Wherefore Art Thou
But Krycek had been missing for months, and he had begun to
assume that the other man was dead. Now, armed with this new
knowledge, he thought that if he could just get to Krycek in time,
before anyone else discovered his whereabouts, he could keep him
from harm's way. They could go—oh, anywhere—he could go to
any city and they'd always have something to investigate. As long
as Krycek was alive and with him, it would be fine.
Too late he reached the car, watching from just a few dozen
feet away as the figure, shaded in darkness, pointed a gun at his
head and pulled the trigger. There was no doubt from the smooth
lines of the body, the stupid-ass haircut, the length of the limbs;
it was Alex Krycek.
Krycek reclined against the car door, oddly peaceful, head
resting on the handle; if it hadn't been for the pool of blood that
surrounded him, one might have thought that he was just taking a
leisurely nap. It was too much blood for a head wound, Mulder
thought, but then he dismissed it as irrelevant. If there was
another assassin around, he was probably dead as well. What mattered
was that the man he valued more than the truth itself had just taken
his own life.
// You know what you have to do // whispered a voice with the
same gruff quality that Krycek's had sometimes, when he was trying to
get Mulder in bed. Mulder was tempted to heed it.
Krycek burned rubber as he sped through the parking lot in a
nondescript sedan that was definitely not built for such driving,
as the tires were probably being worn to shreds with each turn. He
didn't care, though; he had to get to Mulder. He was in grave
danger; Mulder was always in danger, no matter the cause, but this
time, there were Consortium assassins and he had to hurry and save
Mulder. He had to— There was a shot, and then he was so intent on Mulder's body,
slumped over the oozing green body of a clone, that he forgot to
steer the car and was barely aware of his lack of a seat belt when
the car crashed into Mulder's former rental car and he pitched
through the windshield.
"Huh?"
"I have to go, Scully," Mulder was saying, excitement dancing
in his voice. "I just got a tip—don't follow me. It's much too
dangerous for you." She watched with annoyance and an eye-roll as he
jumped into the bucar and headed off to the airport. He was ALWAYS
ditching her. Well, he'd see. Next time maybe she wouldn't even be
there for him to ditch. Glaring at the spot where he'd last been,
she tossed her cell phone into the nearest trash can and headed off
to arrange a meeting with the Assistant Director.
Two men stood side by side in the parking lot of the airport,
silently surveying the damage. Bodies piled upon bodies piled upon
bodies, most of them already disintegrated into a river of green
ooze. Bodies piled upon cars; five cars, in fact, smashed and
trashed. Business suits and leather jackets, hundreds of recently
fired weapons. But it was the aftermath of something; the corpses
were now undisturbed, and no one else was approaching.
"It looks like a graveyard," observed the first man atonally,
running a hand through his hair with a weary sigh.
"Not really," said the second man. He sounded unusually calm
for someone who had witnessed a veritable disaster, and as they
watched, he took a drag from his cigarette and turned to eye his
companion meaningfully.
"I didn't know you smoked," the first man commented with no
small amount of distaste.
The second man grinned at him, snuffed the cigarette, and
tossed it onto the pavement. "I don't, ordinarily. And they're
just Marlboro's." He swung an arm around the first man, roughly
encircling his shoulders and drawing him close.
The first man wrinkled his nose. "They make your breath
smell," he said as he dug into his pocket. After retrieving a
breath mint, he popped it into his mouth and chewed lazily.
Brow wrinkled, the second man looked curious. "I thought I
was the one who had bad breath, not you." He was steadfastly
ignored by the first man until he'd finished chewing, and then the
first man tilted the second man's chin with his free hand and
pressed their lips together. Sucking noises ensued for several
minutes, and when they broke apart, the first man wore a contented
smile. He snickered, and they both gazed at each other until the
first man got a determined gleam in his eye.
"I have to admit that I am awed by your ability to execute
hundreds of people without laying a finger on them," he said.
"Clones, not people," the second man scolded. "And I did
shoot the very first one."
He was awarded with the first man's baleful glare. "As I
was saying—despite my awe, I still want to know why they were so
willing to kill themselves. Why didn't the -your- clones notice
that my clones had green blood? And why are they taking so long
to disintegrate? The last time I saw one of these, it dissolved
right before my eyes."
The second man rolled his eyes skyward for a moment, but
then started to speak. "You always have to know everything, don't
you, Mulder? Fine. The smoking man hired a new biologist to
manufacture this model of clone, and he miscalculated when he was
fixing the personality algorithms. There's a massive chemical
imbalance that can lead to psychotic tendencies. Once they'd gotten
attached to someone, there was no stopping them. The color of the
blood wouldn't have even registered in one of my clone's minds, as
long as the corpse had your face."
"Okay," Mulder agreed, "but why are they still here? How
do you propose to dispose of the ooze?"
"Oh," said the other man, waving his hand carelessly, "it
will evaporate by morning. This model of clone is supposed to be
the new, 'long-lasting' variety. Apparently the smoking man wanted
the clones to remain intact for a half hour after being terminated
so that he could revive them and extract information, if he so
desired." He pursed his lips.
"Bastard," Mulder said, nuzzling the other man's neck. "So
what do we do now, Alex?"
"Don't call me that. I told you—when you let me refer to
you as Fox, then you can call me Alex to your heart's content. Till
then, it's—"
"Krycek," Mulder interrupted. "I know." He twisted his face
into a traditional pout.
"You're not going to get anywhere that way, I promise you,"
Krycek warned, but he was beginning to smile.
"That's okay." Mulder draped his own arm around his lover's
shoulders and propelled him away from the mountain of corpses. "So
what -do- we do?"
Krycek delved into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and
produced a pair of matching tickets. "What do you think about San
Francisco? It's a veeeeeeeeerry large city—almost impossible to
find someone there, you know? I've got us booked under different
names, of course, and we can spend a few days relaxing until the
smoking man accepts the loss of his pet project.."
Mulder's grin widened. "I love it when you're devious," he
murmured contentedly. "I should call Scully, though, so that she
won't worry." Flipping his cell phone on, he punched in the
speed-dial and then stared at it, puzzled.
"Something wrong?" inquired Krycek, the picture of concern.
"Yeah. It's funny; Scully isn't answering her cell phone.."
The end. (Or is it?)
Graveyard III
by Meri Lomelindi
Mulder tore through the parking lot, mindless of the fact that
he had knocked over two old ladies and kicked a crippled boy's
wheelchair in the process. His mind was running in overdrive, and
his thoughts were speeding by so quickly that he could barely make
any sense out of them. Thank God the Lone Gunmen were so paranoid;
when they'd located Krycek, they had immediately contacted him.
Their initial assumption had been that he would relish any chance
to do away with the man that they had nicknamed the rat; little
indeed did they know about his midnight trysts with Krycek, which
had become a regular part of his schedule.
