Dogs of War
By Paige Caldwell
paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Date: Sun, 11 Jul 1999
Classification: X, MSR
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through "Biogenesis"
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me.
No infringement is intended.
The lyrics are taken from Pink Floyd's
masterpiece album "Momentary Lapse of
Reason".
Author's Note: My never ending gratitude to Kimberly
at Clinique's Hidden Gems, to Galia who
most graciously designed a page for a
Paige and to a treasured beta who encourages
as well as she writes...
Summary: Post "Biogenesis". A tongue-tied, twisted,
earth-bound misfit returns from the Ivory
Coast. The dogs of war are waiting for her...
and she is waiting for them...
Part 1 of 3
The dogs of war don't negotiate
The dogs of war won't capitulate,
They will take and you will give,
And you must die so that they may live
You can knock at any door,
But wherever you go, you know they've been there before
Well winners can lose and things can get strained
But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain....
He waited in the shadows of her apartment. Summoned from
his sleep by a phone call, he snapped to attention and quickly
dressed. Without hesitation and devoid of much thought, he made
his way to where she lived. He broke into her apartment with
little effort, leaving no trace of fingerprints from his one
gloved hand.
When she opened the door later, he studied her profile in
the light from the hall. Not out of fascination, although he was
tempted. She had become interesting this past year. She had
proven to be resilient, undaunted by any obstacle thrown in her
path. She carried herself like a professional. She did not rely
upon her gender for special consideration nor did she make any
excuses for it.
Unlike the other woman, Krycek thought. The one who had
been allowed to hunt in the pack. A bitch in heat. Going down
on all fours to an old, lecherous canine to get what she wanted.
Except the fool was so caught up in his own rise to power that he
didn't see that his mate was sniffing out another.
He squinted through the darkness, shutting out images that
disgusted him. There was a mission to accomplish. He was sent
to intercept a discovery that threatened his master, to take it
by force if necessary.
Yet, there was something wrong. The woman stopped in the
doorway, pausing to set her suitcase down on the floor. Her gaze
circled the room as if she suspected that danger lurked in the
darkness. Without a word, she reached to the back of her
waistband and drew out her gun.
"Come out, come out wherever you are..." Dana Scully sang to
him in a toying voice.
He froze in the corner of the livingroom. How could she
have known that he was there? His own gun lifted to parallel
hers in the darkness. He drew in his breath and waited for her
next move.
"I may not be able to see you, but I can smell your stench
from miles away," she called out.
"But, I can see you..." His whisper sliced through the
shadows.
Scully pushed the suitcase into her apartment with her leg.
Her eyes strained towards the corner of the livingroom as she
responded,
"Well, those beady little eyes are more used to the dark than
mine."
Her hand glided up the wall to the light switch.
There was no fright in her eyes. They were apathetic. At
first, he was startled by her reaction, balancing surprise with
fear of his own waning effectiveness. But, as she carefully shut
the front door, he understood her lack of fear. Lowering his
gun, he said to her.
"You found it, didn't you?"
"What is it you think I've found, Krycek?" she asked,
cupping her gun with her other hand. She slowly moved to the sofa
which separated them.
"The answers to all your questions," he responded obscurely.
"No, not yet." She shifted her legs apart, establishing a
firing stance. "But, I think I'm in a better position to get
those answers now."
"From me?" Krycek snickered. "You know better than that,
Scully. I don't negotiate."
"That's right," she sneered back. "You obliterate."
The man grinned. He held his gun out to the side in a
placating gesture.
"Don't be bitter, Scully, it's nothing personal."
"I intend to make it personal," she advised him coldly. "I
intend to use whatever means I have in securing what I want."
"Which is what? Your partner back safe and in sound mind?"
Scully arched her head to the side. She was contemplating
him. In a baiting tone, she spoke,
"Don't you have a question of your own that needs answering,
Krycek? Did I or did I not find the other pieces to the
artifact?"
"Did you?" His gaze sizzled into hers.
"If I did, what would it be worth to your master?"
"I told you. I don't negotiate," Krycek reminded her.
"Then you're going to have to crawl back empty handed."
Her analogy was not lost on Krycek. Nor was her attitude.
It wasn't haughty. It was assured. This woman was unmoved by
threats. And, she wasn't bluffing. She had reached a level of
certainty that could only be attained by having found the perfect
trump card.
"Where are they, Scully? Do you have them with you?"
"Please...," she scoffed. "Don't insult me."
"What is it you want in exchange for your little discovery?
"I...want...him...back...," Scully emphasized each word.
"It's beyond my control," he related.
"I want him back," she repeated, "Nothing more and nothing
less. Take that to your master like a good boy. Tell the
Dog of War that a bitch has sniffed out and dug up the bone he's
been looking for."
"He may decide to just put the bitch down," he warned her.
He could tell that she was unimpressed with his last remark.
"I have nothing left to lose and your master has everything
to gain," Scully remarked. "So, that doesn't make me expendable,
Krycek, it makes me safe."
For a moment neither spoke. Krycek saw her fingers
tightened around her gun. Her posture conveyed that mind and
body were converging, becoming one with her weapon, poising for a
split second reaction in which she would fire it.
"I'll have to get back to you," he said finally.
Her finger eased back on the trigger.
"Don't keep me waiting long," Scully advised. "A dog's
instinct is to bury the bone where no one else will be able to
find it."
"You'll hear from me within twenty-four hours."
......
Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone my senses reeled
A fatal attraction hold me fast, how
Can I escape this irresistible grasp?
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I....
Scully exhaled slowly and slid the dead bolt into place.
Locking him out was a symbolic gesture. There was no stopping
him or others who would hunt her down. She was afraid, but fear
had taken second seat to her vindictiveness.
The cumulative effect of the Consortium's actions had
finally unleashed that part of her that was dark. They had
stolen from her, deceived her and twisted her beliefs to the
extent that she could barely maintain a rational thought. It
enraged her that they operated with such impunity. Beyond
reproach, impossible to stop, they surpassed the worst of war
criminals. They were the dogs of war.
No, she would not curtail the nature of the beast. She would
allow it to rise forth and command her thoughts and actions.
Permit that sixth sense, a intuitiveness as sharp as any dog's
fangs, to clamp down on their scrawny necks.
It was because of them that she had been forced to fly
alone. She had been deprived of her navigator. Without him to
steer her though a unchartered sky, where stars were no longer
just stars. Her hands fumbled at the controls of her first solo
flight. She had not been prepared to find what she had found.
She had gone to the Ivory Coast to seek out the remaining
pieces of the artifact. She found two more buried in the sand
near the alien craft which must have archived them.
As her eyes lifted to the circling skies, panic overwhelmed
her. She was spinning out of control. Crashing was no longer a
threat, it was inevitable.
No wonder she hated flying...
No wonder Mulder said she grounded him...
An earth-bound misfit was capable of exerting a strong force
of gravity.
She reached for her portable phone. When she spoke, her
voice was gritty.
"Okay boys, we have twenty-four hours. Let's make the most
of them."
........
A restless eye across a weary room
A glazed look and I was on the road to ruin
The music played and played as we whirled without end
No hint, no word her honor to defend
I will, I will she sighed to my request
And then she tossed her mane while my resolve was put to the test
Then drowned in desire, our souls on fire
I led the way to the funeral pyre
And without a thought of the consequence
I gave in to my decadence....
There were moments in each day when the voices in his head
grew silent enough for him to maintain a lucid thought. It was
then that he stopped struggling from the inexorable prison of his
straightjacket. He would stare at the camera with such hate that
he hoped the viewer's eyes would be seared into blindness. To
finally obliterate the vision that she had created for herself
and for him.
He knew she was there. The dark, treacherous woman of his
past. The one who had caused him to slip and fall into this hole
of insanity. Even in this state, where coherency wavered without
a moment's notice, he knew the truth. The madness began a long
time ago. In a momentary lapse of reason, he chose to believe
her. Without realizing it, he began to trust her. And, without
thinking much at all, he bedded her.
She was there...watching...waiting...
From the minute he awoke and found her in his apartment, he
knew that he had fallen victim to her manipulations. He fought
back the panic and disgust in an effort to trick her, to preserve
the last tenets of reason that were being drowned out by the
torturing voices. When the phone rang, both of them glanced at
it and then back to each other. He swallowed against a dry
throat as she reached for the phone. Bracing himself, preparing
himself for the caller who he knew would be Scully.
Scully....
He had managed to make his voice curt when he spoke to his
partner. He had difficulty forming words that he wanted to be
clear to her, yet ambiguous to the woman on the opposite side of
the bedroom.
"Prove me wrong," he countered when his partner contradicted
his theory about the artifact. Yet, his mind was screaming out to
her to find the proof and find it fast. He was slipping.
Sinking into a pit of quicksand, he writhed around on the bed,
his fingers stretching out to reach hers...
Scully...
Cold, thin fingers closed around his. Not, the warm,
certain ones of the woman who had taught him the real meaning of
trust and love. It was the other. The ugly parody of what he
once thought sublime. She sat on the side of the bed, reaching
behind her back to unfasten the clasp of her bra.
"Give in to it, Fox," her voice was no longer the voice of
temptation. She stripped off the bra an let it fall to the
floor.
She was not enticing. She was grotesque.
She leaned forward to whisper into his ear.
"The year grows late, Fox. Neither one of us wants to face
the future alone."
One slip and down the hole you fall.....
It was then that he fought back with every ounce of strength
left to him. He threw her off of him and tried to rise up from
the bed. As pain shot through his temple, his knees buckled. He
fell to the ground and grasped his head in agony. When the
blackness passed, he saw that she was standing over him.
Had there ever been a softness to her eyes? He doubted it.
They appraised him now with a singular cold determination that
was more frightening than death.
He began to moan a name that would be his last sentient
thought for days.
Scully....
......
I will always be in here
I will always look out from behind these eyes
It's only a lifetime...
He sat in a chair behind a prominent mahogany desk. He had
risen in status this past year. The office had belonged to his
predecessor, a man of refined taste but lack of insight. But,
not him. No, this office suited him well.
He crushed his cigarette in a crystal ashtray and
immediately lit another. He had recently changed his consumption
to ulta low, filtered cigarettes, thinking it less damaging to
recently rehabilitated lungs. Yet, he had replaced quality with
quantity. The pull of each drag was almost desperate. The taste
was unsatisfying. He should give it up once and for all.
No, it was too late to teach an old dog new tricks....
"We have a problem..." the voice from the doorway broke into
his thoughts.
"Is that the royal "we", Alex?" CSM appraised the man
through the slits of his eyes. "Are you speaking in terms of
something that affects us all, or is it another attempt to align
yourself with the ill-fated Russian aristocracy?"
"Why isn't it possible for any of us to have a normal
conversation?" Krycek whined.
"What's wrong?" Was your visit to Agent Scully less than you
bargained for?"
"Actually, bargaining is exactly what Agent Scully has in
mind," the man retorted.
"Good," CSM took another drag from his cigarette then held
it out to study it closely. He tried inhaling it again.
"Good...very good."
"I thought we don't negotiate," protested the other, not
understanding his superior's response.
"Again, the use of the royal "we"," he snickered. "You
don't negotiate, Alex. I do."
"Fine," grumbled Krycek. "What does His Lordship command?"
"Did she find more pieces to the artifact?" CSM asked.
"If she didn't, then she's playing one hell of a bluff,"
declared Krycek.
"No, the stakes are too high," CSM considered. "She has
what we...excuse me...that I want. Dare I ask what she wants in
return?"
"I would think that answer is rather obvious..." a chilled
voice rang out from the doorway.
CSM's eyes widened with delight. He couldn't help himself.
The affect this woman's voice had on him was almost as potent as
what he had discovered between her legs. Arousal was no longer
the result of a well maneuvered scheme. The Goddess of the Hunt
had pierced his decaying libido with one release of her bow. The
arrow had hit its mark. He didn't care that she flaunted his
affection like a trophy. She gave credence to the conclusion
that he was a renewed man.
"Diana," he practically crooned her name.
"The experiment must continue," Fowley stated firmly "With a
little more time I am certain it will be successful."
"My dear, the experiment has failed," CSM replied. "A week
has passed and Agent Mulder has not shown any improvement. His
resistance to the experiment leads me to conclude that he is an
unlikely subject."
Fowley crossed over to the desk and gripped it tightly. Her
dark eyes lowered to the man behind it. In a soft, appealing
voice, she pleaded,
"Just a few days more. I'm not asking too much, am I?"
"Scully gave us twenty-four hours," Krycek's voice
interrupted hers.
Fowley turned to give him a withering look.
"You give her too much credit," she said. "She lacks the
instinct to be a valid threat."
"Her instinct has led her to discover the valid threat," CSM
commented. "The message of the artifact must remain in our
control and for our exclusive use."
"Then why don't we just take the pieces from her?" demanded
Fowley.
"Because that same instinct was sharp enough to evade our
watchful eyes when transporting them back."
"There are others ways..." the woman pointed out.
"I am not inclined to waste any more time or resources on a
solution when one has already presented itself." There was a
noticeable edge to his tone. "Agent Mulder has in the past and
continues to ignore the voice of reason. Even now when it
consumes his every thought. "
CSM stood up from his chair and moved around it. Placing a
firm hand over Fowley's, he spoke to Krycek.
"Make the deal, Alex."
When Krycek left the room, he turned to Fowley and caressed
her cheek. She tried not to shrink away from the smell of his
tobacco stained fingers.
"Remove the implant," he instructed her.
"We'll never have this opportunity again," she urged him one
last time.
"My dear, we are the creators of destiny." His hand
slithered down her neck to where her blouse fell open above her
breasts. "We don't wait for opportunities. We make them."
End of Part 1
......
"Dogs of War" X, MSR, NC-17
Paige Caldwell
Part 2 of 3
And still this ceaseless murmuring
The babbling that I brook
The seas of faces, eyes upraised
The empty screen, the vacant look....
Fowley stood outside the room where Mulder sat huddled
against the wall. She gazed at the screen, searching for
movement of the hazel eyes that were fixed on the camera. They
were almost glazed over from hours of vacant staring. She knew
the pattern. It would not be long before he began to fight
again. Resisting the voices, thrashing against the restraint of
the straightjacket. Hurling foul obscenities at the camera. At
her.
How did they ever get to this point?
She stared down at hands that were starting to spot with the
signs of age. She was no longer a young woman. Gone were the
years where she easily enticed men with a flash of her smile or
arch of her head. She had been magnificent in her thirties when
both her regal bearing and swift intelligence had gained her
entrance to an elite circle. It was there that she learned that
power was as intoxicating as love. She allowed it to tempt her
away, justifying her loss as one easily recovered.
Except too much time had passed. Absence had not made the
heart grow fonder, but distanced it. Mulder had found another.
Scully. A woman whose skepticism had drawn him like a moth to
the flame. A flame not easily extinguished, despite her efforts.
She had used her persuasion with the others in trying to
distance them. Scully's first abduction had been her idea. She
had believed that the woman would not withstand the trauma of the
tests, that once released she would fade into the background.
But, she didn't...
The troll...a pint sized caricature of a woman had stolen
what was hers.
Gazing at him now from the view of the camera, she was
soured by what she knew would happen next. Once freed of the
implant, he would no longer her persuasion. He would return to a
quest which was futile. He would yield to a woman who was
infertile, in both body and belief.
That she had not been given enough time to change his path
filled her with resentment.
Resentment...
The idea took shape quickly. The controls were still in her
hand. She had one last chance to influence, if only through an
imparting thought. As she lifted the microphone to her mouth,
she chose words that she hoped would have a lasting effect.
"You will never forgive Scully for what she has done. She
has taken the truth and handed it over to the enemy."
.....
There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night
And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight
And silence that speaks so much louder that words,
Of promises broken...
The voices were gone. For a moment, he braced for the pain
that followed each attempt at stifling the voices. Other than a
stinging sensation in his right ear, there was no punishment to
silence. His eyelids slowly opened. He was in a regular hospital
room. His arms were no longer pinned around his waist. The
camera that mocked him was gone. He realized then that he had
been released from the white padded cage.
And, she was there. Scully. Sitting beside his bed, her
hand reached out to clasp his.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
The sound of his own voice seemed unusually loud. He knew
it wasn't when she leaned forward to hear it.
"Vacated..."
She offered him a tentative smile. He struggled to speak
with a tongue that felt numb.
"What happened, Scully?"
The edges of her mouth turned down into a frown.
"It was an implant, Mulder. Similar to a cochlear implant
designed for the deaf. An electronic device was placed in the
sensory canal of your ear. It depolarizes peripheral neurons to
produce auditory sensations..."
"Except it wasn't inserted to improve my hearing," he
interrupted in a gruff tone.
"Actually it was," she replied. "But it was modified with
an unknown technology to make you hear the voices of those who
wanted to command you."
"Not junk DNA turned on by the effects of the artifact?" he
asked. He paused to cough and clear his throat. "Not telepathy
like Gibson?"
She shook her head solemnly.
"No. Just an exclusive membership card to the Consortium's
Lab Rat Society." she explained. She gave his hand a squeeze as
if she was shaking it in introduction. "Welcome, new member. My
name is Dana..."
"Holy shit," he murmured in disbelief. His head fell back
to the pillow. He had suspected foul play the moment Diana had
shown up at his apartment to watch over him. He had hoped that
she was there to guard a more distinctive secret. He had wanted
the artifact to enable him to perceive the thoughts of others.
"It's been removed," she assured him.
It was a simple enough explanation, but hardly satisfying.
He would have preferred to have been mutated into a six foot
Gibson. Not just a test subject for the latest implant.
His eyes met hers. The knowing look she gave him made him
feel ashamed. She had been forced to submit to more indignities
than he would ever know, yet had rebounded with a composure and
strength that knew no limits. Chagrined, he pushed away his
disappointment and asked.
"Where is it? Where's the doctor who removed it?"
"Mulder," she said gently. "It's gone. The implant, the
doctor, the medical records....everything. The experiment has
been concluded. The Consortium got what they were looking for."
Her choice of words instantly caught his attention. When
she averted her eyes, he knew there was more.
"Which was what, exactly?" Mulder twisted his hand around
to grip hers. "Scully...what are you not telling me?"
Scully's gaze shifted back to his. They were pale against
the artificial glow of the fluorescent light.
"I had the proof, Mulder," she confessed. "I found the
missing pieces of the artifact off the Ivory Coast of Africa."
"You found them?" His gasp was not from shock but
excitement.
"I found them and...I traded them, Mulder."
"What?"
His fingers moved up to her wrist.
"I traded them for you," she responded calmly, trying not
to flinch at the pressure of his fingers.
Anger suddenly sizzled through his brain, opening the door
to uncomfortable thoughts.
"I can't believe you did this," he said through gritted
teeth. "The artifact was the key to the truth to everything
we've been looking for. Everything. Sandoz told you..."
"Sandoz is dead."
"Dead?"
"His body was found...well, in a fashion similar to his
colleague's."
"And, the other two pieces to the artifact are missing."
"Yes." It was then that she sighed.
Sighed. What was it about this woman that when faced with
incredible loss or exasperating circumstances, her reaction was
always the same?
"So, we have nothing..." he concluded bitterly.
"Nothing?" An edge had crept into her voice.
That was better. He wanted her to acknowledge the enormity
of this loss. To feel as deflated as he did.
"Unless you consider defeat as something to count," he
mocked.
"Mulder, I have suffered enough defeats in my lifetime to
dance around this one without missing a step."
She was a smooth dancer at that.
"What good is the truth when you lack the sanity to
comprehend it?"
Smooth but sharped tongued.
"We're not talking about me," he burst out.
"We most certainly are," she insisted. "What did you expect
me to do? Leave you in that padded cell indefinitely?"
"I expected you to do your job," he retorted. "To not make
it personal. To use that steadfast logic consistently, not just
when it suits you."
That one got her good. He could tell by the hurt in her
eyes. But it didn't make him feel better, it made him feel
miserable.
"Mulder, it wasn't like that...it was..."
"It was like what?"
"It was what you would have done," she stopped as her voice
cracked. When she spoke again, her tone was more measured. "It
was the same as being handed a vial of an experimental vaccine. A
vaccine capable of saving mankind. But, rather than turn it over
to the Bureau's labs or make any effort to preserve the formula,
it was rushed to Antarctica to save a life."
This was the problem in loving a woman who was smarter. She
always had the perfect answer.
"You certainly had that analogy handy," he said weakly.
"I thought I might need it someday," she murmured.
Scully leaned forward and tore his fingers from his wrist.
She grasped his hand with both of hers, pleading with her eyes
and her voice.
"Mulder, you once said you needed me, that my science and
rationalism saved you. I should have told you then. I'll tell
you now. I need you as much as you need me."
"No, you don't Scully." He refused to be swayed. "You just
think you do. Your science and rationalism is being tested by
the truth and it scares you."
"It does more than scare me," she confessed. "It threatens
to annihilate everything I believe in. When I saw that alien
craft..."
"Alien craft?" It was his voice's turn to crack.
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her silence spoke
louder than words.
"And, you left it there?" he cried out in disbelief.
"Well, what would you have me do? Rent a u-haul?" Her
response was more sarcastic then he expected.
"How true to form," he denounced. "Rather than accept it,
Dana Scully either refutes it, turns her back on it, or in this
instance, trades it."
"Rather than listen to that whiny little voice inside your
head, would you please just hear me out?"
"Get out."
"What?"
"You have taken the truth...everything that I was looking
for...and handed it over to the enemy."
"You're being ridiculous."
"I will never forgive you for what you have done."
The words flew out before he could stop them. He didn't
mean them. He tried to fight against the words, cringing with
horror at his own voice which sounded so cold and convincing.
They had convinced her. The effect was mirrored in her
eyes. Heartache. Rejection. Disillusionment. The pupils of
her eyes began to grow smaller, retreating, fading away into a
vacant blue background.
Stop, his mind screamed out to her.
She was gone.
He clasped both ears and began to rock back and forth,
trying to still the voice that had just condemned them both.
......
On the turning away
>From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won't understand
"Don't accept that what's happening
Is just a case of others' suffering
Or you'll find that you're joining in
The turning away"...
Scully sat down on her bed and studied the work she had
spread out over the comforter. A book on pre-phonetic Native
American languages was poised on her right. The bible was
positioned on her left. And in between were the duplicate set of
rubbings the Gunmen had made from the pieces of the artifact.
The artifact. Her plans were forgotten, subdued by despair.
The artifact had become a source of great contention. Already it
had cost lives, challenged faith, struck down science, and ended
partnerships.
Ended partnerships.
It was strange that she defined their relationship within
professional parameters. Was this her attempt at turning away?
Was she trying to ease the pain by making their relationship less
significant?
It was significant. He was significant. She needed him.
She loved him. But, in her attempt to prove that, she had lost
him.
Who was it who said that the road to hell was paved with
good intentions?
Whoever it was must have had her in mind. Must have known
that she would chose him above duty... must have known that she
was done allowing relationships to be sacrificed for
revelations..
Must have known that she would eventually turn an empty bed
into a desk...
Tears began to spill down her face again. Not the hot,
angry tears that she had cried on the way home from the hospital.
These were different. They were tears of a weary heart and a
beguiled mind. She had deceived herself into thinking that they
had reached a level past misunderstanding. She had foolishly
believed that they were close to taking the next step...
It was then that she heard the noise, the sound of her front
door opening.
.....
The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land
Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky
A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers,
But awakens to a morning with no reason for waking....
Albert Hosteen was tired of the life he found himself still
trapped in. Old age and disease had eaten away at his flesh and
muscle, turning a once proud warrior into a pathetic carcass of
feeble bones. Had he the strength to lift himself out of the
hospital bed, he would have gladly lit the torch to his own
funeral pyre. He would return himself to the land of his
forefathers. A land where danger was limited to the creatures of
the forest and not the sky.
Yet, he remained. Bound to this lifetime by those who
traveled far for his translations. He would stay long enough to
help those who needed it. He waited for days for the female
agent to return, the one whose hair rivaled the color of burnt
sienna. When she didn't, sending three of her scouts in her
place, a grin of amusement spread across his weathered face.
The Lone Gunmen. His people would have found a better name
to describe such an odd trio. The one with the flowing blond
hair and glasses reminded him of the White Owl. The second, a
man of quiet reserve but with fear frozen in his eyes could have
been called "Deer Caught in the Headlights". And the
third...well...even his native tongue had limitations.
He sensed a strong loyalty among these men to the two FBI
agents. He did his best to help them. Translating was the easy
part. Understanding the meaning was more difficult. But these
scouts were cunning. The grasped a understanding that he didn't.
They found hope in a situation he had concluded to be hopeless.
When they left, he knew that his work was done. He would
live no longer. He would not be coerced or forced to aide the
dogs that he knew would come sniffing around for him soon. When
they arrived they would find him gone. His soul would be
released into the sunset and his ashes would be scattered to the
wind. There would be nothing of him left.
Not even a bone for them to chew on.
End of Part 2
"Dogs of War", X, MSR, NC-17
Paige Caldwell
Part 3 of 3
On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night.....
Scully's right hand flew over to where she had hidden her
gun. She drew it from underneath her pillow and unlatched the
safety. Clasping it between both hands, she aimed it towards the
bedroom door.
"You're not going to shoot for what I said earlier, are
you?"
It was Mulder. He stood in the doorway, hands raised in
surrender, the familiar lopsided grin back in place. Scully
slowly released her breath and lowered the gun. In a shaky voice
she answered,
"I thought you were someone else."
"The next time you expect unwanted guests you may consider
using that dead bolt on your door," he suggested.
"I'll try it now," she said rising from the bed. She stood
before it and pointed her finger towards the door.
His gaze shot past her to the cluttered bed. For a moment
he studied the books which were opened, the pages that were
tagged with yellow sticky tabs. His eyes widened with surprise
when he saw the papers between the books.
"You had rubbings made," Mulder noted.
She didn't answer.
"You know, Scully, bringing work to bed is proof that you've
become resigned to sleeping alone."
"So sayeth the man who sleeps on a couch," she snapped. "I
thought I asked you to leave."
"I'm not leaving," he said, turning around and closing her
bedroom door.
"Don't you ever listen?" She felt her indignation rising.
"You know, I could have told the Consortium that they were
wasting their time with their implant. The only voice you ever
listen to is your own."
"No, Scully, it wasn't my own back at the hospital," He
responded facing her.
"The implant was removed, Mulder."
"But a voice was there, Scully." He took a step towards her.
"A distant, but familiar one. Encouraging me to turn away from
you at the very moment you turned towards me."
"I don't think you really need any encouragement," she
countered. "When it comes to taking that step forward, one of us
always manages to take two steps back."
"You're demonstrating that theory now," Mulder observed.
It was true. As he approached her, she was inching
backwards.
"That's because I think the voice you hear is the voice of
reason," she concluded.
"Maybe you should stop listening. I know I have."
"Maybe we should find something different to talk about,"
she posed as the backs of her leg hit the bed.
"Maybe we should stop speaking all together," he said
closing the distance between them.
He was so near. The air seemed to crackle with sparks from
bodies fully charged with tension. He wasn't touching her, but
the skin on her arms tingled with the anticipation of his next
move.
"Then how would we communicate?" Her voice sounded weak, a
feeble protest disguising a plea for more.
"More effectively than we have in the past," Mulder
responded softly.
She closed her eyes as he smoothed the hair back from her
face. The touch of his fingers brushing the tears from her
lashes made her tremble. She heard herself take a slight breath
as his mouth lowered to hers.
One kiss...with one single kiss, words were no longer
necessary.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders as the pressure of his
lips increased. When his mouth opened hers, her senses reeled,
turning dark and then blindingly bright. Science was lost. Faith
was forgotten. Heartache faded away.
Did he lower her onto the bed or did she simply fall down?
It didn't matter. They were on it now, his body covering hers.
The rubbings stuck to the back of her arms. She tried to shift
away, reluctant to break their connection but concerned that the
thin paper might tear. Suddenly, he raised her up. Without
looking, he grabbed the rubbings and threw them to the floor.
"Mulder..." she admonished softly.
The book on native languages was soon to follow. When he
reached for the bible, her hand stayed his.
"Scully..." He gave her an exasperated look.
"Just don't throw it," she pleaded.
The bible was carefully placed on the nightstand.
"You wanna remove your cross, too?"
Scully placed a finger to his lips.
"No more words," she whispered, lifting her arms to draw off
her shirt.
"No more words," he agreed, stripping off his.
His body language had varied tones. She was astounded to
find how multi-versed his hands and lips could be. But, he was
still Mulder, a man well spoken in the language of the tease. He
elicited such exquisite tension in her body that her responses
were limited to single syllable utterances.
Oh......
She always suspected he could find a better use for his
sarcastic tongue. The inside of her thighs were sticky with
proof.
Oh....
He was licking harder now, determined, as always, to lead
the conversation.
She tugged his head up before it was too late. His
protesting eyes met hers. She mimicked his pout and slowly shook
her head. No, this was not going to be a soliloquy. Her hands
coaxed him onto his back. She, too, had something to say...
Her lips pressed warm kisses against his skin as they
traveled downwards, opening as they arrived at their destination.
He had accused her once of being overly verbal. She was
determined to show him the benefits of an articulate mouth.
She felt his fingers twine through her hair, clenching and
releasing it. Her hand rose to his stomach and patted it
reassuringly.
"Scully..."
That was better. Hearing him moan her name filled her with
pleasure. But, he was cheating, having spoken an actual word.
"So close..." he murmured.
She lifted her head.
"That's two words..." she admonished him.
Suddenly, he grabbed her and flipped her back over.
Shifting her legs apart with his, he said in a husky voice.
"If we're going to count, then let's start counting
together."
"Let's..."
"That's one..." He entered her with a single thrust.
"That's two...." Her hips rose to greet the second one.
"Wanna try three?" He cupped her buttocks tightly.
"Four's my lucky number." She urged two more from him.
"What's your favorite number?" He panted.
"How high can you count?" She gasped back.
He was either content to let her have the last word, or was
focused on proving that he was an accommodating man. Either way,
they had found a new way of communicating. That it was based on
teasing and playfulness only renewed that part of her that had
grown old this past year. He would keep her young. He would
remind her that not all discoveries led to fatigue and
hopelessness.
She realized then that she had lost count. So, apparently,
had he. Wrapping her arms around him tightly, she gave into the
feeling of soaring upwards. No longer alone, her navigator
steering her above the clouds, she discovered that she had lost
her fear of flying.
......
No more turning away
>From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
>From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away?
The sound of a phone ringing woke Mulder. For a moment, he
forgot where he was. His hand fumbled for the phone, knocking it
off the table. He groaned and reached over to pick it up. In a
sleepy voice, he answered.
"Mulder."
There was no response on the other end. At least, not at
first. Then he heard a snort, and what his groggy ears perceived
to be a curse. He opened his eyes and demanded.
"Who is this?"
"Well...well..guess one really did fly out of the cuckoo's
nest," the voice snarled.
"Frohike, is that you?" he asked. "What are you doing
calling Scully at this hour?"
"What are you doing answering her phone at this hour?" the
man shot back.
"She's asleep," he responded. He couldn't help smirking and
adding, "She's worn out."
"And to think, you're such a fucking loser," Frohike sneered.
"Depends on who I'm with."
He felt Scully roll over and tug at his arm.
"That better not be my mother," she murmured, rubbing her
eyes.
"It's your little henchman," he advised, passing her the
phone.
Scully rose up on her elbow. She was wide awake now,
instantly alert by his reference to the caller.
"What did you guys find out?"
Mulder watch her startled expression materialize. Her blue
eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as if she was trying to
speak, but couldn't. He waved a hand in front of her and her
stupefied gaze lifted to his. Giving a slight shake of her head,
she handed the phone back to him.
She was speechless and it had nothing to do with lovemaking.
"What the hell did you just tell her?"
"Mulder, is that you?" It was Byers.
"Yeah," he answered. He could hear Frohike in the
background ranting about locking him back up and throwing away
the key.
"We just returned from meeting Al Hosteen," Byers informed
him. "He transcribed the symbols on the artifact pieces that
Scully found."
"What did he find?"
"Hope, Mulder. Hope for us all." There was a distinct lift
to Byer's voice as he explained further.
When Mulder hung up the phone, his eyes met Scully's.
"Do you know what this means?"
She nodded.
"Thank God you made the rubbings," he exclaimed.
"Mulder," she caught his arm. "The rubbings!"
Both of them sprinted naked from the bed. Scully found the
first one crinkled underneath a pile of clothes. Mulder found
the other, lifting it with her bra that was hooked onto it.
"Got it," he laughed as he held it up for her inspection.
She rolled her eyes and leaned over the bed to spread out the
fragile paper. He paddled over to her and wriggled himself
against the creamy flesh of her backside.
"Mulder, we've got work to do."
"It's only a little past six in the morning."
"You can't expect me just to turn my back on this."
"No, you're back is just fine where it is now."
"Mulder..."
"What if I count backwards? You like counting as I recall."
She laughed as she turned and twined her arms around his
neck.
"Hey, forwards works for me too," he conveyed before
lowering his lips to kiss her.
"We can always start one way and end another," she enticed
him.
"Have I told you lately that I love you?" Mulder murmured
against her ear.
"Only when delusional," she purred back.
"Then get ready to start counting," he grinned as he drew
her back down to the bed. "I love you."
"That's one..."
Later that morning, Scully sat at her desk which held her
computer. Her left shoulder was raised, balancing the portable
phone against her ear. Her fingers were typing quickly on the
keyboard. She paused when Mulder brought her a cup of coffee.
She gave him a quick, grateful look from behind her wire rimmed
glasses.
"I got it," she spoke into the phone before taking a sip of
the coffee. "Yeah...the program is working fine."
The encrypted message from the Gunmen was unveiling itself
across her computer screen. Mulder leaned over her shoulder to
study it. Without a word, he lifted the glasses from her nose
and pressed one lens close to his eye.
"Thanks, Langley. I'll get back to you guys later." She
clicked off the phone and shifted back in her chair.
"What you do you think?" she asked.
"That you need stronger lenses." He handed her
glasses back.
"We're going to need a strong geneticist. My thinking is to
fly out to the Genome Center at the University of Washington.
They've got one of the best labs around."
"Already she seeks to flee me," Mulder spoke glibly.
"You're not coming with me?"
"I can't, Scully. I have something that needs attending to."
"What could be more important than this?"
"Keeping an eye on the kennel." He informed her. "I have a
feeling that there might be a nasty dog fight over this bone."
......
Invisible transfers, long distance calls
Hollow laughter in marble halls
Steps have been taken, a silent uproar
Has released the Dogs of War
You can't stop was has begun
Signed, sealed, they deliver oblivion
We all have our dark side, to say the least
And, dealing in death is the nature of the beast....
His majesty had once again requested an audience. Probably
to sit smugly on his throne awaiting adulation from those who
would fawn and flatter him. He was presenting a great prize to
the Consortium. Redemption was at hand. His reign would
continue, undisrupted by subjects who sought to dethrone him and
seek a new direction for an ailing kingdom.
Or so he thought...
Krycek lips pulled back into a perfidious smile as he
entered the chamber. The bitch was there. She had most likely
just crawled out from underneath the desk. That would account
for the gratified expression that the man wore as he casually
leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke rings into the stagnant
air.
As he drew closer, beckoned by the withered hand, Krycek
realized that the two of them were engaged in something other
than post coitus banter. They were deep in discussion about the
message of the artifact. It revealed more than the coordinates
for gene clusters, it gave the link to a shared genetic sequence.
Proof that in the grand scheme of things, they were all aliens.
Not the Creator, but the created. Distanced by time and the
vastness of space, they were converging to war over a planet each
wanted to call home.
Or as CSM gleefully put it, "what we thought was trash was
really treasure...".
DNA. Dormant or "junk" DNA that they shared with those who
sought dominion over them. Once turned on, consciousness and
intellect would soar to almost incomprehensible levels.
"The human race is now capable of maturing into an
impressive adversary," insisted Fowley. "Not just a tier on the
intergalactic food chain."
Krycek lifted an eyebrow at that remark. Her analogy was
impressive. And so was her attempt at trying to persuade CSM to
turn over the information to their geneticists for
experimentation. But, as usual the master was not to be
dissuaded. No, he had an exclusive plan for his discovery.
"No," he said curtly. "We offer the artifact to our
benefactors. We must assure them of our loyalty. The recent
successes of the Resistance has cast a shadow of doubt over us.
Our allegiance must be clarified once and for all."
"The only thing you'll clarify is that we are and continue
to be dog meat," snapped Fowley.
"You think too much," admonished the man. "Besides, the
decision has already been made. Let us move on. Alex, you're
wearing that doleful expression, again. What is it?"
"We have a problem...." Krycek began.
"Let me guess," CSM held up his hand. For a moment, he
squeezed his eyes shut tightly, as if he were telepathically
receiving signals. "Agent Scully had rubbings made of the
artifact pieces. They've been translated by that ancient Navaho
soothsayer and now she and Mulder are as enlightened as we."
Krycek didn't respond.
"You see?" CSM grinned. "Who needs telepathy when we have
technology."
"So you bugged her apartment," he shrugged.
"You're unimpressed?" CSM snickered. He turned his head
towards Fowley and said, "What about you, my dear? I'm certain
you would be impressed if I let you listen to the tape made last
night."
Krycek saw a quick flicker of anger in Fowley's eyes. She
rose from her chair and moved to the window without a word.
"What are your instructions?" he asked blandly.
"Kill them."
Krycek blinked. He wasn't surprised. He shouldn't be
surprised. Mulder and Scully's death warrant had been signed and
sealed for a long time. That he would be called upon to execute
had always been a matter of time. It was inevitable. So, why
did he allow a split section of hesitation to enter his mind?
Perhaps it really was a matter of time. Time to reveal the
true nature of the beast.
But, Fowley had found her moment as well.
Krycek drew his gun as quickly as Fowley drew hers. Both
had responded out of instinct. Hers was to protect the one she
loved. His was out of a habit of loyalty to his master.
CSM had not ascended the throne for lack of mettle. He
stared coolly at his consort, unflinching as her gun pressed
against his neck.
"What is it, my dear?" he taunted. "Time of the month
again?"
You either loved him or hated him. That was the truth about
the Cigarette Smoking Man. Those who loved him met a treacherous
fate. His wife, his son, his best friend and his best friend's
wife. Those who hated him were mesmerized by his enduring
nature. Either way, he had become a constant in a world that
needed to change.
"More like the time of the millennium," Fowley remarked.
"Out with the old and in with the new."
She lowered her mouth to whisper into his ear,
"And, I'm not just talking about that withered carrot of
yours."
CSM snorted smoke out of his mouth. For the first time,
Krycek thought he saw anger spark from the man's eyes.
Fowley raised her head and shook her long, dark mane over
her shoulder. In a crisp voice, she announced,
"The days of isolationism are past. It is time for a new
leadership. We must embark in a new direction and embrace new
relationships."
"You may encounter a little resistance with your plans," CSM
arched his head to the side as he flicked the ash off his
cigarette.
Krycek's aim had been directed at Fowley's heart. His
finger relaxed on the trigger as he realized who she was. The
one finally sent to unleash him. The one sent to lead the others
away from a liaison that had crippled them all.
"Actually," she smiled suddenly. "I think it is the
Resistance you are about to encounter."
The old man's cigarette fell from his hand.
"You..." he snarled at Krycek.
Krycek fought off the urge to gloat, to spit on the master
who had abused him for so long. No, that would be vulgar. He
might be considered a dog, but he was more pedigreed than the
rest.
He steered his gun over to CSM's throat. He met the man's
horrified expression with calm, steady eyes.
His finger pulled the trigger.
"Long live the queen," he concluded practically.
Feedback is most graciously accepted. Please e-mail me at
paigecaldwell@hotmail.com.