by Livia Balaban

Rated PG = V, A, Scully POV
Spoilers: Orison post-ep
Summary: When harsh actions prevail, resolve separates the strong from the weak

My fingers should be knitted together, twisting and strangling one another in their restless attempts to flee my hands toward freedom.

My stomach should writhe in a nest of knots, turning sickeningly each time I approach the thought of what will come next.

My eyes should cloud with tears of anger, frustration, and fear.

Of all the times I have faced my actions and those of others, this should be the one that breaks my spirit, robbing me of the strength to continue.

It does not, despite the reality that I have just confessed to committing the crime of murder.

My hands lie flat and loose atop my uncrossed legs. My stomach is calm and settled. My eyes are dry and my vision is clear.

I am free.

I have unburdened myself to my superior, my Assistant Director, directly contradicting every assertion of my partner in his falsified report regarding the death of Donnie Pfaster.

To be fair, Mulder shrouded the whole truth within an intricate web of half-truths. His report is a work of art, a methodical redesign of every moment between his arrival and Pfaster's death. But it is, in essence, a lie.

I have confessed this to Walter Skinner, and I sit quietly and patiently in this chair before him, awaiting his response.

The substance of his response is of no interest to me. All that concerns me now is that the decision of how to proceed is no longer in my unreliable hands.

Mulder does not know I am here, late in the evening, refuting his assertions, contradicting his claims. But my intent is not to label him a perjurer. No, my intent is to be free of this burden of guilt and shame. I acted impulsively, I took all my rage and loaded it into the chamber of my weapon alongside those bullets. When I fired, I propelled it all into Pfaster. And now, as I did then, I am handing off to another the responsibility to judge what I must do next.

I am empty. I emptied myself into that demon; not merely my anger, but all that I valued as well. There is nothing left of me.

I cannot sleep or eat, I cannot confess to my priest or pray to God, I can do nothing beyond the simple act of respiration. Should my heart have required my conscious attention to continue its steady rhythm, it would have ceased its labor two days ago.

"Agent Mulder stated in his report that he was standing behind Pfaster and that you didn't see him as you entered the living room."

"I knew he was there." My voice is flat and expressionless, and to his credit, so is Skinner's.

"So you're saying you saw that Agent Mulder was in the room, and that he had Pfaster in custody before you fired."

The complete truth. Nothing less, nothing more.

"I didn't see that he had his gun on Pfaster, but Mulder did have one hand on Pfaster's shoulder. Pfaster was covered, and unarmed. His hands were loose at his sides."

He takes a moment to absorb this.

"So what you're telling me is that you raised your weapon to reinforce Agent Mulder's attempt to subdue Pfaster, and that your weapon went off."

"Yes, I raised my weapon. No, it did not simply go off. I fired, sir, deliberately."

"At an unarmed man who was already in custody."

"Yes."

He is silent again, removing his glasses and pressing the fingertips of his left hand against his temple. At first his expression demonstrates the shock I felt the moment I saw Pfaster go down. Skinner has realized what I have done, just as I did. But from here, our reactions must by necessity part ways.

In my apartment, Mulder gaped at me in shock and horror at what I had done, and I withdrew, permitting him to handle all aspects of the crime scene investigation while I fought with myself to gain understanding of my actions and their consequences. My emptiness soon demonstrated to me, however, that there was nothing left of me which was capable of understanding. I could not have handled the investigation if I had wanted to.

Here, in Skinner's office, he can take a cue from no one, hand off his responsibility to no one, ask for advice from no one. I have deliberately taken the weight from my own shoulders and placed it squarely on his, yet I feel no remorse for this. This is precisely why he is here.

From dumb shock, Skinner's expression begins a slow and excruciatingly lengthy transformation - through dismay and anger - eventually resting quietly within the bounds of resignation.

He has made a decision, and I am free.

Slowly he rises, and slipping his glasses back on, he retreats behind the safe shelter of his desk, and sits. He takes a few slow, careful breaths, and speaks.

"The inquest is scheduled for tomorrow." He pauses for a moment, seeming to gather himself, and continues. "Agent Mulder's report and eyewitness testimony will suffice. I want you to go home now, and I don't want to see you here until next Monday. Is that understood, Agent Scully?"

He has made his decision, and despite my opinion of the justice of it, it is final.

"Yes, sir." I rise to leave, smoothing my skirt with unwavering hands.

Skinner is watching me now, undisguised, for all appearances attempting to break through my reserve and determine my opinion of his decision. At the moment, I am grateful for my impassiveness, for he cannot see that behind it thrashes disappointment and anger.

I had thought myself empty, but I realize it is not true. Another lie.

I leave.

I am not to answer for my crime, nor am I to receive even a single moment's disdain. How did I become somehow above such petty and earthly indignities? I want to cry out at the absurdity of it. Mulder carved this pedestal of mine out of bedrock, chiseling it into exquisite shape with his feelings of unworthiness and gratitude. Now Skinner is polishing it with his own brand of guilt. I am not to answer for my crime for the simple reason that these two men hold me in too much esteem to let me fall.

How can I exhibit the nerve to pretend I am surprised? I left my decisions in the hands of two admirers. When did I become capable of such narrow-minded vanity?

I should be relieved, grateful for the support and understanding of these two. Instead I feel betrayed, lies compounding lies for the benefit of my precious reputation. I killed a man without legal justification, but I will not answer for it.

I am no longer responsible, I attempt to convince myself as I move through the empty hallways. I am only a member of a relay team. I did not make this decision, I lie to myself. I placed myself in someone else's hands, at someone else's mercy, and this is the result.

In the end, I understand beyond simple truth that the responsibility is still mine. I can take this further if I wish. I can appear tomorrow at the inquest. I can turn myself in to the police.

But I will do neither.

Pfaster was evil and could not be permitted to live, and despite the meek protests of my conscience and the wails of Catholic guilt, I do not believe that I deserve to lose everything because I chose to remove him from this world. I had thought myself above the perceived immorality of making my own law.

I was naive.

If I had been as decisive in the past, perhaps my work with Mulder would have cost me less. I might have been able to fight harder against our enemies. Perhaps this is why Mulder and I have made no progress in our fight against Spender and his men. Why our every attempt to thwart colonization of our world has ended in failure or intervention by others.

I have not been willing to do what was required.

What different paths would our lives have traveled should I have allowed Mulder to shoot Alex Krycek? If I had taken it farther and actually helped him dispose of the body? What could we have gained if I'd had the stomach to be a Mata Hari, gleaning information from Skinner or Spender? Shouldn't I have been willing to do anything - anything - to protect my species?

My stomach sinks as I realize that I have been weak.

My second chance with Pfaster has begun to forge me, I feel it now. I refused to hide behind the law this time. I faced evil and took decisive action. Perhaps if called upon to do this again, my conscience will bother me less.

I wonder how God will judge me.

I shake my head to clear it of the intrusive thought. I cannot know God's intention. I can only act as I see fit and pray that God understands. It would be vanity to presume an understanding of Divine Will.

And as always, my fate seems unalterably in the hands of others.

As much as I want to see our investigations of the Consortium lead to indictments and public trials, I must be realistic. Never once have they permitted us to name names or maintain possession of evidence to support our charges. The masters of subterfuge will continue to confound our attempts to bring them to justice. If we are to win, it will take place at private battlefields, Mulder and me against the best they can throw at us.

This is why we've been stopped at every turn.

Our struggle is a war, not merely a Federal investigation. And on the battlefield, there is no room for Probable Cause or Search Warrants. One faces the enemy, and one fires. I have been unwilling to load outrage into myself, as ammunition, and permit it to fuel my fight.

I will now. I will carry this determination with me, convinced that I can act beyond the scope of the law when I feel it is necessary. This experience is transfiguring me. Only now do I realize that I am becoming a warrior.

I continue out of the building, my stride strengthening, and my resolve solidifying. The architects of humanity's destruction will face their own annihilation.

I'll work it out with God when the war is over.

=====
End.

Many thanks to: M. Sebasky, Exley, Kelly, Michelle, and Fialka for looking this over and finding the steaming divots.

Self-Indulgent Author's Notes (A short bout of intellectual wanking):

Isn't it wonderful that Moose and Squirrel can live in a world free from repercussions? Golly. To heck with all the monsters and global conspiracies, I'd still wanna live in their world, just so I could get away with all kinds of horrid behavior and never get called to the carpet for it. Well, unless it was crucial to the mytharc of course.

Sigh.

Scully's innate sense of morality is so much a part of her self-image, that I felt it was imperative to examine her conscience in the wake of Donnie Pfaster's shooting. Sadly, neither CC nor 1013 seem to feel that character continuity is important. Emily? Who's Emily? What burgeoning relationship? What dead friend/sister/father/informant? What betrayal? What near-death experience?

<shaking her head, sighing sadly>

- LB

livia@stoodjood.com