He looks at the notebook again and thinks about what it
means, this new need. Then his eyes fall on the
unassuming manila folder beside the notebook. The
casefile for the werewolf boy. Krycek's resolve melts in
the space of a heartbeat. In the face of another life on
the precipice of destruction there is no place for
soulful contemplation. His efficiency lies in his talent
for self-deception. He is no so stupid, not so callous
that he can't see what he is doing. However, he can
justify a lot simply by denying any emotion, by
positioning himself clear of humanity. He is both more
and less than a man. He needs to keep it that way.
Without looking back at the notebook he leaves on the
table, Krycek exits the bar.
Now, the matter at hand. His mission, which he, having
no real choice in the matter, already has accepted, is
to apprehend and deliver, in one piece and alive, to his
superiors, one small town high school boy believed to
be, of all things possible and less so, a werewolf.
Krycek doesn't know who has found this kid, and doesn't
much care either. This isn't the sort of thing he would
take an interest in. He has only the vaguest idea of
what will happen to the unfortunate lycantrope once
delivered. He's done this before, captured fresh-faced
teenagers alive. Sometimes he sees them again. Some he
has dug shallow desert graves for, some he has worked
with after they have become empty-eyed spooks like him.
Sitting in his parked car he opens the manila folder.
They boy's face glares accusingly at him from a glossy
school photo. Red, spiky hair, sharp grey eyes, a broad
mouth with a wry twist. Not an innocent, oblivious face,
this. Krycek imagines this boy to be someone who has
felt the butt-end of God's sense of humor. Someone who
gets the joke. He envies the imaginary boy. He was never
so astute that he could accept the world as a joke. As a
child, he was wide-eyed, as a teenager corrupt but
clueless. As a man... well, he finally sees the world
for what it is, but it brings him no solace. He has no
time for reveling in that great, cosmic irony. He has a
job to do. Wasted time... wasted life.
He shrugs the thought off his shoulders and gets the
fuck outta Dodge. The car isn't his, just some generic
piece of Japanese crap they've handed him, but he pushes
it for everything it's got. Using speeding as a means to
forget is pretty juvenile, he supposes, but fuck that.
The sight of the blacktop disappearing under the hood as
the needle grazes 100 mph is exhilarating in its
simplicity. He stops thinking about the boy's knowing
face. He even forgets his ever-present employers. Maybe
he could just keep going like this. Maybe find a canyon
and just do a Thelma and Louise. Fly into infinity. Stop
in a freeze-frame. But real life doesn't provide a handy
pause-button. There would be an impact sooner or later.
Fire... death. He is a bringer of death, but not for
himself. He wants to live, even if life is little more
than mere survival. He is not a happy man, far fly even
from content, but he is alive. Which is more than you
can say about a lot of the sad fucks he has collided
with in his life.
Empty desert around him. So many unmarked graves out
here. So many dirty secrets, big and small, national and
personal. Quite a few of Krycek's own secrets lie buried
out here, under the blank, indifferent Nevada sky.
He is only a few hours from the California border. He'll
be in Sunnydale before dawn.
He parks his car in an alley and settles in to get some
sleep. It's five-thirty, Sunday morning, and Sunnydale
is a ghost town. He will wake himself around noon and go
looking for his prey. He's checked the calendar, and
full moon's a safe eight days off. He's got the boy's
home address, plus that of his girlfriend, best friend
and, for some reason Krycek can't make out, the high
school librarian.
The kid doesn't come out of his house until after seven
pm, and even then he looks tired and sleep-mussed.
Krycek watches the late sleeper from his stakeout point
across the street. The boy gets into his ridiculous,
zebra-striped van and drives off. Krycek follows,
keeping his distance. The emptiness of the streets is
starting to get on his frayed nerves. There is something
positively ominous about the silence, a note of fear in
the curtained windows. No cars around except the boy's
van and Krycek's grey non-entity of a Nissan. There is
no way the kid won't notice him following if he gets
closer than a block. And just where is he going? They
are driving in circles around the town's tiny downtown
area, up alleys, down alleys, backtracking. It's not an
attempt at shaking a tail; the van never goes beyond 30
mph. It's like... patrolling. Looking for something.
Finally, the van pulls up to the curb and stops. And
there is life there, a slight, blonde girl approaching.
Krycek checks his file. Not the girlfriend, at least.
She's a redhead with a sweet, open face. This is
something else entirely, a little Valkyrie in black
tights. Confidence showing in her step, the cockiness of
her posture, that no-bullshit tilt to the head. A face
that is both sultry and childlike. Tiny, bird-boned, but
powerful in a way that defies clear definition.
Then she glances in his direction and Krycek knows she
knows. Oh, she's fast. Cheetah-fast. In the blink of an
eye, she's by his door, staring at him through the
window. He considers flooring it, but thinks again.
Better play this cool, see what she has to say. He rolls
down his window. Her eyes are chilly, opaque.
"Hi", she says, smiling a sunny and utterly fake smile.
"Hi", he replies, keeping his face neutral, but allowing
the possibility of a smile appear.
"So, who are you?" she goes on. "Another hunter? In with
the mayor, maybe? Or just a government spook?"
"Uh... a spook", he says, fairly truthfully. He realises
he will have to do it now, right here in the middle of
the street. The werewolf boy is right behind the girl,
apprehensive but not afraid.
"What do you want?" the boy asks. His hair isn't red as
in the picture; it's dyed jet black with patches of
electric blue. Ridiculous, like his van. Black nail
polish, too. Small town kid with a little bit of
attitude, indeed. Krycek stares at him until he turns
his eyes down.
"You", Krycek says evenly. He gets out of the car with
studied grace. Notices how the girl, despite her
apparent frailness, gets in between, her hands up in a
fighting stance.
"Uh-huh, Mr G-man", she snarls cockily. He keeps a hand
in his coat pocket, not with a gun, but with a small
ampulla. It would seem like overkill to down a teenage
girl with barbiturates, but he can see the fearless
threat in her face. She isn't afraid of him, and the
only way a young woman won't be afraid of a strong,
obviously threatening man is if she's got one up on him.
And that she has. Her punch is like a snakebite, her
follow-up kick even faster. Strong, too. Krycek knows
almost immediately that she could, given the opportunity
and just a little luck, kill him. He chooses not to give
her the chance. The ampulla with its tiny needle is in
his hand, and he gets her in the shin when she is aiming
for his right kidney. The stuff is strong, hopefully not
too strong, and she's down within five seconds.
The werewolf boy understands what just happened and
makes a futile rush for his car. He is, as opposed to
his friend, no match for Krycek. A quick strike to the
back of the head and he crumples to the concrete. Krycek
shrugs in mild dismay. Fighting children in broad
daylight. Hardly his usual deal.
He carries the girl to the van and stashes her in the
back. She'll wake up with a headache sometimes tomorrow.
Alas, so will Krycek. In fact, he's got aches a little
here and there. She did not fight like a child. Rubbing
his side where he'll surely sport bruises, he goes to
grab the boy and be gone from this place.
Krycek pulls over—they're already in the outskirts of
the desert and the road is empty under darkening skies— and goes around to remove the gag. The boy stays silent.
"How are you feeling?" Krycek asks, hoping he hasn't
caused any unnecessary brain damage in his prize. The
kid shrugs, managing to look cool even in his trussed
state.
"What do you want with me", he asks coldly.
"I'm going to turn you over to some people who want you.
I haven't been informed of their plans." This is
technically true, but of course he knows anyway. There
really is only one thing They would want a werewolf for.
The very same thing they keep men like Krycek himself on
their payroll for—murder and mayhem. The boy's
unthreatening size and cute-quirky face make him a
perfect plant. If there werewolf thing holds true, of
course. If it doesn't, the kid is worthless.
"Are you a werewolf?" Krycek asks, keeping a straight
face. "Because if you aren't, it would be a lot better
for you if I just killed you on the spot."
The boy turns away, not deigning to answer, but his calm
in the face of such a preposterous question is answer
enough.
Krycek gets back in the car and hits the road again.
There is some Holiday Inn room in Nevada with their
names on it.
"What did you do to Buffy?" he asks, and is there the
tiniest tremble in that mellow voice? Krycek is of the
opinion there is.
"Your high-kicking friend? She'll be okay. I had to give
her a sedative, or we would have been there all day.
Perhaps not what you'd call a fair fight, but then she
wasn't exactly what she seemed. Maybe my employers
should have apprehended her instead of you."
"She wouldn't be any use to them. She isn't the servile
type", the boy snorts, his composure regained.
"And you are?" This is only rewarded with a shrug. "You
are a cold fish, boy. Been through a little more than
your average high school senior?"
"You could say that."
"Your file says you took a bullet for your girlfriend.
Self-sacrificing type, then?"
"There are things worth dying for. I wouldn't expect a
man like you to understand." Now, that stings. Krycek
knows the boy is right, of course. He has long ago
deserted any noble principles he might have harbored.
Round about the first time he found himself sucking a
stranger's cock for just a few rubles more that he would
pay for a loaf of bread, he thinks.
"Where are you taking me?" the kid asks.
"Not sure. I'll be informed in time."
"How can they do this? Who the hell are they? What do
they want with me?" For the first time, Krycek hears
fear in the boy's voice. He searches for some kind of
answer.
"Let's just say they're a small group of megalomaniacal
geriatrics who have gotten so used to having power over
people that they can't stop even when their little
project has become an excercise in futility. I'm pretty
close to the core, but I'm still just the busboy. You're
nothing; you're an interesting experiment. You have the
potential to become something like me, perhaps, possibly
more, but most likely is that they'll find you too damn
dangerous and lock you in a lab cage with the monkeys
for the rest of your natural life. That is if they don't
have you put down like a rabid dog." Here Krycek has to
stop to draw breath, and he realises that he has
delivered a speech. A rant, in fact. And with that
epiphany comes another. He has no intention whatsoever
of turning this boy over to any Morley-puffing sadist.
There is no explanation for this decision as of yet.
Krycek lets the car pick up a little speed... and then
some, trying perhaps to outrun his own foolishness, this
unaccustomed sentimentality that will surely get him
killed. The night rushes past, but it refuses to take
with it any of this inexplicable resolve. Thelma and
Louise, eternally hovering over their canyon, flash
before Krycek's eyes again. Oh, no. Not that. That would
be quite unnecessary.
"Are we in a hurry?" The boy's voice is calm again, dry.
Oh, and is that sarcasm? A cold fish. That fear Krycek
caught earlier... it might have been faked. Or just a
crack in the armor. Whatever it was, it's gone now, and
the boy's eyes are shallow pools of muddy water. Krycek
reflects that this kid could be an excellent agent. Just
the right blank-faced stare, those tightly shackled
emotions. Maybe I could use an apprentice. Maybe I
could use a companion.
Now he has to drive just that little bit faster to shake
that little nugget of wisdom. It is thankfully swept
out of his head, torn loose, out of the window and there
it goes, flapping into the night, spinning around the
desert in a herd of other likewise righteously abandoned
abortive attempts at instilling humanity in the
shuttered and bolted heart of that mad bad rat bastard
Alex Krycek. Losing it. This is looking grim. But
then again, things have been looking pretty much
uniformly grim ever since he first hit the Moscow
streets age thirteen. He shoots the silent boy a heated
glance, suddenly resentful of the kid's chances. This
well-fed, all-American boy has never known real hunger.
Would he understand Krycek's motivation even if they
spat him in the face? Probably not. This desperate need
for survival that comes not so much from any particular
lust for life, but simply from the fact that one is
loath to give up something paid for so dearly.
Well, now this line of thought is giving him the
shivers. He slows down a little, and they are no longer
in hyperspace. Krycek has other ways of emptying his
mind of unwanted guests. Think about something else. The
lights of some little shithole wide spot in the road up
ahead. A Holiday Inn. Gas Food Lodging. How very
convenient. He is suddenly exhausted. His captive is
perfectly still, slumped in his seat. His eyes are
hooded, distant. No one home.
"Now you hold my hand. Of course, it goes without saying
that I'll kill anyone you try to talk to."
"Of course." The boy, stonefaced, slips his child-sized
hand into Krycek's.
Safely in their squalid but relatively clean room,
Krycek shackles his impassive prisoner to a chair and
indulges in a long, well-deserved shower. He comes out
of it refreshed, calm and feeling uncharacteristically
magnanimous. He uncuffs the boy.
"You can use the bathroom if you want to. I will take
the liberty of watching, though, so for your sake I hope
you're not too much of a prude." There was no reply, not
even a scathing glance. The boy, the very image of cool,
simply marches to the small bathroom and starts shucking
his clothes. Krycek sits down on the toilet seat,
keeping his eyes carefully on the boy. Not beneath him
to take a good look other than for security reasons,
either. This is, after all, a fairly strapping lad, in a
not-too-obvious way. Not quite as frail as he looks
fully clothed, not by half. Pale, translucent skin of
the true redhead. Hard, flat muscle. Not an ounce of fat
anywhere. Werewolves probably don't get a chance to
accumulate any puppy-flab. Smooth, hairless chest, ribs
showing like faint striations under the taut skin.
Nipples small, dark pink. A truly delightful ass.
Krycek catches himself. This isn't the fucking swimsuit
round. And now he feels eyes upon himself, and it's the
kid of course, not so impassive now—more clearly
calculating, appraising. Working things out. Krycek
almost blushes, like a girl caught peeping at the
top-shelf magazines in the K-mart. The boy's eyes show
just a shadow of contempt, and Krycek suddenly gets it.
The kid has started to suspect his intentions. Thinking
maybe that conspiracy thing is nothing but a smoke
screen for a perv to green to get on with it. Oh,
Christ. Sure, the kid is pretty enough. And in the size
of jailbait, to boot. No doubt he's heard his share of
propositions.
Krycek's mouth curls into a helpless grin. He is this
fucking close to giggling. The kid frowns, trying to get
this unexpected reaction.
"What?" he finally says, exasperated. Krycek puts a lid
on his effervescent mirth.
"You thought I was going to jump your bones right then,
didn't you? I found that rather amusing." A brief flash
of... something in those storm cloud-colored eyes. Ah,
emotion, how rare.
"Well, you were ogling me like the wolf meeting Little
Red Riding Hood."
"But you're the only wolf in here. Not saying that I
don't appreciate the view, but rape isn't included in my
job description." Not this time, anyway, he concedes to
himself. But this young stud needen't know that.
The boy looks calculating again.
"Would it help my situation at all if it did?" he asks.
Krycek is momentarily stunned. He had figured this kid
to be the proud unrelenting kind, and now this. Spoken
like a true slut. A survivor. Someone just like Krycek
himself. No one you could ever trust, but a kindred
spirit nevertheless.
"Of course not. You can't buy me when you don't even
know who to bargain with. I am the bow, not the hunter.
But thanks graciously for the offer anyway. Maybe
there's hope for you in this cold, old world."
Krycek lets his mind wander free as he watches the boy
shower, enjoying the view idly, without allowing himself
to be aroused by the sight of those thin hands on soapy,
slick skin. For a moment, something approaching
contentment calms his nerves. One moment. No demands, no
desires. Just the steamy room, the calm and collected
boy. Hovering over the Grand Canyon. A cocoon of peace,
the eye of the storm.
Then his cell phone goes off with its annoying,
ill-biding bleat. 'Pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine
ear'. Fleeting line. Old man Shakespeare has a quote
for every occasion. Get a fucking grip.
Anonymous, robot-emotionless voice. Hang on, we're
getting a trace. On their way already. Do or die. End
game for the exquisite creature in the shower. A blink
of worry in grey eyes.
And Krycek knows fear, knows desperation. Cold urgency.
What is wrong with me? The boy... that boy. Ridiculous
hair, chipped black nail polish. Steam swirling; soap
suds and flawless skin over sleek muscle. Pretty,
rounded ass. Face almost oriental in its blank
immobility.
Treacherous fingers switch off the phone. Grab the boy,
make him move. Flee. And this is truly rebellion. Going
AWOL. Betrayal? They have left him dangling so many
times the word is empty now. A man like him trusts no
one, and with all reason. Helps no one. So what is this
man doing, dragging his hapless, half-clothed prisoner
soaking wet into the night, to the waiting car? No
questions, no protests. Fuck the cuffs, we're gone.
And the desert again, blackness. The phone out the
window and still no second thoughts. Just let the night
rush in, swallow us whole, kidnapper turned savior,
victim turned accomplish, but they don't know that yet,
won't acknowledge the preposterous idea. Won't. Can't.
I'll change my mind any minute now, he still thinks.
After all, self-deception is his most valuable trait.
Faster. Where to go? This country isn't big enough.
Nowhere to hide from Their tentacles. Home. Safehouse.
Is there anywhere to take this lost boy, uprooted now
and forever from his strange Californian backwater home
with all the finality of death. To save a life is to be
responsible for it. Even this wild-eyed, irrational man
knows that. So what is he doing, speeding through gentle
night with this stolen life next to him? Stupid, stupid.
The end of his life. He doesn't know himself anymore.
"Where are you taking me?" the boy asks. A little chill
of deja vu there.
"Shut the fuck up", Krycek growls crudely, not trusting
himself to really speak. The boy is silenced. After a
while, Krycek relents.
"Do you want to be saved?" Let none of those
caleidoscope emotions shine through. The boy raises an
elegant, auburn eyebrow.
"Are you selling Jesus?"
"You can't have your life back, that's beyond me. But I
can give you a chance to survive. Just a chance."
"What are you doing?" Sharp, this boy. Asks the right
questions.
"Committing suicide, from the look of it. And the taste.
But the smell, kid. Smells like freedom."
"Why me?"
"Fuck should I know. Call it fate. Call it fucking
insanity."
"I'm not calling it anything until I hear some sort of
game plan. I'm looking hard at the picture here, but
it's a Mondrian. All style and no content."
"Look closer, kid. It's more like a Munch. All emotion
and no reason."
"I hear you. So you analyze. I don't have the Cliff's
Notes on this one."
"I can drop you off, let you run. But then I might as
well put a silver bullet in your brain. They'll come
after you; you're a loose end now. So am I, but I've
been on the run before. You won't last a day."
"Maybe you're underestimating me."
"Maybe you're underestimating them."
"So it's a Terminator type situation, then?"
"Hmm?"
"'He feels no pain, no pity, no remorse. And he
absolutely will not stop until you are dead'..?"
"That's right."
"So, I'm Sarah Connor, you're Reese, and we'll have one
night of life-altering passion before you kindly die for
me and I go off the walls and join some Nicaraguan
terrorists. Sounds good to me. Sounds like bullshit,
actually."
"Yes it does. I haven't made a habit out of dying for
anyone, especially not smart-mouthed Californian brats
with painted nails."
"Gracious. And I thought it was the In thing right now.
Don't get me wrong here, but it seems you have abandoned
the script pretty late into the shoot. Ad-lib is the
word, right? You just did a one-eighty. A Thelma and
Louise, even." Jesus, time to put a lid on this
nonsense.
"Watch your mouth, kid, or I will run us off a cliff.
And let's drop the pop-culture references."
"Right. Just you, me, and the open road, then. You make
the call. I'm not really clear on my options."
"Let's see, I might manage a Terminator soundbite of my
own. 'Come with me if you want to live'. How's that?"
"Spoken like a true geek. You're full of surprises, Mr
Secret Agent Man."
"This is not the place for glib."
"No, but I'm just a little bit petrified, and I buckle
under pressure and start sprouting nonsense. No, wait...
that's not me. I'm the cool one."
"You are sprouting nonsense."
"I know. It's... alarming."
"This is something of an alarming situation."
"How bad is it?"
"Well, if we keep a low profile, they might give up on
us in a few years."
"So the Terminator analogy is just a smoke-screen?"
"No. They'll probably find us. We'll be little piles of
dirt under someone's chicken house."
"Oh."
No smart-aleck response. Nothing more to add. Just the
road in front of the car, the black, star-studded sky
above. The boy curls up in his seat and promptly falls
asleep. Krycek is alone with these new fears he is
discovering. He finds himself wishing he had gotten this
strange new weakness out of his system and into the
blackbound notebook. Now it is too late for regrets. So
what is he now? A better person for this small mercy,
this one life he has attempted to save? What is he
giving up? And empty life for one filled with new
insecurities? What does he hope will come of this? He
can't find his motive for doing this. The boy? Just
another victim. Nothing he hasn't witnessed before.
I should find that canyon now. This isn't me, so
better to be done with it. Take him with me to hell.
But that is a thought even more alien to him than the
notion of selflessness. Alex Krycek doesn't say Uncle.
The steel in him is still there, the spiky ball of a
mine in oily water.
Is there a chance here? He looks at the still form of
the boy, a still-nameless presence in the lonely, bitter
existence of the street walker-turned-assassin. A
chance, surely.
He reaches out and shakes the boy awake. Sleepy storm
cloud eyes. Acceptance.
"...huh..?"
"What's your name?" He has the file, but he never saw a
name.
"Oz." Ridiculous. But perfect.
"I'm Alex."
Time for a shot of our heroes rushing off into the
rising sun, the desert the only witness.
Take Me Away
by Wax Jism
This feels so... good, so funky, to do it like this,
in a place where nobody knows his name. To just abandon
reason. The notebook is black, as should be, empty so
far, but brimming with promise. Alex Krycek turns it
over in his hands, his eyes going just a little blank,
oh, but for a second, of course. This is a man known not
for introspection, but for action. He bases his
decisions mostly on the kind of unerring intuition that
is so prized by his employers. Sometimes cold
calculation plays a part. But to look into his own
heart... to analyze. No, that is not a trait Krycek has
found reason to nourish through the years. Still,
tonight, in this dingy roadside bar, on his way to yet
another mission to destroy life and bring new suffering
into the world, holding this crisp, new notebook, he
feels an unaccustomed need to get to know himself. To
pour down a lifetime's worth of hardship and violence
onto these shiny blank pages. It is probably not a good
idea, considering what he has done, what he is still
doing. His justification will probably crumble at any
deeper introspection.
They are well outside town when the young werewolf
finally comes to. Krycek has been feeling just a little
pinch of concern that he might have clipped the kid too
hard. The file helpfully stated that werewolves can't be
killed the usual way, but the boy had gone down so
completely... well, no worries, here he is again, cuffed
and gagged, alive and ready to serve. He doesn't fight
his restraints, doesn't try to scream through the gag,
only watches Krycek with eerie calm.
Maybe an hour of driving through dark, unchanging desert
before the boy loses his cool and speaks.
Krycek pulls into the Holiday Inn lot. He briefly
considers leaving the boy in the car while he gets the
room, but immediately scraps that. Instead, he cuffs the
kid's right hand to his own left, and pulls down their
coat sleeves to cover the steel.
