Bricks in the Wall: New Orleans
by Tosca

Part 2
See part 0 for header information.


** Noise first. Electronic beeps. Rustle of moving bodies. One. Two. Scent.
Acrid smell of disinfectant. Sensation is next. Pain hits you in a full-length
body slam. Shock causes you to open your eyes. Bright lights stab down and you
shut them quickly, a white flare smeared across your retinas, setting your
brain on fire. When you try to move, your limbs feel heavy, anaesthetized. You
realise you're naked, cold, and lying on a chill hard surface. Sharp,
incomprehensible voices pierce and widen the jagged tear in the middle of your
head. Something slaps your cheek and you open your eyes reflexively. Pale blur
of faces and blinding lights again. Your stomach roils in nausea. Too bright.
Too loud. Too much pain. For once, darkness comes to the rescue. You submerge
away from the white glare into deep waters. **

==========================   Shit, he must remember _something_. I've tried to
soft-pedal what happened with Duane Barry, the FBI, the DAT tape and the silo.
But no-one swallows that kind of story, true or not, without some kind of
expression - of disbelief, scorn or just sheer terror at the nutcase talking to
them. I'm not that far gone I don't realise how much of a loony I sometimes
come across as. And I haven't even got to the really weird stuff yet.

But he's just sipping his vodka, eyes half-shut, mouth half-smiling, lounging
back against the pillows like some male odalisque, painted in shades of gold
and chestnut and cream. Swallowing the whole thing calmly. As calmly if I were
telling him bedtime fairy stories. It isn't natural. Maybe I shouldn't believe
him after all.

"So." he drags the word out, through incredulity and into mockery "What
happened next?"

Screw it. He wants to be that way, no more pussyfooting around.

"Next we went to Russia, where you tried to abandon me in a gulag and some
friendly local peasants hacked your arm off. Just below the shoulder."

Bam! It's like a switch is flipped. He goes white and still, and that edge of
darkness is _there_. Those thick dark lashes rise slowly and suddenly I'm the
specimen on a microscope slide.

"Do continue, Agent Mulder."

==========================

At first I just thought it was the drugs.

I tried to cut down on them as much as possible; especially during the times I
couldn't get the decent stuff. No telling what some of that crap was doing to
me. However, when you've gone past retching with pain to trying not to breathe
too deeply because even that brings agony, a few hallucinations during your
good spells are small potatoes. The prospect of long term damage doesn't mean
jack shit when going without chemical relief means all you want is for someone
to put a bullet in your head, right here, right now.

But as the migraines grew less frequent, the pills got fewer and the world
became clearer. That's when I realised my arm really was growing back. Muscle
and skin and bone, regenerating like a lizard. Like nothing human.

And that scared the shit out of me.

==========================

** You wake already struggling against the hands that hold you down, automatic
reaction. In the dim illumination of the firelight, their faces are
unrecognisable masks aflicker with red light and black shadows, devils in human
form. When you realise what they want to do to you, you go mad, struggling and
cursing and howling like a wild animal. Too many, too strong, and all you do is
wrench your own muscles against their solid weight. They start to cut you and
the steel rending through your arm is agonising, torture, like nothing you've
ever suffered before, a dimension of agony never visited before. A little part
of your mind insists this isn't happening. This can't be happening, it's a
horror movie nightmare. But the pain of the hot knife tearing through your
muscle is undeniable. Your screams are barely more than hoarse exhalations of
air now. And then they can't get the knife through the bone; no matter how hard
they saw. You feel a bright jagged spike of agony as it's broken, then sink
into unconsciousness the way your blood soaks into the forest floor. **

==========================   I tell him the rest of it. Krycek's taking me
seriously now. He even asks a couple of questions, intelligent ones. Good to
see the mind is still as sharp as ever, even if the memory's gone AWOL. He's
frowning, that cute little wrinkle between his eyes he gets when he's
concentrating on a sticky problem.  "So Krycek, d..." "Thomas." "What?" "My
name's Thomas. Thomas Greene. With an 'e'. You can call me Thomas. Or Mr
Greene," The last is a dig, "Not 'Krycek'." "OK, 'Thomas'," it feels weird
calling him by a first name, even if it isn't his. I've spent so long
depersonalising him with the use of a surname. "Does any of this ring a bell
for you?" He frowns harder and rubs his eyes.

==========================

Oh great, not only was I some doubleagent-assassin, but I was also part of an
alien rebel group trying to prevent colonization of the Earth. By other
aliens.

Can this story get any wilder? Better yet, can I sell someone the movie rights?

OK, maybe he isn't lying. Incredibly, my gut is saying 'go with it, believe
him'. No matter how fucking Twilight Zone he sounds. The ID looks real - then
again, so does my ID. And he seems to believe what he's saying. Yeah, and so
did Jim Jones. Yet insane though it is, what he tells me resonates in my mind,
little murmurs of 'yes, that's right', or 'no, that's wrong' which persuade me
there's some kernel of truth in what he's saying. But I'm not going to tell him
that. Because I don't _want_ to believe. Just like I don't want to
remember.

Why would I want to remember that my nightmares are true?

==========================

** It's a bright, cold day. You watch the man get out of the car, walk to the
door. His face is a shifting blur in the way faces are in dreams, but you see
the flash of teeth. You look away, annoyed and restless. Something's wrong. The
red flash of the dashboard clock catches your attention. A spike of terror
spears up through your guts to the base of your skull. The world goes white and
silent and you realise you've opened the door and thrown yourself out of the
car without conscious thought. You're running desperately now, shouts behind
you. The noise of the end of the world, then heat and pressure and bright flame
toss you through the air like a rag doll. You crash to the concrete in a heap,
bounce once or twice, breath knocked out of you. Lie there stunned for a second
or two, static roaring in your ears from the explosion. You stumble to your
knees, get on your feet, up and run again. Away from the fire and the voices
and the betrayal. You think you've broken some ribs, know you've sprained some
joints, but you don't mind. The pain tells you you're alive when you're not
meant to be. Not wanted to be. **

==========================

"You really don't remember _anything_?"

OK, there's an underlying note of annoyance in my voice, and his eyes flicker
irritation at me. That's an expression I recognise.

He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders. He's kept fit and the
muscles ripple across his torso. He doesn't seem to notice my distraction.

"No."

I sigh. I can see this will be like drawing teeth.

"So how far do your memories go back?"

"A couple of years."

"What's the first thing you remember?"

He gives me a measuring look before answering. Maybe his reticence wasn't just
a result of his 'job'. Even now he parcels out the truth like it was a luxury
in limited supply.

"Some medical facility. They were doing all sorts of tests and things."

Remembering what the 'tests and things' done to me were like is almost a
visceral sensation. From his lack of expression, I'd guess his were of a
similar calibre.

"And then?"

"I left."

This time I just raise an eyebrow. I'm not going to prompt him for every damn
crumb of information. I suddenly miss the days I could cheerfully beat it out
of him. Some flash of hostility must be showing because Krycek, sorry _Thomas_,
becomes unexpectedly cooperative.

"I was somewhere in Michigan. I got out of state as fast as possible. I didn't
know who I was or what was happening, but I wasn't going to let them take me
back. I figured I'd best get as far away as I could and hope they didn't find
me. Stayed a while in Maryland. I was having some problems with headaches,"

Considering his pain tolerance threshold, I figure they were probably blinding
migraines.

"Then I got some cash together, and started heading south."

No mention of how he got the money or the ID that would have been necessary.
It's a given both were illegal however.

"You've been drifting since then?"

"Pretty much. Thought I might head over to Orlando next. Go see Disney World."

And I'm the Easter Bunny. He wouldn't head north again, so probably the West
Coast. San Diego, San Francisco. Big cities, lots of people, easy employment.
Of a sort. What I don't understand is why he's _here_. A cripple, especially a
beautiful one, is both noticeable and vulnerable. He has other skills - besides
killing - ones that will get him a job without people noticing him. Maybe it's
not just his memory that's screwed. What sort of damage did the bullet do?
Looking at the flawless forehead it seems impossible there was ever any injury
done, but what would I know? Who knows how serious it is? I need to get him to
Scully. See what she says.

==========================

He stares at me and I can tell he isn't buying it. Damn, scratch 'Frisco. Maybe
it's time to head somewhere a little cooler. The doubt suddenly dissolves into
worry. For me. I can't remember ever seeing that expression on anyone's face
before.

"Have you had any flashbacks? Any things or places that seem familiar?"

Even his tone is softer. I'm teetering on the edge. I want desperately to know
what's happening, to rid myself of my constant sense of paranoia and
apprehension. I want to stop running from faceless men and unknown reasons. I
want to know who my enemies are. But is there anything else left behind in my
past that I want back? My dreams say no. Fox Mulder says no, though he doesn't
realise it. Then almost as if I'm remote controlled, I hear my voice
saying,

"Sometimes I have...dreams. I remember scenes, incidents. But they're all
disjointed."

"Incidents? What kind of incidents? What happens in them? Can you describe the
people?"

Damn, but this guy is pushy. The air around Agent Mulder is starting to sparkle
and my head is starting to pound. Shit. One first class migraine heading my
way.

"Not really, I never see faces. Just events. Usually bad ones."

I stand up, and he startles. Seems he's still at least wary of me. I guess if I
really was an assassin he has reason to be.

"I'm getting a headache."

I explain and then curse myself for pandering to his apprehension. I walk over
to the sink and take the pills out of the medicine cabinet. I shake four out
and wash them down with a handful of lukewarm water.

"I need to sleep now. How about you come back in the morning?"

Suspicion floods his face.

"Look, in ten minutes I'm going to be doped out of my mind and in no state to
talk to you anyway. I'm not going anywhere. Come back tomorrow, around noon and
we'll talk some more."

The tone of my voice tells him this is non-negotiable.

"How about I stay here?"

I raise an eyebrow. Do I believe this guy? Yes. Do I trust him? Not a chance in
Hell.   "Sure, Vinnie downstairs can probably set you up with a room."

'Because you sure as hell aren't staying here' remains unspoken but clearly
heard.

"OK. I'll be back tomorrow."

Reluctance practically oozes from his voice, but he leaves. I lock the door
behind him and put the chair under the handle. Not that it'll do much to stop
anyone entering, but it'll make enough noise to warn me. I toss off the
remainder of the vodka and settle down to lapse into what I know from
experience will be a restless, unpleasant doze.

==========================    ** The city is hot and dank. The people are cold.
Here you are an outsider, an unwelcome foreigner. Not a tourist or a
businessman to be greeted with smiling faces and open palms, but an
impoverished fugitive, and the inhabitants of the slum you live in know it.
They avoid you as a man marked for trouble. You spend your days surrounded by a
river of lilting, piercing voices, but you drown alone. The only human contact
you have is with your clients and god knows you'd rather have avoided that,
rather be doing anything else. But you can't read the written language, can
barely get by with the spoken language. That's a major problem in getting any
other type of job here. You can't afford to draw too much attention to yourself
anyway. Currently you don't have sufficient money to leave safely, head towards
Australia like you'd planned. A few more weeks and you'll have enough. You're
counting the days until you can get out of this hellhole of raw humidity, harsh
lights and grim poverty. There's a knock on the door and you go to greet your
next customer. **

==========================

It's 11 am by the time I can restrain myself no longer. As I walk through the
lobby, the new kid on the desk barely glances up from the thick fantasy novel
he's engrossed in. His interest vanishes completely when I head for the
stairs.

I half expect Krycek to have done a bunk, though he'd looked so pale and
nauseous last night I'm betting he couldn't have gotten far. Not far enough to
evade me, anyway. But when I knock, he opens the door. In a sleeveless t-shirt,
boxer shorts and a frown this time. His hair is mussed; the green gaze is dull.
There are dark smudges under his eyes and he doesn't look like he got much
rest. Serves the bastard right.

OK, so my back's stiff and I'm hot and cranky from sleeping in the car.

He motions me in, and then turns back to the bed. I shut the door without him
asking and go sit on the chair. When we've both settled, we look at each other,
neither of us willing to be the first to break the morning's tranquillity.

In the light of day, his room is even more dilapidated than I'd thought, the
shadows of night having softened some of its shoddiness. The sunlight shines
through cracked glass panes, brown with dirt and fly droppings, onto bare
boards and peeling wallpaper. The only half-decent piece of furniture is the
bed, which looks to be a hospital cast-off from the early part of last century.

I wonder how he can bear living like this, moving from flophouse to flophouse,
not knowing who he is, always looking over his shoulder, never trusting the
authorities or hospitals enough to come forward and ask for answers. Sure, it's
probably not much different from his life before, but then he was a dangerous
man. Now, well now I'm not so sure who or what he is. And neither is he.

I break the silence.

"The headaches. Have you seen a doctor?"

"Sure, this fine establishment's brain specialist made a housecall just
yesterday."

The dripping sarcasm is the Alex I know and lo..loathe. So. No decent medical
treatment. And I'm betting the pills on the washbasin are of the
non-prescription variety.

"Thomas, it's obvious there's something wrong. I know people who can help you.
Why d..."

"Dr. Scully?"

It's odd hearing him speak of her in such formal terms.

"Yes."

"From what you say, she'd rather put another bullet in my brain. Just like your
boss."

I ignore the reference to Skinner.

"She's a doctor. She wouldn't do anything to harm you."

He looks sceptical. I guess that's understandable given what I've told him of
his and Scully's relationship - or lack thereof.

"Look, come back to Washington with me. Scully has friends who're specialists.
They'll keep their mouths shut. We can get some tests done privately, find out
what's the matter, get you well again."

He's still looking dubious.

"No-one will know you're there, we'll keep you safe. Don't you want to get rid
of the headaches?"

"Why?"

His question is abrupt.

"Because you obviously need medical attention."

I would have thought that was obvious.

"No. Why are you helping me? What do you get out of this?"

Ok, maybe not so obvious, but a very Krycek question. I have to choose my next
words carefully. He's always been very good at reading people, probably one of
the main reasons he's still alive. Or rather, why he lived so long the first
time around. That's confusing. I shake my head. He looks annoyed, starts to
speak but I raise my hand to silence him.

"Before, we were never quite sure where you stood - if you were Consortium
through and through, or if you were playing them for a fool the way you'd done
to us. Since you've been gone, a lot of the work you did to help the rebels has
been made known to us."

Labs torched, VIPs blackmailed, traitors assassinated, companies dissolved,
data stolen. And those were the obvious actions. Underneath, not just
destruction and death, but a whole rebel network whose reins rested in the
hands of one Alex Krycek and his alien buddies. It was no wonder the Consortium
had been so desperate to get hold of him when they realised. And taking up his
slack has not been an easy task for any of us, in more ways than one. I grin
without humour,

"I guess I overestimated how much of your work revolved around me...around the
X-Files."

That's not an easy thing for me to admit. Humility has been a new and unwelcome
requirement in my life these past couple of years. Most of the wounds are
healed, but the scars still ache when I prod them.

"However it's become obvious that without your involvement, we'd be in a hell
of a lot worse situation than we are now. I won't lie and pretend there aren't
a lot of hard feelings between us - not just between you and me, but also
between you and Scully and Skinner. Some of your methods were a
little...brutal. Some of your mistakes had tragic consequences, and not just
for you. But when it comes down to it, we owe you. A lot."

And it's not the whole truth, but enough that the rat can tell it really is
100% genuine cheddar.

==========================

So I'm scum-sucking slime and an unsung hero at the same time? Maybe Agent
Mulder should get Dr. Scully to treat me for schizophrenia while she's at it.

"I guess that was your idea of an apology, huh?"

"What?"

His face fills with outrage.

"I have nothing to apologise for!"

"No? Well, seems to me I may have been a bad-guy, but you didn't exactly ever
give me the benefit of the doubt."

(Continued in part 3)