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