From: Dragan Antulov <dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr>
Date: Sat, 15 May 1999 00:25:32 +0200
Subject: NEW: Island in the Sun (1/1) by Dragan Antulov


TITLE: Island in the Sun
AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov
E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
CATEGORY: SRA
RATING: R (violence, disturbing themes, sexual situations,
implied rape, implied slash)
SPOILERS: Herrenvolk; Tunguska/Terma; Patient X
SUMMARY: Marita writes a letter to her only and true love.
ARCHIVE: Gossamer yes; others with prior notification
DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters
created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen
Productions. The characters named are the property of those
entities and are used without permission. No copyright
infringement is intended.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Special thanks to Haphazard Method for
beta-editing and help with the research.

Author's notes are available at the end.

*

These days, time is getting more and more precious. I don't
worry about my own dark, at best grey, future. I cherish the
time because of the few precious moments I have strictly for
myself.

Time spent in my apartment, alone. Away from my work, from
boring reality, away from the false excitement that this
metropolis gives me. Time spent in meditation. Thinking
about only one thing.

You are what keeps me going. I can't live without you.
Poetic overstatement, perhaps, but sometimes I do really
believe it. Sometimes I worry that I'll never see you again
or that someday I won't be able to remember what you look
like, smell like, taste like.

I try to save these memories by writing them down. This is
dangerous in my line of work. Don't worry. I'm careful. I
use all the tricks you taught me, and I'm almost sure that
these lines I write won't be seen by anybody except me.

*

Almost three years ago, I was in Somalia, on another mission
for my superiors at UN. Overpaid, incompetent international
bureaucrats who desperately needed someone who would go
where their fat asses and their cowardly armies don't dare.
Someone who would do things they consider too dirty, too
embarrassing, too compromising.

But I did the job, just like I always do. A few soldiers
from a certain army got home in one piece, certain countries
saved themselves from huge embarrassment, certain
bureaucrats got themselves promotions and certain local
warlords increased both their own arsenals and their Swiss
bank accounts. Bah.

My boss was happy, so he offered a few weeks of vacation for
me and my team. We picked the Seychelles, paradise islands
in the middle of Indian Ocean. We could enjoy ourselves
there, forget the sad realities of famine, disease, war and
genocide on the other side of the endless, crystal clear
sea. At least that was the story we were told.

Vacation or no, we were never really off duty, and when my
boss heard where we were going, he arranged for us to attend
the Fourth of July party at the U.S. Embassy. I did what was
expected of me. I purchased the most exclusive black gown
from the nearest high class boutique in Bombay and had it
delivered by plane before evening.

The Embassy was an ancient colonial palace which might have
looked romantic if it weren't for the multitude of officials
and omnipresent and not so discreet security.

I mingled in the crowd, trying not to smile. I learned the
hard way a serious face is the best way to maintain distance
between myself and the world.

I don't know how long I had been there, maybe an hour, maybe
two, when Jukka introduced me to him. USAID. Right. For a
liason officer, Jukka wasn't too bright.

USAID. Tell me another one. I almost introduced myself as
Princess of Mars. I have spent enough time in diplomacy to
recognise spooks when I see them, no matter how good their
diplomatic cover. I either ignore them or try my best to
make them ignore me.

But he was intriguing. His gaze was so predatory, yet, at
the same time, strangely compassionate. If I were young and
inexperienced, I would have stuck around, to see what he was
up to. But the days when I would hang around interesting
people just for the sake of curiosity were long gone.

I did my best to run away and to spend time other people,
including some spooks I knew. But, it didn't help me. A few
minutes later, the band started playing and he glided to me.

"Would you, please, dance with me?"

If anybody else had asked, I would have found some
diplomatic way to decline. Old professional instincts told
me to say no, not to attract too much attention to myself.
But there was something in his voice, so soft, yet so
strong, something that made me change my mind.

Perhaps it wasn't his voice. Perhaps it was some deeper
instinct, the same unexplained force that had helped me make
right decisions in my life. Like not taking the lift from a
boy whose car would sink at the bottom of the frozen lake
while I was at school. Or not taking a hotel suite that
would get a direct mortar hit in the morning.

Whatever it was, I accepted the invitation and took his
hand. I could have swore that he blinked, surprised by my
lack of hesitation. But that wasn't his only surprise. The
band started playing a Rhumba, my favourite...

*

I still laugh every time I remember the look on your face
when you realised that you were on the dance floor with
someone who had won the regional dance championship. The
look of bewilderment, followed by a worried look. You never
liked attention, and this time you got more than you
bargained for...

*

"Meet me at the balcony in fifteen minutes," was all he
managed to pant. He looked relieved when the music stopped,
and he studiously ignoring the circle of eyes that had
formed around us. I was right - his kind never liked too
much attention.

Fifteen minutes later I was on the balcony. He was waiting,
moonlight reflecting in his glittering, piercing eyes.

"All right, what is this all about?" I asked him, expecting
business.

"I think it is obvious."

The answer was half-expected. Under the pretext of important
business, my teachers, professors, colleagues and superiors
groped for the same thing. Why should he be any different?

"Well, then you'll understand why I'm leaving." That was all
I intended to tell him. His strong hand landed on my bare
shoulder as I turned to walk away.

"I know what they did to you."

His words shattered the emotional walls I had been building
for years, awakened the demons hidden deep underneath the
thick layers of Marita Covarrubias, no-nonsense UN
bureaucrat.

All the pain, all the humiliation, all my sense of
worthlessness exploded into the violent reflexive gesture. I
pulled my right knee up and delivered the blow right between
his thighs.

I hated him. If my eyes were guns, his head would have
exploded in a million bloody pieces. But, despite a grimace
of pain, he firmly gripped my shoulder and he seemed calm.
He breathed heavily for a second, trying to regain his
composure.

The firm grip brought me back to reality. I realised that
there was no way I could escape him through violence. Even
if I could actually pull it off, murder at a diplomatic
party wouldn't look good on my professional resume. I
decided to use what I know best - diplomacy. "You don't
know. Nobody knows."

"I read the files." His voice was firm. And compassionate?
Or was do my memories of him later colour my memories of
that night?

"I know everything. Some things you don't. You have some
idea about `how', but nothing about `why' and `who'. I do.
Names, places, locations, addresses, everything. Who was in
charge, who authorised it, who carried out orders, who made
sure that it got covered up. Some important people were
involved. And I know where you could find the evidence and
witnesses."

I smiled cynically. "So I get what I want and you get what?
Information about my work? You can't be serious. Your secret
isn't worth that much. What would I do with it? I suppose I
could arrange to have few heads delivered to me on a silver
platter. So what? What is done is done. The answer is no.
Your people have already infiltrated my team. You don't need
me. And if you think that your pathetic use of my revenge
fantasies would make me work for you, you are quite
mistaken."

Then he smiled, but without my cynicism. "I didn't want to
offer you that. I want to offer you something else. I know
how you feel."

I laughed. "You mean..." I stopped laughing. "All this top
secret intelligence quid pro quo mumbo jumbo is some kind of
group therapy? You are seriously trying to tell me that you
have been through the same ordeal as me?"

"No. I don't want to insult your intelligence. I haven't
been through same things as you, and I don't know whether I
could have survived it. But we have more in common than it
seems."

I tried to imagine him in my place. I tried to imagine him
beaten, violated, desperate, crying. I tried to imagine him
contemplating suicide, seeing death as a better alternative
than any life in front of him. But I couldn't. Or was it
because I didn't want to picture any of it?

"We both despise what we do. We both got into this game
believing in fair play and that the best team always wins.
But through the years, we learned the hard way that there is
no such thing as fair play. Sense and purpose vanished from
our lives a long time ago. We learned through personal
humiliation and utter disillusionment and we hate ourselves
because of our naivety."

I laughed again, even while trying to reach for my mask of
indifference. There was something in his words that struck a
chord in me. "It isn't the same. It would never be the same.
It was different with me. I was betrayed. I was used. I
didn't make any compromise. I was forced. Understand? There
wasn't any choice."

"Perhaps there wasn't then, but there were choices later. I
know that you made at least one right choice. You chose to
live, despite everything that happened to you. Perhaps it
doesn't make any difference in the end, but there is always
a choice."

Something was wrong with me. Baring my soul to a total
stranger, no matter how charismatic, wasn't my idea of how
to spend the night. If he wasn't interested in something
else, and surely he was. After all, I'm an attractive woman.
Though lately it had ceased being a blessing and turned into
an unbearable burden.

"Let's say that I believe you. That I have a choice, and
that working with you would be the right decision. What is
in it for me? And what would I do?"

"Listen. That's all I'm asking. There are some things I
know. Some things that, if heard by the right people in the
right time and place, may make a difference. Some things
that will never see the light of day if I perish."

"Like what?"

His head jerked around, like he saw something alarming.
Rather than answer my question, he moved off, as quickly and
quietly as a ghost, disappearing into thin air in front of
me. This whole conversation could have been a bizarre
fantasy if not for the note I found on the balcony.

I knew that it was fruitless to seek him in the crowd. He
did what he had intended to do. I stayed at the party until
I found a convenient excuse to leave. Nobody would ask
questions anyway.

Back in the hotel, I examined the note. It contained the
instructions for a rendezvous between us. I was supposed to
charter a hydroplane in the afternoon and fly to a small
island in the middle of ocean.

Just the two of us in a tropical paradise? It looked so
ridiculous that I laughed. Then I thought that perhaps it
wasn't so ridiculous. Perhaps he deliberately staged the
meeting that way. Perhaps this was all an act with a single,
cheap purpose. Another conquest, a stone cold Canadian
trophy from the UN that would look good on his wall.

If this was the case, he worked very hard for it. I tried
not to think about this whole thing being a charade, though
my lingering doubts prevented me from sleeping most of that
night.

The next morning, I decided. I did what the note instructed
me to do. I hired the pilot, and the island was just as I
expected. A small strip of land in the middle of the ocean,
with nothing more than sand beaches, palm trees and a
charming small hut. And he was waiting ashore.

*

You glittered with joy when you saw me. Or was it lust? I
was wearing a berry-coloured linen blouse, long-sleeved and
not at all seductive, but that didn't seem to matter to you.

Normally I wouldn't blame you for showing how much you liked
my presence, though your body's natural desire for mine
somewhat undermined the nobility of your cause.

*

I don't remember exactly what we talked about in those first
few hours. I remember him showing me the island, offering me
coconuts and telling me about the history of the place. How
his "Agency" used this cheap little paradise during the Cold
War to convince enemy agents to turn to their side. I didn't
know if the story was true, but it sounded good at the time.

We chit-chatted about small things like weather, fashion,
Newt Gingrich and his chances for taking over Congress from
the Democrats. He made me some tea, and I enjoyed it. Then
he asked me to accompany him to the beach. I don't know why
I accepted. Perhaps I wanted to try and see if I could enjoy
myself again.

He dove into the water, but I stayed on shore and sunbathed.
I wore a bikini, and it felt strange. In the last few years,
I tried very hard never to reveal my body unless I had to. I
really didn't like exposing my skin. Sometimes it was easy.
In Mogadisciu, I wore all that cloth, covering my entire
body like the women in Muslim countries are supposed to do.
The members of my team praised my dedication to blending
with local customs, to letting my more fundamentalist local
"clients" interpret it as an expression of humility. Little
did they know it covered rage, not humility or my dedication
to the job.

But now, I was soaking up the sun's rays. I lay on the small
blanket and watched the sky. It was blue, like the sea. The
heavenly harmony of sea and sky drowned out the incessant
clanging of the Earth I knew too well, the cruel, menacing
black mountains, muddy roads, and black, burned-out houses.
The world I wanted to forget so much. Perhaps I would never
be able to chase away my earth dragons, but just then, at
that moment, the gentle wind touched my skin, and I believed
that it was possible.

And then I saw him approaching me. In the sun, the drops of
seawater glittered on his perfect body, like some Greek god
emerging from the sea.

He awakened something buried deep inside me that I had
thought extinguished, not dormant. Something primordial, and
strangely humane.

*

I stood, then stopped, overcome. Finally, I walked towards
you, vaguely comforted by the hesitation on your face.

I touched your face. And my instincts, buried deep for the
last few years, led me to the both familiar and strange
path. The same instincts as yours.

You embraced me and your eyes burned into mine, looking for
any sign that would tell you that I wasn't ready. You were
desperate, afraid that you couldn't control yourself any
longer. But neither could I. I felt more bewildered with my
own bodily reactions than worried about consequences. I
wanted you, like I had never wanted a man before. I saw the
reflection of myself in you.

I kissed you, and when our lips met, any trace of
rationality vanished. Our bodies boiled towards climax, and
the heat poured into the fissures of the stone you held in
your arms, cold marble that cracked into a thousand pieces,
shards that rained into a seething maelstrom.

*

The sun was setting when reason began to reassert itself
against our sated passion. We lay on the beach, cheek to
cheek, with sand and salt on our skin. I watched his sad
black eyes as he talked. With the same tender tenacity that
he poured all the animal essence of his manhood into me, he
began spilling out details.

Secret units. Secret organisations. Secret plans. Mysterious
cabals. Hidden laboratories. Experiments. Abductions.
Unwilling test subjects. Unbelievable alliances between
mortal enemies and most foul treacheries between eternal
allies and partners. Powerful men in smoke-filled chambers.
Their sinister enforcers like himself. Consortium. But the
truth behind all that, behind the monstrosity he had called
the Project was so unbelievable in its horrible simplicity.

If he had told me on some other occasion, or if I had had
time to think it over, I would have concluded that it was
just the rambling folly of a delusional mind. But he showed
me everything. Photographs. Tapes. Diagrams. Reports. Memos
with authentic seals. Official state documents. The proof.
Undeniable proof of horrors.

*

Now I understood. And believed you. You were violated, too.
Perhaps not physically, like me, but I could see the noble
ideals of your childhood and youth twisted to perverted
purposes. I understood why you had sleepless nights, why you
had to find a way to regain your humanity. And I fell in
love the second I realised that I was that way you found.

Same as you were mine.

*

But our ecstasy wasn't meant to last. In the morning, I left
the island with the vague promise that we would see each
other again.

*

I didn't believe you. Life held so many disappointments for
me. But that night was enough for me to love you forever.

When I finally got promoted and transferred to New York, my
secret pride turned into secret joy. First one call,
followed by short conversations, than secret meetings in
parking lots. A few stolen minutes of passion during lunch
breaks. Then another heavenly night in a mountain cabin.

*

And, through all that time, I was still part of his secret
crusade, its chronicler. I painstakingly used my influence,
contacts, diplomatic immunity, to store valuable
information. I wanted to do more, but he wouldn't let me. It
was dangerous, it was always dangerous, but those years were
especially so. Power was shifting again in that secret
world, and some great figures became casualties. Some who
used to be his mentors and friends.

He was my mentor and friend. Only more. He was my lover. The
best and only real lover I ever had. And the only true lover
I'll ever have. The perfect match for me -- his passion, my
reserve, his black to my white, like a photographic
negative. Bound in our mutual pain and our mutual struggle.

*

I'm still human and I hope that I'll remain that way. But
I'm afraid. If I lose my humanity, there will be no new
saviour to lift me from the pits of Hell. Because all I have
from you right now are the memories.

*

I struggled to remain human after I heard the news, even
when the news didn't surprise me. Two years after our island
bliss, life became even more dangerous. You began to realise
that time was running out, that the circle was closing, that
the dark, shadowy figures had found the traitor within their
ranks. Afraid for my life and my well-being, you kept all
your fears to yourself, but, just in case, you left that
last message. The names and locations of people I had to
know, things to do, to continue your work. And the last
words begged me not to pursue it.

But how could I abandon your work? How could I betray you?
How could I insult the memory of someone whose last thought
in life was of me? The final proof was the initials you had
written in your own blood, while your own life was flowing
away with each passing second. For others, it was just your
last, desperate and pathetic attempt at revenge, or maybe
just gibberish. For me, it was the proof of your ultimate
love.

*

And I decided to continue with his work. I approached some
people I knew. Connected. Involved. A select few amongst the
thousands of diplomats in dark suits, who roamed the endless
corridors of UN Palace and looked at me as nothing more than
a well-groomed piece of meat.

*

I miss you. It hurts even more when I remind myself of your
greatness compared to the pathetic men I meet while I'm
continuing your work.

Like the protege you inherited from your late mentor, the
one who is stalking me under pretext of his "investigations"
and uses every opportunity to salivate over me, looking at
me like he looks at the women in his video collection. Or
like the "uncle" who brought me into inner circle of the
Consortium. It is startling to realise what you can achieve
simply by agreeing to dress like a schoolgirl and shout
obscenities in French, while someone entertains himself with
oh-so-well-manicured hands.


Or, last but not least, that rogue former Consortium goon
you had chosen to be my private operative. The one I tried
to have sex with in order to test his loyalty. I did it only
because that was one of the techniques you had taught me,
good pupil that I was, though I felt nothing. Which wasn't
so hard, considering that he was useless in bed, proving it
when he asked me to wear a strap-on.

I'm still human, though it is getting easier to hide that
humanity from everyone - from the men I'm surrounded by,
from their sinister and paranoid bosses and their
overambitious enforcers. I'm still sure that one fine day
I'll be able either to finish your work or to pass it to
someone else when my inevitable end comes.

And when such end comes, if there is anything beyond, if
there is Heaven or Hell there, I hope that I'll rejoin you.
Even if there is nothing for me than eternal hell or
nothingness, because everything is better than living
without you, my love.

END

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

The story takes place in the middle of Season 4, somewhere
in the early 1997, between the events of "Tunguska/Terma"
and "Zero Sum".

When I began writing this story I had three intentions.
First, to give voice to the my favourite minor character,
sadly neglected and unjustifiably despised Marita. Until her
partial rehabilitation in "Two Fathers/One Son" (the
episodes I have yet to see) very few fanfic writers dared to
write about Marita in positive light, even fewer to show the
events of the show from her perspective.

Another idea was to give something like a homage to one of
my favourite dead minor characters, lamented X. But I didn't
want to stop only on homage; I noticed that this character
not only haven't been represented lately in fanfic. Unlike
any other character in XF fanfic, he was ignored when it
came to romantic pairing - both slash and straight. Then I
also realised that XF fanfic lacked interracial romances, so
the combination of this story was logical. The story is,
BTW, titled after 1950s film, very first Hollywood film that
broke decades long taboos about showing romantic
relationships between persons of different colour.

Finally, another motive for writing this story was my
intention to use two popular cliches of Mulder/Scully
romances - "obligala" and "rape/comfort", although in
somewhat different context and with different characters. I
hope that you enjoyed the result.

The comments are welcome at dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr

You can read the rest of my fanfic at
http://www.purger.com/drax/draxsfan.htm

--
Dragan Antulov a.k.a. Drax
Fido: 2:381/100
E-mail: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
E-mail: dragan.antulov@altbbs.fido.hr
E-mail: drax@purger.com