Consequential Loss - cont

By Joann H
joannhere@gmail.com


RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
Part 7
 
Having baked and eaten his late-night-going-on-early-morning snack
of lasagna, Mulder had returned to the living room to sit for
hours, eyes directed at the TV but utterly clueless about what he
was watching. He'd paused from staring at the screen only for long
enough to glare at Krycek when the man offered him a cup of hot
chocolate.  
 
Inside this building with its special paint he could almost forget
that he was a freak, though the very fact that he was here with
Krycek rather than home with Scully seemed to disprove that theory.
The files were equally clear on the matter.  
 
If his test scores really were those filed under 73/378671 rather
than 73/292544 then the lie was at least consistent - he'd seen
those record numbers on the files in the Strughold Mine in Virginia
years before. Not that he doubted that these people could assemble
a set of consistent lies, just that the lie seemed to span too many
years and information sources to have been manufactured for this
particular occasion.  
 
Found himself grimly amused by that idea. What the hell did he
know? Kritschgau once told him that his whole life had been
fabricated, including most of his experiences on the X-Files. But
if he couldn't trust what he'd seen, heard and felt, then what
could he trust?  
 
Scully. He wanted Scully. Not just to read the files with him and
tell him that they made no sense or to point out what mattered and
what did not. Not just to give him a couple of pills and order him
to get some sleep. He needed her. Just her.  
 
"I'm going home," he said, trying to keep both his tone and his
expression bland as he spoke to Krycek.  
 
"They won't let you."  
 
Exhaustion segued into anger. Wasn't he supposed to be some kind of
mind-reader? Surely that was going to give him all the edge he
needed. "So you keep saying. Well fuck you, Krycek. Who's this
'they' you keep talking about and why the hell would they suddenly
want me now? They've had thirty-nine years to come and get me."  
 
Krycek scanned him slowly, a head to toe sweep as if looking for
something that ought to be there but wasn't. "Jesus, you're an
asshole," Krycek said at last. "Remember that brain surgery that
Cancerman arranged for you? It didn't do him a lot of good, but he
did get to see inside your head. Nice thought, eh? He told one of
the doctors what he'd seen, course he was drugged up to the
eyeballs at the time so no one took him too seriously. But they did
decide to run a few trials. You know if your landlord offers to
decorate your apartment you really should analyze the paint first."  
 
Mulder started to respond but the words froze on his lips. He
slumped deeper into the cushions on the couch. Not another
magnetite cocktail? "Oh shit."  
 
"You know it's true."  
 
"The hospital I went to when I started hearing the noises again?"  
 
"Yeah," Krycek shook his head, smirking slightly. "Where'd you find
your specialist, Mulder?"  
 
Mulder could feel it all now, closing in around him, making it hard
to breathe. He drew on his energy reserves, needing to get through
this in one hit. "I read about him on the Internet. Specialist
subject - electro encephalitic analysis. Neurosurgeon. He'd
investigated the link between epileptic seizures and alien
abduction experiences. Recently moved from Chicago to
Philadelphia."  
 
Krycek laughed, a single beat of horrified amusement. "Sounds like
a marriage made in heaven."  
 
"Shit." Mulder rocked his head back to relieve the tension in his
neck. "I checked his career history."  
 
"You checked his history, you didn't check that you were meeting
the man who'd lived it."  
 
"So if I'm supposed to be a mind reader how come I couldn't read
his?"  
 
"Right now - you're tuned to humans. And not even very well tuned
to them. You can thank my father for that."  
 
The implications of that were rather more than Mulder wanted to
think about. "This place, the quarry, it's like an echo chamber.
It's full of noise."  
 
"The brain's adaptable, damage part of it and with any luck,
providing the damage isn't too great, another part will take over
its duties. With the right encouragement of course. Your brain's
repairing itself, making new pathways, bypassing the damage. With a
little help from our nanite friends."  
 
How much would he give to have Scully at his side right now. "If I
go outside into the quarry all I hear are people screaming."  
 
"Loudest signals. You'll learn to tune in to a single voice and
filter out the rest."  
 
It was Mulder's turn to snort at that. "You're going to teach me!"  
 
"I'm going to give you Gibson Praise's file."  
 
---------  
 
Arriving a couple of minutes early in the meeting room, Skinner
hovered in the no man's land at the back, nodding towards
colleagues but signaling with his expression that he wouldn't
welcome conversation. Doggett's team was much reduced from those
heady first days after Mulder's disappearance when everyone was
trying to look hopeful.  
 
Yet today, even though Mulder had been missing for more than two
weeks, there was a buzz of anticipation and when Skinner saw the
other door swing open he understood why.  
 
Scully walked towards the whiteboard ready to assume the driving
seat; Doggett hovered a couple of paces behind.  
 
"This is Alex Krycek," she announced, silencing the room without so
much as a hello and pressing the button to bring up an image on the
screen. "And this is the photograph of Alex Krycek currently in the
FBI's computerized files." The image of another man, similar in
generalities like eye color and age, but different in specifics,
appeared on the screen. "We have reason to believe that the records
have been deliberately altered and we are trying to reconstruct the
file from the original source material. Meanwhile, we've put
together the best information and pictures we've got. Copies are
being distributed now."  
 
"Alex Krycek," said Doggett, stepping forward to take over the task
of leading the meeting, "was here to speak with Agents Mulder and
Scully the day before Mulder's disappearance. He was offering
information. When he left here, he went to great lengths to cover
his tracks. His name appears on an airline manifest and a man
claiming to be him visited our New York office. I've spoken with
the agents there. The man they saw was not Alex Krycek." Doggett
waved towards the screen, which was now showing another image, this
time of a leather-jacketed Krycek.  
 
"We need to find the man who went to the field office, and who
really boarded that flight, and we need to know where the real Alex
Krycek is now."  
 
"You're saying this Krycek guy might have Mulder?" asked one of the
older agents, sitting somewhere near the front.  
 
"There was at least one vehicle unaccounted for in the forest that
night. Alex Krycek may have been its driver."  
 
"I thought thirty other people went missing at the same time."  
 
"The sheriff's office and state police are handling that
investigation and we're cooperating in every way, but our focus is
on Agent Mulder's disappearance."  
 
Skinner sat in silence. He'd come to the meeting resigned to a role
of ghostly conscience rather than active participant. Now he was
witnessing the start of an investigation that could cost him his
job and maybe even his liberty. Three things had been changed in
Krycek's file - the photo, the fingerprints and some of the details
in the medical profile.  
 
When the formal meeting broke up, the agents clustered around
Doggett to receive their assignments. The photo in Krycek's fake
file was not of the man who appeared on the airport and Bureau
security footage as Krycek's substitute. Which meant that they had
at least two people to find, and that at least one of them was a
witting accomplice who might have information on the real Krycek's
movements or at least on his finances.  
 
Stunned by the implications, Skinner rocked back in his chair.
Krycek's personnel file hadn't seemed terribly important last
month, so unimportant compared to a UFO in an Oregon forest and
everything that had happened since Mulder's disappearance that
Skinner had allowed himself to ignore its significance.  
 
Analyzing the odds, Skinner came to the swift conclusion that he
really didn't have any choice. Doggett wasn't stupid and Scully
probably already knew what had happened. Skinner's only hope was
that Scully might also want to know why.  
 
"Agent Scully," said Skinner unnecessarily, her eyes had been
locked on his since the moment he'd started to walk towards her.
"I'd like to talk with you - in private."  
 
"Agent Doggett's just finishing up. Should we come to your office?"  
 
Damn it. The icy look in her eyes matched her coolly polite tone.
He tried again, added a little managerial edge to his voice, more
in hope than anticipation. "I'd appreciate a private word. Now,
Agent Scully."  
 
"Of course, sir."  
 
Skinner felt like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. A deserved
blow, he admitted, wondering how the hell he was going to get
through the next half hour.  
 
They left together, Scully having paused to exchange a nod of
confirmation with Doggett.  
 
Bugs, he remembered, surveillance in his office and in hers. "I
think it might be better if we had this conversation away from the
building."  
 
"I don't think that would be a good idea, sir."  
 
Another gut punch, this one catching him a little low and making it
very hard to breathe. He nodded, horrified. She didn't trust him
and though it shook him, it was hard to blame her. She'd trusted
him to watch over Mulder and look what had happened there. Neutral
territory then, they agreed to use the cafeteria for the
discussion.  
 
"I think you know what I'm going to say."  
 
"I'd prefer to hear you say it."  
 
It crossed his mind that she might be wearing a wire. Not that it
mattered, not really. The formal investigation was one thing; he
just wanted to her to understand. "I knew Krycek's file had been
changed."  
 
"Why didn't you report it?"  
 
"There were no outstanding warrants against him. We had nothing
that we could take to trial. If ever we get anything on him, then
it won't be affected by the picture on his Bureau jacket." He knew
that he was babbling now, rushing the words and ashamed both of the
cover-up and his attempt at self-justification. "Anyway, you don't
need to go back to the original source materials - I've got a copy
of his file."  
 
"As have I and I'm sure, if I were to search Agent Mulder's files,
I could find another copy."  
 
"Scully," her eyebrow rose, and Skinner flinched. "Agent Scully,"
he corrected. "I - if I had thought for one moment that Krycek had
something planned, then I'd never have let him get anywhere near
you, either of you."  
 
"Looks like you thought wrong."  
 
--------  
 
Mulder's head was reeling, spinning from too many hours staring at
that damned stupid small screen and trying to make the pieces fit.
Desperate to discuss what he was seeing and experiencing with the
people he could trust, he was flailing, drowning on dry land. He
needed to talk this through with the right people, the right
person, the woman whose voice could simultaneously soothe him and
drive him on.  
 
The mundanity of the noise from the kitchen, the sounds of food
being chopped and pans being moved just made it worse. The smell of
something life-sustaining and even edible should have been
pleasant, instead it just made him angry.  
 
"I want Thai," he grumbled. Even a pizza would do, just so long as
it was something that got delivered by some bored kid in a stupid
uniform rather than prepared in a room that looked like it had
escaped from an episode of That 70s Show.  
 
"Oh, shit." OK, so he wasn't being fair. What did fair have to do
with anything? Stir crazy, he admitted, amused by the predictable
idiocy of his reactions. Fifteen hundred miles from home, a million
miles from being able to talk to the people he loved, studying
files that forecast the subjugation of mankind and maybe even its
annihilation within a matter of years, trapped with an assassin
who'd killed his father and who'd taken a little timeout at the
start of this trip to kill someone else.  
 
Complaining about Krycek's culinary skills? At best it showed a
lack of perspective. At worst it spoke of dysfunction and a
dangerous dance with cabin fever and violent overreaction. Ah, to
hell with it, he decided, at least it was one up on depression. His
brain slithered unwillingly into self-diagnosis and offered
Seasonal Affective Disorder as an alternative, which was kind of
ironic, given that they were heading into summer, and the heat some
days was already climbing towards the stifling.  
 
Still, the fact was, since those miserable days spent cowering in
the caves he'd scarcely been outdoors, and this apartment though
surprisingly comfortable was definitely not built with thoughts of
natural light in mind. Moreover, he wasn't even able to exercise
the way he liked - no running, no swimming, no games of pick-up in
the local gym.  
 
"Mulder?" Mulder looked up at the sound of Krycek's worried voice
and was presented with the bizarre image of a one armed assassin
for hire, dressed entirely in gray apart from a striped towel
thrown over his shoulder. He was leaning against the kitchen
doorframe, armed only with a wooden spoon. Mulder resisted the
sudden urge to throw something.  
 
"I want Thai," said Mulder.  
 
Krycek looked briefly amused, sobered up fast to offer more words
of concern. "I was talking to you; you didn't hear me. I thought
you'd found something in the files. Something else."  
 
Mulder had found plenty, but he was sure there was plenty more to
be found. "I've got to go out."  
 
"Mulder."  
 
"Just for an hour or so. I need to move."  
 
Krycek nodded but didn't agree. "I don't think you're ready. Gibson
Praise - "  
 
"Forget the lecture." He started to fasten his running shoes.  
 
"Give me a minute," said Krycek, sliding back into the kitchen,
presumably to turn things off, as Mulder headed for the door.  
 
Mulder was already cowering against the metalwork of the pickup
truck when Krycek appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking
worried and sounding like he cared. "Mulder, get back inside."  
 
"Fuck you."  
 
"Mulder," he said again, arriving at Mulder's side, his hand
resting on the agent's shoulder. "Come on, back inside."  
 
Mulder turned and swung. Krycek, responding late, could only
deflect the blow so it bounced off the edge of his ear. "Bastard,"
he complained, and brought his knee up in a fast motion that Mulder
only dodged by letting himself fall backwards before the full
weight of it struck home.  
 
Krycek was on him in an instant, pinning Mulder down with a hand
forced up under his jaw, momentarily catching the agent off-guard
and leaving him winded. Resting his weight on Mulder's chest,
Krycek paused for a moment, breathing hard.  
 
Mulder started to buck and Krycek awkwardly raised his left arm as
if preparing to take a swing, before suddenly pushing himself up
again, jumping back to his feet and retreating to stand a couple of
yards further away. "Forget it, Mulder," he said, lifting his hands
briefly in a gesture of surrender before digging in his pocket to
pull out a bunch of keys, including one to the truck. He threw them
to the ground at the agent's side. "Lie there gibbering. Come
inside. Go home. I don't give a fuck."  
 
Krycek had almost succeeded in making the dramatic gesture complete
by storming back into the building when Mulder started to laugh.
"That was great," he howled, feeling suddenly wide awake,
practically rocking with amusement on the ground, startled back
into the present after days of reading about the past.  
 
After the initial buzz faded Mulder was gratified to see that
Krycek still lingered in the doorway, stiff shouldered and
breathing hard. "I needed that, so did you. Come on; don't deny it.
This goes on any longer we're going to kill each other."  
 
"This?" demanded Krycek, turning slowly.  
 
"This - being polite, acting like we're roomies in the first week
at school. It's only a matter of time. You're going to hand me a
slice of meatloaf and I'm going to stick a fork through your eye."  
 
"This a long-standing fantasy of yours?"  
 
"I've got to do something. Go for a run or something."  
 
"You shouldn't go too far from the building."  
 
"Yes, mom." The basketball hoop caught Mulder's eye and he
remembered the ball he'd seen on top of one of the storage lockers.
That would be good. Mindless focus, he could get himself drunk on
the movement and forget all the screams. He looked across at
Krycek, wondering if maybe - he caught sight of the hairless
unnatural look of his left hand and swallowed, looking away again.
Maybe he could just do a few dozen laps of the building?  
 
"Bastard," said Krycek, appearing as if my magic only a couple of
feet in front of him. "You could at least try to hide it."  
 
Mulder shook his head, not wanting to understand.  
 
"The pity! I might not be a mind-reader but even you normally do
better than that."  
 
Mulder didn't try to reply, just stood there as the wave of
Krycek's pain and anger washed over him, turned his head as a baby
screamed in the distance. Hands rubbing against his eyes as
hundreds of voices started to shout in his ears asking him for
something he couldn't understand and certainly couldn't give.  
 
Fingers on his shoulder again and Krycek was suddenly pushing a
ball into Mulder's hands and demanding to know if he was just
scared, "of getting whupped by a one-armed man."  
 
A plastic hand tapped him impatiently on the back, pushing him
towards the hoop. "Got game?" asked Krycek, momentarily drowning
out the sea of noise.  
 
They played like demons, or perhaps just fools; they played till it
hurt to laugh and it was laughable how much it hurt. By the time
they got back inside it was almost dark and the only thing left to
do was shower and eat and maybe knock back a couple of beers and
watch TV.  
 
It didn't do to get too comfortable though. "What?" demanded Mulder
when he noticed that Krycek was staring at him again.  
 
"How did you cope out there?"  
 
"You could at least try to hide it - the pity."  
 
"How? You're the mind-reader."  
 
Mulder saluted him with the beer can. Shook his head. "I'm not, not
really. I can do those ESP, 'is it a cat or a house,' card games
with you, provided we both concentrate. I can hear emotions. I can
tell when you're lying." Mulder paused for just long off enough to
allow Krycek to focus on him. "Yeah, you've got your mouth open and
there are words coming out."  
 
Krycek snorted at that, almost choking on the swig of beer he'd
just taken.  
 
Tension relieved, Mulder decided to keep talking. "The rawer the
emotion, the better I can hear it. There was a baby."  
 
"Mulder," said Krycek, almost soothing.  
 
"I thought someone was hurting it. But it had no beginning, no
ending, no sense of who or what it was. And then I realized, it was
a new-born, just coming into the world. I heard the shock of it.
The cold, the brightness, the noise."  
 
"Shit."  
 
"Ah, you old romantic, you. Anyway. The more primitive the emotion,
the louder it sounds."  
 
"Can you hear me?"  
 
"Yeah, you just asked if I can hear you."  
 
That earned Mulder another mumbled, "bastard," and a single raised
digit in reply.  
 
"No, I can't hear you. Not now. Not like this. You aren't very
primitive at all."  
 
Krycek nodded, a softly amused look in his eyes. "I think that
might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."  
 
 
END of Part 7  

TITLE: Consequential Loss
RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann H - joannhere@gmail.com

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

My apologies for the slow/fast/haphazard posting
pattern. I'd tell you it was due to circumstances
beyond my control but that doesn't really tell
you anything!


LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
Part 8
 
 
Skinner's admission that he'd known about the modifications to
Krycek's file had caused uproar; his immediate suspension had been
the minimum that the organization could do to protect itself. 
 
The Bureau rumor mill was working overtime. Even those who normally
would have moved to suppress speculation and innuendo found
themselves swept up in it. After all, most of them were first and
foremost detectives; hand them some clues and they'd try to make
them add up. For many of them it was the most intriguing case
they'd seen in years. 
 
Every myth, every rumor, every piece of idle gossip from Mulder's
years on the X-Files was being dredged up, dissected, embellished
and passed around to be thrown into a melting pot in which fact met
fantasy and emerged, transformed into something uglier and louder. 
 
Psychosis was diagnosed by those who took Mulder's interest in
little green men, rolled it up with a man who'd always been a
little too good at hunting psychopaths, and added in the spice of a
couple of stays on psych wards. "Probably Skinner who got him out
of trouble then as well," suggested some of them, anxious to add a
structure to the seemingly impossible scenario of an Assistant
Director deliberately sabotaging an investigation into an agent's
disappearance. 
 
A coward, suggested those who thought Mulder had run from financial
irregularities, a debilitating illness and a ball-breaking partner
who'd started demanding something that His Spookiness couldn't
deliver. 
 
A victim said some of them. An honest if eccentric agent captured
and killed by one of those people who he'd striven to put away. 
 
Doggett tried to shield Scully from the worst of it. Scully
pretended that she couldn't hear. 
 
Kersh summoned Doggett and Scully to his office and presented them
with photographs of a body found in a DC meat locker. "Broken neck
- consistent with a fall down stairs, according to the ME,"
announced the Deputy Director. 
 
"Cancerman," said Scully, not quite believing her eyes. 
 
"What?" asked Doggett. "Who's he?" 
 
Kersh responded with bureaucratic precision. "C.G.B. Spender was a
senior officer with the DoD. That's all you need to know." 
 
"A spook? So what does this have to do with Mulder's
disappearance?" 
 
"His colleagues are aware of a history of animosity between Agent
Mulder and this man. They've also confirmed that Alex Krycek worked
for him at one point. For the rest - I suggest you ask Agent Scully
and Assistant Director Skinner." 
 
Scully had her bearings again now. "I'd like to examine the body,
sir." 
 
Kersh looked at her for a moment, as if considering it, before
closing down the shutters. "You may view the body from an
appropriate distance in the presence of the pathologist who
conducted the post-mortem. You will not approach the body or the
evidence associated with it." 
 
"May I ask why not?" 
 
"Cross contamination, Agent Scully. They're looking for trace
evidence - you were in contact with Mulder and Krycek. I can't
allow the evidence to be compromised or challenged in any way." 
 
From two weeks ago! She knew what he was saying, if they found a
rogue hair amongst the contents of the evidence bags then it
wouldn't have been placed there by her. Too astute to accuse her
outright of dishonesty, he'd offered a face-saving formula.
Arrogant prick. 
 
"Then I'd like to look at the trace evidence, sir," said Doggett. 
 
Kersh nodded his approval. 
 
Later, after reading the stack of witness statements already
gathered and following a fruitless journey to Quantico in which all
Scully learned was that she felt no pleasure in seeing Spender
dead, Doggett tried to tell her what he'd learned. 
 
"It's too much of a coincidence, that man dying, Mulder and Krycek
missing." 
 
To Scully, that was only part of the picture. "The surprise is we
found the body, not typical in that community; they usually like to
handle this kind of thing themselves. Somebody wanted the FBI to
know he was dead and wanted his time of death to be uncertain. The
very fact that his 'colleagues' are even talking to us is
suspicious." 
 
Doggett looked like he was trying not to groan, but managed to
formulate a reply. "Maybe it's time you told me a little more about
your connection to him." 
 
"We were investigating him. Not enough evidence to bring charges.
He had a lot of protection, including Kersh." 
 
"Investigating? According to one of those witness statements you
spent the weekend with him, not very long ago." 
 
"He offered information; I went to see it." 
 
"And the outcome?" 
 
"Nothing, a dead end." 
 
"I didn't see a report from you in the files." 
 
"It was a dead end." 
 
His eyes softened, worried lines of sympathy formed around his
mouth. "Did that man do something to you?" 
 
Scully stared at him, horrified, felt her stomach try to leave her
body, yet stood her ground. 
 
"That weekend you were missing," continued Doggett. "Did something
happen? Did Mulder find out about it?" 
 
Did it? Had that monster made this pregnancy possible? Had he made
this pregnancy? Not now, she reminded herself. Not here. Not in
front of this man who Kersh had placed at her side and who was
really still a stranger to her. "No," she said crisply, as if it
were the most stupid question she'd heard in years. 
 
Doggett looked angry and Scully couldn't really blame him. She was
angry too, but it was Doggett whose words came quicker and deadlier
than anything she'd prepared. "Mulder filed a report, I've checked
the dates - it said you were missing. A.D. Skinner rejected his
request to investigate. Seems like you two didn't always keep one
another informed about your plans." 
 
Scully tried to pretend it didn't hurt and Doggett shook his head.
"Kersh asked me if you should be working this case. Don't make me
regret saying yes." 
 
She jumped at the opening, tried to spin the challenge straight
back at him. "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? Do
you think I'm your enemy, Agent Doggett?" 
 
"I thought you were a good agent, and that you deserved the chance
to find Mulder. I thought when you dropped Skinner you proved that
you were serious about this investigation." 
 
Dropped Skinner? That was a hell of a way to phrase it, but she
didn't want to argue the point. Not right now. "I want to find
Mulder. Whatever it takes." She was back on terra firma now. She
challenged him to deny it. When he didn't, she carried on talking.
"You want to know if Krycek could have killed Spender? Sure, he had
means, motive and opportunity." 
 
"And Agent Mulder - could he have killed Spender?" 
 
"Not in cold blood." 
 
"And if it had been self-defence, to protect someone, an accident?" 
 
"He'd have called it in." 
 
She hoped the words sounded confident. She hoped he wasn't going to
push for more. Mulder had killed before without filing a report,
shot a man spying on his apartment, dragged the body down into his
living room, destroyed his face and left him to be found. 
 
But that was different, wasn't it, and Doggett didn't need to know
about any of that. 
 
Mercifully, Doggett just nodded and let it go. Despite the silence,
they both knew the score. The words were out there and though she
denied that Mulder was a suspect in Spender's death she knew that
her new partner hadn't discarded the possibility. It was OK. She
could live with his suspicion so long as it didn't interfere with
her mission to find Mulder. 
 
-------- 
 
The truth was the Office of Professional Responsibility had already
found Skinner guilty despite the fact the formal meeting hadn't
even begun. His office had been sealed. Permission to search his
car and home had been effectively demanded rather than requested
and he'd given it rather than have it taken. 
 
The assumption of guilt already sat heavily on his shoulders
without handing them more ammunition. His bank accounts, phone
records and credit card dealings were open for inspection. 
 
Cooperating fully with the enquiry meant offering up every detail
of his life to scrutiny. For the first time in years he was able to
admit that he was glad that he lived alone, that there was no one
at home to share the pain or the shame. 
 
Domestically, solitude was a relief and an escape, but
professionally it was terrifying, and he hadn't really been
prepared for that. He'd been threatened with death or disgrace
before because of his association with the X-Files but on those
occasions Mulder had always been willing to listen. Scully's trust
had been precious to him, but had never been an automatic thing.
She needed to weigh up the evidence for herself and this time it
looked as if she too had found him if not yet guilty on all
charges, then at least not innocent. 
 
With the OPR verdict unofficially already in, the formal
investigation was able to jump straight past the details of how and
when Krycek changed his file and straight into looking for an
explanation of why he'd allowed Skinner to know about it. 
 
"To discredit me," said Skinner, trying not to sound as if he'd
given up. 
 
"Or to implicate you in Agent Mulder's disappearance?" demanded
Jana Cassidy, the head of the panel. 
 
"Possibly." 
 
"Thus forcing you to fabricate an explanation for Agent Mulder's
disappearance?" 
 
"No. Absolutely not. Need I remind you that Agent Mulder was not
the only person to go missing?" 
 
"I'm sure we're all aware of the seriousness of what took place.
Why didn't you report that Mr. Krycek's file had been changed?" 
 
"I'd hoped to turn him. Use him as a confidential informer. I would
have taken action to change the file myself had it been necessary." 
 
"I'm sure you know the Bureau procedures for handling the
introduction of a confidential informant." 
 
"It was an emergency. Krycek's position was precarious; he'd
already endangered himself by meeting us here. I had security
concerns about going through normal channels." 
 
"Is it true that Agent Mulder assaulted him?" 
 
Skinner winced. Where in hell was Cassidy going with this? Scully
must have told them what she knew about Mulder's reactions to
Krycek and he couldn't fault her for that: it was part of the
continuing story of animosity between the men. "It was nothing - a
temporary loss of control - nothing happened. Mulder had reason to
be suspicious of Krycek's motives." 
 
"He reacted badly, just to the sight of the man. And did you report
that to anyone?" 
 
"No." 
 
"No order for counseling? Not even a notation in Agent Mulder's
file?" 
 
"It wasn't important." 
 
Cassidy sat up a little straighter. Her colleagues followed suit.
Skinner braced himself as she moved in for the kill. "Did Fox
Mulder kill Alex Krycek? Did you help him to cover his tracks by
creating a fake trail that suggested Mr. Krycek had gone to New
York?" 
 
Stunned by the direction the interview was taking, Skinner could
only say, "No." 
 
"Do you recognize this man?" Cassidy pointed towards a photograph
of a man who he'd once seen a file identify as C.G.B.Spender, but
who seldom seemed to need a name. 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Are you aware that, according to Mr. Spender's colleagues, Agent
Mulder threatened him on more than one occasion? That he'd held him
at gunpoint in his own home, attacked him in a hospital corridor?" 
 
Skinner shook his head but couldn't actually come up with a no. 
 
"He was found dead, twelve days after Agent Mulder's disappearance.
Exact time of death is uncertain. We do know that he was alive a
month earlier; we have hospital records to prove it." 
 
"Am I accused of something?" 
 
"Hospital records indicate that Mulder was suffering from
headaches, nausea, some kind of dissonance effect and that his
medical team had no effective treatment for him. Were you aware
that Agent Mulder was seriously ill?" 
 
Skinner frowned, shaking his head, stunned at the way the meeting
was going. Not only had he been found guilty of misconduct, but any
moment now Mulder was going to be accused of two counts of murder
and he was going to be labeled as his accomplice. 
 
"Do you think that it's just coincidence that two men who Agent
Mulder considered to be enemies, not just of him but of the
American people, one of whom according to Agent Scully may have
been responsible for Mulder's brain injury, are now dead or
missing?" 
 
Skinner chose to answer the real question. "Do I think Mulder's
capable of killing Krycek and Spender in cold blood and going on
the run? No. I do not." 
 
"Thank you for your statement, Assistant Director. Please keep us
apprised of any insights or new information that you might come
across. I trust that you'll continue to cooperate fully with the
criminal enquiries into the disappearances of Fox Mulder and Alex
Krycek and the death of Mr. Spender. If you decide to leave town
for any reason please ensure that Agent Doggett knows how to reach
you." 
 
------------ 
 
Just when Mulder thought that his life couldn't get any more out of
control, life had to come along and prove him wrong. Already
hoarse, he'd awakened to the sound of his own screams with Alex
Krycek holding a glass of water to his lips. Instinct had sent
glass and water flying across the room and left Krycek cradling his
fingers under the remains of his left arm. 
 
"Fuck," mumbled Mulder, crashing down into the pillows. He cast a
wary eye over Krycek, saw somebody contemplating murder and
realized that there was more than one reason why Krycek was keeping
his hand under control. "Sorry," he said, hoping that the word
would reach Krycek's brain before Krycek's emotions got out of
their cage. 
 
Krycek blinked, obviously surprised by Mulder's apology and by the
absence of any speech of self-justification backing it up. "It's
OK. You weren't awake. Want to tell me what this one was about?" 
 
The nightly ritual of nightmare and recovery, silent recrimination
and self-reproach had been derailed. Krycek had broken the rules,
first by entering Mulder's room and now by inviting an explanation.
Mulder, stunned, realized that he wanted to answer. 
 
"Blood." 
 
"Blood?" 
 
"There's a lot of blood. People I've drawn into this. People who
died, because I lived. Samantha, my father, yours. A lot of
people." 
 
"That was the dream?" 
 
"So much blood." 
 
"You were moaning when I came in, but you went quiet almost
immediately, that's why I thought you were awake. When I touched
you - " 
 
"I started screaming again." 
 
"What did you see?" 
 
"Myself." Hesitating, Mulder looked for the escape hatch, saw how
easy it would be to lie, and decided that he couldn't. Turned his
head to face Krycek. "I saw me. Drinking their blood. Rolling in
it." 
 
Krycek frowned, swallowed hard, and moved to walk away. 
 
And Mulder had to ask, just in case he'd misunderstood, hoping that
he'd misunderstood. "That was you, wasn't it? Not my dream at all.
That was how you see me?" 
 
Krycek froze, fixed him with a steely glare. Nodded. "You owe them,
Mulder. You owe us all." 
 
------------- 
 
Scully hadn't slept much for the past few days and the flight down
to St Louis was not going to help her to sleep tonight. Doggett
kept looking at her, then quickly looking away. Her thoughts
drifted back to a lifetime ago and her first case with Mulder. A
white-knuckle flight. A challenging case. A soaking in a graveyard.
A bathrobe dropped in her male colleague's motel room. 
 
She smiled, despite the morning sickness that didn't seem to know
that it wasn't even morning any more. Doggett looked back at her
suspiciously, as if she'd done something strange, or perhaps even a
little frightening. "You OK, Agent Scully?" 
 
"Fine," she said. Was it really such a surprise to him that she
sometimes smiled? In truth, despite the tiredness and the nausea,
she felt better than she'd done since Mulder flew out to Oregon
more than three weeks ago. She knew that he had gone back there; at
least that much of Skinner's story had panned out. Security footage
showed Mulder and Skinner picking up their car at the airport. The
motel clerk remembered the men checking in. 
 
"You know, Agent Scully, if you decided not to pursue this, no one
would think less of you." 
 
"I would," she said, trying hard to reward Doggett for his patience
without actually giving anything more away. 
 
"I'm just saying. You shouldn't go looking for something you don't
want to find." 
 
"I want to find the truth." 
 
"Even if that means finding out that Mulder murdered those men?" 
 
"Even if it means finding out they murdered him." 
 
Doggett nodded, jaw tightening as if he wanted to say more but was
determined not to. 
 
The motel room was like a hundred others that she'd stayed in.
Except for one thing: Mulder wasn't in the next room or even in the
next corridor. 
 
She unpacked carefully, shaking out her clothes and hanging them
up. Preparing herself to stay for a week even though it was
probable they'd be checking out tomorrow. If she didn't unpack
properly tonight then she knew that she'd never find the time and
in a couple of days clean and dirty would be mingling in an unholy
alliance in her suitcase and on the backs of chairs. It was a
ritual she'd learned early in her career. 
 
A quick shower and a few careful movements to style her hair and
she was ready for anything. What was the etiquette here? Convention
said that the timetable was hers to set. Eat in or eat out? His
room or hers, or should they eat alone? Out together was probably
the politically correct thing to do. Professional without the
personal. She'd almost forgotten how to do this. 
 
The phone rang and Scully wasn't surprised when Doggett asked if
she wanted to stroll across the parking lot to that grill they'd
passed on the way in. 
 
What had drawn them to this place was little more than a hunch. Her
hunch. 
 
A nationwide search managed by Scully looking for John Does and
other out-of-town homicide victims had yielded plenty of replies
from police departments across the country. She'd read every one
looking for that certain "something" that would set her senses
tingling. She might not have Mulder's nose for the paranormal but
she had no difficulty distinguishing between the typical and the
out of place. 
 
None of the other files had been quite so intriguing as the one
sent in by St Louis PD. It described the two male bodies found
dumped close to a quiet road just outside town. Odd in terms of the
basic facts, it had grown stranger when she read the details. 
 
Both men were over six-foot tall and in good physical shape, better
than good in fact. Two men in peak condition with no fingerprints
on their acid bathed fingers and no identification in their
pockets. Tidy kills. 
 
Based on the positioning of the tire tracks, blood and bodies at
the scene the local PD suggested that the men had been ambushed as
they got out of their car. The headshots that killed them would
have been impressive even against a single target, but to take out
two men that way in rapid succession was exceptional. 
 
Scully's fingers slid carefully over the handle of her Sig, trying
to imagine the feel of it. Bang one. Turn, reposition. Bang two. 
 
One of the victims was standing when shot, the bullet coming in
from ahead of him and just off to one side. The trajectory of the
second bullet suggested that the other victim was crouching. 
 
Speculate, said a voice in Scully's head that sounded more like
Mulder's then her own. So she did, allowed her thoughts free rein,
as she tried to visualize the scene. In the end, she agreed with
the police team and then added some extra speculation of her own. 
 
A hidden shooter waited for the men to leave the car and close its
doors. Standing ahead of them and on the passenger side of the car
he'd shot the driver first. 
 
The second man had dropped to the ground in an instinctive gesture
of self-defense, presumably hoping to locate the shooter and return
fire or else to use the car as a shield. The shooter's speed cut
out the first option, his positioning removed the second. 
 
One shooter or two? The forensics were inconclusive. Based on type
and caliber, the bullet that had killed the standing man could have
come from Mulder's Sig, but it hadn't; the markings proved it. 
 
The second bullet hadn't been found, leading to suggestions that it
had buried itself in the victims' car and then been driven away
from the scene. However, there was still evidence to analyze even
without the bullet itself. The diameter of the entry wound and the
composition of some of the fragments left embedded in the skull
suggested the bullet was of the same type as the one that killed
the first man. 
 
Maybe just one very good marksman? 
 
Krycek? Perhaps. His Quantico scores were good, but not that good.
However those numbers were years old, and he'd had plenty of time
to practice since. In any case he might have chosen to hide talent
as well as treachery back when he was pretending to be a Fed. Or
maybe, having lost an arm, he'd worked extra hard to compensate? 
 
Mulder? Good enough to do it on a firing range. But faced with two
targets and a need to move fast wouldn't instinct and FBI training
have taken over? Body shots, not the riskier shot to the head. The
head shots suggested an assumption that the men would be wearing
body armor, which, as it turned out, only one of them was. 
 
The use of an as yet unidentified gun and the apparent context of
an ambush suggested extreme preparedness. Preparedness meant
premeditation and the idea that Mulder might have chosen such a
path was unacceptable. Nor did she want to imagine him clearing
away the evidence of the men's identities quite so ruthlessly,
though he'd done something like it before and left the evidence of
that deed on his apartment floor. 
 
Deliberately, she acted out the move again, trying to be the one
who pulled the trigger and trying to imagine the dead men with guns
in their hands. Bang, she said, lining up and taking the first shot
because she had to, because it was kill or be killed. Bang, she
said again, but this time her aim was a little off, not a matter of
accuracy, just a combination of recoil and hesitation, a tiny
discrepancy, almost insignificant, but not good enough to make the
hit. 
 
The first kill placed a drag on her movements. Adrenaline? She
sighed - chemistry could bridge the gap. OK, she could act it out
as often as she wanted, but it still meant nothing. 
 
When they arrived in the restaurant, Doggett jumped straight in
with the Daily Special and the decaf coffee. Scully, feeling as if
she had something to prove on the decisiveness front, instantly
responded with an order for soup and a chicken salad. The waitress
who hadn't even got as far as handing them the menus, simply nodded
and turned away. 
 
"This Krycek character," announced Doggett, sitting back in his
chair and keeping his eyes on Scully. "Tell me about him." 
 
"You've seen his file." 
 
"It's what's not in the file. Agent Mulder's relationship with
him." 
 
"There wasn't one. They worked a couple of cases together as
agents. Krycek betrayed him." 
 
"Yet later you captured an arms shipment using information supplied
by him." 
 
"And your point is?" 
 
"They traveled to Russia together." 
 
"Krycek sometimes found it in his interests to offer Mulder
information." 
 
"Mulder trusted him?" 
 
"No." 
 
"OK, so Mulder acted as if he trusted him - on more than one
occasion. Could it have happened again? Could they be working
together?" 
 
"No." 
 
"If we get close - I want to know how many guns we'll be going up
against." 
 
She thought about the dead bodies they'd come out here to
investigate. "Krycek's a dangerous man." 
 
 
END of Part 8 

===

TITLE: Consequential Loss
RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann H - joannhere@gmail.com

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

My apologies for the slow/fast/haphazard posting
pattern. I'd tell you it was due to circumstances
beyond my control but that doesn't really tell
you anything!


LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
 
Today's training session wasn't going well. Mulder was restless and
Krycek's frustration wasn't helping. "You ready to give up?" asked
Mulder. 
 
"You ready to die?" 
 
Mulder almost responded in kind, but stopped himself just in time,
suddenly realizing where Krycek was coming from. "Just for today. I
can't concentrate. All that's happening is I'm making my headache
worse." 
 
Krycek looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, clearlly
stunned that Mulder had even bothered to offer an explanation.
Mulder shrugged. Up until now, Krycek had been an outrageously
patient teacher, taking every insult and complaint in his stride,
coaxing him to study harder, reassuring him when things got tough. 
 
He'd led Mulder through test cards of ball, cup, tree, cat until
mistakes had become not merely rare they'd become impossible.
They'd stopped that approach when Mulder told Krycek not just the
card he was looking at but went on to supply a list of the next ten
cards in the pack. 
 
Concepts were proving a little harder. Sending Mulder whole phrases
like, "The ball is burnt sienna," had just led to fights about,
"What the hell does the color matter?" culminating in an explosive
but vaguely comic, "I'm fucking color blind, you idiot." 
 
Sometimes now they could go outside into the quarry and just walk
or run together. Provided Krycek kept talking, Mulder could ignore
the screams for minutes at a time even when he was simply sitting
down out there. 
 
Today's outdoor session had been a disaster. They'd been
experimenting with saying one thing while thinking another and the
screams had taken over, forcing Mulder to cower in the mouth of one
of the magnetite rich caves until Krycek recovered enough control
to synchronize both benign thoughts and quiet words again,
directing them at Mulder until he'd calmed enough to be led home. 
 
The continuation of the experiment inside the protective walls of
the apartment had tripped their most recent flare-up. Krycek had
been talking about his imaginary family while thinking about his
real one. Not hard to see why that was a mistake. Mulder wondered
why they'd even tried. It was hard to tell which of them had had
the more painful job. No wonder Krycek snapped. 
 
They'd have to come up with a better subject to practice on. Easier
said than done. Lying about food preferences hadn't worked -
seemingly not enough desire to make the lie convincing. Conspiracy
related matters had introduced anger into the equation and Mulder
wasn't ready to handle that. 
 
"I have to know how she is," said Mulder. Admitting to himself that
thoughts of family, anybody's family, kept sending him back to
Scully. 
 
"If you contact her -" 
 
Mulder raised his hand in a stop gesture. "I know I can't talk to
her. I just want to see how she is." 
 
"You can't leave here, not until you can control it." 
 
"Tell me something I don't know," said Mulder. An idea that he'd
come up with and rejected on previous occasions suddenly sounded
like the perfect solution, because something was at least better
than nothing. "You can find out what she's doing." 
 
"What?" 
 
"FBI records, what cases she's assigned to, travel arrangements,
contact phone numbers, expense claims." If she was working then
that would mean that she was OK. Perhaps not good, but OK. 
 
"What? I'm supposed to walk into the town library, logon at a PC
and hack into the FBI mainframe? You've watched too many movies." 
 
"Take the laptop, find an open wireless connection and jump on
that." 
 
"Do you have any idea how long that'll take? Disguising the
connection, finding the holes in the FBI firewall, getting onto the
databases?" 
 
"Not if you go in through the cat flap." Mulder looked at Krycek,
whose expression was shifting slowly from angry to curious. "Her
Calendar entries," he announced, scribbling FTP details and
passwords onto the pad. "We set it up a while ago, just in case we
needed to find each other in a hurry." 
 
"Fucking hell shit," groaned Krycek. "Don't you people know
anything about security?" 
 
"Just get me the file." 
 
"Mulder." 
 
It was Mulder's turn to start getting angry now. "Wear a beard.
Wear a wig. Wear a damned dress for all I care. Drive to Dallas if
you have to. Just do it." His voice cracked on the final word. He
swallowed hard and tried again. "I can't not know." 
 
---------- 
 
Skinner and Langly were engaged in a stand-off, glaring at one
another across the table. Byers emerged from the kitchen bringing
extra supplies of coffee and a bowl of nuts. 
 
"What if they're right?" said Langly, eyes fixed on Skinner but
talking only to his colleagues. "What if HE helped Krycek get
Mulder?" 
 
Frohike looked at Langly, then at Skinner. "You did bring Krycek to
that meeting." 
 
"Precisely," barked Skinner. "You think if I was conspiring with
Krycek, I'd have shown him to everyone?" 
 
Byers nodded, acknowledging Skinner's defense. "Fair point. But we
still don't really know you." 
 
"Jesus," mumbled Skinner. "Just how dumb did Mulder say I am? What
makes you think I'm stupid enough to let you see Krycek, if I'm
working with him?" 
 
"Mulder said you're a good man, who can't always do what needs to
be done." 
 
"We're way past that now - I've got nothing to lose. I'm probably
going to get fired. Unless I can bring Mulder home I might be
charged as an accessory to his abduction. Unless I find Krycek I
might be an accessory to murder. I guarantee you: I'll do whatever
it takes." 
 
Byers glanced towards Frohike, who rose immediately, tapping Langly
on his arm to get his attention. The trio vanished into the kitchen
and Skinner downed his coffee in one hit. "Mulder," he complained,
not quite audibly. "You'd better be dead or a prisoner, or so help
me, I'll tear you apart myself." 
 
------- 
 
The bodies in the St Louis morgue looked more Marine Corps than
Mafia. Scully sighed, faintly ashamed of her lapse into stereotypes
but didn't change her opinion. Their clothing was functional rather
than designer, the shoes $100 good rather than Bruno Magli sharp.
Their hair was styled with memories of military dress codes in
mind. 
 
"You're going to tell me that these were some kind of secret
government crew," said Doggett, obviously dubious. 
 
"Maybe not even secret," said Scully, looking at the hands again,
brooding over things she'd read in forensics magazines and
wondering if there was anything she could do to pull up a print.
The flesh looked too damaged. No matter, she drew out the saw and
prepared the hands for shipment to Quantico. 
 
It would take weeks for any kind of search results on the DNA tests
to come through. In any case, at best, all that was likely to give
her were their names, their military records and maybe the name of
whoever was currently paying their wages. What it wouldn't tell her
was the reason why they'd been shot. 
 
"The PD didn't find any record of them checking into a hotel." 
 
Two men, two drivers, taking shifts. "They were following someone,"
she said. 
 
"Sounds likely." 
 
"The car?" 
 
"Still not been found." 
 
Another amazing, disappearing motor vehicle. Short of getting court
orders to enter every private garage and storage unit in the area
the chances were that it would stay that way. Without the car they
wouldn't get much further on the men. Not quickly anyway. 
 
That fact said a lot about the killer. Professional, but a risk-
taker. He hadn't bothered to hide the bodies, too time-consuming
and too much danger of discovery. But he'd hidden or destroyed
everything that might make them easy to trace. "Either very
confident or very arrogant," she said. 
 
"Someone with a grasp of police procedures," countered Doggett. 
 
She looked at the corpses again, wondering if there was some other
avenue they could use to identify them and better still to find out
the who, how and why of whatever had led them here. 
 
Doggett was only a couple of feet away from her when he spoke,
startling her out of her musing. "OK, Agent Scully. Why are we
here? You pull two bodies out of thin air and we're on the next
flight out. I've gone along with you so far. Now it's time for you
to do some explaining." 
 
What was she supposed to say? They'd been chased by guys like this
before? In her nightmares, she'd seen men who looked like that
emerge from sleek black cars, push her and Mulder to the ground -
gun against the back of the head. They always killed Mulder first;
she always woke up before they fired again. 
 
Maybe she was wrong, perhaps she wouldn't have hesitated or tensed
as she swung into the second shot. And if Mulder had managed to
achieve the feat himself then she could hardly blame him. 
 
"Agent Scully? Why do you think this is related?" 
 
"Women's intuition." 
 
------ 
 
Mulder had spent the past two hours trying not to pace, a task that
he now ranked right up there with not thinking about breathing. As
soon as the thought had wormed its way into his head, it had
infected everything he did. Challenging him not to count his
respiration rate and not to even try and justify why it had taken
three trips to the kitchen to get one cup of coffee. "I forgot the
damned sugar, and the spoon, all right?" 
 
It had only taken Krycek half an hour to get ready to leave after
their little discussion the night before. It wouldn't have taken
him that long if Mulder hadn't made him wait until he'd created a
full strength shopping list covering everything from newspapers,
through hot dogs, to a second laptop computer. Krycek had
practically flown from the building once it was done. 
 
Without the laptop and in the absence of his odd couple roommate
and telepathy coach, Mulder was lost. He'd done sleep; he'd done
food; he'd done TV. He'd reread some of the paper files and now he
was stuck. Going outside was OK, provided he had a plan in mind and
didn't attempt to walk too far from the building. He'd learned that
lesson following a long crawl back to the entrance; it had taken
him nearly half an hour to cover a hundred yards. 
 
The screams were exhausting. No wonder noise had its own entry in
the torture handbooks. Knowing that every one of those screams was
coming from someone in pain or in danger had almost sapped his will
to fight. 
 
He closed his eyes. No way was he going to be sitting, shaking in a
cave when Krycek came back this time. If he came back. Christ,
Krycek had warned him that there were people on his tail, people
who would shoot first and dismember him later. 
 
Then there was the man himself, a man who'd returned from a killing
spree that had left Cancerman and at least two others dead but
who'd felt bad only about the possibility of being caught. Look who
your friends are now, Agent Mulder. He was supposed to cuff him and
read him his rights, not cook the asshole lasagna and make
conciliatory noises about not going along with his tactics but... 
 
But what? But thank God the son of a bitch is dead? Well done,
Alex. Here, don't feel bad about attracting the unwelcome attention
of your assassin friends, it was worth it. 
 
It occurred to Mulder that Krycek might have followed his throwaway
advice and driven to Dallas. In which case, assuming that he only
stopped to get a few hours sleep, Krycek should be arriving in town
about now and couldn't possibly be back until tomorrow. 
 
The satellite phone still sat on the shelf, silent, tantalizingly
close to irresistible, and Mulder added it to the list of things he
should try not to think about, or even to not think about thinking
about. He kept coming up with wildly indirect routes to send
information back to Scully. Everything from a delivery of her
favorite Chinese food including the dishes that she would never
order for herself but which she would always steal from him,
through to some subtle hidden message delivered in a bunch of
flowers. 
 
Except for one thing - how would he disguise his voice? Too much to
hope that a satellite call to DC, even to a takeout, wouldn't be
monitored by the supercomputers at the NSA and that was way too
risky if his voice pattern was on the watch list. 
 
Not that any of it mattered - he couldn't contact her. The end. If
she heard anything from him it would send her into full pursuit,
alert the Consortium's hounds that a chase was on, and that could
kill them both. No, he couldn't talk to her, nor even send a
message. At least not until he was ready to go back, and if the
headaches told him nothing else, they told him he wasn't ready for
that. 
 
Despairing of finding a safe distraction within the line of sight
of the phone he picked up the Sig and the Beretta and some extra
rounds and headed outside for a little target practice. 
 
------- 
 
Combing through the evidence they'd gathered, she tried to read the
message in the blanks. Scully knew another row of dots was forming,
just itching to be connected. 
 
Leaning back against the wall, Doggett was pawing the ground and
looking restless. "Any more hunches, Agent Scully?" 
 
"Maybe," she said, wondering if this was how Mulder felt, seeing
patterns in places where no else would bother looking. Cancerman
dead. Two mystery men dead a thousand miles away. In her heart
there was a connection, gut instinct speaking in Mulder's voice
telling her that, "There's no such thing as coincidence." 
 
She looked at Doggett. He was studying her, waiting patiently for
her reply. She decided to plow on, borrowing adrenaline from
memories of Mulder responding to the same kind of skeptical looks.
"I think whoever killed Spender, killed these men too." 
 
"O-K," he said slowly, drawing it out. "Spender - an old man, in a
wheelchair - pushed down stairs, then dumped in a meat locker. Two
heavies - shot, identities removed, bodies left uncovered, a few
yards off the road. Now, I'm no expert but I heard the same
lectures as everybody else at Quantico and I don't see you've
anything to connect them. No match on MO, no common signature." 
 
"Professional assassin. Spender was the target. The killer didn't
get away clean. Those men tracked him. The shootings may even have
been in self-defense." 
 
"That's a hell of a leap, Agent Scully." 
 
"You wanted to find Alex Krycek. This is how we find him." 
 
Doggett was almost smiling now. Head tilted slightly, curious to
hear more. "I was kind of hoping for fingerprints, credit card
transactions, something like that." 
 
"Then you won't find Krycek." 
 
He nodded. "Well, we don't have another place to be, so I guess we
just keep chasing your hunches. If we aren't already too late.
You're thinking he went to Mexico, right?" 
 
She wasn't, but she was going to have a hard time explaining why
not. She gave it the most plausible sounding spin she could. "If he
just wanted to leave the country, he'd have skipped into Canada and
caught a plane right at the start. There may be some reason why he
couldn't." 
 
Doggett, to his credit, was still listening. Perplexed, but not
actually dismissive. "Some reason like Agent Mulder?" he asked. 
 
"Maybe." 
 
------ 
 
Krycek hadn't quite forgiven Mulder for this fiasco. The Internet
connection had been easy. He'd had his pick of half a dozen open
wireless networks without even trying. He'd even had the luxury of
being able to pick one whose corporate network might help disguise
his exact point of entry. A three-hundred mile round trip to pick
up a 2k file and some search software that Mulder insisted he
needed. 
 
Shook his head in disbelief at the precautions he'd taken to come
down here and then damned Mulder again for putting such a dumb idea
into his head. At least he hadn't been dumb enough to go to Dallas.
Even so, it was a hell of a long drive to pick up a couple of
takeouts and some fresh fruit. 
 
He hadn't actually looked at Scully's file yet. It needed another
password to open it. Not that it would have been hard to hack into,
just that the delay would have added another unnecessary risk on a
day filled with them. 
 
Walking out as soon as the idea came up was the kind of gesture
that still got Mulder's attention. It might even have reminded him
that being alone was not much of proposition right now. The only
problem was that Amarillo at one in the morning was not well suited
to successful shopping. , 
 
Not that it mattered; the night in the no-tell motel had gone
smoothly enough. Scarcely necessary to wear the wig and beard given
the fact that the kid on the desk hadn't even looked up from his
Playstation when he checked in. Probably the best night's sleep
he'd had in the past month. 
 
Actually, he admitted, the whole trip was probably a good idea.
Another computer. Fresh food supplies. Extras clothes. Luxuries
that didn't matter but did make life easier. In fact, without the
price on his head, he'd have probably done a similar supply run
every week. 
 
He felt a brief glimmer of sympathy for Mulder but suppressed it
quickly. The "secret weapon" was one big liability at the moment.
Like a Cruise missile with a defective guidance system. As
dangerous to its masters as its enemies. 
 
He tried to stifle the laugh but failed, rode it instead. Just as
well that fleeting thought hadn't come up with Mulder in the room.
"Yeah, Mulder, I did just describe myself as your master!" A fork
through the eye wouldn't even come close. 
 
The idea sobered him up. Mulder was learning fast. At this rate
he'd soon be a match for Gibson Praise but with an adult's
understanding, a psychologist's training and a soldier's
willingness to fight. Bad enough yesterday when they'd been trying
to play games of truth and lies, what about when it wasn't a game
anymore? 
 
It was almost enough to make him take the next left turn and head
for Mexico. Almost. 
 
He'd been born into the game. His father: researcher, surgeon, and
probably from Mulder's perspective butcher. His mother: the loyal
company wife until the day they'd killed her husband and she'd
taken her son and run back to her family in Russia. Mulder might
consider him a traitor and a killer, but he'd been his parents'
child and he'd never betrayed his own family and he'd never
betrayed the human race, and how many of the other players could
make that claim? 
 
And Mulder would just have to learn to live with it. 
 
 
END of Part 9 
===

TITLE: Consequential Loss
RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann H - joannhere@gmail.com

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
 
 
Byers was leaning over Langly's shoulder. "You're sure?" 
 
Langly just cast him a withering look. 
 
"He could have just walked in and used somebody's desk while they
were away." 
 
"Risky. He'd have had to copy the files to CD or something. A lot
less conspicuous done from a laptop." 
 
Frohike agreed. "The corporate subnet rules out the obvious ways of
tracking but if you include the delays then it's probable." 
 
"What's probable?" said Skinner. "In English please." 
 
"We can tell you whose network he used. We can't be sure which
location. The addresses are dynamically assigned centrally and the
server only shows current connections not past ones. He got a fast
link. Chances are it's a big office but probably not the HQ or the
computer center because they'll have the wireless security set
correctly." 
 
"Meaning?" 
 
Byers took over. "Someone logged on and accessed Scully's calendar
entries. Almost certainly in Texas - it could be Dallas, or Austin,
it could be a couple of dozen other places. We can't be sure." 
 
"Someone downloaded her calendar?" 
 
"Mulder arranged it so they were automatically uploaded, in case
they were separated or if we needed to find them." 
 
"Nothing confidential," said Frohike. "It's practically public
domain really - you could get most of it under Freedom of
Information." 
 
"Eventually," added Langly. 
 
Fish out of water, Skinner could only feel grateful for any kind of
lead. 
 
--------- 
 
"Where?" she said as Frohike ran through the same explanation that
he'd given Skinner an hour before. "OK, give me the possibles. What
do we do - drive past their perimeters and see if we can pick up a
signal?" 
 
Doggett was pacing, his patience already wearing thin as they
argued in his motel room about the difference between evidence,
guesswork and supposition. 
 
When she finally stopped writing down addresses and the occasional
password on the pad in front of her and hung up the phone, he
jumped straight in. "Who was that?" 
 
"An informant." 
 
"And what did this informant have to say?" 
 
"Somebody's been accessing my computer files." 
 
Doggett nodded, demanding more. 
 
"They probably used a computer somewhere in Texas. 
 
Doggett frowned, a brief flicker of dismay. "Probably just the
quarter million square miles to check out then?" 
 
"They were able to narrow it down a little," she said, pushing the
pad across the table towards Doggett. 
 
"But not by much." 
 
The map on the table drew her back again. "New Mexico," she said,
almost to herself. 
 
Doggett followed the track of her finger. A sweeping arc of a line
starting with a dead body in a freezer in DC moving on via a couple
of corpses in St Louis, skirting Texas and down into New Mexico.
"Albuquerque. Santa Fe. Roswell," he mumbled, looking for familiar
names. 
 
She head him stifle a groan at the Roswell and appreciated the
effort. She wondered if she'd been quite so good at disguising her
reactions when she'd talked with Mulder. A sudden twinge in her
back, that seemed to reverberate straight through her belly, made
her gasp. She straightened up and hoped that Doggett hadn't
noticed. "We've had a number of cases in New Mexico." 
 
"An X-File hotspot, huh?" 
 
An alien hotspot maybe? Certainly, according to Mulder, a hotspot
for research. Farmington, she wondered, idly tracing another line
on the map. No, not Farmington, that wouldn't fit in with a trip to
use a computer in Texas. 
 
The computer. The real implications of the Gunmen's phone call
suddenly striking home. Mulder. Only Mulder and the Gunmen knew
about the calendar she kept on the computer. Only Mulder would be
looking for it. What had been fantasy and wishful thinking - the
idea that Mulder wasn't on an alien spaceship, that he was down
here and he was findable - suddenly sounded like it might not be
fantasy after all. 
 
Not fantasy and not yet reality either. Morning sickness in the
middle of the night, a sour taste in her throat. If Mulder was
alive then why hadn't he called her? Why hadn't he found some way
to tell her that he was alive? 
 
Unless this was his way of telling her he was alive. The only safe
way he'd found. 
 
"Agent Scully? Agent Scully?" Doggett's voice became increasingly
insistent as he took her arm and led her to the bed, giving orders
for her to rest up a moment, and demanding to know if she needed a
doctor. 
 
--------- 
 
Mulder was sitting outside the building when Krycek arrived and
Krycek wasn't quite sure if that was good news or bad. Certainly
the lack of movement and the fact that he hadn't yet opened his
eyes was worrying. At least he'd had the sense to stay close to the
building. 
 
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Mulder. 
 
Krycek's lips twitched into a sheepish smile; he turned his head as
he left the truck to make sure that Mulder couldn't see his
expression. Maybe he could keep the question, of how good or
otherwise Mulder was feeling, indirect. "Can you help me unload?" 
 
Looking as awkward as a newborn foal, Mulder rose unsteadily to his
feet. Having taken a couple of deep breaths, he finally opened his
eyes. "Talk to me," he said. 
 
Startled by the honesty of Mulder admitting that he needed help,
Krycek was momentarily unsure what he was supposed to say. 
 
"Any crap will do," added Mulder. "What's the weather like out
there? Do they still have McDonalds? Have they found a cure for
cancer?" 
 
"You haven't been here that long," said Krycek, though he could see
why Mulder might be feeling that way. "I went shopping. Did you
know not all food comes in cans?" 
 
"There's packets as well," agreed Mulder, and offered a near smile
when Krycek tossed him a bag of sunflower seeds. 
 
Once Mulder had at least some of his balance back, the car
unpacking went relatively smoothly, the chatter continuous but idle
and deliberately uncontroversial. Krycek waited until they'd taken
everything up into the apartment before shifting gears. "So, how
long have you been outside?" 
 
Mulder looked at his watch. "An hour or two. I've been going out
for a few minutes each hour to see what I could handle. What I
could hear." 
 
Oh, shit. Krycek could guess what was coming next. Mulder was
heading way past Gibson Praise territory. Then again, Gibson hadn't
spent a month in this quarry surrounded by magnetite, invisibly
encouraging anomalous brain patterns to build ever more powerful
circuits. Nor did he have a nanite army protecting his brain from
damaging itself in the process. "What did you hear?" 
 
"You stopped for gas." 
 
About sixty miles away, important to have the tank full, never knew
when they might need to be ready for action. "What else?" 
 
"No way am I going to admit to following you into the john." 
 
"That's good to hear." 
 
"I didn't expect to be able to do it." 
 
Krycek nodded, thinking of the exercises they'd been doing. Mulder
had obviously locked onto his frequency somewhere along the line.
Unable to think of anything to say that Mulder didn't already know
he headed into the kitchen, trying to pretend it was situation
normal, wondering what the hell they were going to do now. Just one
thing. "Why did you stay outside?" 
 
"To see if I could." 
 
Yes. That would be right. 
 
------- 
 
Mulder began undoing the packaging on the new laptop while the old
one was starting up. His headache was bordering on the intolerable
but the desire to examine Scully's calendar was calling loud and
clear and much more important than aspirin or pain. 
 
He hadn't needed to ask Krycek about the success or otherwise of
his mission. It had been there right in the front of Krycek's
thoughts as he'd driven up to the building and Mulder hadn't been
able to avoid looking. 
 
"Like reading somebody else's diary, only worse," he realized. A
lot worse he admitted, ashamed of the stolen knowledge and
wondering whether private and personal was ever going to mean quite
the same thing again. 
 
The laptop had finally woken up and Mulder sent it off to do a
search for today's files. "DieBugDie" opened Scully's calendar.
He'd suggested a password of "Bambi" in honor of the cockroach case
that had marked the start of their nefarious calendar sharing
activities. Scully had countered with the name of her favorite
brand of bug killer. 
 
Nothing especially personal or confidential appeared on the screen.
Travel approvals for a case on which the agent of record was
somebody called John Doggett, contact numbers for the local office
and the PD, flight times and car rental bookings. "St Louis?" Why
there? 
 
Why not there? She was working and that was a good sign, wasn't it?
That was all he'd asked for; just enough to reassure himself that
Scully wasn't ill or grieving. Not that he'd actually proven
anything of the kind. She worked through her father's death; she
worked through Mulder's apparent death in a boxcar in New Mexico;
she worked through her sister's death; she worked through cancer;
she worked through the death of her child. Working was what she did
- in sickness and in health, mourning or not. 
 
Krycek's arrival in the living room was poorly timed. Krycek had
seen Scully's sister die. If she was grieving now then Krycek had a
hand in that as well. The reheated Thai takeout that the man had
brought in with him just looked like a bribe. The hesitant smile
Krycek was wearing vanished in an instant as he spotted Mulder's
expression. "Now what?" 
 
"Scully's working." 
 
"I thought that was what -" 
 
"She's in St Louis. Why do you suppose that is?" 
 
It didn't take a mind reader to see that Krycek could guess exactly
why Scully was in St Louis. Mulder's headache was slipping fast
beyond the tolerable. Knowing what was coming next, he slid to the
floor; he even had enough time to put his hand down to stop his
head from hitting the ground first. 
 
-------- 
 
Washington DC 
 
"What am I looking at?" demanded Strughold, turning his gaze from
the screen to review the aging faces that formed the remains of the
high command. Only the most naive had died in the machinations and
scheming of the past ten years. Only the cowards had died at El
Rico Airbase. 
 
It had been the era of the phony war, of men jockeying for
position, of experiments that had plenty of results but no
conclusions. A time for men who acted as if they had all the time
in the world. Perhaps because they simply didn't expect to be alive
when the aliens came and it had allowed them to forget the future. 
 
Incompetence and infighting had left them weak, damaging their
ability to operate in the shadows. Links to the military were less
secure these days. They'd lost the network of personal contacts
that oiled the wheels of instant response with no questions asked.
Official channels were slow and insecure. Unofficial channels had
become rusty and unreliable. 
 
Everything they did was taking longer and costing more than it
should. Where once a whisper in the ear had been enough it now took
a kick in the ass and cash in the bank to work the same miracle. 
 
Strughold admitted that he carried his own share of blame. Bored
with political wrangling in New York and Washington he'd moved into
cheerful semi-retirement, managing the trials of genetically
modified crops, emerging only for the occasional consultation
session or strategy debate. It had been the wrong move and the
world was in danger of paying the price for it. 
 
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of
passionate intensity. Strughold had never considered himself to be
one of the best but he was starting to wonder about it now.
Scarcely any time left to make amends. Strughold looked back at the
image on the projector screen again; the scan of a brain running
far too hot, showing activity where no activity should be. 
 
"Fox Mulder," said Daryl Nelson, the one man in the room who was
still below the standard corporate retirement age. 
 
No one retired in this business. At least, not willingly. Change
was overdue and would be all the more painful for that reason.
Change had to begin somewhere and it had to begin soon. Pulling
himself back to the immediate problem, Strughold responded to
Nelson's words. "Mulder's beyond our reach. It may be months before
they return him, if they return him intact." 
 
"That's what we thought." 
 
"Thought?" 
 
"His friends seem to think differently. Agent Scully has persuaded
the FBI to search for Alex Krycek as a link to Mulder's
disappearance. Assistant Director Skinner seems to be conducting
his own investigation with the assistance of some computer hackers
who've worked with Mulder in the past." 
 
"Is there any rationale for their action?" 
 
"Krycek," said Nelson, his voice brightening as if he'd suddenly
realized that he was actually being listened to. "He created an
elaborate alibi for the night of Mulder's disappearance. That it
unraveled was sheer bad luck." 
 
"Or good detective work?" 
 
"Yes, sir." 
 
"We have a bounty on his head, do we not?" 
 
"He killed a couple of the people who went after him. Here," said
the speaker, directing his laser pointer at the wall map and
picking out St Louis. "Which is where Dana Scully is at the
moment." 
 
"And Walter Skinner?" 
 
" - is traveling to Dallas, this evening." 
 
"Why?" 
 
"That's unclear. It seems to be related to some kind of computer
access issue, possibly an attempt to hack into files belonging to
Agent Scully. She's been in contact with the Bureau IT group and
with local offices in Albuquerque and El Paso." 
 
Not exactly localized then. "Doesn't sound as if they know very
much." 
 
"More than we do." The mumbled "sir" from the man with his hands on
the computer mouse was an after thought and Strughold found that
strangely reassuring. At least there was some life in the old dog
of an organization. 
 
Maybe his next act should be to remove the price tag from Krycek's
head? Perhaps it was time to reward initiative rather than strangle
it. But first there was this other matter. "We need tails on
Skinner and Scully. Whoever they're hunting - we need to get there
first. See to it." 
 
"Sir." 
 
"Make sure they know: Mulder's the priority - alive." 
 
"And Krycek?" 
 
"The reward for Krycek's death has been rescinded - effective now."
If the FBI found him and could find something to charge him with
then that was their prerogative. Strughold looked back at the map,
gratified to see an unexpected bonus from a gamble he'd taken the
week before. "Giving Mr. Spender's body to the FBI seems to have
added a little extra spice to the chase." 
 
"Yes, sir. Kersh understands that we're looking for a swift
resolution to the manhunt." 
 
"Then let's hope Agent Scully and Doggett are as good as they're
supposed to be." 
 
"Sir. You said Mulder's the priority. If there's a problem with the
FBI agents?" 
 
"I want Mulder. Alive. Miss Scully is a useful bargaining chip,
nothing more. Whatever it takes." 
 
------- 
 
Scully had built the walls high and Doggett was either cautious
enough not to try to scale them or smart enough not to want to.
Either way Scully was grateful. Moreover, he didn't mind following
her hunches. "In the absence of any other leads," as he often
reminded her, in case she imagined that he wasn't the skeptic he
was claiming to be. 
 
Discussions of her wellbeing were kept to the strict minimum. She
admitted that she might have skipped one too many meals and that
sleep had sometimes been in short supply. He promised to keep half
an eye on the clock and help them both get into some kind of
routine that involved regular meal breaks and a little realism
about checking into motels before whoever was driving the car
actually became a hazard to other road users. 
 
Talking about Alex Krycek's history had felt like a welcome break
at first. Nothing exotic. Nothing alien. Nothing paranormal about
Krycek. A killer for hire and no reason for Doggett to look at her
in pitying disbelief. 
 
Except for that one big problem - everything about Krycek was
personal. To Mulder or to her and that forced Doggett into a
different kind of disbelief. 
 
"But he took him to Russia," he reminded her, his voice mild and
unchallenging, despite the poisonous undertone in the words. 
 
"As a translator, guide." 
 
"A guide? The man that Mulder thought killed his father?" 
 
"The X-Files sometimes requires strange alliances." 
 
Doggett nodded, and Scully felt like slapping him. She read the
look in his eyes and understood. It angered her. His expression, so
tolerant and patient, and so very wrong. Questioning her in
silence, asking her if she was listening to her own words. 
 
Mulder had worked with Krycek in the past, but that had been years
before. It meant nothing, less than nothing. She'd gone on a
fruitless journey with Spender only a few weeks ago, convinced that
the risk was worth the possible gain. A trip that meant nothing
about trust or relationships. She'd been gone only a couple of
days; she'd tried to keep Mulder informed; he'd known that she was
alive. 
 
There was just no comparison between those kinds of actions and
what was happening here. 
 
For Mulder to be absent now, willingly holed up for some nefarious
purpose with Krycek, was impossible. He wouldn't do that to her;
couldn't do it. Not now. Not when she needed him. Not when she had
another life to think about. Not when he did, too. 
 
 
END of Part 10
===

TITLE: Consequential Loss
RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann H - joannhere@gmail.com

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

My apologies for the slow/fast/haphazard posting
pattern. I'd tell you it was due to circumstances
beyond my control but that doesn't really tell
you anything!


LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
 
 
The clock said 8, but the light from the small windows, always
inadequate and never giving much sense of the sun's passage, was
not entirely conclusive. Mulder suspected it was closer to
breakfast-time than dinner. In which case he'd just slept for
fourteen hours straight. 
 
He moved slowly, awkwardly aware of the residual pain in his head.
The situation not helped by the fact that his shoulders and neck
were aching, suggesting he really had spent the night on the floor.
The blanket and pillow seemed to confirm it. Krycek had attempted
to make him comfortable, which from Mulder's point of view was more
embarrassing than reassuring. 
 
Krycek. Where the hell was Krycek? The TV was off and so was the
laptop. There was no noise coming from the kitchen or the bathroom
and whichever kind of eight o'clock it was, it was unlikely that
Krycek was in bed. 
 
Ashamed of the rising panic, he rolled up onto his feet before
immediately sitting down on the couch again. This was bad, very
bad. No voices in his head, no angry soundtrack of distant screams,
just pain and something that felt horribly like fear. This was
going to take more than a couple of aspirins to suppress. Morphine
maybe. Chloroform was starting to feel like a valid option. 
 
Asleep for fourteen hours, he reminded himself. CNN on the freshly
awakened TV confirming the fact. Unconsciousness was clearly not
the cure. 
 
The staircase was tough to navigate. The steps were frustrating,
moving sideways, up and down, growing and shrinking, seemingly at
random. Seasick on dry land. Yes, he'd made a lot of progress since
Krycek brought him here. Any more improvement and a straitjacket,
padded cell and heavy sedation might be an attractive option. 
 
What had Krycek said the Consortium was offering? A cage with a bed
and 5-point restraints? It was starting to sound like a vacation. 
 
Krycek had obviously heard him coming, hardly a surprise given the
number of collisions with the wall it had taken to bring him
halfway down the stairs. "Stay there. I'll come to you," said
Krycek, bouncing up to meet him, two steps at a time. 
 
The instinctive desire to tell the man exactly what he could do
with his concern almost won. Maybe even would have won if the idea
of standing still hadn't been quite so appealing and if Krycek
hadn't arrived at his side before the agent had even managed to
form the words. 
 
"Let's go back upstairs," said Krycek. 
 
"No, out." 
 
"Mulder." 
 
"Don't even try that 'for your own good' voice with me, Krycek."
Scully was the only one who could pull it off. It didn't even
always work for her. 
 
Krycek nodded. "OK. Lean on me, I can't patch you up if you fall
and break your neck." They navigated the stairs slowly but
successfully, stopping to rest only once before Mulder was safely
seated on the bench outside. "Now what?" demanded Krycek. 
 
"Why were you outside?" 
 
"You're the mind reader." 
 
Not a good moment for a reminder. Mulder was having enough trouble
focusing on his own thoughts without worrying about other people's.
"Answer the damned question." 
 
"Fine," Krycek had started walking, covering a tight little loop
between the car, the truck and the bench, which made an interesting
turn around thought Mulder, wondering if pacing was contagious.
"You collapsed on the floor. I copied the computer files to the new
machine and I was half way to El Paso before I turned back." 
 
"You were leaving?" 
 
"I was going to send Scully your position - latitude and
longitude." 
 
"Why didn't you?" 
 
Krycek took a deep breath, looked Mulder directly in the eye. "If
Scully's chasing me. Who's chasing her?" 
 
"So why did you come back?" 
 
Krycek's smile was humorless, the look in his eyes more than a
little feral. "Guess. Come on. You know why; I bet you stole it
straight out of my head. You just don't believe it." 
 
Krycek was right; Mulder didn't believe it. Couldn't afford to
believe it. "So why not just say it then?" 
 
"And what? You'll believe me?" 
 
"Try me." 
 
"Fuck you, Mulder." Krycek was trying so hard to smirk, keep the
sarcastic shell intact, trying to make it sound as if he didn't
care, as if it was all a joke. Sing song voice. "I want to save the
world." 
 
And Mulder wanted to laugh, would have loved to laugh, but he knew
that Krycek was expecting that and he didn't want to be too
predictable. "Worried that I'll tell your assassin friends and blow
your street cred?" 
 
Krycek scowled, but it was pro-forma. His voice when he finally
replied was apologetic. "We're going to have to leave here. Split
up." 
 
"I'll talk to Scully. Stop the search." 
 
"Like hell. 'Yeah, Scully - I'm on the run with Alex - how about
you just pretend I'm still on that UFO and go back to DC.' What do
you think she'd do?" 
 
"If people are trailing her then she's in danger, too. She needs to
know." 
 
"I'll go south, give them something to chase. I'll warn her that
she's probably being followed." 
 
"You tried that once. You came back." 
 
"You don't remember last night, do you?" Krycek paused, took
Mulder's silence as assent. "You collapsed. You had a temperature
of 103. You were sweating, shaking. I couldn't wake you up. I
couldn't even move you onto a pillow without setting you off
screaming. By the time I was far enough away to call Scully, I knew
I couldn't call her. When I got back, you seemed OK. Out like a
light, but no fever. No sign that there was anything wrong. You're
probably safe here for a while. So long as I'm not here." 
 
"Where will you go?" 
 
"Damned if I know." 
 
Nowhere to go, thought Mulder, unintentionally tumbling into
Krycek's thoughts. Hating that for a moment they'd sounded like his
own. 
 
--------- 
 
The Bureau offices in New Mexico and Texas were initially more
curious than helpful. Though the Texans did at least have the
advantage of something tangible to get their teeth into. 
 
"An unsecured wireless access point?" said the ASAC. 
 
Scully repeated the name of the corporation whose network had been
breached and why they couldn't be more precise about the location. 
 
"I have no idea what you're talking about. But this is about a
missing agent, right?" 
 
To Scully's surprise, it had been the loss of one of their own
rather than the possible glory of catching a professional assassin
that had captured their attention. It shouldn't have been a
surprise really, but it was a comfort to know that somebody cared.
Like getting a Christmas card from an old friend. "Yes," she said,
more hopeful that she'd felt in weeks. 
 
"I'll get one of the computer people to contact you. He can brief a
search team, get a few people out driving past the offices with
antennae on their knees. See what we find, right?" 
 
"Thank you." 
 
Wonderful news. What could have taken her days or even weeks, could
be done in a matter of a few hours. She turned to Doggett. "We
should have an improved shortlist of locations tonight." 
 
"And then?" 
 
"We go to work." 
 
--------- 
 
Daryl Nelson had never been part of the high command, nor had he
even been singled out as the best of the rising stars. He had
however worked hard and learned well and he'd kept his head down
when the bullets and recriminations flew. He believed in the work,
if not always in the capability or the methods of the men in
charge. 
 
Like Mulder, he'd been born into conspiracy. Like Krycek, his
father had died to keep Fox Mulder alive. Daryl wasn't the type to
hold a grudge. Dad had turned traitor, made an inappropriate
tactical choice to offer information to Mulder and ultimately to
personally supervise an exchange of classified material in return
for Mulder's life. The agents had called him Deep Throat, which
seemed fair, either a whistleblower or a traitor depending on where
you stood. 
 
Unlike Mulder, he'd never doubted the wisdom of the Consortium's
hunt for a vaccine to block the aliens from using human bodies as
hosts. Even if that did mean using the unwitting and the unwilling
as test subjects and playing for time by collaborating with the
enemy. Unlike Krycek, he'd never learned to look somebody in the
eye and pull the trigger. Which meant, in fact, he was different
from Mulder and Scully in that respect too. 
 
They were playing for the highest of high stakes and morality was
such a subjective thing. 
 
Strughold wanted Mulder and no wonder - what a catch! A telepath
gifted with ESP and precognitive powers, albeit as yet untrained,
and a man already bound by a thousand threads to his destiny. Some
of the old Consortium leaders, Spender for one, had thought it was
a fate that Mulder might one day embrace. 
 
As on many other matters, Nelson had kept his head down and said
nothing, even though his psychology doctorate made him a more
qualified source than any of the men who did feel entitled to
comment. 
 
To outsiders, Nelson might have looked more like a secretary than a
soldier. From his own perspective, they couldn't be more wrong. He
was twenty-first century warrior, fighting with his brains not his
body. Dana Scully really shouldn't use unsecured phone lines to
talk to local Bureau offices. Walter Skinner really oughtn't expect
a free run if he was going to use his own credit cards when he
traveled. 
 
A few phone calls and a couple of bribes, and he was already hours
ahead of the FBI. Whereas the Lone Gunmen had produced a shortlist
of twenty-three offices, which the FBI had so far reduced to twenty
with twenty more sites to visit, there were only three possible
sites on his list now. 
 
It was time to replace the teams trailing Skinner and Scully,
stealth required variety. He should be able to launch three
additional duos into the mix as well. Fast, silent response through
military channels was problematic these days. Fortunately civilian
channels were getting better all the time and could be just as
helpful given the right incentives. 
 
Strughold acknowledged the effort and approved his actions with
only the occasional pause for clarification. Strughold finally
asked the unavoidable question. "Your best guess?" 
 
It really wasn't a matter of guesswork. There were after all, only
three sites where the computer connection could realistically have
been made and only one of those was within a couple of hundred
miles of an abandoned Consortium project. "White Heart," he said. 
 
"The quarry? The magnetite." Strughold nodded, impressed. "Do we
have satellite images?" 
 
"Only routine sweeps. Nothing on those. But Krycek's not a fool.
We'd need continuous monitoring to know for sure. I've asked for
that but it'll be a matter of luck if we catch anything. We need
more people on the ground." 
 
Another brief nod from the man who was once again the Consortium's
most feared and respected leader, followed immediately by an order.
"Send your strongest team." 
 
"Yes, sir." 
 
-------- 
 
Skinner had called in a few favors: Bureau, Marine Corps, people
he'd met along the way. 
 
Dallas had been a mistake. But that was OK. It was supposed to be a
step in the right direction not a leap to a conclusion. Armed with
a laptop computer, a gadget from the Lone Gunmen and a GPS handset
he'd done well. 
 
He'd started out with Byer's theories about which locations were
the most promising. Not too big - one of the IT techies would have
squealed, or it would have shown up in some hacker's guide to
hotspots. Not too small, not easy enough to park up close and pause
for a while without attracting attention. 
 
He'd studied aerial photographs to identify the places where a
strange car would be effectively invisible yet simultaneously might
have good wireless access to an unprotected network. 
 
He'd thrown Scully's trip to St Louis into the mix and drawn arcs
on maps that directed him to look north. After a couple of days
hunting, he'd deleted a lot of locations from the Lone Gunmen's
list, but the choice of where to head next and what to do when he
arrived was driven more by gut instinct than hard logic. 
 
--------- 
 
Amarillo was close enough to the New Mexico border to meet all of
Scully's gut feelings. Big enough for someone to go hunting for an
open wireless connection to the Internet. Large enough for a
stranger to be invisible. Popular enough to offer shops, motels and
all the other necessary accompaniments to life on the run. Small
enough that when she heard from the Lone Gunmen that Walter Skinner
was heading to the same town it wasn't hard for her to locate his
hotel. 
 
The only question from Doggett was about how much backup they were
going to need. 
 
It was a question that Scully couldn't afford to think about. For
every possible answer there were at least a dozen more questions.
"I'd like to talk to Skinner first." 
 
"That could be a bad move. If he's planning to meet someone then we
don't want to spook him." 
 
"No one told him to come here. He started with the same information
that we did. He didn't just fly straight to Amarillo." 
 
"I didn't say he was stupid." 
 
"I don't believe that he would help Krycek." 
 
"But he could be helping Mulder?" 
 
There was no answer to that. No answer for Doggett. No answer for
herself. Mulder wouldn't do it, not to her. Focusing on her
breathing, she sought out the quiet place inside, did the best she
could with what she found. "What do you propose, Agent Doggett?" 
 
"Surveillance. Local agents, people he won't recognize." 
 
"And we do what?" 
 
"Investigate. See what the people who own this network have to say
for themselves. If we're in the right town, then we know where
whoever accessed those files was between 9:57 and 10:01 on Friday
morning. We follow it up with the PD. Maybe we get lucky and find
him on a traffic camera. Maybe he used an ATM and we can get him on
video security." 
 
"And we stay away from Skinner?" 
 
"We keep in contact with the tailing agents so we'll get some
warning. But it's not that big a place. If we see him, we should be
ready." 
 
"Meaning?" 
 
Doggett looked at her, his expression too gentle to be strictly
professional. She knew what was coming next; he was going to offer
her another chance to back away. "Are you ready, for whatever he
throws at us?" 
 
The light was hurting her eyes, she blinked away the acid. No, she
wasn't ready, but she'd buried a sister and a child and she hadn't
been ready for that. At least she could prepare herself for this. 
 
------- 
 
Mulder was having trouble breathing again, struggling to stay
afloat above the panic. 
 
"I'll stay tonight," said Krycek, trying to hold a glass of water
to Mulder's lips to help him swallow down the Tylenol. 
 
Mulder's head hurt and just kept on hurting. Indoors was better
than outdoors, but that was a relative term and better in this case
simply meant that the external screams had stopped slamming through
his skull and been replaced by some vaguer internal fear. The fact
that the dread intensified at the thought of Krycek leaving made it
even harder to take. What the hell was he going to do if Krycek did
leave tomorrow? 
 
Making matters worse was the idea that Krycek's assessment of the
situation was at least partially correct. They had to separate.
Which meant that tomorrow Mulder was going to need to be in good
enough shape to drive or at least to stay here alone. Picking up
the satellite phone and inviting Scully to come to the quarry was
definitely too risky now. If someone else got here first then he
was as good as dead. No way could he defend himself. 
 
A more subtle approach was required. Call Scully from a public
phone in the next big town; warn her that she might be followed;
pass on a meeting place via the Gunmen. Get her to break off all
contact with home, family and friends and go on the run with him. 
 
What an offer. 
 
Maybe he should forget running, just bite the bullet and focus on
publicizing his case. Get this whole thing out in front of the
people, which was where it belonged. Yeah. He could see it now.
Just how long would it take before he was back in a psych unit
somewhere? Necessarily so if he couldn't stop the voices screaming
in his ears or the terror growing in his head. Had to have it under
control before he reemerged. Bad enough that everything he had to
say would sound like paranoid delusion, far worse if it looked like
that was all it was. 
 
Including himself in the equation kept messing the whole thing up.
All he had to do was talk to Scully, tell her what was going on and
find some way to get the files to her. She could get the
information out there into the big wide world while he kept his
head down and tried to survive. Easy. 
 
So easy he wondered if he was going to die. 
 
A new sensation caught him unawares. Something loud in his ears.
"Mulder, for fuck's sake breathe," demanded Krycek. 
 
And he tried, but couldn't quite get his head above the water. 
 
------- 
 
Krycek was worried. Suspecting that he'd made the wrong call but
not at all sure what the right one would have been. Since pushing,
prodding and generally persuading Mulder first to walk and, when
that method failed, to crawl back up the stairs into the apartment,
things had gone downhill fast. 
 
Sitting on the couch, Mulder hadn't stopped shaking. It started out
breathless and angry. He was feverish again. Pulse rate through the
roof. Sweating. If not actually unaware then certainly not
operating fully in the here and now. Krycek tried what had in the
past week or so become his standard tactic; smoothing his thoughts,
talking quietly, then a little louder, then finally squeezing
Mulder's shoulder and shouting in his ear. 
 
But Mulder's shaking changed somewhere along the line to something
stiffer and tighter. Something uncontrolled. 
 
A seizure? 
 
Krycek rocked back on his heels, fought against his own instincts
to capture Mulder's shoulders and pin him down. He forced himself
to wait it out, checked his watch so he'd know how long it took. If
he had to kidnap Scully and bring her here to deal with this, then
that was the kind of thing she'd want to know. 
 
---------- 
 
Skinner spotted the tail before he even left the hotel's parking
lot: a shiny new Bureau car in midnight blue. It could have angered
him to know that the Bureau was watching him, but instead it made
him proud that his people were doing their jobs so well. 
 
"Scully," he thought, glad that he wasn't the only one down here
chasing Krycek or Mulder, or whatever it was he was doing. 
 
It hurt a little to know that she hadn't trusted him enough to
arrange a meeting to swap information and maybe share the problem
of where to go next, but she was a straight arrow as well as smart.
Sharp enough to work as Mulder's partner, yet still capable of
going by the book in the way an agent like John Doggett might
demand. 
 
Knowing he was being tailed gave him a certain luxury: he didn't
need to worry about backup. The idea pleased him. He couldn't help
but think that it was exactly the kind of silver lining that Mulder
would bet his own life on. 
 
--------- 
 
Skinner's FBI tails on the other hand were rather less comfortable
about the situation. When they called in their position to Doggett,
they were quick to inform him that they'd already spoken to their
boss. 
 
Sitting in the parking lot of the shopping mall with the highest
density of ATM machines, Doggett motioned Scully forward to listen
in on the call. 
 
"OK," said Doggett, talking into the phone, "I want you to tell
Agent Scully what you just told me." 
 
"There's a black van following the Assistant Director. It's a
rental." 
 
"Do we have the driver details?" 
 
"We're waiting for that information." 
 
"Be very careful. Whoever's in that vehicle could be extremely
dangerous. Do not approach them unless you have to and not without
getting additional backup." 
 
"And A.D. Skinner?" 
 
"Just keep your guard up." 
 
Doggett pushed the button to close the call. "Looks like things are
warming up." 
 
Scully frowned, wondering if she was ready for that and reminding
herself that she had to be. She glanced up into the car's mirror
again. "There's a green SUV, parked about four rows back. I think
it was outside the hotel this morning." 
 
Doggett checked the side mirror but couldn't quite get the angle to
see what she was referring to. "I'll go for a little stroll, call
in its plate." 
 
"Don't use the cell phone," said Scully. "We need to warn the
surveillance team as well - get the office to tell them to assume
their calls are being monitored." 
 
"You're thinking what? That this is some kind of Black Ops group
sent out by the same people running those men in St. Louis? And
they're using us to do the leg work for them?" 
 
"Maybe." 
 
Scully and Doggett maintained the show of visiting the banks and
the electronics stores on the mall, one of them talking to the
manager, the other keeping an eye on the cars outside. 
 
According to the computer searches, both the van trailing Skinner
and the SUV following Doggett and Scully were rentals. It took a
little longer to identify the full details of their collection and
to obtain copies of the drivers' papers. 
 
The agents following Skinner had reported to their boss that,
though the van had darkened windows and its occupants were
cautious, the vehicle contained two men. "Could be cops," suggested
one of the Feds talking over a landline to his FBI boss. 
 
"Not police," said Scully, talking to herself more than to Doggett. 
 
The SUV suddenly started its engine and drove away. 
 
"Do we follow them?" asked Doggett. 
 
"No, they'll make us straight away." 
 
"Then what?" 
 
"We wait. I don't think we'll have to wait for long." 
 
They didn't wait for long. A white van containing two men suddenly
pulled into a neighboring parking space. "How many vehicles have
these people got?" complained Doggett. 
 
"I need to warn Skinner that he's being trailed." 
 
Doggett considered it for a moment. "Let's take this to Amarillo
PD. Get everybody in one place. Away from civilians. Find out
exactly who we're dealing with." 
 
"I don't think they'll be looking for a fire fight - not with us." 
 
"More reason to tackle them now. If we find something, we don't
need vultures on our backs." 
 
Easy for Scully to agree with that, given that the "something" in
Doggett's statement might very well be Mulder. Doggett had asked
her, more than once, if she really wanted to handle this
investigation herself and the answer had always been simple: she
didn't have a choice. But what if her search led someone else to
Mulder? Could she ever forgive herself for that? 
 
One thing at a time. For now, she would go along with Doggett.
Maybe they could identify the men tailing them, perhaps even get
enough circumstantial evidence to identify who was footing the bill
for this mission. She thought of two dead men in St Louis; maybe
these people could tell her the unidentified victims' names as
well. 
 
Setting the trap took a while and the personal intervention of
Deputy Director Kersh plus a little encouragement from the local
Bureau office. "Favor for a favor," said Doggett when one of the
PD's commanders confirmed their enthusiasm might be improved if he
received a little more information on a sting operation that he
suspected the DEA was running on his turf. Deals done, they quickly
got a plan in place. 
 
"They want us to go to a baseball stadium?" asked Scully. 
 
"Easy to find for out-of-towners. Plenty of room for them to set up
a SWAT team and not too many people around." 
 
Scully was a little annoyed by the suggestion. Strangers with
something to hide might choose a place like that. Amateurs with
something to hide, she thought, vaguely annoyed at the idea. She
forced the anger down. It was a good location for them. Not so
quiet as to be suspicious, not so busy as to endanger lots of
innocent lives. Moreover, it was a place the local police felt
secure, probably even a place where the SWAT team conducted the
occasional training exercise. OK. It would do. 
 
The method of springing the trap was easy. With the timings agreed
in advance with the PD, Scully picked up her cell phone and called
her old boss. 
 
"Skinner." 
 
"Walter, hi," said Scully. 
 
A pause at the other end of the line made her nerves jangle. Come
on, Skinner, she urged, wondering how many seconds she'd really
been waiting for a reply and preparing herself to try again and to
make herself even more obvious next time. Maybe two words hadn't
been enough for him to recognize her voice or her intentions. 
 
Skinner's voice finally returned, softer than usual, deeper even,
and without its usual gruff undertone. "Dana - good to hear from
you. Are you in town?" 
 
"We need to swap notes. Meet me?" 
 
"Sure." 
 
Thirty minutes they gave themselves. Eighteen hundred seconds. 
 
It had been a long time since Scully had prepared for a firefight
without Mulder at her side. She'd put a bulletproof vest on under
her jacket that morning, it chafed and sweated against her skin but
at least she was dressed for the occasion. She thought of two men
with bullets through the head and had to breathe slowly to stop the
shudder that escaped her brain and ran along her spine. 
 
"You ready for this, Agent Scully?" asked Doggett, looking worried. 
 
"Are you?" 
 
Doggett's worried look didn't disappear, but his voice added an
extra dose of frustration now. "We don't know who's in those cars.
We don't know which side Skinner's on." 
 
"I'm ready." 
 
She was grateful that Doggett didn't ask for more. 
 
 
END of Part 11 

TITLE: Consequential Loss
RATING: R for strong language
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann H - joannhere@gmail.com

The complete story is now at:
http://www.cbcasa.com/new.htm

My apologies for the slow/fast/haphazard posting
pattern. I'd tell you it was due to circumstances
beyond my control but that doesn't really tell
you anything!


LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine.
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

=============
 
 
Skinner had spotted the Bureau tail the day before and had carried
on as if it wasn't there. After all, he had nothing to hide.
Moreover, he'd been confident that if it reached the stage where he
might have something to protect, then he could handle that as well. 
 
Scully's phone call had changed everything. First the shock of the
call. Even seeing her name in the Caller ID window was a surprise.
Calling him Walter made him wonder immediately if she was in
trouble. His instincts had been a little rusty but he'd soon caught
up again. Since then he'd been preparing himself to be mentally and
physically ready to act. 
 
His weapon was close to hand and ready to use. He felt a little
awkward about that. He'd turned in his Bureau issue gun at the
start of the investigation into his conduct, but he'd brought his
personal weapon along for the ride. Despite his suspension meaning
that the paperwork for the flight was not quite everything it ought
to be. 
 
With his guard up after Scully's call, he'd spotted another
vehicle, a green SUV this time that seemed to have shown up in his
peripheral vision maybe once too often. 
 
The parking lot of the sports ground had plenty of cars but not
many people. "She's arranged this," he thought, but had no real
idea what the "this" might be. An ambush? For him? For whoever was
in the SUV? 
 
He didn't have long to wait. A call to his cell phone from a number
he didn't recognize and Scully's voice telling him to, "Stay down." 
 
Waiting was hard. Waiting, slumped low in a car, while somebody
else did something, was practically impossible. When the phone rang
again overtaxed nerves made it slippery in his hand before he
pushed the button. "OK, sir. Leave your weapon on the passenger
seat. Get out of the car - slowly, hands empty and where we can see
them." 
 
----- 
 
They'd lost one of the vehicles: the black van that had originally
been tailing