"Servare Vitas" By XFBandit Edited by Scott Carr Classification: MSR, V, A++ Rating : R (violent images) Feedback : Sure. drambo@sonic.net Summary : Witheld at author's request. .1. It's odd, the things that come to mind at times like this. This motel bathroom smells like mildew. If I look up, I can see where the paint is cracked and peeling, the result of too many steamy showers taken with the door closed. There are rust stains around the drain in the sink. The mirror hasn't been cleaned in what appears to be a month. I pick up a small, paper-wrapped bar of soap and then put it down again. I'm stalling. I don't want to leave the bathroom. I know what's waiting for me on the other side of the door. Patiently waiting. Knowing that eventually I will have to leave this room. I have to confront it. Confront the truth. .2. I stare at my face in the mirror but I see nothing. My eyes are dead. I feel like I have no soul. I close my eyes, thinking about what comes next, what I have to do, why I am here, and I feel the shudder start at the base of my spine and spread, wracking my body with shivers of fear. Opening my eyes, I regard myself again. A distant memory works its way to the front of my mind. I confront it. A young girl, on a hunting trip with my father. A trip I had instigated, insisted on. Trying to prove that I was just as good as my brothers. The only game worth hunting in that place had been rabbits. My father taught me how to make and set a snare. We caught a rabbit. I remember coming up on the trap, hanging a step or two behind my father, seeing that rabbit in the snare, the rope tight around a hind leg. The poor creature was slowly twirling, its eyes wide with fear. At that moment, and times since, I had thought that the rabbit's fear was simply the knowledge of its own certain death. Only now, tonight, looking at my own face in the mirror, do I understand what that look truly represented. The rabbit knew it was trapped. That all its options had vanished. That it had no choices to make anymore, that something had reached out and taken control of its life. .3. Now I am trapped. For three weeks, I've seen my choices taken away. Sighing, I turn and open the bathroom door. My hand listlessly slapping at the light switch. I close my eyes as I enter the bedroom. Turning, I slowly open them, hoping that it won't be there, that it will be gone, that this has all been a bad dream. A nightmare. But it's there. On a corner of the bed. It had been waiting for me when I checked in. It was waiting for me when I'd twisted the key and opened the door. I knew what it was. They'd told me. As best they could, they'd prepared me for it. I walk over to it and trace my fingers along the contour. It's black adonized aircraft aluminium. The kind of suitcases used for drug payoffs in the movies. I smile, but I don't think it's funny. My hands move to the locks and I pop them. They sound like gunshots in the quiet, still room. I lift the lid. The smell of gun oil is strong. And there it is, staring back at me, mutely mocking. The weapons. I run my fingers over them, tracing its oulines in the custom-cut foam-rubber. A Browning HiPower 9mm pistol. I've heard of these; a special run for the US Army Special Forces during the Vietnam war. About two thousand of them were made without serial numbers. No BATF record of them exists. They are the cleanest guns on the planet. Completely untraceable. Next to it, two magazines, also nestled in die-cut foam-rubber slots. And beneath, a long cylinder with a threaded end. A supressor. Possesion of one by a citizen of this country is a federal felony. But not for me. I'm an FBI Special Agent. I'm SWAT certified and Special Operations Capable. I'm authorized to carry what the FBI calls "non-standard" weapons. Witness Protection shotguns, shortened well below the legal limit. Automatic weapons, like the H&K MP5 secured in a lockbox in my apartment. Supressors. Like this one. Beneath the long tube, a cardboard box. I lift it out of the suitcase and turn it over in my hands. Black Talons. The most deadly handgun ammunition in the world. One shot, one kill. There's no lot number on the box. Frowning, I open it, sliding the styrofoam carrier out. I remove a cartridge and turn towards the bedside table, leaning into the light. There are no markings on the casing. A clean bullet. For a clean kill. Sighing, I replace the cartridge in the carrier, slide the carrier back into the box and drop the box into the open suitcase. I turn and sit on the bed. My father's face appears in my mind's eye. I remember the day I told him I was giving up a career in medicine to pursue a chance to excell and distinguish myself at the Bureau. I remember the look on his face. I wonder what he'd think if he could see me now. Sitting in a cheap motel room. An untraceable gun in a suitcase next to me. On a mission to kill a man I've never met. A man, who as far as I can tell, has done nothing wrong, nothing illegal, nothing immoral. The only thing he seems to have done is incur the wrath of a group of men I've been investigating for the past seven years, a group of men that have tried to kill me on countless occassions, and if Mulder suspicions are correct, have had me kidnapped twice. Men I seem to have found myself working for. My eyes slide closed, and instead of my father, I see... Mulder. Mulder, I think... I need you. I know how that rabbit felt now. Alone. .4. It began almost a month ago. I found myself in Washington on a Friday night, a rarity. I decided to eat in a bistro around the corner from my apartment. I was halfway through dinner before they made their move. I'd made them the moment I walked in. If Mulder has taught me anything, it's to never react the way they expect. I'm sure they expected me to stop, reach for my pistol and draw down on them. Instead, I kept walking, took a table and perused the menu, well aware of the irony. They were here for me. But they wouldn't take me. First, it was a public place. Second, as much as the idea that Mulder would track me to the ends of the world if they took me had become a trite cliche, it was true that he would. And, somehow, I knew that they weren't here to grab me. I counted four. One covering the front door, one the door to the kitchen, one to make the approach, and his backup. Halfway through my dinner, as I said, they made the approach. "Agent Scully," the man said smoothly. There was an empty seat across the table from me. He slid into it as smoothly as oil spreading across tarmac. I ignored him, forking another mouthful of Chicken Marsalia into my mouth. "We have a proposition," he said. "Not interested," I said after a sip of wine. To his credit, he remained quiet. He reached into his pocket, retrieved a buff-colored envelope and left, placing it on the table. He vanished as smoothly as he'd appeared, taking his three friends with him. I finished my meal, paid my check, and left. I left the envelope where it was, untouched. .5. When I got back to my place that night, the envelope was taped to my front door, right over the knocker. I ignored it and went inside. Half an hour later there was a knock. Sighing, I got up off the couch, my book abandoned, drew my pistol and went to the door. Opening it, I saw Mrs. Garrety standing on my doorstep holding the envelope. Mrs. Garrety has been my neighbor since I moved into this building. A retired teacher with a penchant for foisting cookies off on me, she was the bane of my waistline and a dear heart. Not the sort of operative the Consortium would employ. Nevertheless, she held the envelope in her hand. "Dear, I saw this on your door and thought it might be important FBI business." She paused, looked embarassed, and then continued. "I thought you might be...with someone, or...something, and hadn't known they had left it for you." "Thaaaaank you," I said, taking the envelope from her, wondering just how much of an obsession my sex life (or lack thereof,) was for her. We reached one of those uncomfortable conversational lulls. Mrs. Garrety's eyes widened when she noticed the pistol in my hand. "Is there something going on?" she asked. Glancing up and down the hallway, she lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper and leaned into my apartment. "Some sort of...case?" "No," I said gently. "Nothing to worry about." Holstering my weapon, I continued, "Just pays to be safe, you know?" I arched an eyebrow. "I've put a lot of people in prison, Mrs. Garrety. Someone might hold a grudge." Mrs. Garrety nodded knowingly, as though she'd been an FBI agent for forty years instead of a spinster fourth-grade teacher. "You need a man," she said, nodding. "For protection." With that, she turned and left me. I stood in my open doorway, chewing the inside of my lip, reminded of something Gloria Steinem once said. "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." Or so I have tried to tell myself. I may not need "a" man. I just need one. I closed and locked the door, once again buying into the suburban idea of security as represented by the flimsy chain I used to make sure that no Bad Guys could get me. The kind of people that would come after me would either kick the door open or ooze under it. I tossed the envelope onto my kitchen table, intending to burn it. It was only later, when I was in the kitchen exploring the possibility that there might be some Cherry Garcia in the freezer when my eyes fell on the envelope again. Curiosity got the better of me and I opened it. Two glossy black-and-white photographs slid out, as well as a small piece of paper with a telephone number on it. The first picture was of an older, distinguished-looking man. I vaguely recognized him as the president of an electronics concern headquartered somewhere in Texas, a man who was in the middle of a fight with the US Government over some patents related to classified defense technology. Squinting, I remembered that he was about to begin testifying before Congress in a few weeks. Bored, I flipped to the next picture. And felt my blood run cold. Mulder, asleep on his couch, the Washington Post open on his chest. The picture had been framed in such a way that I could see the date on the paper. Two days ago. Which meant it had been taken last night. There was a small number "2" written in white grease-pencil in the upper right-hand corner of the picture. I flipped back. The electronics CEO's picture had a "1" in the same place. I stood in my kitchen, the ice cream forgotten, trying to figure it out. The message about Mulder was obvious. They could get to him anytime they wanted, and they wanted me to know it. I knew that as well as I knew my own name. So why the remedial lesson in institutional paranoia? They wanted to remind me they could get to him. Why? .6. I called the number. A voice answered, repeating the last four digits that I'd dialed. "This is...Scully," I finally said. The immediate response was nothing but buzzes and clicks. Then a new voice, a voice I'd never heard, came on the line. "Agent Scully, you have in your posession two photographs. If the man in the first photograph does not die by your hand in two weeks, the man in the second will die by ours." The line went dead. .7. I sat at my kitchen table for the rest of the night. Staring at nothing and everything. The room took on a surealistic quality, like I was viewing it through clear molasses. Two questions kept repeating themselves in my mind. Why me? Why now? .8. I took it apart, piece by piece, looking for the holes. They could have just as easily gone to Mulder, I posited. I rejected that idea immediately. If they had threatened Mulder with killing me if he didn't kill for them, Mulder... I sighed, facing the horrible truth. Mulder would have gambled. He would have risked my life to try and uncover the nameless, faceless men. Two weeks is an eternity to Mulder. And his ego, not nearly as bruised as his psyche, would have told him he could do it. I didn't want to consider thoughts that Mulder might do something to bring about my death in an attempt to prevent it. They knew me. They knew I wouldn't gamble Mulder's life by trying to uncover them. Next. How did they know that I wouldn't just go to Mulder? Or Skinner? Or Kersh? Or Director Freeh or AG Reno? Slowly, it dawned on me. The scope of it terrified me. They knew that I wouldn't tell anyone because they'd discover, somehow, that I'd disobeyed them. And then they'd be forced to take action. Skinner's allegiences were questionable, though he'd always come down on our side. As long as the calculated risk was to his benefit. As long as the odds were there. Kersh was worse than a wild card. He was a marked card. They had us wired. Me, Mulder, Skinner, probably Kersh, probably AG Reno and Director Freeh as well. Tapped and recorded. Mulder's apartment...more bugs than an ant farm. My apartment too. Our cars. Our offices. My mother's house. Everywhere we went, we'd be passively survailed, laser parabolic microphones trained on us, invisible infrared beams transmitting our words, our conversations to the listeners. They'd wait for me to tell him, wait for the smallest sign that he knew. And then they'd kill him. They had technology that I could only begin to comprehend. I felt my blood run cold when I realized... They'd figured it out. Who the weak link was. They'd boxed me in. Damn them. .9. It was dawn before I moved. My bladder was sending painful signals to my brain, and as I relieved myself, I thought it through again, wondering at why it had taken them so long to realize the truth. In his beautiful arrogance, Mulder had always believed that they thought I was his weak spot. And twice now they'd tried to exploit that. They'd taken me, hoping to derail him, to break him. And both times, he'd come through for me. For that I loved him. That, and a thousand other reasons. They'd tried to kill me, and Mulder had done what was necessary to have me cured. He'd been forced to pull the trigger on a man he'd never met. And he'd done it without hesitation. Forced to give up every belief he'd ever held. In the end, he'd found himself again. But they'd finally figured it out. I wasn't his weak point. He was mine. .10. The trap they had me in was beautifully constructed. I had to admire the technique, even as I despised the intent and the inevitable outcome. They knew I couldn't go to the authorities. Hell, I was the authorities, and I was completely cut off. If I made a move on them, Mulder died. If Mulder died because of me... They knew what that would do to me. It would finish me. For good. Forever. Mulder loved me. Of that I was sure. Just as I was sure that the reason he had never demonstrated that fact to me in an overt manner was because he knew they'd use it against us. They'd be looking for that first contact, that first kiss, the first night spent together as lovers. That would be the key to unlock Mulder. I tried to think what had tipped them off. We'd never kissed. Never touched in a way that could be misinterpreted. Never been lovers. I closed my eyes, imagining the magic that would be Mulder's touch in the secret, sweaty hollows of my body. I forced that thought from my mind, wondering what had gone wrong. How I'd given it away. How they'd known. .11. In the end, it didn't matter. I knew my choices. I went over them again. Do nothing, and Mulder dies. Tell Mulder, alert him in any way, and he dies. Do anything but what they ask... Mulder dies. .12. There were two final options. Go through with it and risk discovery, capture, indictment, trial, conviction and incarceration. I couldn't even begin to imagine the expression on Mulder's face on visiting day at Leavenworth. My only other option was to end it all. Suicide. .13. That was three weeks ago. I'd called the number one more time. To set the ground rules. The voice came on the line after I identified myself. "Have you made a decision?" he asked. "I have. With some conditions." The sound the voice made indicated how clearly its owner felt that I was no position to make demands or set conditions, but it listened. "First, I want a clean weapon." "Done. We've chosen a Browning HiPower in nine-millimeter. It's one of the Special Forces variants from the Vietnam war. It was manufacturered under contract for the US Army. No serial number. The weapon comes with a supressor and a case of Black Talon ammunition." The voice paused. "Will that suffice?" "It will," I said, feeling my mouth go dry. They'd thought of everything. "Second...if I do this, how do I know that I won't become another Krycek? How do I know this is the only one?" The voice didn't hesitate. "You don't." It paused, and then continued. "You can only take my word that we will not ask this of you again anytime soon." "But you're not ruling it out." "No." Then I swallowed. "Fine. Final conditions." My vision started to go gray. This was the one that I had debated for the least amount of time, but it was turning out to be the hardest to come out with. "Third...if I get caught...kill me. I don't care how, as long as it's quick and clean. But I don't want to go to trial. If I get arrested, end it." End me, I thought. The voice hesitated. "Are you sure?" "I'm positive. End it. And...one more thing." "Agent Scully...these demands are getting tiresome." "I know," I said. "I'm sorry. But you're going to hear it anyway. If...if I get there and I can't do it, and you have to do what you've told me...if you kill Mulder..." I paused, choking on the last bit: "Kill me too." .14. I hung up without another word. Two days later, another buff-colored envelope was taped to my front door. A key to a rental car, a hotel reservation. A map to the hotel the electronics CEO was staying in. Everything that I would need. Except the weapon. .15. Which had been waiting for me when I entered the motel room. I sit on the bed now, thinking ahead to what I must do. Why I must do it. Mulder. I close my eyes, and I can see it all unfolding before me. Without opening my eyes, my hands reach for the first magazine. I open the box of ammo and dump it out on the bed. My fingers find the smooth cartridges and I begin thumbing them into the magazine, listening to the moist-metal sounds of the pieces meshing together. I can hear the explosion that will come when I will pull the trigger. I can see the flash. The fire expanding from the barrel. I can ceel the slide moving, coming back, stripping the expended, empty cartridge from the breech, ejecting it right, the slide hitting the stop and starting forward again, stripping another round off the magazine, sliding it up the feed ramp and into the breech, the gun ready for another shot in a fraction of the space between two heartbeats. The impact as the bullet strikes flesh and bone, that wet-meaty sound, like a watermelon dropped from a fourth-story window onto a cement sidewalk. The wound channel opening and expanding under the hydrostatic force, the bullet mushrooming, the hot, sharp metal edges cutting and tearing flesh, rending vital, life-giving structures, causing mortal damage. My eyes squeeze tighter as I imagine the heart receiving panicked signals from the brain, ordering it to pump harder. Blood pressure increases, trying to force oxygen into the brain as the volume of blood itself drops, the blood gushing from the wound. Then blood pressure drops through the floor as the heart is left with nothing to pump. Perfusion, the exchange of nutrition and oxygen for waste products and carbon dioxide at the cellular level, begins to drop as the blood supply to the brain trickles down to nothing. The patient... I gasp. The...victim...loses consciousness. The brain is on autopilot now, frantically issuing autonomic orders. I reach for the pistol, removing it from the suitcase. The magazines slides home with a queasily satisfying snap! of two mating machined parts. I imagine the body...the sudden release of muscles as the brain succumbs to oxygen hunger. The sphincter and bladder go first, and the victim is awash in his own wastes. I've killed before. In the line of duty. Each time, within policy. Each of them, my duty. To save myself, Mulder, or someone else. I have never forgotten the smell. As a forensic pathologist, someone who deals with the touch and feel and odor of death on an almost daily basis, you'd think that it would be something I was familiar or even comfortable with. Pathology was supposed to take place long after the victim had died. The stentch of the *moment* of death was supposed to be long gone. But I've killed. I've killed, and I've known, seen the aftermath. I've heard the sounds... The coppery taste of bloodshed in the air. I shudder. .16. Eyes still closed, I reach for the supressor, screwing it on to the end of the pistol. I rack the slide back. I hear the interconnecting parts meshing and working together smoothly. As I release the slide, the pistol transforms itself from an inert assembly of metal, gunpowder and lead into a deadly weapon. A machine that kills. The hammer is back, cocked and unlocked. The merest hint of pressure on the trigger and the pistol will discharge, killing whomever it's pointed at. I've left a note. For Mulder, in case this goes badly. So he'll understand. Understand why I'm doing this. Why I had to. Why I had no choice. Why another innocent had to die to protect him. The gun feels powerful in my hand. I feel the wetness on my cheeks, taste the salt of my tears. I can do this. I can. I must. ------- THE END The title of this story, Servare Vitas, is Latin for "To Save Lives." Interestingly enough, it's the unit motto of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. Edited Author's Note: There is no sequel to this story. Please do not write and ask if she goes through with the assassination or commits suicide. I don't know which decision Scully makes. This story is not about the decision itself, but the *feelings* Scully has at this moment in her life.