From: Red Valerian Date: Sat, 14 Aug 1999 08:00:23 GMT Subject: NEW: The Track of Totality 1 - Sk/Sc NC17 - TORTURE/SEXUAL ABUSE - Red Valerian/Montana Title - The Track of Totality Author - Red Valerian and Montana E-Mail address - hg83@dial.pipex.com and bigskymontana@pacbell.net Rating - NC 17 - for EXTREME violence, SEXUAL ABUSE and TORTURE Category - Scully/Skinner S A Keywords - This story deals with the worst form of SEXUAL ABUSE and TORTURE - both during and after the fact. Some readers may find the detailed and graphic descriptions too painful to read. Please be warned. This is NOT erotica. Summary: No eclipse is total - not even the eclipse of reason. Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, although we have the greatest respect and admiration for them. They are, however, the rightful property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions Feedback: Please. To hg83@dial.pipex.com and bigskymontana@pacbell.net Acknowledgements: See end of story Archive: Archive freely, as long as this complete header stays in place The Track of Totality By Red Valerian and Montana ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter One - Penumbra ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (During a solar eclipse FIRST CONTACT occurs when the Moon begins to slip in front of the Sun, starting at the top right of the disc. This period is known as the partial phase and will be visible over a much wider area than the narrow TRACK OF TOTALITY. From Astronomy Now - August 1999 edition. ) --- August 11th, 1999 - Time: 11:04 - Seven minutes before Totality - the period when the entire disc of the Sun is obscured. ---- The iced obscenity in Scully's mouth was almost choking her. Almost but not quite. If she kept swallowing convulsively she could get some relief, but the constant effort not to gag was exhausting her. And mother of God - the cold! It hurt so much. She never would have believed that just being forced to hold a column of ice in your mouth could hurt so much. At first it hadn't. At first it had just been uncomfortable. Alien. Unsettling. And her fury at allowing herself to get in this situation had distracted her from the discomfort. But now after ten minutes of the torture her jaws ached with the pain of being held open unnaturally wide. The tense muscles screamed out to be allowed to close, but they were given no relief. She was losing the ability to concentrate. The thing prising open her lips and lodged deep in the back of her throat was not going to go away, and it was all she could focus on now. She could feel that the delicate skin of her inner lips had melded to the icy obstruction, helping to keep it locked in place - keeping the cold locked in; making it even more intense. Inside her mouth the pain was excruciating. The delicate tissues of her tongue and inner cheek cried out from the enforced contact with the thing. Even her fillings throbbed in sympathy and the ache was becoming unendurable. It was as if an entire jumbo popscicle were shoved down the throat and held in place there, far enough back to make you retch - far enough back to make the body heave to get it out. There was this awful feeling of something being where it shouldn't be. Something her throat muscles wanted to expel, convulsing and convulsing, trying to force ejection, while the icy water trickled down the back of her throat like congealing blood. Scully wasn't sure how much longer she could hang onto her consciousness. She wasn't sure how much longer she wanted to. She lay naked on the antiquated but immaculate surgical table, her thighs spread unnaturally wide and her feet fitted into icy metal stirrups. Makeshift black rubber straps bound her slim body to the table. They bisected her waist and midriff, running upwards; biting into her flesh as they criss-crossed her upper body, but leaving her breasts entirely free. However, the tight bindings were positioned in such a way that they thrust her breasts upwards almost provocatively. The effect was intensified by her nipples which had puckered into painful points in the chill air of the room. Scully's arms were tied together at the wrist, wrenched back and behind her head, and securely tethered to a hook on the wall, which had formerly been used to hold medical charts. She lay in an obscene parody of sexual abandon. Meanwhile the man in surgical greens busied himself about her body, methodically checking the straps, making sure that her ankles and knees were buckled to the stirrups by the frayed leather strips. Tightening anything that needed tightening. Fastening anything that needed fastening. Finally he seemed satisfied. All the while Scully said nothing. She couldn't have spoken even had she wanted to. In her mouth the larger than life-sized ice phallus was inserted deeply enough to touch the back of her throat - not quite deeply enough to cut off respiration. The man in the lab coat checked that the phallus was in the correct position, pushing it in a little more deeply. Scully's eyes widened at his actions and her throat contracted convulsively as she tried desperately to accommodate the extra length. It looked like some sort of grotesque children's pacifier, as the moulded ice scrotum bulged outside of her pursed lips. Her companion continued his visual examination of the rest of her body. He stared for a long time at her breasts, but when he reached out it wasn't her breasts that he touched. Instead he grabbed the cross and chain which she still wore around her neck, and jerked once - hard. The chain snapped easily, and as he yanked it free, it left a vivid red welt on her pale skin. The man threw the cross across the room onto the unyielding polished granite floor and then resumed his perusal of the bound agent. Scully stared back at him, her blue eyes wide, but seeing nothing. The light in them was beginning to glaze over. A tight, grim smile skittered over the man's face as he registered her expression. Without breaking eye contact, he circled and stood at the end of the table, his cold gaze framed between her outstretched legs. Satisfied with what he saw reflected in her face, he nodded once, reached to adjust the intense beam of the overhead surgical light, and then bent to take a closer look at her exposed genitals, his pallid face disappearing from view. He was such an innocuous-looking man. He could have been met on the street and taken for any corporate cubical dweller. Nothing at all notable. The kind of man who commutes from the suburbs and returns to kiss the wife, mow the lawn, walk the dog, and keep score for the neighbourhood Little League team. There was no hint in his unprepossessing appearance that he was the IceMan - the serial killer who had tortured and mutilated a succession of women over the last few months. The IceMan reached for a box of latex gloves and made an ostentatious show of snapping them on. He purposefully reached a gloved hand towards Scully's genitals. At that point, she seemed to come alive again and she began to make inarticulate noises of anger. Of refusal. These were pointedly ignored. Instead the man placed his left hand on her pubis, resting the heel of his hand flat on the mound and exerting gentle pressure. Then with his latex-gloved right hand he tried to begin a vaginal examination of his 'patient'. She tensed immediately as he attempted to insert his two middle fingers. "Relax, " he murmured under his breath, speaking for the first time as her body jerked again at the initial penetration. "You must have had a pelvic examination before. This won't take a minute." The tone was the soothing one adopted by doctors the world over. Scully had used it herself many times. But this man was no doctor. He had begun medical training, but his perversions had quickly surfaced and he'd been summarily discharged from the medical fraternity. The damage had been done already, however. They'd taught him the pleasures to be had from holding a scalpel. Let him know the delight of slicing into living flesh, the near erotic gritty rip through skin and cartilage; and added the gasp of a patient at the splash of cold betadine to his repertoire of desired sexual responses. That was not something he was about to relinquish. He'd set out quite methodically to settle a score with the women he blamed for his downfall. Women like that bitch who'd turned him in and got him thrown out of the intern program. Women in the medical professions. Women in white uniforms who filled little boys' rectums with ice water. Women with red hair and bodies that begged for his little torture games, but who refused to play with him. Women who said no when they really meant yes. The grim smile of anticipation still hung on his lips as he finally managed to slide his lubricated fingers into Scully's vagina. He then probed efficiently inside while he used the hand on her pubic mound to provide a counteracting pressure. It was done with near-professional efficiency but with the perverse intent to cause as much discomfort as possible in the process. They'd taught him well before excising him from the profession like a cancerous tumour. "No problems there Agent Scully," he said as he let his cold fingers slide out of her slowly - the smile suddenly fading from his face to be replaced with a slight scowl. He continued with an almost disapproving tone to his voice as he met her dulled gaze once again. "I'm *very* disappointed to see no evidence of intact hymen, Agent Scully. Apparently the Ice Queen isn't quite as untouched, as she would have us all believe. I'm afraid that little indiscretion will cost you dearly. I do not like sluts." Shifting his focus from her face, he looked down again and attempted a rectal examination. This was done with greater difficulty but he was eventually able to insert a single finger and to carry out a thorough and professional examination there, too. He finally slid the finger out and removed the surgical gloves. As he pulled them off, the sound of snapping latex echoed in the otherwise silent room. The IceMan smiled outright again, but it was a grim smile, which showed his polished teeth for the first time before his mouth returned to a firm and purposeful line. Then turning away, he stepped briskly to the glass-fronted industrial refrigerator in a darkened corner of the operating room and opened the door. The engine whirred into life as it attempted to cool the larger room which enclosed it. The man rummaged around for a few minutes, before grunting in satisfaction. He'd obviously found what he was looking for and placed it carefully in a kidney shaped stainless steel basin. The door shut with the sucking sound of a pneumatic seal. He returned to his bound victim with another ice phallus in his hand. It was a replica of the one in her mouth, shaped like an erect penis and slightly over-sized at about nine inches. He positioned himself between her legs with it in his hand and began to talk aloud almost idly. "Decisions, decisions," he murmured while he looked at the two possibilities. Then touching the tip of the 'penis' to her vagina and anus alternately, he began to chant, "Eenie meenie miny moe..." He chanted the entire rhyme, finishing with, "My... mother... told... me... to... pick... the... very ...best... one... and ...you...are..." The ice rimmed her vagina. "...not it!" He laughed almost bitterly to himself at the final contrived outcome. The ice phallus was nudged against Scully's clenched anus. He looked up then and met her agonised gaze. His eyes were as devoid of warmth as an arctic dawn. As empty of pity as an executioner's. Yet he smiled grimly as he spoke. "Evidently *mother* wants me to choose the *less travelled* road, Agent Scully. Mother always was a bit on the anal retentive side." His tone now sounded even more frigid than it had before - any hint of humanity having been frozen away by the mention this particular mother. He was suddenly all robotic efficiency. "I suggest you try to relax your sphincter muscles now or this might hurt. I wouldn't want to tear any delicate tissue." The words were perfunctory. Spoken like a script that had been delivered one too many times. He began to prod the head of the phallus against her anus, which had instinctively contracted more tightly at his words. He sighed in exasperation then, but persisted in forcibly inserting this new iced obscenity into her. He finally began to have some success, although it was hard going. But the natural slickness of the now-melting ice itself helped him breach the outer ring - and once past that barrier he made better headway. He pushed steadily until it was wedged halfway into her rectum. At her strangled whimper, he paused for a minute to look up at her face. He seemed reassured at the agony he saw painted there, and quickly returned to his task. More insistent pressure and a twisting motion eventually allowed the ice phallus to disappear into her to its fullest extent. Only the moulded testicles hung stiffly outside the entrance, already blanching the surrounding flesh a frost-bitten pale. He made a little adjustment in the angle of insertion, and then stood back and surveyed his handiwork, looking from her anus to her mouth and back again. Then he looked at her breasts and frowned - unhappy about something. He reached into the deep pockets of his lab coat and felt around for a second, his face finally registering satisfaction. In triumph he pulled out his hand and held it up for Scully to see. He held a slender metal clip; a needle-nosed retractor clamp with elongated jagged jaws, a pointed snout, and a self-fastening handle to hold it secure once in place. It gleamed a bright stainless steel blue in the dim light of the room as the man held it up in front of Scully's face. He slowly squeezed the jaws open and then let the spring action he had inventively added snap them shut again. He did this several times; the snapping jaws making a deceptively innocuous ping each time he let them go. Despite the tinny music of the sound, but there was no mistaking the exquisite pain they would inflict if those tiny teeth were allowed to snap close and bite into human flesh. Scully began to thrash on the table, shaking her head from side to side, her frantic noises muffled by her blocked throat. The IceMan just shook his head at her, a look of grim amusement momentarily flickering over his face. Then his expression became an immobile mask again as he leaned toward her bound form. Taking her right breast in his snow-pallid hand, he carefully gripped it around the base and squeezed so that the nipple jumped up prominently. With his other hand he took the closed retractor, and ran its point in slow circles around the tawny areola. The icy tickle caused her nipple to lengthen even further, until it was almost cylindrical in shape. Then the IceMan carefully opened the jaws of the clamp and fitted them around the stem of Scully's erect nipple. Watching her face closely, he suddenly let the jaws of the clamp snap closed so that the teeth bit agonisingly into her flesh. Her back spasmed at the excruciating pain and forced her body up into an arch. The straps bit into her pale flesh, making it bulge slightly over the interlaced lines of black rubber criss-crossing her pale skin. Even with her throat filled with the ice phallus, her muffled screams were audible. The IceMan watched complacently, as her body continued to twist and lunge in a desperate attempt to find escape from the pain. It was a vain attempt. It merely brought another tiny amused smile flickering over his face followed by another small shake of the head. Not taking his eyes off of her contorted face, he reached into his pocket and took out another clamp. This time he dispensed with the preliminary performance and instead grabbed her other breast in a vice-like grip, immediately snapping the clamp onto her erect nipple. For a second time, there came that frantic spasm as Scully's back arched. And this time tears began to stream from the corners of her eyes. Her body continued to jolt helplessly against the intolerable restraints and the even more intolerable pain. She almost looked like a woman in the throes of an orgasm as her body shuddered and jerked. The man quickly looked down at his crotch. At last he saw the beginnings of an erection. It wasn't much yet, to be sure, but then he'd only just started having fun with this one. Soon she'd be giving him the only truly satisfying release he was capable of having with a woman. He looked back up at her writhing form, and smiled outright again. Oh yes. Oh my yes. This one was going to be the best yet. He left her to make a last trip to the freezer. *** As she waited for him to return with the third and final phallus, Scully had time to do many things. She had time to regret her actions in coming to this disused hospital surgery room alone late at night without logging her activity with her superior officer. She had time to curse Mulder for ditching her yet again. She had time to hope that death when it came would be swift. And she had time to pray. And pray she did - even through her agonising pain she could sense that her only hope now was prayer. Because Scully knew just what would certainly happen to her when the IceMan finished the preliminaries and inserted the final phallus. She'd performed autopsies on his last two victims - what there was of them left to autopsy, that is. They'd both been bound and abused exactly as she had been. And then the sick bastard had proceeded to get out a scalpel and to dissect them. . Or did you call it vivisection when you cut open something that was still alive? Yeah. That was it. Vivisection. Such a pretty word for such a revolting practice. Her sanity began to be sliced away even before the man reappeared with the last phallus and the blade which would open her belly. The cold crept into her core slowly like frost on grass - filming her mind completely; bringing her the gift of oblivion at last. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (When the last bead of light blinks out, SECOND CONTACT has occurred. The Sun's photosphere has completely disappeared along with its outer atmosphere. Totality has been reached. From Astronomy Now - August, 1999 edition) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ End of Part 1 The Track of Totality by Red Valerian and Montana ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 2: Totality ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day! -Samson Agonistes - Milton August 11th, 1999 - Time: 10:59 (Twelve minutes before Totality.) Skinner spun the wheel of the black Ford sending the vehicle careening off the road and onto the weed-infested gravel drive. Crushed rock flew in both directions as he fishtailed to a stop before the dilapidated institutional breakfront. He erupted out of the car, leaving lights blinking, door open and warning bells beeping madly. His long legs took the steps to the front door three at a time. The double doors were predictably locked but the building was old enough not to have windows embedded with wire mesh. Without a second thought Skinner crashed his overcoated elbow through the glass and reached in to slide the bolt across. The heavy door bounced back on its hinges as he flung it aside. Thank god he'd worked out where she must be at last. That bespectacled, officious clerk in the public records office had finally seen reason and given him what he needed. Skinner almost smiled as he remembered how quickly the man had come up with this address when he was hanging tiptoe by his lapels from Skinner's fists. Christ, the little shit's stalling might very well mean Scully's life. Skinner muttered, "I'll go back and finish the job, I fucking swear if..." The worst case scenerio wouldn't bear thinking about, and he forced himself to push it out of his conscious mind. He needed to concentrate on the task in hand. Inside the building was inky and smelled of old urine, must, rat droppings and the air of dried blood, antiseptics and death long past. Skinner skidded to a halt to give his eyes time to adjust and make the final choice of direction. The building plan sketch was in his pocket but he did not bother to retrieve it. The map was in his mind. Four possible locations in four different directions. Each would have the equipment this sicko would need. Kitchen? Lab? Morgue? O.R.? Which? He began moving again, more deliberately, first up the internal staircase. He paused again at the top surveying the hallways to right, left and ahead of him. Fuck! Where? The O.R. It had to be the O.R. This perp's m.o. was vivisection not dissection. Scully had made that clear. Scully. Jesus, Scully, how in hell did you let this guy get you out here? You knew what he was like. Skinner pounded down the hallway counting doorways to find the inside staircase to the second floor that he remembered was half way down the centre corridor. He rammed into an ancient gurney angled insanely away from the corridor wall. Fuck! He threw the heavy metal with its frayed vinyl padding out of his way, jerked open the stairway door, and plunged into the pitch black. By instinct he mounted the thirteen steps to the landing and then another thirteen to the second floor and burst into a hallway that mirrored the first floor. Right turn back to the centre intersection, right turn and down the long hall to double doors. One hung slightly askew. He could hear the pumping hum of a small emergency electrical generator echoing from the depths of the corridor end and smell a trace of fumes from the poorly vented engine exhaust. His instinct was to go in blasting but training intervened. He reached for his holstered SIG and carefully slipped one leg through the partially open swinging door. Once through he could see the shadows of decaying curtains in former recovery areas and a faint ice blue light creeping through the circular windows and from under a second set of double doors ahead of him. Skinner's huge body moved with grace and stealth across the space to the doors. He carefully peered through the dusty, smudged glass. The room beyond was filled with innumerable cupboards, closets, antiquated autoclaves - the paraphernalia within the purview of a circulating nurse whose job it was to keep supplies flowing to the inner sanctum of the surgery suite. In the corner, the generator's deep-throated monotone thud-thumped in time to his pulse as he navigated his way through the room's obstacles. He crept past the exhaust tube running out the only window, and the chilled air coming through the poorly insulated joints made his flesh creep. The window glass was fogged a smoky blue turning the institutional green-painted room into the inside of an ice block. On the left, opposite the window was a swinging door with another round window. Skinner pushed silently on into the room and slid over to the wall beside the door, which presumably led into the surgical arena. The generator covered the sound of rusty hinges and his feet shushing across the dusty floor. He ducked down below the level of the window and listened with bated breath to the implacable voice echoing inside. "I suggest you try to relax your sphincter muscles now - or this might hurt. I wouldn't want to tear any delicate tissue." The words were perfunctory. Spoken like a script that had been delivered one too many times. With effort he kept out of contact with the door. The twitching muscles of his legs and pounding of his blood begged a headlong rush. But Skinner knew better. That kind of action got people killed. He forced himself to hold still for the agonisingly slow rise for a quick surveillance of the room through the glass view port. Skinner jolted at the muffled screams that followed. Scully! The fucking bastard was hurting her. The second wave of Scully's agony hit him like a fist to the solar plexus. A red veil fell over Skinner's eyes. Roaring like an enraged grizzly, he threw his body against the door. The momentum carried him half way to the table of obscene horror centred in a pool of white-blue halogen surgical lighting. Scully's beautiful body lay before him violated in every way possible. Her skin was as blue as the frozen phalluses melting in rivulets across her cheeks and between her legs. Her thighs were strapped apart at a body splitting angle. Dark puddles of icy water filled the indentation in the black rubber sheeting beneath her hips. Silvery needle-nose retractor clamps chewed into her nipples. Their teeth were decorated with oozing blood that dribbled along the finger grips to pool between her breasts. Her belly rippled in agony. She was so far-gone that her wide blue eyes seemed unable to process his presence. Where was the son-of-a-bitching-motherfucker who had done this? Shit. Nothing in the room was visible outside the circle of light. Skinner scanned the room frantically as he reached forward to undo the vicious clamps and restraints that held Scully immobilised. He threw the bloody clamps behind him barely registering their clatter against the still swinging door. As his fingers worked to undo the buckles and knots, he peered into the corners of the tiled room fighting the overhead glare of the intense light. Where the fuck was the sick prick? Skinner gently withdrew the half-melted indecency from her mouth. The ice had melded with the edge of her lip and tore a bit of flesh away from the edge as he lifted it away. This little pain in the midst of the greater seemed to bring Scully to some awareness. His eyes flickered away from his search to meet hers. There was mania standing millimetres behind them. The light of reason had gone out and only madness remained. Oh god, why hadn't he moved faster? With a look of anguished apology, he tore his gaze away from hers and extracted the other hellish abomination from her shivering body, afterwards quickly freeing her knees and ankles. She immediately started to curl into a protective ball on the surgery table but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her upright. Chancing discovery, he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "Come on Scully, stay with me just a little bit longer. " His tone was desperate, as much a plea as it was a heartfelt prayer. When there was no reaction, he continued in a harsher whisper. "You *can* do it. I know you can. I just need you to stay conscious for a few more minutes. Hold onto this...you may need it." As he finished speaking, Skinner thrust his SIG Saur P229 into her frigid hands, moulding her fingers around the gun's substantial handgrip. The double action semi-automatic had a ten-round magazine with a full clip. He'd loaded both his weapons before coming here, so he didn't need to check it. As he felt Scully's fingers tighten reflexively on the pistol grip, he finally let her go and whipped out a second smaller SIG from his concealed under-arm holster. His perusal of the room was then renewed. A slight rasping scuffle originating in the far opposite corner snapped him to attention. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was gradually able to focus on the human form, crouched in the corner. The face looked vaguely familiar. Suddenly Skinner had it. It was the informant, Scully's information source on this bizarre case, who stared back at him with a look of desperation in his eyes. What was the ineffectual little shit doing here? As Skinner took in the bizarre parody of lab coat and surgical greens clothing the man, the light began to dawn a second time. Of course. The obvious. They had all overlooked the obvious. This wouldn't be the first maniac who starred in investigating his own crimes and he probably wouldn't be the last. So this milquetoast was the feared IceMan who had brought such terror to the city. Who had killed so many. Well, this time he had taken on the wrong FBI agent who had the wrong boss. Taking one step forward, Skinner's broad shadow all but blotted out his insignificant form. "Stand up!" he snarled in a voice that it was impossible to ignore. The trembling figure rose slowly to its full height and, at Skinner's growled summons, the IceMan inched slowly forward - out of the shadows and into the cone of cyanotic light at the centre of the room. Skinner's eyes were glued to his face. His gun never wavered. Suddenly the man froze. His gaze shifted and the terrified look on his face was slowly transformed into something else, something much closer to astonishment. Skinner couldn't quite place his expression, but he recognised the sound that echoed in the silence of the cold room. It was the slick noise of metal on metal, the unmistakable sound of a gun breech being slid quickly back and then slapping forward again into position, followed by the snick of the first spring-loaded cartridge snapping up into the chamber. But before Skinner's brain could process what was about to happen, Scully's first shot whistled past his head and smacked dully into the IceMan's body spinning him against the wall. Skinner whirled around to be confronted by a naked fury standing there with a SIG Saur clutched in her outstretched hands. Her eyes looked as deadly as the sea in December. Scully might have been a nude Virgin with a bleeding heart of her own pooled blood between her breasts and her red-gold hair standing in a matted corona lit by the obscenely bright operating room lamp. But the expression was pure Old Testament, an avenging Deborah with weapon in hand. Both arms were held straight out in front of her as she steadied the overlarge gun. "Scully, what are you doing? Stop. We've fucking got him!" Without reacting to his words, Scully squeezed the trigger again and the second shot hit home as unerringly as the first, shattering the fragile bones of her tormentor's right hand, sending it in an arch out from his body. His face still wore a look of blank surprise but as Skinner watched him, the expression morphed into something else. Something that looked closer to the one Skinner had seen on Scully's face earlier. Anguish. He suddenly looked anguished. The IceMan opened his mouth to scream, but before any sound could leave his lips a third shot reverberated in the tiled room, followed quickly by the fourth. As her shot took out his left hand, that arm too was catapulted into the air so that he stood with arms outstretched, crucified in mid-air by the succession of bullets, which continued to hit him. The fifth scored the arch of the cheekbone where all the facial control and sensory nerves crossed to the jaw. The exiting bullet ripped away an ear. The man suddenly began flailing around spraying bloody droplets and fragments across the room, over Skinner, over Scully. In some surreal imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting, congealing splatters appeared on clothing, equipment, tile and floor. Scully's sixth round fractured a rib and chewed a 3" diameter exit hole, leaving a mincemeat of bone, lung and kidney behind. The man had finally found his voice now and his screams rang out and then ran into each other in one continuous maddening howl. "Scully! NO!" Skinner's bulk wouldn't let him move around the end of the outstretched stainless steel stirrup fast enough to restrain her. Her eyes glowed with a sheen that he had only seen once, in long ago boyhood days on a Texas ranch; the sheen in the eyes of a rabid fox. How fucking many rounds were left in that gun, anyway? Skinner had to stop her before she blew the little shit completely away. They would crucify her if she killed the guy and him too if he let her. She blasted rounds seven and eight nearly on top of one another disintegrating both her target's kneecaps. Skinner's arm shot under the stirrup to snatch the gun but she evaded him. Point blank, she squeezed one final round off opening the IceMan's throat. Hot blood spewed across the two-foot distance between Scully's naked form and his collapsing body. The gore ran in snaking striations down her face, chest and belly. At her feet his head lolled back and the eyes went half-lidded like a man being seduced. Blue light turned the pooling blood black at her feet and reflected from the back of his open eyes like a cat caught in headlights. One last gurgling gasp and the life faded from the eyes, gone wide at the very last. Scully turned on her heel then and faced Skinner. She shivered and the over-heavy smoking gun dragged her arm downwards at last, until it hung a dead weight at her side. He searched her face. There was more life in the cooling corpse behind her than behind her eyes now. Getting the gun from her was not the issue. Ensuring that she did not spend the rest of her life in prison was. Skinner took his weapon from her nerveless fingers and slid it carefully through the folds of his already gory raincoat, erasing her fingerprints. Even more carefully he wrapped his big hand over the barrel, handle and trigger. He turned the weapon on the bloody cabinet behind Scully and the body and pulled off the final tenth shot to ensure there would be powder residue on his own hands. Scully didn't even jump at the deafening pistol crack. Then he carefully lay the weapon on the rubber sheet covering of the surgical table. Scully stood immobile, barely breathing through the process. Her lips were the colour of lapis lazuli. There was nothing but pupil in her eyes. The delicate skin of her inner arms and breasts could have been reflections of the northern lights, marred only by fine tracings of violet veins underneath. Only the sharply outlined vee where her collarbones met showed the faintest trace of pulse. She could have been one of Burne-Jones's bloodless heroines, gazing with the blank eyes of a pre-Raphaelite beauty into the abyss. Skinner's teeth chattered just looking at her. He removed his overcoat and wrapped her in it just as her knees buckled and she collapsed into his arms. He lifted her then and she hung in his arms a dead weight in an unconscious imitation of the Pieta. If he could have found any other place, he would have. But there was none. Skinner walked over and curled Scully's limp body on the altar of her torture, tucking the gargantuan raincoat around her, then reaching into a pocket and removing his cell phone. He punched the one key code for his secretary's private line. As he listened to the phone ringing over and over in his ear, he turned his attention to the room. His eye caught a metallic blue glitter on the edge of the blood pooled at the dead man's throat. Scully's ever-present cross. The gold filament was now laced through with drying blood, already going the colour of rust. He reached down to retrieve it. This cross would not be lost in some plastic evidence bag. Not if he could help it. End of part 2 The Track of Totality Red Valerian and Montana ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 3: Restoration of Light ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (THIRD CONTACT: Third contact occurs when the photosphere begins to reappear. This is a slow process, because the moon takes the same time to leave the disc of the Sun as it took to cover it. This stage marks the end of Totality and the disappearance of the umbral shadow. The crescent Sun is again visible. From Astronomy Now, August 1999 edition.) Fucking interminable cranky elevator! Skinner headed for the stairs to Scully's apartment. He needed to work off some of the rage he was still feeling before he saw her again. He slammed through the fire door adjacent to the bank of elevators and sprinted up to the first landing. It was rage that kept his legs pinioning and adrenaline pumping through his veins. This inferno reached a scale that even shook Skinner who was famous for his smouldering temper. He was hotter than he had ever been in his life before, and the worst of it was, there was no way he could vent the suffocating fury that was choking him. The object of his anger was already dead, his mutilated body lying in a morgue drawer...on ice for good, at last. As Skinner shot up the stairs, the lines of pornographic graffiti on the passing walls blurred into neon streaks. He grimly marked the irony of it, blood pounding in his ears. The IceMan - on ice. But still the emotional bonfire roared and he had no outlet for its white heat except in physical exertion. He took the next two flights of stairs even faster, at a heart-pounding sprint. He attacked them two at a time, until he felt his body bathe itself in sweat and his lungs cry out for air. With a final short sharp burst of energy, he reached the top landing, facing the fire door which opened onto the corridor outside Scully's apartment. He reigned in his movements then, until he stood still, shivering at the effort it took not to continue on; to run like hell; to smash something. The only sound was his own laboured panting as his body demanded more and yet more oxygen. He braced his forearms against the doorjamb and allowed himself pause. Leaning forward, he caught his breath at last, gradually bringing himself under control again. Calm down; just cool it, he cautioned himself. Before he saw her, he *had* to calm down. He had to be in control before he gave her back the one thing that might give her some comfort. The sign of something that monster couldn't take away from her. Her faith. Standing upright at last, his breathing under control again, Skinner reached into his pocket and took out the small gold cross. It had been cleaned. Its gleaming gold chain coiled its strand in a tiny pool in the centre of his hand, fragile but beautiful. The cross was tiny but perfect, like Scully herself. Yet looking at this cross, he felt no real consolation. No desire to thank a divine providence for saving her welled up inside him. Yet he knew in his heart that should be happy. She was fine - or she would be - or at least she would say she was fine. Physically there had been surprisingly little damage. The emergency room staff had assured Skinner that the retractor clamps had been in place for too short a time to cause permanent damage - only seconds really. They'd caused no more than superficial lacerations. And the ice thrust into her throat and rectum had again left little physical harm. They'd been there a very short time also - mere minutes - so tissue damage from their touch was minimal. He kept repeating that line to himself as a mantra as he looked down at the cross in his large open hand: Tissue damage was minimal. Tissue damage was minimal. 'But what about the other damage?' another frantic inner voice asked. 'What about the damage to her mind? Her psyche? How will she feel when she remembers what she did to her persecutor? How will she live with it? What of the damage to her soul?' He shook his head like an angry stallion, trying to clear it. Trying to shake away his doubts and fears. Knowing this woman as well as he did, Skinner doubted that she would ever forgive herself. He feared for her now almost more than he had feared for her when she'd been in that butcher's hands. The rage rekindled. Rage at what had happened to her. Rage at himself for allowing it to happen, for not staying on top of this case. Rage at Mulder. Skinner muttered a black series of invectives "-Goddamn Mulder, one more time you left her hanging with no back-up. You fucking space cadet! You didn't even leave a contact number." Rage at the hospital staff who had been stupid enough to let Scully discharge herself, when clearly she was in no fit mental state to be left on her own. So that was it. He was all she had right now. Mulder could be goddamn anywhere. Her mother was abroad and was making her way back to DC, but wouldn't be able to get there until the weekend. That left him and the load of emotional baggage he had carried so long unshared for this woman. Just him and his fumbling tongue when it came to the arena of feelings. There was only him. That thought finally got him moving again. He pushed through the doors and walked purposefully towards her apartment door. When he reached it, he saw that it had been left slightly ajar. Panicked, he pushed it open and stepped in. What he saw made him freeze in the doorway, unsure of himself. Unsure what to do. Scully sat hunched in a corner of the sofa, a knitted afghan wrapped around her body. She was shivering uncontrollably and was rocking herself back and forth in time to some internal metronome. With each sway, her body moved into and out of the circle of light cast by the lamp beside her. A tight fist squeezed Skinner's heart; his chest so constricted that he couldn't take a complete inward breath. How could he bear this? How could he bear to see her suffering like this and not do something to make it better? But what in the fuck could anyone do? "Scully..." he whispered gently, all his rage evaporating as he came further into the room. There was no response. Her rocking motion didn't check even for an instant. Skinner took a further step toward her, his face now a mask of concern. "Scully...it's all right. It's going to be all right. I promise you. He can't hurt you again. Do you understand? He's dead. You killed him. You did it, Scully. He can't hurt you or anyone else ever again. You're safe now." The words were inadequate and he knew it perfectly well. But what else could he say? He continued talking in soothing tones as he got closer and closer to her. When he reached the sofa at last, he knelt down in front of her, trying to get her to make eye contact, to respond in some way. She continued to rock back and forth, but there was less agitation in the movement, less frenetic misery in her countenance. She still shivered uncontrollably, however. And now that he was looking up at her pinched face, he saw that her jaw was clenched to stop her teeth chattering. He kept repeating his soothing litany. He didn't know what else to do. He plunged her into a warm bath of his words. She was safe now, he told her. Safe. No one could ever hurt her again. He wouldn't let them. He'd tear apart anyone who ever tried to touch her or hurt her. His voice flowed over her like sun-warmed honey. Did she understand? He promised. He'd never leave her alone again. Not ever. His tone filled her like tea, hot white and sweet. The unqualified love and passionate reassurance in his voice finally began to penetrate the thick icy wall surrounding Scully's senses. Penetrate it with the hot rush of the love he had held in abeyance for years and melt its rime ever so slightly. When next he looked into her face, she met his gaze and he saw the dim spark of reason there again. But like the returning light after a total eclipse, it threw little heat. She opened her mouth to speak but her voice, when it came, remained flat; uninflected - the far-away voice of someone still in shock. "Did you know that the devil punishes with ice not fire?" she asked. "Did you know that? I was reading about it just recently when I was doing some research into the Salem Witch Trials for Mulder. The women who claimed to have had relations with the devil. They all said the same thing. Do you know what it was?" As she whispered the question, her teeth began to chatter and it became harder and harder to understand her words. Her face disappeared into the shadows again. Skinner leaned within inches of her, the better to hear; letting her say whatever she needed to say. He didn't have long to wait. Her words when they came were as brittle as ice shavings. "The women all said that his penis is as cold as ice, his semen like a wash of well water. In all the documented cases, the women say the same thing. And do you know what?" Her bottom lip started to tremble as she asked the question. Suddenly she looked straight at Skinner for the first time really seeing him and she answered it herself. "Do you know what? ...They're right." The statement hung between them like a crystalline snowflake resting on an upturned cheek. She stared at him for a long, long time and then finally she spoke again so softly that he had to lean even closer. So close that his breath was warming her chilly flesh. The snowflake's crystalline form disappeared into one crystalline tear. "Will you hold me?" she whispered, in a strained voice, leaning now into the light. "Will you hold me please. It's so cold, so cold. I can't get warm." She held out a trembling hand to show him how she was still shivering, although the chattering teeth and constant tremor of her body demonstrated that clearly enough. "Help me please. Make me warm." Skinner hesitated for the barest fraction of an instant, panicked about the wisdom of doing what she had asked, and worried that it might only make things worse. Worried more about keeping a grip on his own banked emotions. But when he saw her bottom lip quiver again, he let his instincts kick in. She needed him. It's what he'd come here for. That was good enough. He rose from his kneeling position and sat beside her on the sofa. Swallowing hard he held out his arms, silently inviting her. She came without hesitation, immediately crawling into his lap, and settled herself onto him curling into a foetal position. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her arms crossed protectively over her aching breasts. His heart ached in tempo with her pain and he found himself trying to engulf her in the protective ring of his embrace. Fiercely, he pulled her to his heart and rested his chin on the top of her head so that she could nuzzle into the warmth of his neck. Then he began to sway with her gently, rubbing his hands briskly up and down her upper arms, her back, and her thighs - anywhere he could reach. He was trying in the only way he knew to help her regain some warmth. All the time he kissed the top of her head. He couldn't help himself. He felt that he'd die if he didn't kiss some part of her. But Scully didn't seem to mind. For the first time in hours she'd finally stopped shivering. She contented herself with trying to bury herself in his warmth; burrowing into the flesh under his chin with the persistence of a nursing kitten. Uncrossing her arms at last, and disregarding the pain in her breasts, she turned slightly and slipped her arms around his chest so that she could hug him back, so that her whole torso was in full contact with his body's heat. She drank in his warmth and he took the opportunity to reach into his pocket and take out the cross again. Her small arms curled under his arms, fingers kneading into the heated spaces between his ribs and settling around the heavy muscle running from his spine over his shoulder blade. She buried her still chill nose in the hollow between his chest and his massive upper arm. He wrapped his arms around her, one arm carrying the flow of heat along his inner arm diagonally across her back to the ruddy palm supporting her head and neck. The other drew a parallel across her lower back. The cross dangled brightly from the fist rested lightly on her curving hip. She looked up at him. Really looked at him. And when she did he found himself staring back down at her face. The glow in his gentle eyes radiated pure love - untempered by any doubt. Scully saw it. She saw it and acted on some instincts of her own. "Please kiss me," she whispered, in a voice nearly as thin as the one she'd used before, but with a hint of returning emotion. "Kiss me and take away the cold there, too. Kiss me and make my mouth warm." He didn't even hesitate. Anything she wanted he would give her if he could, and this was something he had been dreaming of for many, many years. He leaned down and carefully brushed his lips against hers, with the barest of pressures. Not kissing her, but just touching his lips to hers at first. Getting used to the possibility. Then he drew back to look carefully into her searching clear blue eyes. They seemed to be pleading with him for something more, something which he knew he shouldn't give her. But God, he couldn't resist those eyes. Those lips. That look. Leaning in again he gave her a real kiss this time, but a chaste one. It was the sort of kiss you gave to a sleeping baby you were afraid of waking. Scully made a small noise of disapproval, and then she did what he hadn't dared to do. She grabbed his head in her two hands and pulled him down to her firmly. Then she began to kiss him frantically, turning her face first one way and then the next, searching for the perfect fit that would meld their lips together forever and take away the ice from her soul. When he didn't respond immediately, she bit at his lower lip and then suckled it into her warm mouth to soothe it better. Then she began to kiss him again and again, rubbing her soft skin against his sandpaper jaw, undulating slowly in his lap. In spite of his doubts, Skinner found himself responding to her need for warmth. Responding to the body writhing on his lap. He found his tongue filling her sweet mouth, sliding past the open lips to find salvation within. Her kisses became more and more frantic; more slick; more warm and wet, until Skinner moaned softly. It was Scully who finally pulled away at last when she sensed that he was attempting to re-gain control. "I want this, " she pleaded, looking him straight in the eye; trying to forestall his objections. "I need it. I need to feel warm again. And I want you. I've always wanted you. You were always the one." There was a lunatic heat in her words. She darted forward again, and her mouth seared across his with the blue explosion of fireworks. The wildly swinging pendulum of desperation in her kisses kicked his banked embers into a full roaring flame. He could easily have taken her at her literal word. God knows he wanted to. But some vestige of sanity had to be maintained. If he did this now, she might never be whole again. It would be a violation worse than the one she had already endured. And as much as he wanted her and had always wanted her, this was neither the time nor the place. Very, very gently, Skinner reach up to take one of her small hands in each of his big ones. He brought their hands together in the close space between them and blew soft warm heat into her fingers. Interlaced in his was the filament of her necklace. He opened her hand and coiled the liquid chain into her palm leaving the tiny cross in the centre. A fairy glow of the emblem reflected from the bright yellow of the lamp sent a tiny cross of light glinting around the room. As he steadied her hand and brought her to stillness, the reflection came to rest on her forehead. He closed the now burning fingers around the gold and looked up into her eyes once again. "Not now Scully. Not today. But soon. I promise you soon. Whenever you're ready." She looked at him for a long time, and then she did something he hadn't expected her to do. She smiled like a sleepy child, nodded once, and then curled up on his lap again without a single protest. It was as if the last few intense minutes hadn't happened. But before she'd closed her eyes, Skinner noticed a warm light shining in them at last. He settled her against his body more comfortably - cradling her and reached for the discarded afghan. Then he wrapped them both in it and began humming a rumbling imitation of the last inane thing he'd heard on the car stereo. He held her close so she couldn't forget he was there. Over and over he hummed the chorus as he rocked her in his arms. The monotony eventually stilled her completely and when he looked down again she slept. Her body radiated the sleepy warmth of life and peace. "Not now, Scully," he murmured and bent to kiss the spot where the reflection had rested. "Not today. But soon. When you're ready, I'll be there." Then, as he whispered the words, the oddest thing happened. The vision when it came was vivid; so vivid that he gasped aloud, the hair on the base of his neck standing on end. The room he was in faded and disappeared altogether in an odd disorienting shift. Its subliminal ripple twisted him and rearranged him in a quite literal way, so that he suddenly found himself somewhere else. He was sprawling in a huge bed on top of a very warm and very naked Scully, poised and ready to enter her. And she was looking up at him; her eyes aglow with trust and love. "Yes," she was whispering, "Yes. *Now* is the time," and as she murmured the words she tipped her pelvis up, so that he slid into her almost unawares. And oh god - the sensation. The glorious feeling of being so suddenly, so liquidly surrounded by her. Scully smiled up at his blissful shocked expression, and then she quickly hooked her legs around his waist, gently pulling him forward and forcing him to enter her welcoming body in one long, sweet, slow, endless heated stroke. The dappled sun shone in warm patches on the bed where they lay, gilding their flesh, and on the wall over the bed a print of Van Gogh's Sun Flowers whispered a benediction. Agonisingly slowly, Skinner drew back and penetrated her once more, groaning his pleasure to the gods in a paean of praise. And then suddenly there was that same odd stomach-churning shifting of time and space and Skinner found himself once again in Scully's apartment, his groans still ringing in his ears. The burden in his lap shifted and sighed in her sleep before snuggling more tightly against his trembling body. Skinner tried desperately to rein in his emotions and to make sense of what had just happened. After a few minutes his heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm; his pulse slowed and began to beat in time to Scully's breathing. He knew that he should wonder if he were going mad, but somehow he was sure that wasn't the case. Without putting it into words, he knew that what he'd just been given was a vision of the future which had been vouchsafed to them. A promise of what was to come; a promise he knew now he'd be able to redeem. Looking down at the woman in his lap, he suddenly smiled for the first time that day. Now, at long last, he could wholeheartedly thank his god for saving her. End of Part 3 ' The Track of Totality by Red Valerian and Montana ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Epilogue - Perihelion February 23rd, 2001 - eighteen months after Totality ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (FOURTH AND FINAL CONTACT: The moon finally disappears from the solar edge and light returns. The eclipse is now over. From Astronomy Now - August 1999 edition) As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lover's lips. (Prometheus Unbound - Shelley) Scully sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed and her hand outstretched, her face an ecstasy of impatience. "What *is* it," she wheedled. "Come on. Give. Hand it over." Skinner couldn't restrain a huge delighted grin as he put a small, wrapped box into her hand. She looked almost like a teenager again. "You can open your eyes now," he said at last. "Happy Birthday." Scully hadn't waited to be told. Her eyes were already open, but instead of looking at the present in the palm of her hand, she stared up at Skinner expectantly, pursing her lips and begging a kiss. Skinner wasn't about to argue with that face. He leaned down and gave her a thorough and lengthy series of kisses, his hands cupping her skull gently but firmly. Finally after one or two failed attempts to tear himself away, he gave her one last, loud kiss and stepped out of range. "Another," Scully demanded. The grinning Skinner just shook his head and leaned forward to tap his finger on the present pointedly, before withdrawing to a safe distance. When she continued to look at him, he made a partial concession. "Open that, and then we'll see about another." Scully grinned in triumph, now happy to obey. But she was in no rush. She looked down at the little present in the palm of her hand, first shaking it and then turning the box over slowly to examine it from all sides. "Today would be a good time, Agent Scully. Preferably some time before your next birthday." Without looking up, Scully wrinkled her nose at him, but she did finally get down to business. Of sorts. She began to remove the wrappings, but very, very carefully, making sure not to tear the paper. Skinner tapped his foot on the floor in pretended impatience, but she ignored him. Finally the present was uncovered. Inside was a small velvet jewellery box emblazoned with the name Cartier. Scully looked up at him then with raised eyebrows. Skinner just repeated his earlier gesture, leaning forward to tap on the box. Scully gave in and opened it. Her gasp of delight was exactly what Skinner had hoped for. Inside lay an exquisite gold broach of ancient Egyptian design. It had been fashioned to represent the sun with delicate outstretched wings on either side. Scully picked it up gingerly, as if afraid it would break, marvelling at the craftsmanship. "It's the winged Disk of the Egyptian Sun," Skinner said unnecessarily. Scully knew exactly what it was, and its significance but she allowed Skinner to continue uninterruped. "It's supposed to commemorate the victory of light over darkness. The Resurrection," he finished. At his words, Scully sobered briefly and then her face broke into a huge smile, one full of understanding and gratitude. She ran her forefinger over the arch of the disk. It had already absorbed the warmth of her hand. Replacing her present carefully in its box, she held the velvet case a moment in her lap staring at it thoughtfully. Then she looked up at Skinner and opened her arms to him. He hesitated just for a moment, not daring to believe what she was offering. Then when her expression told him all he needed to know, he finally allowed himself to fall onto her with a sigh of relief - pushing her back onto the bed gently, covering her slight frame with his body for the very first time. The wintry light flickering through curtained windows bathed the two of them in intricate lacy patterns. He began to kiss her over and over and over. Her closed blue-veined eye-lids. Her soft lips. Her glowing cheeks. Her sweet little chin. The warm flesh of her neck. From the framed print on the wall above, Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers' shone down on them both. "Skinner?" she said at last, gasping for breath and arching against him; smiling to herself as she felt him responding in kind. "Skinner.........?" He pulled away six inches to look at her. His voice was hoarse with impatience. "What?" She grinned up at him, "What you promised? You said, when I was ready, right? Well, I'm ready now, Skinner. *Now* is the time." THE END Acknowledgements: Red: The draft of this story has spent more than a year and a half languishing on my hard drive. Then a week or so ago, I sent it to saintly Montana and she rescued me and the story from oblivion by agreeing to collaborate. Montana is a hard-task master, but a superb author. Without her talent and skill, 'The Track of Totality' would never have seen the light of day. So I want to thank her here from the bottom of my heart. I would also like to thank A. Manley Haight (wherever she may be) Bruce Le Sound Margie and mlb for their invaluable advice given last year when this story had a different name. See - I do listen. Eventually. Do you recognise 'Those Who Favour Fire?' Montana: When a friend asks for help, the answer is always yes. When the friend is Red Valerian--THE Red Valerian--the answer is God Yes! And then you swallow hard and think, whatever made me think I could do this? When the story is of the nature of this one, you can only plunge in and hope you don't drown as you attempt to swim in the deepest, darkest, coldest of waters. Thank you Red for the faith and trust and the huge honor and the pure pleasure of working with the best.