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The Law

Finn

 

Fandom: X-Files

Pairing: Sk/K

Many thanks to Rudyard Kipling for his wonderful verse



Now this is the Law of the Jungle -
as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper,
but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk,
the Law runneth forward and back--
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,
and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

 


<Shit, shit, shit, shit...>, the mantra tumbled, curse over silent curse, running through his mind, as he hurled himself down echoing corridors. Too quickly discovered, too swiftly noticed, it was not a good day to be one of those who had less than legal reasons for being in the base. There were too many of them scattered around to make an easy escape, let alone complete the mission, too many eyes that had already spotted the anomaly of the black clad man running for his life. He ducked into a side corridor that seemed clear and tried to quiet his breathing, his black clothes sticking to his body with nervous sweat. He crouched into a shadowed corner and rubbed his bare head through the wool balaclava, trying to pinpoint the locations of the searchers.

 



Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip;
drink deeply, but never too deep;
And remember the night is for hunting,
and forget not the day is for sleep.

 


He hadn't done enough research, simply enough. The guard shift had taken him unawares, he'd been overconfident. If he kept this up, he wouldn't have much of a life to regret his mistakes, nor would the ones who depended on him. He had to keep moving. Cocking his head to one side, he opened his mouth slightly to assist his hearing. Rapid footsteps to the left, but leading away, silence to the right. He narrowed his eyes so that the brown pupils would not stand out against the surrounding white and concentrated, tried to force his hearing to go further out. Still silent. It was away from the objective, but it was the only choice he really had...

 



The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but,
Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter --
go forth and get food of thine own.

 


The milling crowd of searchers parted like a sea as a dark figure strode across the room. Nobody wished to meet the crystal sharp green gaze as it swept across them all, condemning their lack of ability to keep intruders out of the compound with a sardonic flick of an eyebrow.
<Right on time.> He mused. <Although the execution could have used some work...> The thought was laconic as he slipped from the barracks towards the mess hall. He stopped at an intersection near the armoury and pursed his lips thoughtfully. <Perhaps it's time to stock up on some "necessary goods" while they're distracted...>

 



Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle -
the Tiger, the Panther, the Bear;
And trouble not Hathi the Silent,
and mock not the Boar in his lair.

 


"You! Boy!" the voice echoed through the open doorway, a vocal whiplash interrupting his mental inventory of the armoury. Eyes narrowing in annoyance, he stopped and turned, carefully schooling his expression to a blank façade before facing the intrusion directly. The head researcher strode out of the room and glared at him before barking "Find the intruder and deal with it!" The two parted ways at the corridor, going in separate directions.

 



When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle,
and neither will go from the trail,
Lie down till the leaders have spoken -
it may be fair words shall prevail.

 

Green eyes flicker across and seem to pass the brown, shrouded by shadow. He stands to intercept the incoming searchers, leaving a path to freedom, shielded by his body, one that the other swiftly takes, not questioning his luck. Taking over the search in this quadrant, the other splits them off into splinters and leads one along with him down the path laid free, only moments ago.

 



When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack,
ye must fight him alone and afar,
Lest others take part in the quarrel,
and the Pack be diminished by war.

 

Ducking and melding into the shadows as far as possible, he slipped out of direct sight just as the first blow fell. Surprise is a wonderful weapon. A flurry of swift movements, a dance, graceful and deadly, shifting, avoiding, striking. The muffled thud of the unconscious body does not travel far. Green and brown trade glances before moving swiftly onwards.

 



The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter,
not even the Council may come.


An out of the way storeroom is the holding place for a cache of weapons and body armour. Eyes swiftly shifting from wall to wall, hands moving quickly, items are flicked out of containers and distributed between the two. Black Kevlar, thin enough for ease of movement is donned, knives secreted on various limbs, ammo checked and refilled. The emerald gaze is directed back towards the centre of the compound and a raised eyebrow demands compliance. Conceding to the one with the greater knowledge, the other follows the lead.

 



The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
but where he has digged it too plain,
The Council shall send him a message,
and so he shall change it again.


The barracks are empty of personnel, all on alert for the intruder, and all elsewhere in the compound. Hidden in plain sight above one of the bunks is a religious symbol, placed there months ago, when he first came into the compound as a 'contractor'. It is quickly dismantled for the electrical parts within. Nimble hands reassemble the item, and set it back into its hiding place, its constantly broadcasting signal disabling the communications system for as long as it remained undiscovered.



If ye kill before midnight, be silent,
and wake not the woods with your bay,
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops,
and the brothers go empty away.


The guard for the research quadrant is dispatched silently, the arm reaching out from behind, and jerking the chin to the side, violently. The crack of vertebrae seems unnaturally loud as the body is dragged into a nearby room and shut away.



Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates,
and your cubs as they need, and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing,
and seven times *never* kill Man!


Moving quickly, they enter the laboratories near the back of the compound. Pristine and white surfaces reflect off mirror bright steel capsules concealing ongoing experiments. Lagging behind, hand reaching futilely towards the bodies contained within, he is pulled back to reality by the other, sadly understanding the sorrowful headshake at the uselessness of attempting to save those already too far gone. Slipping toward the area scouted out carefully by months of undercover work, the codes to seal the laboratory from the rest of the compound are entered, steel reinforced doors slamming shut with a hiss. Another series of commands for the cells are typed in with a minimum of fuss and the cage doors released.



If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker,
devour not all in thy pride;
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest;
so leave him the head and the hide.


Herding the children in silence, they work down the bank of cages, pairing up survivors, helping them assist one another. Older 'stock' are directed to points on the perimeter of the group, to provide protection and guidance to the younger. An unsuspecting doctor turns the corner only to be brought down by a snarling almost insane pack of her former 'patients'. He moves quickly to dispatch her silently, but is held back by a strong hand on his arm. Brown eyes narrowed with a barely suppressed anger, he allows himself to be restrained, letting the victims take their turn at 'bettering the gene pool'.



The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack.
Ye must eat where it lies;
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair,
or he dies.


The body is torn limb from limb and left in a pile in one of the smaller cages, the fury still evident in the group's pack movements. Still eerily silent, they move as one further down through the scientist's quarters towards the exit. The maimed assist one another, the beaten and tortured stare with burning eyes away from their chambers of horror. Small weapons are passed quickly between those able to hold them. Knives, metal shards, anything that comes to hand are eagerly obtained. Hypodermics are a popular choice, filled with an oily grey matter.



The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf.
He may do what he will,
But, till he has given permission,
the Pack may not eat of that Kill.


Spreading into the living quarters like a silent mist, splitting down corridors like blood down capillaries, they overwhelm the residents, slipping into rooms and shutting the doors to suppress any alarm and maintain containment, meting out their response, and then slipping back out into the main byways, a small part of their souls replaced, yet utterly lost.



Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling.
From all of his Pack he may claim
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten;
and none may refuse him the same.


He buries his dark head into the others shoulder as they witness a small group of children bring down one of the larger scientists, swarming over him, gouging, clawing, cutting and stabbing. Arms wrap around him in mourning over their complete loss of innocence and of a normal future. The dark blood washes across the floor as the rattle of a final breath passes through a throat sliced open with almost surgical precision.



Lair-Right is the right of the Mother.
From all of her year she may claim
One haunch of each kill for her litter;
and none may deny her the same.



A woman, heavy with a child that was not her own raises empty eyes at one of the interns, pinioned by others and sobbing quietly. A flash of red-stained metal and his eyes see no more. His screams absorbed by the walls, save him not from the attention of his ex-patients, and as they leave, the stark white lights shine upon his ruined eye sockets and the bloody mess of his mouth where his tongue used to reside. ['save him not from the work he assisted in' doesn't make the point I think you are going for maybe 'saved him not from those he worked on' Also change it to 'light shines' or 'lights shine']



Cave-Right is the right of the Father -
to hunt by himself for his own:
He is freed of all calls to the Pack;
he is judged by the Council alone.



Eyes widening in sudden recognition, the lead scientist opens his mouth to accuse the man striding towards him, spearheading the refugees. A gloved palm heel to the jaw knocks him spinning and he slams into a wall, only to receive a swift punch to the gut. The seemingly unbalanced fighting technique is all too efficient, the leather clad man dealing more damage with one arm than the other could attempt with two. Bruised and bloody he lays slumped on the floor, head hanging, awaiting his fate. Green eyes, already clouded in pain from the violence already witnessed, he drives a shiv into the back of his skull, ending it quickly and silently.



Because of his age and his cunning,
because of his gripe and his paw,
In all that the Law leaveth open,
the word of the Head Wolf is Law.


Finally a limit is reached. An explosive breath is released and he quickly gathers up the group and directs them sternly towards the exit. The others, blood lust somewhat dampened from the imposing figure, follow, working their way to freedom. The final portal opens to a large sea cave, where black lined boats await the release of the 'experimental subjects'. A glance, dark with remembered pain, is exchanged, and the final two slip into the last boat waiting, casting off and out to the open sea and the dark release of night.

 


Now these are the Laws of the jungle,
and many and mighty are they;

But the head and the hoof of the Law
and the haunch and the hump is - Obey !


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