"Umbra" 28/38 By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters created by the author remain his property. Original Post : August 3, 1997 Archive Entry : "Umbra, Chapter 28" Classification : Action Adventure, MSR Rating : R (Adult Themes, Adult Language, violence) Archive : Any public accessible server. Missing Parts : http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo Feedback : All feedback (good or bad) to: drambo@azstarnet.com Mailing List : Email to drambo@azstarnet.com with subject SUBSCRIBE. Notes : None Spoilers Up to but not including US4 "Momento Mori" Casting For "Umbra" Note: Not all characters appear in all chapters. Dan Gauthier LTCMDR Richard 'Batman' Amend David Marshall Grant VC-20 Pilot Ed Harris Ron Burke Fred Ward SDCSO Deputy Sanders Glenne Headly CMDR Maggie King J.T. Walsh CMDR Armfield Joan Allen Janet Ebert John C. McGinley CMDR Jenkins John Glover Graves John Heard Adam Roche Judge Reinhold Teddy Kyle Chandler Yeoman Richie Anderson Mary Stuart Masterson LT Ally Roche Michael Behin Officer of The Deck (USS Georgia) Michael Ironsides RADM Mike Watts Ned Vaughn Petty Officer 2nd Class Chris Hayes Robert Prosky Annapolis Jail Guard Sam Neil CAPT Ronald Ebert Tom Sizemore Annapolis PD Detective Tom Skerritt CMDR Scott Adams Tommy Lee Jones CAPT Kauffman Val Kilmer CMDR Matthew Stone William Baldwin LT Vinny "Boombox" Ferucci William H. Macy CAPT Newman Enjoy! ----- Pave Creek, Montana "What's the situation?" Stone radioed back. Quickly, Skinner brought him up to speed. "No way," Stone said. "No way am I letting that asshole get out of here with a device that can decimate Washington. No frigging way, Skinner." There was the sound of movement on the radio. And then silence. "Scully..." Skinner radioed. *** On the other side of the clearing, Matt Stone was unlimbering an H&K MP5, getting ready to move into position. "...you know what to do," she heard in her headset. Sighing, Scully nodded. She knew what had to be done. Skinner's assessment of the situation was correct. They had to let Graves go; there was no defense against risking the lives of the people of Billings, Montana, just to save Washington. Someone else, someone like Stone, would have argued loud and long that the loss of a hundred thousand lives was nothing when compared against losing the government. To Scully, there was no choice. She drew her SIG. The sound the hammer made as she thumbed it back into the single- action position was extremely loud in the woods. "Matt," she said softly, leveling the gun at his back. "Don't make me shoot you." His head turned, looking back at her. "That's the second time you've pointed a gun at me. I don't recommend a third." "Matt," she said again. "Please." She watched the emotions battling behind his eyes. First there was the irrational anger of having her...a woman!...pointing a gun at him. Then resignation, as the rational part of his mind tried to convince itself that Skinner was right, that this had to be done, distasteful as it was. And then something new, something Scully had never seen before. She didn't like it. It looked like...some form of sick, twisted determination. With a shudder, Scully realized that she was going to have to shoot him, that Stone had lost the ability to distance himself from the mission, that the entire affair had become too personal; he had become too involved. Fifteen years of hunting this man, only to have him slip away at this last moment had sapped Stone's ability to think clearly and rationally. "I could take that away from you," he announced. "I doubt it." "Do you have the balls to shoot?" Scully said nothing. Any words, at this point, were useless.. "I can't let him leave like this," Stone said, a pleading note creeping into his voice. Scully wasn't buying it. The man was trained too well to let that happen. He was playing her, playing her like he had from the start, playing her like he had Maggie King and God only knew how many others over the course of this quest of his. "You have no choice in the matter," Scully announced quietly. "It isn't up to you." "You bitch..." he said. Scully decided to let him have that one. His words towards her meant nothing. Nothing at all. "Whatever," she said. And then Stone was moving, twisting on the ground, his hand moving to the holstered sidearm on his thigh. Scully watched in slow motion as he drew the weapon and chambered a round, all in one smooth motion. "Noooo!" she started to say, and then training and instinct took over. She didn't want to kill him. Every single facet of FBI firearms training, and the additional SWAT training she'd undergone was focused on one single, inescapable fact: You shoot to kill. Always. Without exception. If you draw your weapon, you must be prepared to kill. Do not shoot to wound, to disable, to render inert. You shoot to kill. Scully fired first. The shot took Stone high in the right shoulder, the bullet digging a meaty furrow, missing the clavicle by half an inch, missing the subclavian artery by not much more. The MagSafe frangible ammunition didn't exit his body, but instead disintegrated, transferring the kinetic energy to his body. "Augh!" Stone cried, dropping his pistol. "Report!" Skinner ordered over the radio. "Sir, Commander Stone has been wounded," Scully said, her hand at the push-to-talk switch. "He needs immediate medical attention." Skinner, on the other side of the clearing, wondered if she'd forgotten she was a physician. "Scully..." he radioed, the unspoken portion of his transmission more than clear to her. "Sir, I'm afraid that if I approach him, he'll try and disarm me, and I'll be forced to kill him this time." "Acknowledged," Skinner radioed back. "I'm sending Mulder to help you." "Make it fast; he's losing a lot of blood." Stone rolled on the ground, his left hand coming up to compress the gaping hole in his shoulder. "I can't believe you shot me!" he gasped. "I told you I would," Scully pointed out. "Yeah...never thought you had the...guts." "That's your fatal mistake, Stone. You underestimate everyone around you." "I think I'm beginning to learn," he gasped. "My legs are cold," he announced. "You're going into shock." "Help me?" "Not a chance. Not until Mulder gets here to cover my back." "I promise-" "Your promises aren't worth a hill of beans, Stone. Just compress the wound and hope for the best." *** Skinner felt the phone starting to ring before he heard it. "Hello?" "Shots fired, Colonel? What on Earth is going on out there?" Skinner took a deep breath, resisting the urge to tell Graves to take a flying leap. "Commander Stone had to be...convinced to let you go." "Ah, I see. He is a rather...tenacious lot, isn't he?" "Graves, if you didn't have the CBX bomb in Billings, I'd be in that house myself taking you apart piece by piece." Graves laughed over the cellular. "Oh, I doubt that, Colonel. But, we'll never know the answer to that particular question, will we? My helicopter is just over three minutes out. Please make sure that the rest of your merry little band has better fire discipline than Commander Stone." There was a pause. "Colonel, tell me...who shot him?" "I have no intention of telling you that," Skinner said. "I'm afraid I must insist. Or that little package in Hutchins Park will go off as originally planned, Colonel." Skinner gritted his teeth. "Scully." "My, what a little firebrand she is! I'm looking forward to meeting her, face to face." Graves voice turned cold, tomb cold. "So I can kill her. And Mulder. And King. And you, my dear Colonel." "You just name the time and place, Graves. We'll be there." "Washington. Nine am. Sunday. Wait for me to call you on this number. I can't have you mucking up my plans, now can I? I'll give you one last chance to foil my evil deeds, Colonel, and then I'm afraid that I'll have to go through with my original desires." "We'll be waiting," Skinner said, twisting his neck. He could hear the distinctive whop-whop-whine sounds of a Bell JetRanger III in the distance. "Your ride is hear, asshole." "Ah. So it is. I must leave you now, Colonel. Good day." And Graves was gone. Electronic static and hisses filled Skinner's ear as he watched the chopper circle the house twice and then slowly settle down in the front yard. A moment later Danny Graves exited the front door and waved at Skinner. Right at me! Skinner fumed. The gall! Stooped over, Graves ran to the chopper and threw open the cargo door. Running back to the house, he disappeared inside for less than ten seconds and then reappeared carrying what appeared to be a full-size military duffel bag. "Maggie," Skinner called. "Call someone and find out what the physical dimensions of both an assembled and a disassembled Tomahawk missile are." "Roger that," Maggie said, grabbing her own satellite phone and furiously dialing. Graves tossed his cargo into the chopper and slid the door shut. A moment later he climbed into the co-pilot's seat and shut the door. Ten seconds after that, the chopper pilot pulled pitch. The huge chopper's engine revved up to takeoff speed, and then, slowly, the skids came up off the grass, the nose dropped, and it glided smoothly away, heading south. *** Mulder crashed through the bush, looking for his partner. There! Up ahead, he could see Scully, still holding her pistol on Stone, the SIG held in a steady, practiced two-handed Weaver combat grip. "Took you long enough," she smiled at him. "Hey, Scully...I'm not the outdoors type. My idea of roughing it is to park the RV the 7-11 lot." "Cover me," she said, dropping her gun as Mulder drew his. She worked quickly, assessing her marksmanship. This was the second time she had shot a man for his own good. The first had been Mulder, and now Stone. She was getting good at it, she saw. The wound was messy, but not too bad. The MagSafe ammunition wasn't designed for the use she'd put it to; it was a killing around, designed to shred everything in it's path and render the recipient deader than a doorstop. "You're lucky," she announced. "You'll get full use of the shoulder back. But you do need surgery, and need it pretty quickly, or the muscle tissue is going to atrophy. You also need a tetanus shot," she said, mentally ticking off all the things she wanted to do once she got Stone to a hospital. "No," he said softly. "The round is sterilized by the heat of discharge." "Yes, but a secondary infection can cause gangrene. You want to lose the entire arm, you dumb son of a bitch?" "Don't call my mother a bitch," he said through gritted teeth. "Why not? You've called me one...more than once," Scully pointed out. At hearing that, Mulder's hands began to shake. He was beginning to get a much better idea of what Stone had put Scully through. "You bastard," he whispered. Scully glanced up. "Chill out, Mulder. He's a jerk. We both know that." He smiled at his partner, a woman so strong that he would never fully be able to comprehend the depths of her strength, the reserves of iron will that she drew on. "What are you smiling about?" "Remember when I told the CO of the Georgia that you'd shot me? Well, now I've got another story to tell uncooperative witnesses. `Be careful, I saw her take out a Navy SEAL with her duty weapon. Do not trifle with this woman.'" "Damn straight," she said, standing. She'd applied a pressure dressing to the wound. It wasn't much, but it would have to do until they got Stone to a hospital. As if reading her mind, he gasped, "No hospitals." "Don't even start," Scully began. "You are going to the first Level I trauma center we can find. I will brook no bullshit about this, Stone. You are going, and that is final." She hooked a thumb at her partner. "Or I'll let Mulder here explain to you why I dislike being called a bitch so much." Stone glanced at Mulder and saw murder in the FBI Agent's eyes and decided, for now, to play along. "Fine. Just get me there quick. I want to be ready for Sunday." Scully seriously doubted he'd be ready for any Sunday without at least six weeks of physical therapy, but she decided not to point that particular fact out at the moment. Walking to her partner, she said, "You can put that away." Mulder holstered his weapon and glanced down at her. "How are you doing?" he asked, and then quietly, "Really?" "Pretty shitty," she admitted. "I'm getting tired of this. I just want to shoot Graves and get it over with." He nodded, understanding. Two minutes later, as they stood there holding each other with a wounded Commander Stone lying on the ground in a jealous rage as he watched them, Skinner and King broke through the bushes and approached. "We re-group," Skinner announced. "Maggie will fly us all back to DC aboard her plane." He glanced down at Stone. "Can we walk?" "Probably," Scully said. "Although he'll be in a lot of pain." "Fuck him," Skinner said. "Let it hurt." Turning to Maggie he said, "Go get the Expedition. We can all fit in that." Maggie saluted, turned and dashed off. "What a mess," Skinner observed. "We had him dead to rights." "Have you called the HRT?" Scully asked. "Yeah...they're handling the CBX device in Billings. They have strict orders not to make a report until they talk to me. We should be able to keep this under wraps at least until Sunday." Sunday. As if on cue, all three FBI agents glanced at their watches. It was just after four thirty in the afternoon Friday. They had less than two complete days to get to Washington and plan for the final showdown with Graves. *** Washington, DC The smoking man sat alone in one of the two dozen offices he used, staring at a phone that resisted every one of his silent mental urges to ring. He lit another cigarette, perhaps the thirtieth of that day. His thoughts, as they were most days, were filled with two very special federal agents, the Project, and the plans that he had made. Would they ever understand? he wondered. Probably not. It was a road, he knew, a road that they had started on together almost fifty years ago. Fox Mulder had been picked, selected for this assignment before he'd even been born. His sister similarly selected for a role in the entire scheme of things before she'd been a gleam in her parent's eyes. And the woman. The amazing Dana Scully, the smoking man thought. She had worked out better than anticipated. Everything had. They hated him, he knew, as did Skinner and all the rest. As did the men that he reported to, at least nominally. Having several different sets of masters was nothing new to this man; he'd been doing it for as long as he could remember. And, really, when it came down to it, none of them were really his masters. He could, they all knew, just up and leave one day, return to where he had come from, leave them to the horror that was slowly approaching, closer every day. They could predict within forty-eight hours as to when they would arrive. And God help them if they weren't prepared. He'd seen what could happen to those that were not prepared mentally, physically and spiritually. It was not a pretty sight. The current situation was just another...test, he thought, a wry smile teasing his face, a smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes. A test of the...resolve of his two hand-picked agents. To see if they had the stuff. If they had the heart, the mental toughness required for what was really coming. The time to tell them was looming, he knew. The time to reveal all was not far away. A year or two, nothing to a man like him. A blip on the surface of time. Time. Their arrogance amused him sometimes. How long had it taken to convince them? How many dog and pony shows had he been forced to put on to demonstrate the seriousness of the situation. Those in charge, the `elected officials' didn't believe him. Not at first. Those first ones, the early ones, had believed it to be some kind of trick, a parlor stunt. Tunek had convinced them. Tunek, of the liquid face and the fierce heart. Tunek, sent from home to help soften the blow, to help prepare the weak against the strong. They still misunderstood. Even Mulder, with his brilliant mind, his openness to the extreme, misunderstood Tunek. Alien Bounty Hunter, that was what Mulder called him. Drill Sergeant was more like it, the smoking man thought. Had he been allowed to speak more openly, Tunek would have told Mulder, told him on the ice, told him what was coming, why he was there. Tunek would have told Mulder that he, Tunek, had been where Mulder was. He had seen what Mulder was going to see, had fought the battles that Mulder was scheduled to fight. But the time hadn't been right. It had been too soon, too early. The phone rang. The smoking man lifted the receiver. "Hello?" "It's Graves," the voice said. "Of course it is," the smoking man replied. *** Washington, DC 0003 Hours The Lear jet piloted by Commander Maggie King, USNR, touched down with a squeal of rubber against tarmac. Immediately reversing the engines, she taxied the small business jet to the Butler ramp and quickly killed the engines. "We need a car," Skinner announced to the cabin. "I'll go," Maggie said. Skinner just nodded, turning to his two agents. They'd left Stone at Billings Memorial Hospital. Scully'd had a word with the ER doctor, and the man had agreed that Stone's condition required sedation. Lots of it. It was down to the three of them, they knew. King was a gopher, their support system. There was no one else they could count on, because it was impossible to know who was working for Graves and who was not. "Ok...here's the deal. Go home. Get some sleep. We'll meet at..." He stopped, embarrassed. "Uh...where?" he asked. Scully frowned, and then got it. Skinner was asking where they were going to sleep tonight. She glanced at her partner and saw the hopeful look on his face. Truth be told, she'd wanted a night to herself to regroup, to calm down....to cry in the shower and let all the anger and pain and rage out of her so she could be clear come the morning. One look at Mulder forced that thought from her mind. "My apartment," she said softly. "Fine. We'll regroup tomorrow at Scully's apartment. Noon." "God, I'm tired," Mulder said softly. "Tell me about it," Scully moaned. *** Apartment of Dana Scully Annapolis, Maryland 0114 Hours The duffel bags containing their assault gear, weapons, explosives and other assorted nasty toys and gadgets were incredibly heavy when one was bone-tired, Mulder discovered. He had one over each shoulder and was struggling to keep up with Scully. Quickly unlocking the door, she let them both in and then locked it behind them, testing the knob to make sure it was secure. Mulder dropped the duffel bags in the foyer and turned to her, wanting to do nothing more than fall into a shower, followed shortly by a soft, warm bed. The look on Scully's face froze him in his tracks. "Mulder," she said, and then stopped. "I need...a minute." "Sure," he said. "Want something to drink?" "Tea," she said softly. He nodded and walked to the kitchen, hoping that he could remember where it was. Tired, he thought. So tired. Scully moved to her couch and sat, forearms on her thighs. She felt numb. Cold. Dead. She tried to remember the last seventy-two hours and found that she could not. Bits and pieces, images, fragments of moments, conversations, sounds. It was all whirling in her head, threatening to overpower her, make her go slowly and completely insane. "Here." It was Mulder, at her side, handing her a cup of tea. He held a freshly-opened bottle of beer in his hand, a sign of his own fatigue since he rarely, if ever, drank. She took it, gratefully, and sipped. "Mmm..nice." He said nothing for a long time, letting her sit and think. And then, finally, "Do you want me to go?" She thought about saying yes. Thought hard. "No," she finally said. "I don't know if I'll be much company tonight, but-" And then it was too much. All of it was just too damn much. Scully felt her fingers opening, watched as the cup descended towards the hardwood floor and disintegrated as it hit, spilling hot tea everywhere. She sobbed, drawing her legs up to her chest, her arms going around her knees. "Why?" she asked no one. "Why is he doing this?" Mulder put his beer down on the coffee table and moved to the couch, drawing her into his arms. "Shh," he said, because it was the only thing he knew to say. "I don't know, Scully...I don't think anyone does." Mulder didn't know how wrong he was. Someone did know, someone that was, if not close to him, at least known to him. *** Washington, DC 0130 Hours "Report," the smoking man said. "I planted the CBX device in Billings, as you instructed," Graves replied. "When Skinner and the merry band of marauders arrived in Pave Creek, they fell for the bait. They let me go with the CBX for Washington." The smoking man nodded. That was to be expected. They hadn't been pushed far enough at this point to make the hard decisions. That would change. There would come a time when Fox Mulder and Dana Scully would be forced to make hard decisions, decisions more complex and difficult than any that had preceded them. "Let's go over the final stage one more time," the smoking man said. "It is imperative that this go off without a hitch." Graves nodded. "I know." The smoking man considered Graves from across the desk. Such sacrifice. A plan almost twenty years in the design, a plan that had been put into motion when Mulder was still a young boy. A plan that had involved thousands of people over the years, had resulted in the deaths of more than one, a plan that had one single purpose. To teach a lesson. To teach a lesson to two specific people. Graves knew what the stakes were, knew that Mulder and Scully had been selected for this task long ago. Knew that he was going to have to make the ultimate sacrifice. His life. "Are you sure?" the smoking man said. "This all hinges on you, you know. If you...waver...at the last minute, it will all be for naught." Graves nodded. "We have little choice." After a pause, he added, "I have no choice." "Explain," the smoking man requested. "My brothers," Graves said, a little sadly. "They think me mad, Scully, Mulder, Skinner. They think I am an insane person, wanting to demolish Washington and reduce it to a smoking hole. To kill all those people. They have no idea why I do this. Why it must be done. I do. I understand. I embrace it. I will willingly sacrifice my life in this battle to prepare them." He paused. "To prepare the Chosen for what is to come." The smoking man almost choked on his smoke. Those words; that phrase. The Chosen. Scully. Mulder. Each, chosen, for different reasons, separate and apart from the others. Now, together. Chosen. Chosen for another reason, another mission. For the battle that was to come. "I don't want my brother's death to be for no reason. I want my own death to be for a reason." He hesitated. "Promise me that when the time is right that they will be told what this was all about. Tell me that. Promise me that." The smoking man nodded. "If they make it. If they all make it through what is to come, I will tell them. You have my word." Graves nodded. "Then you have my life." *** Apartment of Dana Scully Annapolis, Maryland In time, she quieted. Mulder continued to hold her, gently rocking, until the sobs lessened and then quit. "Shower," he said softly, and she nodded. Together, they moved to the bathroom. He undressed her, although it was not erotic, not sexual. He simply removed her clothes until she was nude, and then his own. She stood there, waiting for him, her expression numb, empty. He started the water, adjusted the temperature, and helped her under the spray. He worked quickly, efficiently, not trying to arouse or inflame, but to cleanse, to wash away. He washed her body, and then her hair. And then he used his fingers on her back, her neck, her shoulder, trying to relax her. Trying to get the tension out of her muscles and into the humid air that surrounded them. Finished with her, he washed himself quickly. Grabbing a towel, he dried first her and then himself, and the led her to the bedroom. Like a child, she let him guide her. Together, they slipped into the bed. "Mulder," she whispered. "Thank you." "For what?" "For letting me go. For letting me just feel...nothing for a while." "That's what I'm here for," he said gently, his arms around her. Her back was to his front, and they snuggled, two spoons in a cotton drawer, waiting for the night to claim them. "In the night," she said softly, gently, her voice already approaching sleep. "If I reach for you...it's because I need to feel you, need to feel alive, loved, vital. Do you understand? It's not about...us. It's about me." "I understand," Mulder whispered in her ear. And he did. And she did. Hours later, she rolled over and reached for him, using her hands to slowly wake him, to make him ready for her. It was slow. It was passionate. And contrary to what she had said, it was not just for her, it was for them. It was a new way for them to connect, a new way for them to show love for each other. Scully, opening herself, welcoming him into her, into her body as well as her heart and soul. Showing him that side of herself that she'd always kept hidden, kept under lock and key, under iron-clad control. Later, after they'd finished, she cried again. Cried for what she'd been forced to do. Cried for what was to come. If only she'd known, Scully would have cried until the sun rose. -29- Apartment of Walter S. Skinner Crystal City Tired, he thought. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Twelve hours of sleep, at a minimum, and the chance to only get nine or ten before he had to be back at Scully's apartment. Heeling the door shut behind him, Skinner dumped his equipment duffel bag in the foyer, and then reached under his FBI windbreaker and unclipped his duty weapon and gently put it on the table. His ID case flopped down next to it a moment later. Contrary to what he'd told Ebert, he hadn't resigned from the Bureau, and had no plans to. A sympathetic superior had promised to cover for him, and Skinner had taken an "extensive field supervision assignment," according to the paperwork. As if saving the world could be called that, he thought. As if it had been waiting for his arrival, the phone began to ring. "Skinner," he barked into it. "Mr. Skinner." The voice of the smoking man filled his ears, and Skinner ground his teeth in annoyance and frustration. "What do you want?" "I think that question is rather obvious, Mr. Skinner. I would like a status report of our two agents." "Resting comfortably, if I know them." "Excellent." "Do you have any news for me?" Skinner asked. "Whatever do you mean?" "Cut the crap; I know you've been in contact with Graves." There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to let Skinner know that his blind shot in the dark had hit home. "You have talked to him, haven't you?" "I don't believe I know what you are talking about, Mr. Skinner." "Sure," Skinner said, repeating something he'd heard Scully say more than once. "Fine. Whatever. Are we done?" "Almost. On Sunday, Mr. Graves will be contacting you, as I'm sure you're more than aware. I must impress upon you the need to allow Agent Mulder to make any...important decisions." The smoking man paused. "That cannot be stressed enough, Mr. Skinner. The future of certain...efforts rides on Mr. Mulder's ability to think under pressure." Skinner glanced around his townhouse, looking for something to focus his fury on. To think that this man thought he could change standing Bureau policy at his merest whim was galling. Feeling the twist of a grimace reaching his face, Skinner gave the only answer open to him. "Whatever you say...sir." "Mr. Skinner; I know that you despise me, and viewed from your standpoint, you have every right to. I can only attempt to assure you that this is all for the greater good." "Who decides?" Skinner demanded. "You?" "Under certain circumstances, yes. Things I have experience with, things I know about. Other issues? Other issues I leave to those with the experience." "And what experience do you have preventing the end of the world as we know it?" Skinner demanded. "Are you referring to Mr. Graves or something else?" "You know what I'm referring to." There was another pause. "Do I?" "I am referring to Graves. Why? Is there another plot afoot? Another mission I have to send my two best agents on? Another death- defying leap of faith for a man that has earned little trust and absolutely no respect from me or anyone who works for me?" There, Skinner thought. I finally said it. It felt good, bucking the system. "Mr. Skinner. Need I remind you of the commitment you've made over the years?" "No. And you'd better not try, either." "Very well. Just make sure that Mr. Mulder is in charge of the...affair this weekend." "Whatever," Skinner said, slamming the phone down. Every time he saw that man's face in his mind's eye, Skinner found himself wishing for the chance to wring his neck. Sighing, Skinner walked upstairs to his bedroom, losing clothes as he moved. By the time he entered the bedroom proper, he was down to his briefs. He was asleep a moment after his head touched the pillow. *** Apartment of Dana Scully 0903 Hours Sometime during the night she had risen and donned a pair of his boxer shorts and his cut-off Knicks T-shirt. She slept, fists curled under her chin, her body turned to face him, her face slack and peaceful in slumber. Mulder had been watching Scully sleep for close to an hour, letting his mind drift, thinking about her and him and their newfound closeness. The lovemaking during the night had been tender, not unromantic, but more...therapeutic, he thought. Calming, soothing. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-four hours until the time of reckoning, he thought. A full day until...whatever came next. Mulder gently rolled onto his back and tried to think of what would happen if Graves' plan succeeded. What would happen if he managed to detonate the CBX device in Washington at noon Sunday? With dozens, hundreds...thousands of his operatives moving into key posts around the country and around the world, the face of the United States' political landscape would change forever. Graves would crown himself king. He would suspend the constitution under the FEMA guidelines for national emergency, declare martial law, dissolve the Congress and the Supreme Court, and bring the military both at home and abroad to full alert. Graves was, by training and experience, a man used to affecting policy by the threat and use of violence. He was a man who saw the gun and the sword as the solution to all problems. Before long, Mulder knew, if Graves succeeded, some two-or-three-bit dictator somewhere would try and force America's hand, try to see if the new iron-willed leadership of the country was just that, or a paper tiger. Mulder shuddered at the thought; he had no doubt that once Graves had the keys to the nuclear kingdom he wouldn't hesitate to use it to put down anyone, any country, who opposed him. And just as he would use weapons of mass destruction abroad, who's to say that he wouldn't use more of the deadly CBX to put down revolts at home? Saddam had done it to the Kurds. Pol Pot had done it to his own countrymen. In America's not to distant past, police dogs and water hoses had been used to put down demonstrations for civil rights. Attempting to force people to agree with your thinking via force and coercion was not exactly unheard of. Three people, Mulder thought. Three people stood in the way of this plot. Him, a paranoid paranormal investigator, nominally an FBI agent trained in law enforcement and investigation, cross trained as a psychologist. No one's idea of a Protector of Freedom. Captain America he was not. Scully, a medical doctor, a fierce woman with a warrior's heart and a Zen Buddhists' soul. Not exactly Wonder Woman, Mulder thought, but still...if he was going to bet real money on someone being able to pull it off, it'd be on the tiny, delicate redhead sleeping next to him. He alone, aside from her family perhaps, knew the depths of her strength, the reserves of will she was able to draw upon when needed. She had the precise, logical mind of an excellent military commander, and knew the difference between force and violence, and knew how to apply both at the correct time for the maximum effectiveness. Skinner, a former (and current) Marine, a leader of men (and women,) a man who led from the front when he was able. A man who believed strongly in the beauty of strength, the Godliness of standing up for what was right. A man who understood as equally as Scully did that there were distasteful things that had to be done at times, and being able to do them didn't make you bloodthirsty or violent or ugly; they made you proud, in a strange way, proud to be able to look the monster in the eye and slay it, and emerge with most of your soul intact. Not exactly Superman, but not a bad resemblance, Mulder thought. He could almost see Skinner ripping his shirt open to reveal the large red "S." The image brought a smile to his face, and he fought not to laugh out loud. "What's so funny?" Scully mumbled. "Skinner. I was imagining what he'd look like in tights and a cape." Scully frowned at her partner, not fully understanding the reference. "Red cape, red tights," Mulder explained. "A big red "S" on his chest." Scully smiled at that. "If anyone..." she started, and then stopped. The entire topic, as nutty as it was, intrigued her. If Skinner were Superman, which Superhero would Mulder be? Batman, she thought without pause. The tortured Dark Knight was perfect for Mulder. The aloofness, the aloneness, the twisted depth of soul. And the car, she thought, remembering Kilmer's line in the movie. Chicks dig the car. What does that make me? she thought. Batgirl? She remembered the 60's series, with Batgirl's skintight purple outfit and the flaming mane of red hair poking out the back. Not too far off, she thought. She might even look good in the bodysuit. "So who are you?" Mulder teased. "Batgirl," she replied, before thinking. "Oh. So I guess that means I'm the morose flying bat, huh?" "Mulder..." she started, hating the whining tone that had crept into her voice. Sometimes, the emotional energy required to keep Mulder's spirit up was draining. "Nah...you're right. Plus...all the cool toys. Frohickie would be jealous." She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. "Morning breath aside, he's already got a reason to be jealous." "Oh? And that would be?" She got out of bed and turned to face him, crossing her arms in front of her and casually lifting the Knicks shirt up and over her head. Hands on hips, she faced him. "You figure it out," she said, softly teasing. "Me? I'm going to take another shower." Mulder gulped as she turned and walked into the bathroom. Oh my Lord, he thought. Scrambling out of bed to join her, Mulder wondered if there was a costume store open on a Saturday that had a Batman costume, and more importantly, a Batgirl costume. Might be interesting. *** "So what next?" Scully asked. They had showered together, made love, and then showered again. It was almost time for Skinner to arrive, and they found themselves pacing the apartment, bumping into each other, driving each other up the wall. "If we get the time, I want to go to Quantico and go through some re-familiarization with our weapons. It's been a while since I had to play very seriously with these particular toys. I'm going to call Dawkins over at Little Creek and see if he'll let us go through the Death House." The Death House, also known as the SEAL Team Six Hostage Training Center, was a series of cinderblock buildings constructed on the grounds of Marine Barracks, Quantico, designed to be used by SEAL Six, the FBI HRT, and the Army's Delta Force. The inside walls were moveable so that the internal configuration could be changed at a moment's notice. When the SEALs trained on taking down a building full of hostages and tangos, the commanding officer was inside playing a hostage during all live-fire exercises. The FBI was not so generous with their employees. "You think this is going to go down inside a building?" "Almost certainly. You can't sit in the middle of Potomac Park with a loaded Tomahawk missile and not expect to get noticed, Scully. It's just figuring out where that's going to be the problem." She nodded, accepting his logic. "Unless he disguises it." "As what? A big firecracker?" She shrugged. "I've learned not to underestimate the bastard," she said softly. "Let's just hope he hasn't learned a similar lesson." Lesson. The word stuck in Scully's mind, refusing to be budge. "Sounds like a good idea. But if you're going to go, we all need to." Mulder nodded. "Yeah." There was a knock at the door and Scully moved to open it. Glancing down at her attire, (gym shorts, Mulder's Knicks T-shirt and nothing else,) she decided that Skinner wouldn't mind. Mulder was wearing jeans and nothing else, the water from the recent shower still matted in his chest hairs. She opened the door to find Skinner standing there. "Good morning, Dana," he said. "Walter," she replied. Skinner entered the apartment and found Mulder seated at the kitchen table. "Fo...Mulder," he said. Mulder grinned. "Sir, if you don't mind, I'll still be calling you `sir.'" Skinner grinned. "That's fine, Mulder." He glanced at his favorite agents and then at the ground. Their easy familiarity, their obvious comfort with each other's body was still new to him, and a bit disconcerting. "Can I ask a rather unprofessional question?" The partners exchanged glances, and then a secret smile. "Sir?" "How do you manage it? Being...involved and still working together?" Scully shrugged. "It's still new to us, sir." She saw his face and held up a hand. "The newness of the reality of it, sir. As for...before, all I can say is that it was hard." "But it's easier now? Now that it's out in the open?" Both agents nodded. "We've been through so much together as friends and partners, each of us wanting...this, wanting it to be more, knowing that it would be right if it wasn't for the rules and our own innate stubbornness that...to finally be here is a relief." Skinner nodded, accepting the explanation. "Makes sense." "So what's the plan?" Mulder asked. "Quantico. Death house," Skinner said, the eager growl evident in his voice. Mulder nodded and arched an eyebrow at Scully. "Sir," she started, "That's spooky, pardon the expression. Mulder was just saying-" Mulder was waving a hand behind Skinner's head, trying to stop Scully from letting the cat out of the bag. "Was just saying what?" Skinner asked. "Nothing," Mulder and Scully replied at the same time. "Mulder...are you actually turning into an ass-kicking, name- taking, widow-making silent wind of death behind my back?" Mulder just shrugged. Scully laughed. "Oh, yeah...that's him. Deadliest paranoid in the world." "Can we change the subject, please...Batgirl?" The look that passed between the partners carried enough heat to melt ice. At the North Pole. In January. At midnight. "Batgirl...?" Skinner prodded. "Sir," Scully started. "Can't you see it?" Mulder said, an evil smile on his face. "The purple body suit, the mane of red hair, the motorcycle?" "Ok, BatMAN," Scully chided. "That's enough." "So who am I?" Skinner asked. There was an unfamiliar expression on his face, an expression that took both Scully and Mulder a moment to place. It was a smile; a soft, friendly, Hey-I'm-just-one-of-the-guys smile. "Uh..." Scully said, looking at her partner. "Er..." Mulder added. "What? Aquaman?" Scully and Mulder shook their heads, cheeks flaming. "Captain America?" Skinner tried again. "Not Robin...please, tell me I'm not Robin!" That was too much, even for Mulder. He lost his trademark cool, dissolving into a fit of laughter, laying his head down on the table, shaking with mirth. Scully leaned against the kitchen counter, a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. "What?" Skinner demanded. "What's so funny?" "Well, sir," Mulder said through gasps of laughter, "I was thinking about your last name, you know, the big "S", and....well, ripping your shirt open...and..." He dissolved into laughter again and Scully joined him. "Superman?" Skinner said incredulously. Mulder and Scully just nodded, laughing too hard to speak. "Cool," Skinner said, sounding very much like either Beavis or Butthead. That brought the two agents up short. They stared at each other in silent shock, their gazes moving from Skinner to each other, and then they broke up again, laughing even harder. Skinner joined them. This felt good, he thought. Right. Several minutes later, they managed to collect themselves. "Ok, troops, time to mount up," he said. Scully this time, sounding like Butthead. "Huh huh...he said `mount.'" Again the trio burst out laughing. This time, they recovered quickly. "We gotta get dressed...c'mon, Mulder," Scully said, dragging her partner down the hall and into her bedroom. Their bedroom, Skinner reminded himself as he watched the door shut behind them. *** Ten minutes later, Scully emerged from the bedroom, dressed once again to kill...literally. The black ribbed-cotton Tanktop was back in place, as were the cotton ripstop six-pocket BDU's and the matching shoulder holsters. Mulder emerged as she was threading her hair into a ponytail. "Ready?" Skinner asked. "This is going to be a hard morning, troops." "He said `hard,'" Scully said again. "Enough!" Skinner barked, although there was a smile on his face. Stooping to grab her duffel, Scully winked at her boss. "What about King?" Mulder asked. "Commander King will be acting as a liaison between ourselves and any other federal, state or local law enforcement or other agencies that will be needed. She has no training in these matters, and would be more of a hindrance than a help," Skinner explained. "I've already called and explained it to her." Mulder nodded, one annoying concern put to rest. *** Marine Barracks, Quantico "You want to do WHAT?" the facilities Commander said. "We need to do several runs through the Death House," Skinner explained. "You need authorization, there are forms, the time needs to be reserved, there's all sorts of-" Skinner leaned forward, thrusting his chin into the man's face. "You don't understand. We don't HAVE any time." "Sir," the FC said, "It's just not that easy." As it turned out, it was. *** "Ok, let's go over it one last time," Skinner said. "We have two bad guys, three good guys, and a device. We have to hit the room, triple-tap the bad guys, not hit any of the good guys, or the device. We have to get to the device within six seconds of hitting the door and pull the plug." Scully nodded. Mulder nodded. Skinner looked at his two agents and smiled. They had donned body armor and goggles. They had decided to forgo ear protection to get used to the sound of 9mm gunfire in an enclosed space. Their radios were donned and tested, weapons locked and loaded. "Let's do it," Skinner said. It was the fourth evolution they had undergone. The first one had been horrible; Scully had almost shot her partner in a crossing field of fire. The second one had gone better, as had the third. "I want this one perfect, boys and girls," Skinner said. They lined up outside the door. Scully first, since she was the smallest, then Mulder, then Skinner. When Skinner was ready, he squatted next to Mulder and reached over to squeeze his shoulder. Once Mulder felt that, he repeated the action on Scully's shoulder. She held out one Nomex-gloved hand. One, she counted. Two. Three. Pulling the pin on a flashbang, she tossed it in the door and leaned back. WHUMP! The flash was incredibly bright, designed to work in concert with the jarring bang, rendering anyone inside disoriented and blind. As a unit, they moved in. Scully, gun already at her shoulder, finger inside the trigger guard, hit the wall and started moving left, to the corner, her MP5 moving in carefully prescribed arcs. Mulder was next, hitting the wall and moving to the right. There. Spotting a bad guy, Scully touched the trigger. Three shots rang out, the first two hitting the `terrorist' in the heart, the third in the head. An answering series of shots from Mulder's MP5 signaled that he'd found and downed the other terrorist. Scully was lowering her weapon when she caught something out of the corner of her eye. In a moment, she understood. Skinner had lied, had told her there were only two bad guys. There were five. Three of them, seated around the device, bent over. Without stopping, without thinking, just reacting, Scully threw the MP5 to her shoulder and stitched them, firing three three-round bursts. Each bullet hit its intended target. "CLEAR!" she called, and moved to the device. It was a faux bomb, designed more for being obvious than for being devious. All that had to be done to disarm it was to unplug it from the wall. She yanked the cord. Nothing. She looked at the device again; Skinner had lied once again. There was a backup power line snaking underneath a couch. With strength she didn't know she possessed, Scully reached down, her gloved fingers sliding underneath the bottom lip and she heaved the couch upright, moving for the power cord in the same motion and yanking it out of the socket. "CLEAR!" Mulder called, and then checked his watch. Six point seven seconds. Not bad, considering. Skinner was in the doorway, crouched, his Baretta Assault Shotgun held at port arms. "Back out, weapons on safe!" he called, as per procedure. Scully thumbed her MP5 to SAFE and stepped out, pulling her goggles down to dangle around her neck. Mulder joined her, sweat streaking his face. "Not bad, people. Scully, you reacted too slowly to the three unexpected tangos." She nodded, accepting the criticism. "I assumed," she started, and then finished, "and made an ass out of `U' and me." "Correct. Mulder, you have specific firing arcs, but that doesn't mean that once your area is clean you can't look elsewhere. You should have spotted them and called them out to Scully." Mulder nodded. Skinner was right. "As for the device..Scully, I'm impressed." She nodded, accepting his compliment. "Ok, let's do it again." *** This time, it was four tangos and three good guys and two devices. And this time, it was pistols only. Scully had switched to a specially modified Glock. It held a laser sight in the frame, where the spring rod would normally be mounted, and also had an external flashlight attachment as well as Trijicon night sites. Mulder had decided to try, for this evolution, a highly-modified Colt Officer's 45. It was smaller than the normal Government model, and he liked the way it fit his hand. Against Skinner's advice not to switch primary weapons this close to D-Day, Mulder had insisted that he wanted to try it. Skinner had agreed, if only to teach Mulder a lesson. They hit in reverse order this time, Skinner first, then Mulder, then Scully. Mulder, second through the door, felt himself come alive, felt himself come into his own. There were only four tangos this time. The modified Officer's model only held six rounds, and Mulder put two into the first three tangos, and then rolling on the ground, reloaded and emptied two more into the last...all in the space of five seconds. Skinner hadn't had a chance to acquire or draw on a target. Seeing that Mulder had things in hand, Skinner moved to the device as Scully provided rear guard. Seven seconds. Not bad. "Again," Skinner insisted. Neither agent protested. *** Washington, DC The smoking man sat at the desk in another one of the several offices that he kept, silently regarding the man that sat across from him. "Before you go," the smoking man said, "I do have a question or two." "By all means," Graves said. "Why was it necessary, in your mind, to kill all the members of Stone's Goblin Team?" There was a pause. "There was no other way to get Mulder and the Scully woman onto the case." The smoking man considered this. He'd suspected as much. "You seemed to take a particular...enjoyment in your work." "It is who I am. What I do." "Yes, but...the best of those that do what you do don't enjoy it nearly as much." "Why are you asking this?" "By this time tomorrow, we both expect you to be dead. We still have a long ways to go on this project. There are others, others like you that have been trained to...operate in the same manner that you did. I want to know why you enjoy something like that so much." "Don't you get off on playing God?" Graves asked. "Not particularly, no. Neither should you." "I know," Graves said. "But I do. It's very hard to find someone to be good at this who doesn't like it." The smoking man nodded, agreeing to the logic. "I suppose I am asking if it were possible to train someone to be like you, to be as ruthless and efficient as you...yet still remain...distasteful about his actions." "Or her actions. Don't forget Heather." "I haven't. I won't." "I don't know," Graves admitted. "It's a difficult subject. I've known operators, good operators, who still had a conscience. But they eventually got done in by it. They hesitated...or had second thoughts. The best of them, the ones with the most of their souls still intact... went insane." "Yes, I know of them," the smoking man nodded. "Our agreement with the Mexican government still holds. Sadly, they will never see the light of day again." Graves shuddered. "You think it too much to ask? To give your life for a countryman?" "No, of course not. If you've learned nothing about us in the time you've been here, learn that. As a people, we live for the glorious heroic gesture. We live for those that would die for us." The smoking man nodded. "I've noticed that. Most curious. Our Mr. Mulder has come very close to losing his life on more than one occasion performing such heroic deeds." "But you were watching out for him." "Of course." "Don't you think that's counter-productive?" Graves asked. "How?" "When it comes down to the real deal, he won't have any backup." "Oh, I wouldn't say that," the smoking man grinned. "I wouldn't say that at all. Now...let's go over your plans one more time." *** Marine Barracks, Quantico After ten evolutions, the team was exhausted. "Ok, let's call it a day," Skinner ordered. "Showers, and then dinner." Scully and Mulder nodded and trudged off to collect their equipment. Mulder had decided to keep the modified Colt Officer's .45 instead of his duty SIG. Every shot from the pistol had been true, on target, and deadly. It didn't carry as many rounds as the high-capacity duty weapon, but what it hit...stayed hit. "Hey, Scully..." he called. "Yeah, Mulder?" "You're one deadly broad," he said, just before entering the locker room. "Thanks. I think." *** Later, at an Italian restaurant in Fairfax, Skinner outlined the rest of the plan. "I'll be spending the night on your couch, Scully. I thought about splitting us up, about positioning each of us in a different sector of the city, but he would have thought of that. I expect that we're going to go on a wild goose chase tomorrow for most of the time. Graves will probably send us all over the city, defusing bombs and all sorts of things before we get to the main event." "Any idea of where that will be?" "A few. Graves will probably want to make a statement of some kind. So it will probably be somewhere famous, somewhere historic. But before we get to that, I'm sure he'll have us running around, trying to tire us out, distract us, put our nerves on edge. So, it doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together. "I've arranged for the use of a Secret Service Suburban. It's big and black and has tinted windows..." "Very common in the District," Scully commented. "Traffic cops are used to clearing the way for them, no questions asked." Skinner nodded. "And three heavily armed Federal Agents swooping out of one probably won't cause nearly as much terror. People expect that sort of thing to happen with those suburbans. "I've also arranged for air cover with the Park Police, if we need it." "How can you be sure that Graves didn't infiltrate-" "The man I arranged it with flew over two hundred medivac missions in Vietnam, Agent Mulder. One of them my own. I'm as sure of him as I'm as sure of you." "Accepted," Scully said. "But still-" "End of discussion," Skinner growled. "And now for the touchy subject," Skinner said softly. Both agent's heads came up at that. "Sir?" "When we get back to your apartment, Agent Scully, I will be taking a walk. Exactly two hours. No shorter, no longer. If, in that time, you and Agent Mulder feel the need to express any opinions or feelings to each other of a personal nature, I'd appreciate you doing it then so we can all get a good nights' sleep. And that is all I will say on that subject, now, or ever." Both agents blushed to the roots. "Thank you, sir," Scully said softly. "You're welcome." Standing to go and pay the check, he added, "Make the most of it, troops. It may be your last time." With those sobering words, Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Colonel, United States Marine Corps, left the two people who would, both the next day, and in two years, have a profound impact on the fate of the world. If only they knew, he thought as he reached for his wallet. If only they knew. -30- Billings, Montana Pain. Throbbing pain. Not shooting, but throbbing. Stone opened his eyes and glanced around the hospital room. Carefully, slowly, he lifted his left arm and spied the IV catheter inserted into it. He sighed, slowly, carefully, knowing that any sudden motions would only cause waves of dizziness and pain to wash over him. But the good news was, he reminded himself, he wasn't being restrained. He could leave any time he wanted. He moved his head to the side, checking the other arm. He had an IV in that one, too. Blood, he thought. I lost a lot of blood. He glanced up at the IV pumps mounted on twin poles on either side of his bed. The bags were a liter each, and judging by the instrument displays, the machines were scheduled to deliver the full contents of the two bags within the hour. Closing his eyes, Stone drifted off thinking, I can wait. *** Apartment of Dana Scully Annapolis, Maryland The trio returned from the restaurant tired, cranky and ready for sleep. True to his word, Skinner went for a walk, leaving Scully and Mulder alone for two precious hours. The moment the door clicked closed behind Skinner, Mulder turned to his partner and smiled thinly. "I'm not sure we're going to be able to use the two hours," he said softly. "I just don't feel up to it." Scully nodded, smiling just as softly. "I'm not really in the mood, either. Firing over a thousand rounds in an afternoon kinda takes the romance right out of me." Mulder chuckled. "But you do look so sexy in body armor, toting an MP-5 and opening up a can of whoop-ass on paper targets." "Watch it, G-man," Scully teased back. "Or I might open up that can on you!" They moved towards each other and into a comfortable hug. Mulder gave silent thanks that things between them had progressed to this point. He didn't know how he would have been able to face what was coming had he not had the chance to tell Scully how he felt, and more importantly, act on it. "I have an idea," Scully mumbled against his chest. "I'm listening." "Let's take a bath." Mulder nodded. "Good idea." So they did. *** Sterling, Virginia Graves sat in his workshop, going over his handiwork one last time. The six devices were in various stages of construction. Each of them would be placed in strategic locations around the DC metro area, the better to run the little rag-tag band into the ground before the big event. His fingers flew over the keyboard of one of the laptop computers, writing and debugging the arming and disarming software. It had to be perfect. It had to be hard enough to force Mulder to make decisions, difficult decisions, but not hard enough to defeat. Mulder had to be tested, Graves knew. Those were his orders. Odd thing to be doing on the eve of your death, old boy, he thought. The simple, known fact of his own death didn't bother Danny Graves in the least. He'd taken an oath years ago, an oath similar to the ones the Guardians took, but different in many ways. While the Guardians weren't supposed to sacrifice their lives for the greater good, the oath Graves had taken had all but specified exactly that. He was a tool, he knew, nothing more. A conduit. A way to bring a certain set of circumstances about, a way to make sure that certain events happened in a certain order. To deviate from the plan was insanity itself. He was quite insane, he knew. The last vestiges of what could be called normal thought had left his mind close to a decade ago. The hunt, the chase had replaced all manners of rational thought. All that mattered was the Project, and his specific role in bringing the desired results about. His mind considered taking that ultimate, final step, and actually making it so the six CBX devices couldn't be disarmed. It was one way to end the suspense, he knew; one way to bring about a final end to the waiting, the planning, the almost soul-crushing expectations that he, and every member of the Project Team lived with every single day. All except that smoking bastard. No one knew who he was or where he came from. He had suddenly appeared years ago, somehow entrenched in the shadowy world of intelligence and an arena that was quaintly described as "executive action." Assassination, sabotage, disinformation. There was no one better at it, no one better suited at manipulating long, dangling tentacles of foreign policy and military actions. You had to give the son of a bitch that much, Graves admitted. His world was a stinking pit of lies, deceit, double-crosses and death dealt close up and personal. But he was damn good at it. Graves knew enough of what was coming to know that his role was vital, critical. That if he were to fail tomorrow, the repercussions would be felt for years. Generations. He wondered if the makers of the first atomic weapons felt this way, sequestered in the New Mexico desert in the 1940's, working towards something they barely understood, hoping to create a weapon of such devastating destruction that their country's enemies would be brought to their knees, crying and begging to surrender. He wondered if they had felt the same Godlike power that he did at this moment. *** Annapolis Walter S. Skinner ducked into the small pub and bellied his way up to the bar. Never a heavy drinker, he decided that tonight, at least, he could afford one or two. The bartender was leafing through a copy of the newspaper, peering as the race results and silently mouthing numbers and names to himself, mentally calculating his profits and losses for the day. "Help ya?" he asked, more of a challenge than a question. "Draft," Skinner replied, not caring particularly what was on tap. A moment later a tall, cool, foaming glass of beer slid in front of him. Taking a sip, Skinner began to feel the first clutching fingers of panic twisting in his belly. His role in all this had changed. At first, when he'd been brought in as Assistant Director, his brief had been clearly laid out. Keep an eye on Mulder. We'll give him the cases, make sure he has enough information to get to the point we need him to be. And then we'll take it all away, again and again, over and over. We're going to stretch him to the breaking point... And then push him over. It wasn't cruel, at least, the intention wasn't cruel. The effects sometimes were. Scully's abduction had been an unplanned facet of the entire operation, explained only in retrospect, and Skinner had found himself, against his better judgment, in agreeing that the decision to let Scully almost die had accomplished its intent: Scully and Mulder's bond was forged steel, harder than titanium, more dense than a neutron star. Nothing could separate them. And that had been the requirement, almost from the beginning. They had to be a team, a single functioning unit that thought as one, moved as one, acted as a unique, forcible entity that did what had to be done. What had to be done, Skinner mused. He had less information than Graves did, knew little of the ultimate objectives of the Project. But he'd been told enough, been given a glimpse of what was to come in one possible future, and he agreed with the general outlines of what needed to be done. He had problems with the specifics sometimes, but he kept reminding himself of two facts. First, he had asked to join this. Being a part of the Guardians was only one small part of his presence in the general outline; there were other, deeper connections, connections that he could never speak of, never reveal, even under the most extreme conditions. As he sat there sipping his beer, Skinner thought back over his association with Scully and Mulder. The fights, the accusations, the things that he'd been forced to do by design and circumstance. He'd hated himself after most of them, found it hard to look at his own face in the mirror. But he knew, intellectually at least, that they had to be done. Like Terry. The name, almost forgotten by everyone that had ever known him, was the only thing Skinner had to remember him by. He remembered the last time he'd seen his old friend. In an elevator, in Mulder's building, with Terry holding a high-capacity 9mm pistol in his face. The shock of recognition as the elevator doors had slid open on oiled tracks had almost stopped Skinner dead. Pieces of the puzzle had slammed together in his mind and he'd acted before he'd had a chance to think. Skinner's mind wandered back, back to Vietnam, back to the jungle fire that had forged the steel in his soul. Terry, assigned to his unit, a `consultant' for operations and plans. Not military, not CIA, not State. Somewhere in the middle, in the darkness, in the shadow. Even back then, when the United States was just getting its first taste of moving in the spaces between darkness and light, Terry was there, already experienced, already growing more powerful, stronger. Terry, who believed in the ultimate objective with his entire being, who had known about Mulder since before Mulder was born. Terry, who had shown Skinner the ropes, who had instructed him on the facets of the project that Skinner was allowed to know. Using the trust forged in the jungle fire between them to convince Skinner that the Project's objectives were true, were right, were morally acceptable; required. "Freshen that?" the bartender asked. Skinner looked up, surprised, and then down again. His glass was empty. "Sure," Skinner said, sliding it across the bar. Moments later it was returned, filled to the brim, one lazy tendril of foam sliding down the slick surface of the stein. He lifted the glass in silent toast. Here's to you, Mulder. May your aim be true, your mind be clear, and may the love you have found in your heart guide you to the destiny that others have planned for you. Skinner hoisted the glass to his lips, paused, and raised it again, finishing the silent toast. Here's to you, Mulder, and guys like you. Damn few left. He drank, and then raised the glass again. To Scully, he thought. To the tiny woman with the fierce warrior's heart, the genius with a scientist's mind and the soul of a romantic poet. To the only woman who could ever be Mulder's equal. To the only woman who could find it in herself to love that man the way he needs to be loved. He drank, almost a third of the glass, and raised it one last time. To the both of you, he thought. To Mulder and Scully. Saviors of the world. He drank. He had one last sip-and-a-half left. He held the glass by the rim, rotating his wrist slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl against the sides. To me, he thought dourly. That I might live to see another day past tomorrow. Somehow, he doubted it. *** Billings, Montana Stone woke again and looked up. Two fresh bags had been hung while he slept, but he felt immeasurably better. The fluid replacement was doing it's job, and he knew that he should wait for the rest of it, but after glancing at his watch, he decided that he didn't have the time to spare. Sitting up carefully, he reached with his left hand and carefully worked the catheter out. A small drop of blood appeared. Stone jammed a finger against it and raised his arm for a silent count of sixty. When he checked again, the oozing had stopped. Repeating the process on his other arm, Stone glanced around the room, wondering where they'd hidden his clothes. Clothes, he thought. Weapons. I need money, weapons and a plane. The plane was no problem; the Lear he and Dana had flown up was still sitting at BMA. Money would be no problem, if he could find his gear bag. He'd stowed over ten thousand dollars in it on the off chance that he would need it. Carefully getting to his feet, Stone made his way over to the closet. Opening it, he found his gear bag and his clothes. Gently leaning over, he slid back the zipper on the gear bag. Skinner had left a single pistol, a Glock, and half the money. That was all right, Stone thought. They may need it. But what they really need is...me. No one knows Graves like I do. No one. With that thought in mind, Stone reached for his clothes and gingerly began to dress. He was almost finished when he felt the swirl of cool air around his shoulders signaling that someone had entered the room. He looked up to see a young nurse standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open in surprise. "Just what do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "Isn't that rather stupid question?" Stone replied. "It's patently obvious what I'm doing. I'm getting out of here." "Oh no you're not," she said primly, marching over to him, just in time to see Stone's Glock leveled at her face. "Oh yes I am," Stone said softly. "Listen to me very, very carefully, young lady. I am not going to hurt you. But I must leave." "You're in no condition to-" "Be quiet," he said softly, "and listen to me. There is no room for discussion. I have to catch a plane to Washington. Tonight. Now." She gulped, and then nodded. "Why?" she asked. He smiled his best smile. "To save the world, ma'am. To save the world." *** Apartment of Dana Scully Annapolis, Maryland They had dressed after the bath, he in track shorts and a soft cotton T-shirt, she in a pair of his boxers and his old Knicks shirt. The comfort of his familiar clothing was something she needed at that moment; the shirt smelled like him, the soft cotton against her skin reminding Scully of his touch. They hadn't made love, as much as each of them might have wanted to. It seemed...desperate, somehow, as if they were trying to force it, trying to make it happen so that they would have just one more, just a single encounter to cry against the despair that was beginning to fill their hearts. They were at her kitchen table when Skinner returned. He let himself in with a spare key that Scully had given him before he left, and found them preparing for the next day. Boxes and boxes of ammunition were scattered on the tables, the plastic and Styrofoam carriers discarded in a huge pile on the drainboard. Mulder had the ten magazines he'd acquired for his new Colt Commander loaded, and was working on what looked to be the tenth or twelfth magazine for his MP5. He was grunting, thumbing the rounds down, his face straining with the effort. "They don't call `em thumbusters for nothing," Skinner observed. "Tell me about it," Mulder said. Scully, ever the pragmatic one, was using an autoloader. A plastic device with a rotating crank on the side, the autoloader jammed the cartridges into the magazines as easily as feeding quarters into a slot machine. "Why don't you use the autoloader?" Skinner inquired, pointing at the device with his chin. "He says it's a girly thing," Scully replied dryly. "Oh," Skinner said, because that was the only thing he could think of. "Well, I'd better get started." "We already did yours," Mulder said, hitching a shoulder at Skinner's duffel. Walking over to it, Skinner opened it and saw that Mulder was telling the truth. All of his magazines were loaded, and judging by the faint smell wafting from the interior, they'd also re- cleaned and lightly oiled his weapons. "Thanks." "Sure, no problem," Mulder said, gritting his teeth as he tried to force just one more round into a magazine. "Don't overload it, Mulder," Scully chastised. "Or they'll all come spitting out the first time you pull the trigger. Nodding, Mulder relented, dropping the now-full magazine and picking up another. "Do you really think we're going to need all these?" Scully asked. "Never need a fresh magazine more then when you need one and don't have one," Skinner observed. Scully nodded and cranked. *** Sterling, Virginia Done, Graves thought. He looked at the six devices, all of them small enough to fit in a standard briefcase. He walked down the workbench, running one more diagnostic each. Typing the commands into the keyboards, he watched as the software interrogated the hardware and reported back. No problems. Time, he thought. Time to make the delivery. He picked up his cellphone and the six index cards he'd written. The first call went to the Pentagon. A high-ranking operations analyst with the Army's Department of Logistics answered, and Graves gave him the code phrase. "Where?" the Colonel asked. Graves told him. The next call went to the Department of Energy. A White House speechwriter, seconded to the DOE to escape the legally-imposed limit on White House employees, answered the phone. Phrases were exchanged, and Graves told him where the second device was to be planted. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Federal Emergency Management Agency. Army Corps of Engineers. And finally, the last one. Graves dialed the last number with shaking hands. "White House Switchboard," the voice answered. *** Apartment of Dana Scully Annapolis, Maryland Scully made up the couch for Skinner and then said good night, taking a moment to give him a brief hug and a soft kiss on the cheek. Mulder shook his hand and retired with his partner to her bedroom. They snuggled in the bed, arms wrapped around each other, waiting for sleep to take them. "Are you scared?" Scully asked, her voice quiet in the dark room. "Shitless," Mulder admitted. After a minute, Scully replied, "Me, too." They held each other tighter, fighting against the demons. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a very strange day," Mulder said wryly. Then his tone turned serious. "But I want to tell you some things, Scully." She waited for him to continue. She had some things she wanted to say as well, but she'd wait for him to finish. "No matter what happens tomorrow, I want you to know that I wouldn't change a thing, Scully. Not about us." "Or me," she said. "But-" "I know. The flukeman." She giggled in the darkness, and it was a beautiful sound to both of their ears. "I feel safe," she whispered. "Safe here with you, in your arms. I feel like nothing can get to us when we're in here together. I feel like I never want to get out of this bed again." Mulder nodded against her. "I feel the same way. Funny, though, that I feel like you're protecting me, shielding me from the monsters in the dark." She poked him in the chest. "Why is that so hard to believe, Mulder?" "Not that it's hard to believe, but that it's just...different." He paused, and then added, "Not that I would change it for anything." "Different how?" Scully insisted. "Well, I'm the man, and you're the..." His voice trailed off as he realized the mistake he'd been about to make. "Forget I said anything," he added hastily. After a long, long pause, Scully said quietly, "Forgotten." Mulder said something that had been on his mind for a while. "You ever get the feeling that Skinner knows more than he's letting on?" "Like what?" "Oh...I don't know specifically. Just that he's got more information about this whole deal." Scully considered it. "Well," she finally said, "I'm not sure if he's necessarily hiding anything from us; I'd hate to think that. And he's given us no concrete reason to believe that. He may know things in general that we don't, Bureau policies, what the ultimate aim of the X- Files are in the overall scope of the Bureau. Sometimes..." Sensing her hesitation, Mulder refrained from prompting her. "Sometimes...," she continued, "...I feel like he's watching us." "He's our supervisor," Mulder pointed out. "And you, technically, are mine. But you don't watch me the way he watches . Like's he's...evaluating us." Mulder thought about what Scully had said, chewing his lip in the darkness. "I love you," Scully said softly, tightening her arms around him. "So much." "I love you, too," he replied, meaning every scary word of it. Something was nagging him, teasing the back of his brain, something started by Scully's observations of Skinner. He turned the full attention of his considerable mind towards the problem, turning it over and over in his head, looking for the handle. "Sleepy," Scully yawned. "Shhh," he said, and she knew that sound. Mulder was thinking. Smiling, Scully tucked her head against his chest and let sleep claim her at last. *** Sterling, Virginia The six operatives had all come and gone, each of them spaced twenty minutes apart. All six devices were on their way to their designated locations. Graves stood over a map of the Metro DC area, using a stopwatch to gauge times and distances. Each of the devices was equipped with two-way radio communications. He could adjust the timers on any of the six devices in either direction. Right up until the moment of detonation, he thought. Sighing, he sat back, contemplating the plan. When they had first come to him, after Afghanistan, and told him what they wanted from him, Graves had thought them all insane. To start a plan in motion that was so grandiose, so complicated, when the primary focus of that mission was still in junior high school was laughable. But they'd shown him. They'd shown him one possible future, and that had scared Danny Graves, had scared him badly. And so he'd done what they'd asked, he'd tarnished his name in the intelligence community, becoming a `rogue' to those that had once counted him as a friend. He'd slowly cut the bonds that had tied him to friends, family, co-workers. He'd started recruiting, using the paranoia of the times and the ever-worsening criminal and political situations to his advantage. He smirked, wondering if he should thank the moronic, imbecilic politicians that had made it all possible. Had they only seen what he had, there wouldn't be the problems there were today, he thought. If the knew what was coming, they'd understand what had to be done, and why. But they could not be told, for there were more than one or two of Them amongst the elected officials. It was up to me, he thought, and men like me to do what had to be done. "Mr. Graves." The voice was steady, almost melodious. To his credit, Graves didn't jump or start. He twisted his neck and spoke to the smoking man. "I expected you an hour ago." "Unforeseeable delay, I'm afraid. My apologies." "Accepted," Graves grunted. "How is the plan?" the man inquired politely. "Moving according to plan." He pointed to the map. "Device 1, the Naval Observatory. Device 2, Arlington National Cemetery. Device 3, Watergate Hotel. Device 4, Department of Energy. Device 5, Supreme Court. And, device 6," Graves said. "The White House," the smoking man muttered. "Devious, I must say. They'll never be able to get that one." Graves nodded. "Mulder's going to have to make some very tough choices." The Smoking Man smiled, and then frowned. "I have little doubt that he will make the correct ones, at least as far as this mission goes." "What the correct choices?" Graves wondered. "You never did tell me that." The smoking man lit another one, took a drag and held it a long time before exhaling. "Think of it this way," he finally said. "It's not so much which choices Mulder makes, but that he proves that he can make tough choices. This little jaunt is but on small step on a very long path for Mr. Mulder and his partner. Once he proves that he can make the hard decisions, we will advance him and Miss Scully to the next stage, where the decisions will be even harder." Graves nodded. "I still don't understand all of it," he muttered. The Smoking Man considered this. "Would you like to?" he offered. Graves slowly turned to face him. "Very much. But why now?" The other man's gaze turned to one of pity. "Oh, I get it," Graves said. "I'll be dead within 24 hours. Who am I going to tell?" The Smoking Man nodded. "Precisely." "Well, then, shit. Lay it on me, old fella. Tell me what I want to know." The smoking man stubbed his cancer stick out and took a step towards Graves. "Perhaps," he said, "it would be better to show you." The Smoking Man reached a hand out to the other man, cupping his forehead in his palm, as if taking his temperature. Graves watched as the man closed his eyes and then- The images impacted against Grave's mind like a barrage of gunfire. Pictures, sounds, smells, thoughts. He heard the screams of a billion dying people, saw the reality of cities dissolving in walls of flames, smelled the sound of total and complete destruction, of the annihilation of an entire planet in a matter of... Minutes? "That's all it took?" Graves asked the room. "Minutes?" "Less time than that," The Smoking Man gasped. "Less time than you can comprehend, Mr. Graves." And then Graves realized something; the world he was seeing was not his own. It was another world, somewhere in the Universe. The people there looked very much like the people on this planet, except for the skin tone, which was somewhere between red and not so red. And their eyes. Their eyes were different somehow. Not alien, in the classic sense of the word, but...different. Strange. "Where was this place?" he asked. "It is not visible from this planet with the current technology," the Smoking Man replied, "and so the scientists have not given it a name. The word that was used to describe it translates roughly to "sanctuary." "Were you there?" Graves asked, suddenly scared. The Smoking Man smiled. "Are you afraid, Mr. Graves?" "Not...exactly." "Curious, perhaps?" "Yes." "It is impossible to describe to you, the...level of my participation in what you are seeing. In one way, a part of me was down on the surface of that world, looking up, while another part was above, looking down." "I don't understand." "I know. It must be that way; to show you any more would most likely render you useless for the mission." The smoking man removed his hand. "Do you understand a little more now?" "That? That's coming here?" The Smoking Man nodded. "Yes. And very soon." "How soon?" "Soon." Graves thought about the images that he'd seen. "Was that your home?" The Smoking Man grinned. "No." "Can you show me your home?" Shrugging, he said, "If you insist." Again, he placed his hand against Graves' forehead. After a minute, Graves saw... Nothing. Empty space. A vacuum of space between dead star systems. There was nothing there and it was cold. Very cold. "Where is this place?" "Everywhere. Nowhere." "Cryptic, aren't you?" "It is hard to describe." "Who are you?" The Smoking Man laughed again. It was a cold, chilling noise, Graves thought. "A better question, or at least a more accurate one might be `what are you?' But that, again, is not easy to describe, and even harder to illustrate." "Are you a man?" Graves asked. "Enough questions," the Smoking Man replied. "This is serving little purpose." "Please!" Graves begged. "Very well. Yes, I am a man, in much the same way that you are. And in other was, more important ways, I am not a man." "Can you be killed?" "What would make you ask such a question?" "Curiosity." "Yes, I can be killed. But by nothing on this world." Graves chewed his lip for a moment. "Tell me something." The Smoking Man sighed. "Now what?" "Can you stop it? What you showed me. Can you stop it from happening here?" The Smoking Man turned his gaze on Graves, trying to show his sincerity. "Directly? No. But that is what Mr. Mulder and Miss Scully are for. That is why this all must happen according to my plan. I have stopped it twice before." He paused. "But I failed to stop it three other times. I'd like to even the score this time." "How long?" "Four years, Mr. Graves. Four more revolutions around this puny star you call a sun, and then the day I have been waiting for will arrive." He paused and offered a thin smile. "Of course, by then, I will be long gone." ------------------------------- END SECTION 10 (CHAPTERS 28-30)