him, and he felt the weight of her head settle as she drifted back to deepest sleep. His eyes drifted shut and he felt the call of Somnus, a siren song, not to be refused. *********************************************************** Rough hands, pulling, and he instinctively resisted. The hands pulled him, pulled Scully, tearing them apart. Merciless, brutal, they ripped her from his arms, her screams went unnoticed, her cries unheeded. A familiar pattern, a nightmare he knew only too well. He struggled to bring himself awake, to lift his lids, to stare hungrily at Scully's sleeping form, to shudder and shake, and finally throw off the terror of the night. To rise and wipe the fear sweat from his body, to slide once more between the cool sheets and into her welcoming embrace. He lifted his lids, the famine of her absence almost overcoming him, and faced - His nightmare come to life. Scully was held between two men, her arms cruelly twisted behind her back, her cries cut off by a hand held tightly over her mouth. Her eyes screamed to him, fear, worry, warning, but he was blinded to everything but reaching her. He left the bed in one smooth movement, heading directly for the man on her left. His feet hit the floor, he felt a jarring impact at the base of his skull, and his forward momentum carried two steps more, then he crumpled to the ground. As the darkness swallowed him, he heard once more, "not you, never you. . ." ************************************************************ They'd been missing a week. Walter Skinner paced his office, the carpet where he trod showing the tracks of his steps. He hadn't been that upset when they hadn't come in Monday. With Mulder, anything could have come up over the weekend, and he was never one to be overly concerned with appropriate paperwork when he was on the chase. But Scully, Scully was thorough. And on other occasions when they had seemingly vanished, he would hear from her before the day was out. An explanation, a report, a request for funding, vouchers, resources. But Monday had come and gone. And still he had not been overly worried, secure in the knowledge that Tuesday would either bring a phone call or a visit, and the explanation he awaited. But Tuesday came and went, and there was no call, no report, no request, no visit. And when he finally went home Tuesday, at 2300, he was concerned. He'd slept fitfully that night, unsure of what to do, who he could go to if they really were missing. He really didn't know who could be trusted, who would help and who would hinder. By Wednesday, rumors were flowing throughout the building. Spooky and the Mrs. were AWOL. He'd gone round the bend and they'd committed him. She was keeping vigil. She'd cracked under the pressure of the past five years. He was keeping vigil. Her cancer was back and she was dying. He was too broken to work. They'd both been abducted by aliens, this last offered with a sly look and a smirk from that jerk Colton. By Wednesday afternoon, he'd been to both their apartments. Mulder's spare and empty, layers of dust on every surface. He apparently hadn't been staying there for sometime. The closets were empty, the drawers bare. Even the fish tank was gone. Scully's, immaculate, a place for everything and everything in its place. Including Mulder's fish, who had taken up residence on a small bookcase in Scully's living room. He had walked over and they swarmed to the surface, so he had dropped in a handful of fish flakes, and watched as they greedily fought for the bounty. He had wandered through, feeling vaguely like a voyeur, stealing glimpses at something he hadn't been invited to see. He'd been careful not to touch anything barehanded; he'd wanted to leave no prints. He had walked to the bathroom, and if he had needed further confirmation of Mulder's presence in Scully's home, here it was. A man's razor, shaving cream, aftershave. Two toothbrushes, two deodorants, two kinds of shampoo. He had gone quickly to the bedroom and opened the closet. And there were the missing clothes. Hers had hung neatly on her half of the closet rod. His suits and shirts had hung in the other half of the closet. He had opened a drawer, top left, and shut it quickly when he realized it contained her underthings. He'd then opened top right, and been confronted with men's boxer, men's socks, men's T-shirts. Mulder had been very much at home there. He had walked out to the living room again, and stood, taking in the apartment, the situation, the possibilities. He had turned slowly in a circle, eyes noting the placement of everything in the room, mind frantically trying to make a decision. When he had made a complete circuit, he had stopped. He had closed his eyes for long moment, took a deep breath, and murmured, "God forgive me if I'm wrong." He had returned to the office and ordered an APB on both of them. Federal agents, missing. To be taken into protective custody on sight. Assume hostile intentions of anyone seen with them. Assume armed and dangerous of anyone accompanying them. He had put together a task force, and assigned team leaders, each with specific duties, all designed to track and trace their disappearance. Agents had dusted both places for prints, were still tracking phone records, and bank transactions. Verifying credit card usage. Interviewing the neighbors. He had had the unpleasant task of notifying Margaret Scully that once again, her daughter was missing, and the F B *fucking* I couldn't tell her a thing about it. He'd driven to Baltimore on Thursday for that little job. He'd wimped out on Mrs. Mulder, sending an agent from the Boston office, then following up with a personal call. Mrs. Scully had been frantic, desperate, begging for help, then pleading to be allowed to help. He'd thought rapidly, and finally told her about the fish, the poor starved fish. Would she feed the fish, so he could focus on the investigation? She'd looked slightly shocked - she'd not known of their living arrangements, but then she'd latched onto it gratefully, aware it was a bone, willing to take anything thrown her way that let her feel she was being helpful. He'd stayed several hours, talking with her, explaining patiently, over and over, all the things they were going to do. He'd promised, *promised,* he would absolutely keep her informed of every move they made. And he vowed nothing barring death itself would keep him from finding her daughter - and future son-in-law, he'd been told. Mrs. Mulder on the other hand, had seemed almost unconcerned. Cold, distant, unreceptive to his empty words of hope. She had listened politely to his smoothly mouthed platitudes, then thanked him for the call and hung up. He had sat, looking at the phone for long minutes, until it began a monotone buzz, then he had slowly replaced the receiver. Teams had begun reporting by Thursday night, and the reports were all negative. Nothing had been uncovered to indicate where his two agents were, how they got there, or even exactly when they had disappeared. As best he could determine, they had been seen together at the local grocery the previous Friday after work, and then vanished. He hadn't gone home Thursday, electing to stay and pace in his office. In the morning, he'd showered in the gym and changed into his extra suit, the one he kept at the office for emergencies. And he'd returned to pacing, watching the clock drag its hands slowly around its face, waiting for the phone to ring with a call that never came. Finally, he came to a stop. He strode purposefully to the phone, punched in a number he had sworn to himself he would never use again, and waited to speak with the Devil. ******************************************************** They met in public, in the park. They walked and talked as two civilized gentlemen. No one observing would ever guess that lives were being bartered for, souls were being wagered. Just two middle aged men, strolling in the park on a brisk autumn day. "I am only provisionally back in the loop, so to speak, Mr. Skinner." The man took a deep drag on the ever present cigarette, the smoke swirling lazily in the chill breeze. "I am not consulted on every move that is made. And I was not consulted on this one." "I don't really care if you were or were not consulted, are or are not involved. I only want to know where they are, and how to get them." "Ah, there's the rub, my friend. I know where they are, and you can get them, but *you* are the only one who actually can get them." "What do you mean? Are you saying I have to trade myself for them. Because if that's all, then it's done. Send them home. I'm here, we can go now." "Such noble self-sacrifice. Pity there aren't more like you. But, alas, it's not that easy." The man sucked hard on the cigarette, the tip glowing brightly, then dropped the small stub, and ground it out under his heal. "When I say you will have to go and get them, I mean just that. *You* will have to go and get them." "Don't be cryptic," Skinner growled. The man stopped walking and looked at Skinner. He held out a piece of paper, an offering, and said, "Mr. Skinner, I know what you did in the war. I know *what* you are. I've seen the real records. And where they are, who has them, what they are doing to them? Only you can get them out." ****************************************************** Skinner was pacing again, this time in front of the window wall in his apartment. He stopped suddenly and stared out into the velvet sky. He was going to do it, he knew it. He had known since that black lunged bastard had held the paper out to him, known since he taunted him with what he'd done in the war. There was always a chance he was being set up, but with nothing else to go on, this was the best chance he had to find his agents. To stop whatever unnamed horror was occurring. He sighed heavily. He'd never wanted to do this again. He walked to his dining room table and looked again at the maps he had laid out. Aerial surveillance. A small island off the rocky New England coast. Too small to have a name, despite the fact it was privately owned and home to the estate of one of the richest men in the world. Also one of the most reclusive. A home with the most serious of security. Armed guards, trained dogs, video cameras, lasers; all of it designed to create an impenetrable fortress. A fortress in which his people were being held. A fortress he was planning to penetrate. He shook his head. He'd been on the fence too long. It was time to take a stand in the game that was being played out. He'd been on both sides, sometimes willingly, sometimes not so willingly, but now he was taking his place. When this operation was over, there would no longer be any doubt where Walter Skinner stood in the grand scheme of things. He walked to the window and looked out again. He leaned his head against the cool glass, staring at the peaceful lights of the city. This was what he had wanted, all he had longed for when he had come back. Peace. A home. A chance to do something useful. A chance to forget. But the past has a way of creeping up on you, and some things can never be forgotten. He stared into the night for a bit longer, a single tear finding its way to his eyes, spilling over, and sliding slowly down his cheek. He realized then, that he was mourning. Mourning the boy who had gone to war, mourning the innocence so quickly lost. And mourning the man he had worked so hard to become. A good man, a decent man, an honest and loyal man. A man created from the dregs of that lost-innocent boy. A man created more by what *not* to be, than what *to* be. He sighed once more, wiped his now dry cheek with the back of his hand, and turned his back on the peace of the night. He turned and walked into his little used second bedroom. More an office than bedroom, despite the day bed there. He walked to the closet and removed the sliding door from it track, leaning it against the bed. He needed room to work. Sometime later, enough of the false wall had been removed that he could reach the trunk, and he pulled it out, wondering once again just why he had saved it after all. 'For this,' his mind replied. 'You saved it for this.' The lock was old. It hadn't been touched in over thirty years. He'd dragged the battered old trunk through all the moves he'd made, always creating a safe place for it, always knowing it was there, never again wanting to open it. He tried the lock, then quickly resorted to cutters, too impatient to work the worn tumblers. He knelt quickly, opened the trunk, then sat back on his haunches, and began to face his past. A black nylon jumpsuit, fabric decaying from neglect. No names, no insignia, no rank, just a non-descript jumpsuit designed to cover the flesh and protect from the elements. It went in the discard pile. Guns - state of the art thirty years ago - dated now, in light of the new technology. Not having been cared for, their mechanisms stiff with disuse, these too went in the discard pile. A black canvas backpack. Heavier duty than the nylon, this had lasted. He could use this if he wanted to, but he put it aside as well. It was heavy by today's standards, and he didn't want to carry any more weight than he had too. He might have injured coming out. The knives. These he could use. Throwing knives, perfectly balanced, their blades still sharp. A small utility knife, single blade, good for cutting rope - and throats. Larger knives, to clear a path, through forest or through people. Skinner felt his gut clutch and his stomach heave, and he shoved down his reaction, quickly pulling out the knives and their sheaths. The *to use* pile was beginning. Throwing stars, a martial arts tool, beautiful in flight, deadly when handled by someone who knew how to use them. He knew how to use them. They went in the *to use* pile. He went on quickly. The other survival gear he'd replace. The canteen, drinking cup, first aid kit. The numerous little survive in the wild gizmos, fishing line and hook, tablets to purify water, ration bars, these would all be outdated. He lifted a small ground cover, and finally reached the main thing he'd come to get. The money. $500,000.00. A half a million dollars. Idly, he wondered what it would be worth now, if he had invested it instead of sticking it in a trunk and nailing it up behind a false wall. It was his pay-off for his service to his country. His original deal with the devil. He'd never touched it, never been able to look at it. But with what it could buy for him now, perhaps he might be able to, in some small way, make it clean. Blood money - but used for good. Did that make it all right? He shook his head. Too deep an issue for right before an operation. Act now, think later. Amazing how quickly it all came back. He shook his head and thought, sadly, how your past never really lets you go. *********************************************************** Three more days. It had taken him three more days to get the equipment he needed, make the arrangements, acquire the information. His smoking *friend* had been most cooperative in providing intelligence on the layout of the island, the house, and the security. He apparently wanted Mulder and Scully out as well. This taking appeared to have gone against quite a few of the players' wishes, and while he knew he was operating alone, as always, he had been offered resources he'd never have been able to get on his own. He sat in the boat, bobbing several miles off shore of the island. He checked his gear one last time. He'd had to be extremely careful in his choices of what to take. The two mile swim in to the island would be brutal, rough waters, cold temperature. He'd had to anchor far enough away not to be picked up on the island's perimeter cameras. He reviewed his plan. Swim in. Up a rocky incline and into dense woods. Stop, shed the wetsuit and redress. Stash the suit and the other items he wouldn't need until later. Make his way to the house. Breach security, find Mulder and Scully, get them out. Hope they could both make the swim to the boat, and get the hell out of Dodge. He hefted the first of the of the waterproof pouches that would be strapped about his person. One on each thigh, one on each bicep, and the largest, of course, on his back. Inside, everything he would need, safe from the harsh salt water, ready for use upon arrival. Altogether - fifty pounds. He'd made swims like this with twice that weight in Nam, but that was 30 years ago. He couldn't risk not making it, or being so exhausted he couldn't function, so he had been brutal in his selections. Many things that he would never have thought of going on an operation without long ago, were conspicuously absent. But some of the essentials were still there. Drinking water. Ration bars. Weapons. Medical. Shelter. It had been a hard choice, but the items available now were amazingly light compared to what he had been used to, and he hadn't had to leave as much behind as he had at first thought. He finished strapping on the pouches, checked that they were secure. One last look around the boat, a check on the compass setting, the goggles pulled down, and he slipped into the water and began to swim. It was cold, colder than he had imagined, but he forced himself to keep going. The waves knocked him about, but he kept eyeing the compass and maintained a steady pace and eventually he reached the shore. He lay low in the water for long minutes, fighting the cold, but regaining his breath and a steady heart beat. When his body was stilled, his mind focused, he leapt up and sprinted for the foot of the incline, climbing rapidly, and slipping like a wraith into the woods. He quickly moved deeper into the trees, searching for a small clearing and came upon one, partially surrounded by a bramble thicket, and began to strip. The pouches came off, then the wet suit. From one of the pouches came dry clothing and moccasin like shoes. Light weight and quiet, but protection. The jumpsuit had pockets for his knives and stars. No guns on this operation. Silent but deadly - in and out - it was the only way they would make it. A backpack, complete with those essentials he had deemed necessary. He pulled a small pot from one pouch and began to blacken his face and head. He smiled ruefully. The last time he's done this, he hadn't had to worry about the expanse of exposed skin on the top of his head. Ah - youth . . . The explosives were last - small but deadly. It seemed that every pocket on his suit was filled with death. Some silent, some not so silent, but all just as deadly. He spent a few minutes repacking and threading the pouches and equipment that would remain here together, tying it off in a webbed pouch, and securing it high in a tree. The thin brown nylon cord blended perfectly into the bark, visible only to one who was looking for it. He shrugged into the backpack, pulled the night goggles over his face, gave himself a minute to adjust, then set off at an easy lope through the woods, moving forward towards the house - and back to face his past. End of part 01/03 Retrieval 02/03 He'd lost track of the days. At first, he had tried so hard to keep track of time, they both had. But as the pattern of their captivity emerged, it seemed less important than other things. They'd had no food since the first day. He'd been told he could eat, but she could not. He had refused, and she had argued, and he'd given in, but he'd slipped bits and pieces to her, and they'd been caught. She'd been punished, but now, neither one of them got food. It should have been a warning to him. He should have seen it coming. It set the tone for the remaining days. Always, he was treated gently, carefully, no injury beyond the initial bump on the head. But Scully, Scully was slowly being killed. And he was being made to watch. Sometimes they beat her. Sometimes they humiliated her with their words and actions. Sometimes they did - other things. And, through it all, he was always, carefully, gently, tenderly, restrained in velvet lined padded cuffs, against a soft wall. Always present to watch as they destroyed her bit by bit, unable to save her, unable to hurt himself. He'd fought them at first, resisting when they came for him. Lashing out with fists and feet. They simply sent more men, and he was always overpowered. And she was always punished for his actions. He quickly stopped resisting. They could have his complete cooperation in anything, his total agreement to whatever they wanted, but they asked him no questions, made no demands. They simply made him watch. It was the most potent torment they could use on him, and he was rapidly falling into an abyss from which there was no way out. She'd been fitted with an ankle bracelet, a security monitor that sent a surge of electricity through her small body if she tried to cross the unseen halfway point between his side of the room and hers. He could go to her, but she could not come to him. At first, she had comforted him. Reassured him that she didn't blame him. Told him there was nothing he could do. Wiped the tears from his face with her bloodied, broken fingers. That was when she could still stand to touch him, and to let him touch her. But as the days progressed, she withdrew. Now, she wanted no one near her body. She was so beaten down, she had no resources left for him. She might fall unconscious during one of their *interrogations.* Then he would hold her till she roused, releasing her reluctantly at her command. He would slink quietly to his side of the room, leaving her the blanket, the sheets, the pillow from the cot they had supplied him, but deemed off limits to her. They'd both been nude when they were taken, and while he had been supplied clothing, she hadn't. He'd refused to dress at first, but after the first rape, he had been concerned his nudity would distress her more, and he wore the pants he had been given. They had water - there was a sink and a toilet, but they were on his side and she was not allowed to use them. She'd designated a corner for her necessity, and used it with dignity. God, he admired her. He took her water, in his hand, and they allowed that. But as the days progressed, she refused the water. Her refusal weakened her further, and he was afraid it was deliberate, an attempt to put an end to this once and for all. He refused to drink as well. There were long periods when they left them alone. Sometimes she would talk to him then. An attempt to let him know she still didn't blame him. Normal conversation - how bout those Knicks? He'd try to go to her then, but she'd flinch, and tremble, and pull away without even realizing she was doing it. And it broke his heart and killed his spirit, but he answered, and talked, and laughed at her jokes, because it was all he could give her now. She slept often, seeking surcease from the pain and torment in the embrace of Morpheus. He would creep silently to her side, and kneel beside her, watching her, denying himself a touch, a kiss, anything that would relieve his own pain, his own torment. Then, when she would begin to stir, he would steal silently back to his own side of the room, and sit and wait, and see if this time, for these moments, she would be able to face him, to talk to him, to be with him in any small way. He was destroyed, and he was waiting to die. ************************************************************** Skinner was at the house. He crouched in the underbrush at the edge of the woods, a few yards away from the servants' quarters. From the quarters there was an underground tunnel to the house. Convenient. Also, severely undersecured. It was his way in, and hopefully, their way out. He entered silently, a knife in one hand. He crept to the entry to the tunnel and saw the single guard. No way into the tunnel without passing him. He paused, and once again renewed his commitment. In and out. Down and dirty. Silent and deadly. He expelled a small puff of air, then glided up behind the guard, placed one hand over his mouth, the other on the back of his head, twisted sharply, and broke his neck. He dragged him to a closet, stuffed the body inside, and moved quickly down the corridor. The tunnel came out in the kitchen. Of course. Another guard, this one with his back to the entrance as he watched a small TV. Well, one thing was still true after 30 years; boredom breeds complacency. In this case, it saved the man's life - for the moment. Skinner slipped into the hall and began his search. The interior of the house was unmonitored. Most of the high tech security was reserved for the exterior and island perimeter. The concern seemed to be more with knowing when some one approached so they could be warned away, rather than any real fear of a security breach. Guards in the house and a few laser traps were the extent of internal security. If he could just avoid them, they'd all get out all right. He had tentatively ruled out certain areas on the ground floor, determining that the best place to retain his agents would be in one of the rooms on the second floor. He stood in a darkened doorway and observed the stairway. Minute traces of red light, barely visible even to his special enhanced goggles, crisscrossed the treads making it impossible to climb up without notifying the guards someone was in the house. He sheathed his knife, taking one last glance around and walked to the stairs. Grasping the railing on the banister, he began to pull himself up the outside of the staircase, moving smoothly and silently up to the landing. When he reached the landing, he pulled himself up until he could grasp the banister itself, then dragged his legs up and over, and dropped softly into a crouch in the upstairs hall. He waited, panting quietly, but he was still unobserved. Shit, this was harder than it had been when he was young. He was still in good shape - excellent shape for a man almost fifty, but he was almost fifty nonetheless. He pushed the thoughts from his mind - nothing negative. He focused on breathing, on slowing the racing heart, he focused on the operation. He walked carefully down the hall, every nerve ending on alert for the slightest sound, a hint of movement, always looking for his next place of concealment. As he walked he took in the doors - so many doors and each one could be hiding death behind it. He had reached the end of the hall and was ready to begin opening doors, when a door further up opened and several men walked out. He slid into an alcove, hidden in the shadow of a curved wall and a curio cabinet, and watched as the men strode down the hall to another room. "They've rested long enough. Coming for her in the middle of night will throw them both off. Don't want them to get to *comfortable,* now do we?" The man laughed and Skinner's blood turned cold. He knew that voice. He'd seen that man. Suddenly, the help he'd been given, the information he'd been supplied, began to make sense. This was no altruistic move on the part of that cigarette smoking bastard. This was a power play, plain and simple. Skinner had been sent in to kill the competition. He'd been set up, but not as he had feared. Rather, his unique skills were once again being exploited in the name of *national security.* But with his agents' lives in the balance, he had no choice but to go along and play the game to its conclusion. If they got out of this alive, with his skills renewed, his talents updated, perhaps he would pay a visit to his smoking *friend.* He was interrupted from his reverie by a cry. A man's voice, broken, hoarse, defeated. The sounds he made seemed more from habit than from any real attempt to change things. There was an odd emotionlessness to his pleas, a roteness to his begging. He was dragged out of the room, dressed only in a pair of trousers, unusual looking cuffs around his ankles and wrists. He didn't fight, merely refused to assist, and was taken quickly to room further up the hall. Skinner could just make out the repeated chant of, "I'm sorry, Scully, I'm sorry," recited in a sad, dull monotone. He drew further back into the safety of the alcove. At least he knew where they were now. Two more men came and Scully was carried out, unmoving, and taken to the same room Mulder had just disappeared into. There were now six men in the room, and Mulder and Scully. Six - six was easy, he could do six. There was a time when six wouldn't have even made him count. But now, thirty years later, six men. Six men could be a lot. And there were innocents in the room. It wouldn't do to damage what he had come for. Besides, Scully already looked injured. She had been totally still as she was carried down the hall. This could present a problem for getting out. He pulled the utility knife, holding it in his left hand, then placed several of the throwing stars between his teeth. He tucked a throwing knife into his belt and held one in his right hand. He stood and stepped into the hall, a tall, broad swath of darkness, ready to retrieve his own. He began to detach, pulling in every vestige of humanity, shoving it down hard to the depths of his soul. For now, he was ruthless, he was here to succeed. There were no people, no bodies, only an objective and impediments to attaining that objective that must be removed. As he prepared himself mentally, the air was torn by a shriek of pain. The high female cry was immediately followed by a deeper, longer lasting male groan of agony. He shoved it away - to hurry now would ruin everything. Success was paramount. Time was critical, but it must be used to his advantage. Only attaining the objective mattered. Another cry, and he began to walk slowly toward the closed door. He paused outside the door, a stealthy look in both directions, then very slowly placed his hand on the knob. He waited patiently for another scream, then turned the knob, the sound of the scream and accompanying wail from Mulder adequately masking any sound the door would have made as the mechanism retracted. He pushed in slightly, creating a crack that he could see through. He was counting on everyone's attention being focused on Scully, and it was. He risked moving the door open slightly more at the next scream, and had a fair view of the room. The men were gathered around a bench? table? to which Scully was secured. One man stood at the bottom of the table, between her legs. He was the one who made her scream. He gazed around. Mulder was seated, secured to a padded wall, both arms pulled out and away from his body, legs locked to padded braces on the bench. He could watch, but he couldn't move, and he couldn't hurt himself. His head hung down on his chest, and he was muttering something repeatedly. Skinner couldn't make it out, but he could guess what it was. He appeared to be almost in shock. Skinner redirected his attention to the men surrounding Scully. No - the *impediments* to attaining the *objective.* His eyes narrowed as he worked out the order in which he would remove those impediments. He eased the door in a bit more and moved more fully into the room. Everyone was focused on the table. Everyone but Skinner. He waited, and at the next scream, he struck. Like an avenging angel straight from hell, he launched the throwing knife at the impediment leaning over the objective. It toppled forward slowly, and the objective began to scream again. As the first one fell fully forward, the knife pushed deeply into its heart by the weight of its body, there were two more screams, then silence as full contact was made. The others, the ones with their backs to him, froze, and another knife made its way to another throat, and two stars imbedded themselves in two chests. A neck snapped, and the last impediment went down as a knife went up, between the ribs and into the heart, and blood flowed. It was over that quickly. It was over before the last body hit the floor. Removing the last star from his mouth, he slipped it back in the pouch with the others. He looked around quickly. He had to sanitize the scene, now, or the extraction of the objective would be compromised. Removing his weapon, he grabbed the one that bled most, and hauled him first to the closet. Opening it, the body went inside. He turned and went to continue the clean up. Mulder was staring at him, eyes wide in shock. "Get him off her," he whispered, "get him off of her." Skinner turned and saw one of the impediments was lying on the objective, covering it But it wasn't messy and the mess had to be cleaned up first. Sanitize the scene, leave not trace. Make them work to find you. It had to be done that way. He looked at Mulder and ordered, "Be quiet." He went to the next body removed the weapon, and hefted it up, carrying it to the closet as well. Mulder began to protest, his voice rising, "Get him off of her!" Skinner dropped the body on top of the other one, then turned and walked over to the padded wall. He looked at Mulder then reached out and grasped his face in his hand. "You *will* be quiet," he whispered fiercely. "Let me do what must be done. Don't make me gag you." Mulder stared at him, eyes filled with a combination of wary recognition and question. He looked pleadingly in Scully's direction, but remained silent. Skinner continued the cleanup. Two more bodies fit in the closet. Removing clothing from them, he carefully wiped up what blood he could from the area. There was a sofa against a wall, and a little maneuvering created a space he could use for the last two, that wouldn't be noticed on casual inspection from the door. He dumped the second to the last one back there, then returned to the table. The last one was draped over the objective - Scully - he screamed to himself. His pants were around his ankles and it was quite clear what he had done to make her scream so. Skinner lifted him, pulled the knife from its burial place deep in this one's chest, and piled him on top of the other, behind the small couch. He returned to the table. She was unconscious, but breathing. He walked to Mulder and looked at the cuffs. "Which one has the keys?" he whispered. Mulder nodded in Scully's direction. "The last one." Skinner went to the couch, checked pockets, and returned. He unfastened Mulder's bonds, then helped him stand. He watched as Mulder moved immediately to Scully. "I - I need to take care of her now," he said softly, "before she's awake." Skinner checked his watch, then nodded. He walked to the table, looked briefly at Scully, then took her ankle in hand and quickly cut the security bracelet off. He took the backpack off, and pulled the clothing he had brought for them - black jumpsuits like his own, moccasins for their feet. Handing both sets to Mulder, he said, "Just get her dressed. We don't have time for anything else right now. You have five minutes." Skinner slid silently to the door and peered out. The hallway was quiet, no sign that an alarm had been raised. He stood, waiting, watching the minutes tick by, then turned around promptly at the five minute mark. Scully was dressed, curled in a ball on the floor. He couldn't tell if she was aware or not. Mulder sat beside her. Mulder was pulling the jumpsuit up his legs, over his trousers. He stopped when it reached his waist and put the shoes on Scully, then himself. He rose shakily and pulled the 'suit up the rest of the way, shrugging his arms into the sleeves then zipping. Skinner was alarmed. Mulder was weaker than he first appeared. He went to the other man and said, "Are you hurt?" concerned that an unseen injury would slow the extraction. Mulder shook his head, and Skinner asked, "Then what's wrong with you?" "How long?" Mulder responded numbly. "Eight days." Mulder's eyes filled with tears and he looked at Scully, curled protectively around herself on the floor. "No food." he said. "No water the last day, maybe two." He lifted his eyes and met Skinner's gaze. "I lost track of the time." Skinner nodded, then looked at Mulder. "You have to carry her till we get out. I have to have my hands free." "She won't let me touch her when she's awake." Mulder's voice was dead, defeated. "I couldn't keep them from touching her." Skinner took the pack off, dug through it for a moment, then extracted a syringe. He turned to Scully and knelt. He looked up at Mulder. "It will make her sleep. She has to be quiet until we get out. It'll help the pain, too." Mulder nodded, and Skinner injected Scully. He rose, shoved the syringe back in the pack, hauled out rope and a harness. He said to Mulder, "Go to the bathroom and drink. Get some fluid in you." Mulder nodded and went obediently to the bathroom. Skinner heard water run. He knelt again and threaded Scully's legs into the web harness. He secured the straps, making sure she was firmly ensconced. Mulder returned and Skinner looked up at him. "Can you carry her, just till we're out?" "I can carry her to hell and back if it gets us out of here." The words were spoken with more spirit than before, as if Mulder were coming back to himself. "How did you find us, Sir?" Skinner rose and patted Mulder on the arm. "Later." Nodding at Scully, he said, "Let's move out." Mulder bent and lifted Scully in his arms. Skinner had gone to the door, and Mulder followed. When he got there, Skinner said softly, "Stay directly behind me. I want you so close to me, I can reach back and touch you. Got that?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the goggles down over his face. Mulder nodded, and they moved out into the hall. Skinner pulled the door shut behind them and headed swiftly for the landing. Eyes roaming constantly for traps, he made the landing and began to secure a rope to the banister. He nodded at Scully, then the floor. Mulder laid her gently down, then Skinner pointed and Mulder went over the side and down to the first floor. Skinner fed the rope through Scully's harness, the gently lowered her to Mulder's waiting arms. He removed the rope, slipped over the rail, and lowered himself the same way he had gone up. Arm over arm, rail over rail, he descended quickly. He tapped Mulder and they moved back toward the kitchen. The ball game was no longer on, and the guard was moving about the kitchen, making a sandwich. Skinner closed his eyes, gave a small shudder, then his arm lifted, something flashed, and the guard was falling, Skinner soundlessly at his side before he hit the floor. Weapon removed, body in the pantry, and they were moving rapidly down the tunnel corridor. The other end remained unguarded, and Skinner turned and relieved Mulder of Scully. When Mulder attempted to protest, Skinner hissed a warning, and the man fell silent. They crossed the small room, exited the building and dashed into the safety of the woods. Skinner kept a steady pace, heading for the clearing. It was a chill night, he had injured, and his original extraction plan was no longer feasible. Scully could never make the swim, and he doubted Mulder could either in his weakened condition. He needed to get the remaining supplies, get his people to a place they could rest and tend to Scully, and then he could review his plans. They reached the clearing and Skinner told Mulder to sit. He placed Scully in the man's lap, then found his cord and pulled his supplies from the tree. He pulled the wetsuits and threw two at Mulder. "Strip and put this on, then put the jumpsuit back over it." "Why, Sir, a moonlight swim? I didn't know you cared." Mulder's weak attempt at humor fell flat, but it was an attempt, a sign that the man was returning to himself. Skinner looked at the younger man. He was trying to take Scully's 'suit off without putting her down. "Put her down, Mulder, and get a move on." Mulder just gestured at the rough ground, strewn with rocks and sticks, and other hard and uncomfortable things. Skinner sighed, then pulled an emergency blanket, part of their shelter supplies, and laid it on the ground. "Now, Mulder," he said. "We don't have much time." Mulder gently laid the sleeping Scully on the blanket and quickly removed the jumpsuit. When the suit was off, he froze, and Skinner turned impatiently to look at him. "She's bleeding, Sir." His face was a mask of pain. Skinner took a quick look then opened the medical kit. Moving quickly, he wiped Scully as best he could with the antiseptic wipes. Using several cloth bandages he fashioned a pad and placed it gently between her legs taping it into place. He rose and stared down at Mulder, who had watched all this in silence. "The wet suit, Mulder. Get her in it. Then you get yours on." "She can't swim like this." "For heat, Mulder, to retain body heat. It's cold outside." While Mulder dressed Scully and himself, Skinner was assembling the guns. Away from the house they could be used. And he was going to have to leave Mulder and go back to finish at the house. He had to get them to a secure spot, get them locked down, and then implement plan B. Mulder was finished and he stood dazedly, awaiting the next command. Skinner strode over to him, handed him the packs and said, "Put these on. I'll carry her." Mulder pulled the packs on, then started when Skinner pressed a gun into his hand. "Cover our back Mulder. Ammo's here." He patted an outside pocket on one of the packs. Skinner bent and lifted Scully, still wrapped in the emergency blanket, and said, "Let's go." He headed back to the rocky incline he had first used to access the island. He had seen an indentation in the incline, not really a cave, but perhaps a place he could leave these two while he did what had to be done. They reached the slope and Skinner began to make his way down, struggling to retain his balance with Scully dead weight in his arms. He slipped slightly, then regained his balance as his roaming eyes just made out the shadow of the indent through the night vision goggles. He moved left and made his way over. He pushed his way inside and laid Scully on the ground. It was little more than a hollow in the side of the hill, but it would keep Mulder and Scully out of sight until he could do what was needed. Mulder stumbled in behind him, and Skinner pulled him to the ground. "There's not much time Mulder. I have to go for a while. You have to stay here and take care of Scully." At Mulder's bewildered look, Skinner paused. "Mulder," he said, somewhat harshly, "you have to get it together here, man. Whatever guilt trip or blame you want to lay on yourself, put it aside. You can deal with all that later. Right now, I need you here and focused." He paused again, trying to judge if he was getting through. "Scully needs you focused." Mulder nodded, and to Skinner's eye, appeared a little more in control. He softened his voice and said "Keep the gun ready, Mulder, there are dogs on the island. There's food and water in the pack. Eat something. Whatever you do, don't fall asleep." Mulder was nodding, taking in his directions. "Scully should sleep for several more hours. If she starts to wake, there's one more dose in the kit. Give it to her; we can't deal with her now." Mulder was looking at him as if he didn't know him. "When can we *deal* with her?" he said bitterly. Skinner looked at him sadly and said, "When we're clear of this place." He took one of the packs, donned it, and headed to the opening. "The watch in the pack is set with mine. I'll be back in about three hours. Give me four, but if I'm not here by then, you're on your own. There's a boat anchored about two miles off shore. The heading is in the pack, and there's a waterproof compass as well. Any questions?" Mulder was still looking at him, that same strange look in his eyes. "Who are you?" he asked finally. Skinner gave a short, bitter laugh. "Just a man whose past has caught up with him." He turned and slipped out into the dark of the night. End of part 02/03 Retrieval 03/03 Mulder stood staring at the opening Skinner had disappeared through. 'The man moves like a cat,' he thought. 'I don't even know who he is.' He stood unmoving for a few moments more, then shook himself and went back to Scully. She lay on the blanket on the ground, unknowingly curled in a ball again, as if she could protect herself that way. She was still asleep, or unconscious. Whatever Skinner had given her had certainly worked. There was nothing more he could do for her now. He knelt beside her, watching her. His hand snaked out and gently touched her cheek, a privilege he was only now willing to grant himself. She was alive. She had survived. It baffled him - the whole abduction. What had been the point, except to make them suffer? And how had Skinner gotten involved? Or was that the real point? He thought of this new side of Skinner he had seen, a man he knew and yet didn't. He shook his head. It didn't matter right now. All that mattered was getting off the island, and getting her to a hospital. She was strong - the physical wounds would heal quickly. The emotional would take time. But now, thanks to Skinner, a strange, dark Skinner he didn't know, they had that time. He touched her cheek again, a feather-light stroke. They had all the time in the world. He pulled back and went to the pack, rummaging until he found the ration bars and water. Opening the canteen, he took a small sip, then peeled the wrapping off the bar, and began to eat. He scooted back until he was seated next to Scully, the gun in his lap, facing the opening to the hollow. He looked at the watch Skinner had left. Fifteen minutes had gone by. He moved closer to Scully, and settled in to wait. ************************************************* Skinner worked his way quickly through the woods. There really wasn't much time now. The loss of the captives would be discovered any time, if it hadn't already. The run through the woods gave him time to more fully make his plans. Getting Mulder and Scully off the island the same way he got on was out of the question. Mulder might make it, though he was weak, but Scully - no way. Her injuries were too severe, to say nothing of what her mental state might be upon waking. Until they were away and relatively safe, if there was such a thing, she was going to have to stay out of the picture. Of course, that introduced a new time element. The injection he had given her should keep her under for a few hours. And there was another dose. But after that, he had very little left he could give her, and he felt sure she would be in a great deal of pain. Ideally, he needed to have both of them, Mulder and Scully off the island, and far from it by the time she began to wake. He began to construct a timetable in his head. Assume she would be awake in approximately 4 hours. Maybe five, but work with the low number. Working backwards, he would allow 10 minutes to get them from the island to the boat. Twenty minutes to move the boat directly off-shore from where they were hidden. It had taken him a little over an hour to make the swim in the first time. He carried more weight coming in than he would going out, but he was tired now. Better allow an hour and a half. That was two hours. He'd told Mulder he'd be back in three, and he'd already used fifteen of those minutes working his way back to the house. Allow fifteen more to return to the shore, and that left him 30 minutes to do what he had to do in the house. He crouched at the edge of the woods, watching the small servants' quarters for movement. To get back in the house, he needed access to the tunnel again. Skinner found it hard to believe that with all the security, all the guards, they were still unaware they had been breached. He watched silently for another half minute, then made his move. As he started across the small open area between the woods and the house, he heard barking and a large dog came barreling straight at him. So much for getting in unseen. He crouched again, waiting, and as the animal leapt at him, he jumped forward, meeting it halfway, grabbing it by neck and back leg, lifting high, and slamming it down on the ground. He heard a sharp crack as its spine broke and a small whimper. Kneeling quickly, he used a knife and put it down. Wiping the knife in the grass, he rose and went on to the house. There was still no guard on this end of the passage. Skinner stood silently, exploring the ramifications of the lack of guard. After deliberation, he decided the most logical reason there was no guard was that they had discovered the situation in the main house, and everyone was occupied there. That would also explain why the dogs were out. Right or wrong, there was no time to second guess. He moved smoothly into the tunnel, and over to the main house. The kitchen was empty as well, lending credence to his 'occupied elsewhere' theory. If he was correct in his assessment of who had been in the room with Scully, the voice he had recognized would have been the decision maker here. Loss of the leader could have the remaining troops unsettled, unsure of themselves, unknowing of what actions to take. 'Good,' he thought grimly. He eyed the kitchen then quickly found what he was looking for - a door to stairs leading down. He slipped through and made his way to the basement. Surveying the basement, he identified the load bearing points, and began his work. As he drew the small explosives from the pouch, he worked quickly, knowing that this was the point of no return. Once the timers were set, he would have to get out, and quickly, or Mulder would be on his own. He moved around the basement, setting the explosive, attaching the timers, checking his watch and moving on. It had been a very long time since he had worked an environment like this. He stopped briefly and wiped the sweat from his brow, a smudge of black face paint coming off on his hand. It took 12 minutes, but they were all set. He checked his time. The dog had taken 2 minutes. Four minutes from the small house to the main house. One minute in the kitchen. Nineteen minutes down, 11 to go. He stopped and took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and murmured under his breath, "God forgive me." He pushed the button on the controller that activated the timers on the explosives, and headed for the stairs. He had 10 minutes to clear the house and get as far away as he could before all hell came raining down. When he reached the top of the stairs, they were waiting for him. Two men, one on either side of the door. He'd walked right out, lulled into a false sense of security by the ease with which he gained entry. He saw them out of the corner of his eye as they began to move, He twisted and fell forward into a controlled roll, but the one on the left managed to hit the small of his back, over his kidney, and the other one landed a glancing blow to his shoulder. Skinner came out of his roll and rose into a crouch, a knife in each hand. This was what he hated, this was what terrified him about what he was, what he had become. Even as he began the dance of death with the two men, he felt it rise inside him. The excitement, the anticipation, the *intensity* of this moment. There was nothing else like it; he longed for it, he craved it, God forgive him, he *enjoyed* it, and his own reactions sickened him. But for now, he gave in to it, and let his body do what it had been trained so well to do. He toyed with the men, first drawing them out, then moving in quickly for little nicks and cuts that weakened his opponents and wore them down. Finally, he feinted left, then moved sharply to the right, and one man went down. The other backed up slightly, obviously rethinking the wisdom of only *two* against one, when it was this one. Skinner advanced, knife gleaming in the muted kitchen light, and lunged. The man, backed away again, twisting to the right, and Skinner's knife caught his side, a trail of blood immediately springing forth. Skinner backed up, panting, a small smile on his lips. He stopped and shook himself, realizing what he had done. He'd had the opportunity to end it, but had, unthinkingly, extended the confrontation. And he'd enjoyed it. And one man was dead. Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach heaved. The remaining man was eyeing him warily, and Skinner stared at him. Finally, he glanced at his watch - 4 minutes left. His gaze met the man's and he said, "You have one chance. Get out of the house." He turned, made his way to the tunnel entrance, and began to run toward the smaller house. He reached the servants' quarters with 2 minutes left. There was no time to search out the best place. He quickly placed explosives in opposite sides of the room, attached the timers and was moving toward the woods with less than 30 seconds to go. He was running full out as he reached the tree line, knowing that he wasn't going to be far enough away. Just as he crossed over into the woods, the world exploded. Wind roared, the night lit up, and heat surged toward him. He was lifted bodily into the air and flung forward, making a sudden stop as he impacted a tree. He landed heavily, the air knocked from his lungs, and lay panting. From his position he could see the flames as they settled back down among the ruins of the two structures. Well, he could go and get the boat now without having to worry about being seen. That is, if he could still move. He hurt everywhere, and he was exhausted. If there had been any doubt as to his age before, it had been laid to rest. This was a young man's game, and he was definitely not young. He did a quick survey, realized he was bleeding in several places, and winced. He tried to rise and was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes to fight back the nausea, and quietly slid into unconsciousness. When he came to, the first thing he did was look at this watch. Shit! Almost 45 minutes. There was no way he'd make it back in three hours now. And Mulder would only wait four, if that. He snorted in disgust, then struggled to his feet, ready to begin a shaky trot back to the shore line. ************************************************************* Mulder looked at the watch for the three hundred and sixty eighth time. Another minute had passed. Skinner had been gone for almost three and a half hours. Mulder was beginning to ache with the need to do something. The explosion had scared the crap out of him. He had risked going out of the hollow and had seen the sky light up. What if Skinner had gotten caught in the blast? He'd been tempted to head out to the boat at that point, but two things had kept him back. He didn't want to leave Scully if there was any way to avoid it, and, this new Skinner didn't seem to be the kind of person who would deal lightly with not following instructions. Truth be told, he was a little afraid of the man. And so, he had decided to do exactly as he had been told, for once in his life. He'd wait the full four hours. About 30 minutes after the explosion, Scully had begun to stir. He'd been desperate to talk to her, and since Skinner had said three to four hours, he had decided to risk not following the order to keep her sedated. He smiled into the darkness now, thinking of how she had talked to him, touched him, and let him touch her. He had gone to her, taking another blanket as an offering. "Cold, Scully?" "Mmm, no" she murmured. One eye opened. "Mulder?" "Uh, yeah, it's me. You're OK, Scully, it's over. We're out." "Mmm, ok." She was drowsy, the sedative and pain killer still in her system. He knew she would probably go back to sleep if he'd let her, but he needed to talk to her. Selfish, selfish, selfish. He kicked himself mentally. He was always so selfish. But he seemed unable to stop himself. "Scully?" "Mmm?" "Will you drink some water now?" She looked at him again, her eyes struggling to focus. "It's really over?" "Yeah. Skinner got us out." "You have water?" He rose, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get the canteen. He started to help her sit, but withdrew when she flinched from his reaching hand. "I'm sorry, Mulder," she had said. "I know you won't hurt me; I just can't help it." He nodded, head lowered to hide the tears that gathered in his eyes. She reached out her hand. "You'll have to help me." He smiled now, as he thought back to how he had lifted her up, holding her securely in his arms, and held the canteen to her lips. She hadn't flinched at all that time, and had even rested her head against his chest for a moment before laying back down. "Skinner?" "He said four hours, Scully. That's about 2 and a half more hours." Scully closed her eyes, then said, "Hmm. Hurts." "I know, Scully, I know." Mulder was on his feet again, going for the pack. He pulled the other syringe. "Skinner left this - sedative and pain reliever. Tell me when you're ready." She nodded, then said. "Not your fault, Mulder." Her eyes sought out his, as she went on. "You know that, right? It's not your fault." The tears that had been hovering behind his eyes since she first woke up, broke loose and ran freely down his face. He reached for her, then pulled his arm back quickly before she could flinch again. But she raised her hand, lifting it toward him, and he went to her slowly, carefully, taking her gently into his arms. He had held her for a long time, and she had seemed content to be with him. At last, she had asked tentatively, "Mulder?" "Hmmm?" It was his turn to be non-vocal. He laughed at himself as he realized how ridiculous he was. Still on the island, Scully injured, Skinner missing, and yet, he was so content to sit and hold her, that he had almost let himself drift off to sleep. He shook himself back to wakefulness, and said, "Yeah, Scully?" "Are you OK, Mulder?" "I'm great, Scully. Everything's great." She laughed softly, then said, "Well, I could be greater if you wanted to give me that pain reliever now." He looked down at her, snuggled in his lap securely, and saw the pain etched across her features. How long had she been fighting it to give him this time? He shook his head, saying, "Sure, Scully." He laid her back on the blanket, helping her settle comfortably, then lifted the syringe. "Ready?" "Mmm hmm," she nodded. He gave her the injection, then sat with her while she drifted away again. And now there were 15 more minutes till Skinner's four hours would be up. He turned to look at her once more. She was sleeping peacefully, still curled on her side, but the tension that had been present on her face even in sleep for the past 8 days, was gone. He rolled onto his knees, facing her and reached out to gently stroke her hair. He was lost in thought, staring dreamily at Scully when suddenly, something slammed into him from behind. He fell forward, landing heavily across Scully as he felt sharp teeth sink into his shoulder. The dogs! He'd forgotten about the damn dogs! He rolled sideways, off Scully, and the dog released its bite to avoid being crushed. He pulled himself into a crouch, backed against the side of the cave. The dog growled menacingly. He reached for the gun, but the dog lunged and he quickly drew his hand back. The dog eyed him, then looked at Scully. Mulder began to move slowly away from Scully. The dog stood, watching him. As Mulder moved, the dog turned slowly, keeping its attention on Mulder, and away from Scully. There was a sound at the entrance to the hollow, and the dog shifted its attention. Mulder lunged, grabbing the gun and firing in one smooth move, and the animal dropped, dead. The sound at the entrance repeated and there was movement. Mulder lay on his back, where he had rolled as he shot the dog, the gun now firmly aimed at the entry. The movement increased and a shape formed in the doorway. "Freeze!" Mulder commanded. "Jesus, Mulder, put that down!" Skinner replied. "You scared the shit out of me!" Mulder lowered the weapon and rose to his feet. "You're very nearly late, Sir." "I'm surprised you waited. Patience isn't usually your strong suit." Mulder grinned. "Didn't want to leave Scully." "Ahh, yes, well, pack up. The boat is right off shore." Mulder turned and did as directed. Skinner looked at him, then at Scully. He cleared his throat. "Mulder, can you carry her?" Mulder looked closely at Skinner. "Are you all right?" "I'm nearly fifty, Mulder. It's been a long night, and I'm tired." Mulder handed him the pack, then went and lifted Scully. "As far as I'm concerned, it's been too long a night. The sooner it's over, the happier I will be." He moved to the entry, then turned back to face Skinner. "Shall we go?" Skinner pulled the pack on, nodded, and followed Mulder down the incline to the shore. They waded quickly out to the boat, Skinner climbing up first, then taking Scully when she was handed to him. He placed her on a bench seat and moved to the small wheelhouse. Mulder came next, pulling the ladder up behind himself as Skinner started the engine. Mulder check Scully then, followed Skinner to the wheel. "Why no lights on the boat?" Mulder asked. "The explosion. Planes and copters have been overhead for the last couple hours." Skinner took a towel and began to wipe his face clean of the last of the paint that had not been washed off in the swim. "There's a small cabin down below, with a bunk. Take Scully and get her settled. There's clothing and a galley and a bath. You can clean her up, treat what injuries you can, maybe eat. It's gonna be a long, slow trip back without lights." ********************************************************* The sun was coming up when Skinner finally felt they were far enough away for him to stop and safely rest. He slowed the engine, then cut it completely, and dropped the anchor. He rose wearily, stretched, and walked slowly and stiffly to the steps to the the small cabin below decks. He came down to find Mulder and Scully talking quietly, Mulder seated on the bunk next to her. He wore no shirt, and a loose wrapping covered the marks the dog had left on his shoulder. He held Scully's bandaged hand gently in his lap. They both looked up when he entered. "Thank you, Sir," Scully said, "thank you for not giving up on us." Skinner waved the thanks away, looking uncomfortable. "How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" "Better. How on earth did you get access to the drugs in this medical kit?" Skinner grew even more uncomfortable. "Now, Scully, you know the government has a new policy of 'don't ask, don't tell," Mulder teased, easily deflecting the topic. They all laughed, then Mulder added, "There's coffee in the galley, Sir. Can I get you a cup?" "That would be nice, Mulder, thank you." Skinner took a seat at the small table and Mulder placed the mug of coffee before him. "Where are we?" he asked. "A few miles off the coast of Maine. We'll wait a few more hours, and then go in as just another group of fisherman returning from a morning at sea." He sighed. "I'm pretty sure it's over, and you're safe now, but I don't want to take any chances." He sipped the coffee, then said, "I need to clean up." He peeled off his shirt and headed for the small bathroom, halting when he heard twin gasps from behind him. He turned. "What?" "Your back, Sir," Scully said. "It looks like the skin was flayed away." "Oh." Skinner flushed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. You didn't need to see that." Mulder looked at Scully. "It's all right, Sir. What caused it?" "The explosion, I guess. There was a lot of stuff flying around." He shrugged. "I don't know. It could have been the fight." He rubbed his face. "I don't know." His legs suddenly trembled and he sat back down quickly. Mulder was at his side instantly, Scully rising in the bunk to look more closely at him. "You need to rest, Sir," Mulder said. Skinner nodded. "I know. I can't do this anymore." He shuddered and laid his head tiredly on the table. "Do what, Sir?" Scully asked gently. "Kill. I can't kill anymore. I won't be that person. They told me the only way to get you out was for me to come in and do it. And I did. But it wasn't about you, either of you." He looked up and met both their gazes. "What you went through, it was all part of a set up to assassinate one of the big players, carefully orchestrated to legitimize the assassination, with me as the assassin. "I played my part, and men are dead now." He lifted his head and said, "I'm a killer; it's what I was trained to do. I do it very well. I'm one of the best. But it's not who I want to be. For over thirty years, I kept that part of me locked away. I thought it was behind me. I thought I had it mastered. But I killed again on that island. Without thought, without remorse. I can't do it anymore. I hate what I am." Scully spoke up. "You have to let it go, Sir. We all have things that happen and we have to let it go." "I can't let it go," Skinner said. "People are dead because of me. How do you let that go?" "People are alive because of you, too, Sir," Mulder added. "Alive and very grateful." Skinner looked at them then, haunted eyes seeking reassurance, seeing only acceptance in their faces. "And who forgives me for what I've done?" he asked. "Who will absolve me of my sins?" Scully reached for him, and he moved to her side, kneeling by the bunk. "There can never be total absolution unless and until you forgive yourself. Every one of us has a dark side, a part of our nature we don't want to see or acknowledge. You've been forced to examine your dark side much more closely than most of us ever have. But that dark side is often what gives us strength - a good thing when tempered with our positive attributes - compassion, kindness, loyalty, self-sacrifice, love. You have all those things, Walter Skinner. Forgive yourself. Accept yourself." She reached out again, one hand in Mulder's, one on his. "Love yourself." Her hand touched his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "We do." End