XF Fic: Gonna Be Different This Time, part 6
Here's some more of the MAF, for those of you not reading Stargate. *grin*
Gibson wasn't a chatty boy at the best of times, but Scully had at least been able to get him to explain how they were going to approach the building most likely to be hiding her brother.
"We won't be able to just walk in. That's the main headquarters of the complex, where the most delicate work is done, where the most important offices are. Even if all the regular troops are gone, there will be soldiers there. So we have to go underneath."
"Underneath?" Scully followed Gibson down a narrow lane in the middle of a residential block. Rowhouses were build close to the street, and garages, yards, and sheds hid behind them in the middle of the block. It felt good, familiar, after six months in the Midwest. She dodged around a toppled garbage can.
"Yeah. We get into another building, farther away, and then work our way over through the steam tunnels. They're all over the complex. 'S how I got out the first time."
She raised a brow. "Won't they be guarded too?" This couldn't be that easy.
"Maybe. But I don't think a lot of people know about them. Still better than knocking on the front door, isn't it?" Had to be better.
And here they were, scrabbling along in the dark on the first floor of the National Institutes of Health, if the signs on the office doors were any indication, and looking for a stairway down.
Eventually they found one, and Scully picked the lock, her hands slick with sweat. They were losing time. She was afraid to look at her watch, and when the door finally clicked open, she thrust Gibson through with no ceremony.
She saw a dim flash as he threw her an annoyed glance, and then started feeling his way down the stairs. Below the first landing she felt safe enough to turn on her small flashlight, and squeeze in front of the boy. He might be her guide, he might be telepathic, but he was still fourteen and she was a federal agent. She would lead the way.
The door at the bottom of the stairs wasn't locked. She turned the handle very slowly, her ear pressed to the door. Gibson shook his head. "Nobody out there." She turned off the flashlight before pressing the door open just in case, but he was right. The hallway was empty.
Gibson nodded to their right, to the north, if Scully hadn't lost all sense of direction, and they turned right once more before he stopped at a small metal door. "This is it."
To her relief, it was locked. They wouldn't lock it if they used these tunnels, right? Thin logic.
This lock was easier, and within moments they slipped through into a narrow corridor dank with mildew and cluttered with piping and ductwork. Periodically a small door opened off to one side or another, or they passed junctions of pipework labelled indecipherably in neat black printing on curling post-cards.
They traveled for some distance through these tunnels, dodging under steaming pipes and dripping pipes, occasionally hearing a rustle of animal life or stepping over evidence that some people used these passageways: a cigarette butt, a candy wrapper, an empty 7-Up can. Scully stole a glance at her watch. It was nearly 8:30 p.m. They were running out of time.
"Gibson, how much farther?" They had paused at an intersection, and the boy was casting back and forth, his brow etched in uncertainty.
"Close," he said. "Very close." He turned toward the right, and led them thirty yards to a door, and behind the door, to another stairway. Scully started up the stair, but paused when Gibson put a hand on her arm. "No talking now. There are people up there."
She nodded, and turned off the flashlight. Better hope the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked too. She crept silently up the flights, gun in hand. There was a small window in the doorway at the first landing, but Gibson shook his head. She ducked under the glass and kept going up the next flight, breathing shallowly. She could hear her pulse in her ears. It was different, doing this without Mulder. Scarier.
The light was on in the outside hallway at the next landing. Scully stood well to one side of the window, and waited. Gibson laid his head against the door, as if he could hear the heartbeats of any soldiers in the hall. After what must have been three minutes, he smiled softly. "I think it's okay," he whispered. "But be very quiet--I don't know who the other people are here but if we wake them up---"
Scully blinked. It had never occurred to her that there would be other prisoners here. How could she rescue Bill and not them? But she was only one person, with limited time and weaponry. She couldn't save them all--not right now. But there was a chance, if she came back after they blew the plant--she could make sure Skinner and Jack freed them before blowing the complex. That would work. Trying to rescue them all, though--it would be a recipe for disaster, and might even alert the military that something was happening. She couldn't take the risk.
Bill. She was here for Bill.
She saw Gibson's eyes narrow, but he nodded as he followed her thought. "We'll come back for them, I promise," she said, and made herself believe it. "Okay, let's go."
***
The power plant, a two-story brick building twice the size of the house Mulder grew up in, exploded with a very satisfactory boom. Mulder and Frohike were only two hundred yards away when it blew, spewing a hundred tons of brick and rebar into the March night. Mulder grabbed Frohike by the collar and yanked him back to his feet. Skinner and Jack had given up all pretense of secrecy and were pelting for the east gate.
The lights had all gone out. Over the roar of the fire behind them, Mulder could hear the sound of a siren. The distraction was working. Which meant they were really on the clock now.
Still towing Frohike, Mulder slowed to a stop in the shadow beneath two interwoven pines. He looked back at the burning plant, while Frohike bent over his knees and heaved for breath. "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"
As soon as they caught up with Jack and Skinner outside the gate, the four of them were going to circle around the base, pick up the rest of the supplies, and cut through the fence on the west side. USAMRIID was closer to that side of the installation. Four miles, maybe. But Mulder had seen the maps--from where he now stood it wasn't even a mile as the crow flies.
Five months ago Mulder had made a promise to Maggie Scully, a promise witnessed only by the stars and his own blistered hands. A promise he'd never put into words but that would surely be breached if there was a chance Bill Scully was held captive on this post, and Mulder did nothing to save him.
Mulder had seen too much of Bill Scully to be sentimental about him. But Maggie was dead, Charlie was god-knew-where, and Bill was all the family Scully had left.
Jack and Skinner had disappeared through the trees. Frohike had his breath back. "Mulder! Come on!"
"You go on. I'll catch up."
"What?" Frohike had known him too long: the suspicion dawned on his face instantly.
"Gibson thinks Scully's brother is being held on the complex. I'm gonna try to find him."
"Well, shit."
Mulder shifted his backpack, now empty of explosives. He had the SIG and several cartridges, a second gun in his ankle holster, and a radio in the backpack. It wouldn't be enough.
The sound of truck engines was closer now. He had to go or he'd never made it without being spotted.
"Okay, then," said Frohike. "Let's go."
"Fro--"
"Can it, Mulder. Scully would have my ass for breakfast if I let you do this alone."
True enough. Mulder shrugged. "Then let's go." They would have to move fast to get to Bill and get out before the place blew. He hadn't told Skinner or Jack what Scully had said, so there was no chance they'd know where he was. He wasn't abandoning them--they were done with this phase of the job, and so close to the edge of the base, they'd have no trouble--
But as he turned to lead Frohike through the thin screen of trees westward, they heard a scatter of shots from behind them, from the direction Skinner and Jack had gone.
Shit, shit, shit. There was some faint shouting, and then more shots.
Could he weigh the chance of Bill against the reality of Jack and Skinner? No. No, he really couldn't. Mulder didn't even have to say anything to Frohike; they turned as one, and started running back east.
The light from the burning power plant didn't help them much. The shots had stopped, but that was no guarantee of anything. Skinner and Jack could be bleeding on the ground, or gone to earth somewhere. Mulder put on a burst of speed, leaving Frohike behind.
Breath rasping in his lungs, gun gripped in his sweating hand, he raced alongside the road towards the east gate. In the darkness he wasn't aware of the edge of the tree-line until he'd left it, and by then it was too late. As he burst out of the trees, he saw a half-dozen figures struggling in the darkness, just twenty yards away.
He staggered to a stop, gripping his gun in both hands, and tried to identify Jack or Skinner--but then there was an unintelligible shout behind him, a blur of movement to his right, and he found himself face-down on the wet ground, his arms wrenched behind his back.
Mulder turned his head with difficulty and tried to see if Jack or Skinner had escaped, but all he could see were wet boots and the soiled cuffs of camouflage pants. And in the distance, just for a moment, he saw the glint of a sweaty face staring at him from the shadow of the trees. Frohike, at least, was still free.
That ought to hold y'all for a bit. I hope.
Gibson wasn't a chatty boy at the best of times, but Scully had at least been able to get him to explain how they were going to approach the building most likely to be hiding her brother.
"We won't be able to just walk in. That's the main headquarters of the complex, where the most delicate work is done, where the most important offices are. Even if all the regular troops are gone, there will be soldiers there. So we have to go underneath."
"Underneath?" Scully followed Gibson down a narrow lane in the middle of a residential block. Rowhouses were build close to the street, and garages, yards, and sheds hid behind them in the middle of the block. It felt good, familiar, after six months in the Midwest. She dodged around a toppled garbage can.
"Yeah. We get into another building, farther away, and then work our way over through the steam tunnels. They're all over the complex. 'S how I got out the first time."
She raised a brow. "Won't they be guarded too?" This couldn't be that easy.
"Maybe. But I don't think a lot of people know about them. Still better than knocking on the front door, isn't it?" Had to be better.
And here they were, scrabbling along in the dark on the first floor of the National Institutes of Health, if the signs on the office doors were any indication, and looking for a stairway down.
Eventually they found one, and Scully picked the lock, her hands slick with sweat. They were losing time. She was afraid to look at her watch, and when the door finally clicked open, she thrust Gibson through with no ceremony.
She saw a dim flash as he threw her an annoyed glance, and then started feeling his way down the stairs. Below the first landing she felt safe enough to turn on her small flashlight, and squeeze in front of the boy. He might be her guide, he might be telepathic, but he was still fourteen and she was a federal agent. She would lead the way.
The door at the bottom of the stairs wasn't locked. She turned the handle very slowly, her ear pressed to the door. Gibson shook his head. "Nobody out there." She turned off the flashlight before pressing the door open just in case, but he was right. The hallway was empty.
Gibson nodded to their right, to the north, if Scully hadn't lost all sense of direction, and they turned right once more before he stopped at a small metal door. "This is it."
To her relief, it was locked. They wouldn't lock it if they used these tunnels, right? Thin logic.
This lock was easier, and within moments they slipped through into a narrow corridor dank with mildew and cluttered with piping and ductwork. Periodically a small door opened off to one side or another, or they passed junctions of pipework labelled indecipherably in neat black printing on curling post-cards.
They traveled for some distance through these tunnels, dodging under steaming pipes and dripping pipes, occasionally hearing a rustle of animal life or stepping over evidence that some people used these passageways: a cigarette butt, a candy wrapper, an empty 7-Up can. Scully stole a glance at her watch. It was nearly 8:30 p.m. They were running out of time.
"Gibson, how much farther?" They had paused at an intersection, and the boy was casting back and forth, his brow etched in uncertainty.
"Close," he said. "Very close." He turned toward the right, and led them thirty yards to a door, and behind the door, to another stairway. Scully started up the stair, but paused when Gibson put a hand on her arm. "No talking now. There are people up there."
She nodded, and turned off the flashlight. Better hope the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked too. She crept silently up the flights, gun in hand. There was a small window in the doorway at the first landing, but Gibson shook his head. She ducked under the glass and kept going up the next flight, breathing shallowly. She could hear her pulse in her ears. It was different, doing this without Mulder. Scarier.
The light was on in the outside hallway at the next landing. Scully stood well to one side of the window, and waited. Gibson laid his head against the door, as if he could hear the heartbeats of any soldiers in the hall. After what must have been three minutes, he smiled softly. "I think it's okay," he whispered. "But be very quiet--I don't know who the other people are here but if we wake them up---"
Scully blinked. It had never occurred to her that there would be other prisoners here. How could she rescue Bill and not them? But she was only one person, with limited time and weaponry. She couldn't save them all--not right now. But there was a chance, if she came back after they blew the plant--she could make sure Skinner and Jack freed them before blowing the complex. That would work. Trying to rescue them all, though--it would be a recipe for disaster, and might even alert the military that something was happening. She couldn't take the risk.
Bill. She was here for Bill.
She saw Gibson's eyes narrow, but he nodded as he followed her thought. "We'll come back for them, I promise," she said, and made herself believe it. "Okay, let's go."
***
The power plant, a two-story brick building twice the size of the house Mulder grew up in, exploded with a very satisfactory boom. Mulder and Frohike were only two hundred yards away when it blew, spewing a hundred tons of brick and rebar into the March night. Mulder grabbed Frohike by the collar and yanked him back to his feet. Skinner and Jack had given up all pretense of secrecy and were pelting for the east gate.
The lights had all gone out. Over the roar of the fire behind them, Mulder could hear the sound of a siren. The distraction was working. Which meant they were really on the clock now.
Still towing Frohike, Mulder slowed to a stop in the shadow beneath two interwoven pines. He looked back at the burning plant, while Frohike bent over his knees and heaved for breath. "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"
As soon as they caught up with Jack and Skinner outside the gate, the four of them were going to circle around the base, pick up the rest of the supplies, and cut through the fence on the west side. USAMRIID was closer to that side of the installation. Four miles, maybe. But Mulder had seen the maps--from where he now stood it wasn't even a mile as the crow flies.
Five months ago Mulder had made a promise to Maggie Scully, a promise witnessed only by the stars and his own blistered hands. A promise he'd never put into words but that would surely be breached if there was a chance Bill Scully was held captive on this post, and Mulder did nothing to save him.
Mulder had seen too much of Bill Scully to be sentimental about him. But Maggie was dead, Charlie was god-knew-where, and Bill was all the family Scully had left.
Jack and Skinner had disappeared through the trees. Frohike had his breath back. "Mulder! Come on!"
"You go on. I'll catch up."
"What?" Frohike had known him too long: the suspicion dawned on his face instantly.
"Gibson thinks Scully's brother is being held on the complex. I'm gonna try to find him."
"Well, shit."
Mulder shifted his backpack, now empty of explosives. He had the SIG and several cartridges, a second gun in his ankle holster, and a radio in the backpack. It wouldn't be enough.
The sound of truck engines was closer now. He had to go or he'd never made it without being spotted.
"Okay, then," said Frohike. "Let's go."
"Fro--"
"Can it, Mulder. Scully would have my ass for breakfast if I let you do this alone."
True enough. Mulder shrugged. "Then let's go." They would have to move fast to get to Bill and get out before the place blew. He hadn't told Skinner or Jack what Scully had said, so there was no chance they'd know where he was. He wasn't abandoning them--they were done with this phase of the job, and so close to the edge of the base, they'd have no trouble--
But as he turned to lead Frohike through the thin screen of trees westward, they heard a scatter of shots from behind them, from the direction Skinner and Jack had gone.
Shit, shit, shit. There was some faint shouting, and then more shots.
Could he weigh the chance of Bill against the reality of Jack and Skinner? No. No, he really couldn't. Mulder didn't even have to say anything to Frohike; they turned as one, and started running back east.
The light from the burning power plant didn't help them much. The shots had stopped, but that was no guarantee of anything. Skinner and Jack could be bleeding on the ground, or gone to earth somewhere. Mulder put on a burst of speed, leaving Frohike behind.
Breath rasping in his lungs, gun gripped in his sweating hand, he raced alongside the road towards the east gate. In the darkness he wasn't aware of the edge of the tree-line until he'd left it, and by then it was too late. As he burst out of the trees, he saw a half-dozen figures struggling in the darkness, just twenty yards away.
He staggered to a stop, gripping his gun in both hands, and tried to identify Jack or Skinner--but then there was an unintelligible shout behind him, a blur of movement to his right, and he found himself face-down on the wet ground, his arms wrenched behind his back.
Mulder turned his head with difficulty and tried to see if Jack or Skinner had escaped, but all he could see were wet boots and the soiled cuffs of camouflage pants. And in the distance, just for a moment, he saw the glint of a sweaty face staring at him from the shadow of the trees. Frohike, at least, was still free.
That ought to hold y'all for a bit. I hope.