Title: Becoming Judas
Author: darkstar (clone347@aol.com)
Rating: strong pg-13
Classification: see part one
Disclaimer: see part one, The song Shame belongs to Stabbing Westward.
Summary: see part one

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becoming judas 9/12
darkstar
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*************
I stare in this mirror
So tired of this life.....
Once I swore I would die for you
But I never meant it like this
Oh, I never meant like this.....

-Shame
Stabbing Westward

*************

Present time:

The gray charcoal of morning was beginning to smear in places, patches of blue sky showing through the gaps in what promised to be the epitome of a perfect May morning. The streets of what once was uptown New Orleans were now divided from the open sore that was the rest of the city by a black wrought iron fence.

On one side, people fought over scraps of moldy bread and children died every day from starvation or any other of the diseases that ran unchecked in the streets. On the other, the rich and powerful lived in immaculate white houses "requisitioned" from their old owners. But the blood stains had long since been cleaned up and the bullets removed to preserve the "aesthetic beauty" of the buildings, and now most of the occupants found it quite easy to pretend that they had always lived there.

He had never been one of those people. Nor was he one of the starving masses who eyed him with a mix of envy and fear as he walked toward one of the smaller gates in the fence. No, he fell somewhere in between. He didn't wear a uniform, military, Enforcer, or otherwise. He didn't have to.

Mulder was a member of the small but effective hit squads whose main purpose was to take out key members of the resistance without detection. The fact that his apartment was on the right side of the fence, not far away from the mansions, testified to the fact that he was good at what he did.

It was a compliment he wished he hadn't earned.

A child playing in the street in front of him froze in the middle of her mud pie, staring at him in the frank way children often did. He attempted a smile, but it had the opposite effect he had hoped. Hastily scrambling to her feet, the girl ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her over to the skeletal woman that must be her mother. The woman picked up her little girl, eyeing Mulder with both suspicion and hostility.

So much for playing nice. He supposed at one point in his life it would have disturbed him that his mere smile caused such fear in others. Was it really as long ago as it felt? No, he decided. It was longer.

The sentry stiffened into a salute when he recognized him. "Welcome back sir." He swung the gate open in front of Mulder. "How did the mission go?"

"Successful." Two targets, both who had the bad luck to have infiltrated a cell of the government laboratories. They had been drawn there by rumors of a vaccine, a cure for the virus that still ravaged the planet. Both disposed of in classic execution style, their bodies dumped in the yard of their headquarters as a warning to any other curious individuals.

The rebels mirrored his old human self. They never took the warnings so more of them would have to die.

"Glad to hear it sir. Will Commander Krycek be coming in soon?"

Krycek was the other half of the hit squad he was a part of. The commanding half, once upon a time, until Mulder had pulled off the public assassination of the owner of one of the few remaining television stations. Not content with his position, the man had decided to use his company to broadcast pro-rebellion sentiments. His brains had been blown out on live camera from eight hundred yards with a hollow point bullet that ensured the effectiveness his gray matter would provide to the public at large. The lesson had gone over rather well; no one else in the news business had uttered so much as an unofficial peep since.

The higher-ups had liked that one, and promptly decided to make Mulder a commander as well, and cancel any additions to the squad. As much distaste as he had for Krycek, the two of them worked well together and were usually sent on the more difficult missions that a larger, less experienced team would botch.

"He's in debrief." Mulder said. "Give him an hour or two, then he'll show up." In reality, he was probably in a bar drowning in the vodka the loved so well with his woman of choice at the moment. Krycek didn't drink much in the time between missions, but right before and right after he could be found in any of the bars or taverns around town, making up for lost time. He seemed to like the company, while Mulder preferred seclusion. People reminded him so vividly of what he used to be.

"Yes sir." The soldier saluted sharply. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Make sure he gets the right apartment when he comes back." The soldier nearly smile at that one, but contained himself. Mulder nodded to him. "Carry on." He took a sidewalk that wound through the mansions and the lawns to the far side of the district, and to a set of apartment buildings built in Victorian style that, apart from the inevitable signs of aging, had made it through colonization in admirable condition. The third building on the left was his destination, an apartment in the corner his home sweet home, shared by Krycek.

Swiping his access card at the door, Mulder dropped by the mail station to pick up two letters before continuing up three flights of stairs- due to the sometimes unpredictable electric system he didn't trust the elevators- to Apartment 703. The door was locked. Despite the already strict security of the building Krycek had a paranoia streak in him to rival Mulder's own. Once he opened the door, he hung his overcoat on a peg by the door as well as the empty holster of his gun.

The gun itself remained in his hand until it landed on the table along with the key and his mail. It was the same weapon that Pavlov had given him. Headquarters had been reluctant to give him a new one despite his many requests for one. The piece had too many demons clustered around it, and Mulder wondered if that was the reason he had managed *not* to lose it this time.

The apartment was not quite the same as his old one, but it made a nice pretension. It was small- made up only of a combined kitchen and dining room, a living room, then a bedroom with a tiny bathroom in the corner- although Mulder didn't mind the size since he was hardly ever home and didn't take up much space anyway.

A black leather couch was his prized possession, often doubling as his bed since old habits died hard. Krycek preferred a bed anyway, and Mulder suspected it had something to do with the steady stream of women that his roommate brought home. That was supposed to be one of the job benefits- you could have any woman, any time. It wasn't that he hadn't had his share of offers either, some of them looking like animated cut outs from his old magazines. The interest just wasn't there, and he never spared them a second glance.

Walking dead men didn't make love very well.

And the bleached blonde silicon dolls he used to picture as his perfect type fell short beside blue-eyed redheads who fought aliens in their spare time.

There he went thinking about her again. It was a blessing and a curse. She was there with him, if only confined to the space of his memory, a constant remindeer why he got out of bed and what made him live another day against his will. The drawback was that it hurt like only loss could every time he remembered that a dim shadow of a dream was the closest he would ever get to her again. Although he didn't dream anymore. Horror ruled the night, or at least the nights he slept, which were few and far between.

He shed his dress shirt and pants, not mandatory wear but a hangover from the Bureau days, in favor of a more comfortable t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Both had been bought on the black market, so the jeans were a little big and the shirt a little small, but it beat the crap out of the uniforms most everyone else had to wear. The only reason he and Krycek got out of it was their work was so sensitive and possibly explosive if word got out to the public, that the Enforcer Headquarters wanted all stages of plausible deniability intact. They still wore them occasionally, when they were on "official" business, such as arrests or man hunts, but assassin work occupied most of their time as of late, and any excuse would do to get out of the stuffy wool outfits.

A bottle of amber tequila stood waiting for him in it's accustomed place above the counter, almost full. Drinking was another habit that came with the job. If you couldn't sleep to get away from the guilt, you drank yourself out of it. But you had to get away. It was a survival rule that he and every other hired gun lived by. Mulder had found there were very few true loyalists among his colleagues. Most were simply in it for money, or the power, and all were in it to survive. It was "kill or be killed" in its purest form.

Picking up the bottle and the shot glass sitting beside it, Mulder sat down at the table for his daily dose of never never land. He picked up the two letters, turning each over in his hand. One, a thin manila envelope, bore the blood red insignia of Enforcer Headquarters. That would be the evaluation of the mission reports he had to file and probably their next orders. He tossed it on the floor at his feet. That could wait until he was a little more out of touch with himself. When he touched the second envelope, a thrill sent a shiver down his spine when he noticed that he didn't recognize the address. His fingers tore at the paper until the name at the top of the letter was visible.

Dear Nephew,

It was from Skinner. In his original letter, Mulder had set up this very bridge of communication. His dear old "Uncle Frank" would take care of his cousin "Kitty" and keep him posted now and then in letters. They came once every couple of months, rays of light in a world of darkness. The address would be bogus, whatever place Skinner felt like putting down that was far away from their real location. Mulder could not write back, but the letters gave him one more reason to "stay strong" as Scully used to put it.

He pulled the cap off the bottle of tequila with his teeth, watching the thick liquid fill the glass to the brim. Mulder tossed it down his throat in one gulp, shuddering as the drink burned like acid down his throat. After he had finished a second glass, he was ready to read the letter.

Dear Nephew,

I hope my letter finds you well. We are doing fine, and the second crop of corn is about ready to be harvested, weather permitting.

The first paragraph was always like that, filled with some benign chatter in case someone decided to be inquisitive. A few sentences later, the real tone of the letter began to show through, and Mulder could nearly see hear his boss talking as he read the words.

Your cousin is healthy, as much as can be expected. She has regained most of her bodily strength, but that's not what I'm worried about. Something's changed about her. She's not the agent I used to depend on, nor is she the woman I called my friend. Don't get me wrong- she's still dependable and she's still my friend, but there's something different. She doesn't talk about the time in the camps, and I don't ask her. Sometimes I think she should talk, that it would do something to take the pain out of her eyes.

She has her own ways of coping. We all do. Hers is the medicine and science she loves so dearly. There's a fishing village about two miles down the coast from where we are, some place where the natives still have bones in their noses and none of them have even heard of the television, much less a race of aliens. Fate seems to have forgotten this little pocket of the world, left it back in time before, and that's fine with me. Scully is their doctor. They call her a medicine woman, and it's funny when she tries to talk them out of their superstitions. Her face gets that determined patience I saw so often whenever you voiced a theory about moth men or liver eating mutants.

It's almost like old times. But the old times are gone, aren't they? Just like the people who lived them.

When she's not busy gathering herbs or mixing medicines, she's draining her blood. A syringe full is sacrificed to the petrie dish god every night. I was able to scrounge around and find her a microscope and some other instruments. I thought it might be a way to take her mind off her problems. I was wrong. And I thought *you* had your obsessions. She's glued to the thing from the moment she walks in the door, almost until sunrise. She compares her blood with that she takes from me and from some of the natives, trying to isolate what makes the vaccine. I'll have to give her credit, she's pretty close to making real headway.

If she doesn't kill herself first.

She still mourns you, Mulder......

Skinner looked up from the letter at the woman walking the line where the ocean met the sand like it was some kind of tightrope. A white dress billowed out behind her like she was some kind of ghost, and in the soft light of morning it wasn't hard to imagine that's what she was. Even from the porch of the house he could see the sadness in her face, the intense private grief she bore like her personal cross everywhere she went. He stopped staring, picking up his pen to continue his letter....

I think she blames herself for what we called your death. She doesn't cry. She doesn't weep. She doesn't do anything to even let on that she misses you and that's what's starting to scare me. And though she is stronger, I can count every one of her ribs through her clothing. Did I tell you her hair is red again? The brown was coming out from day one and it vanished completely not long ago. She's cut it. Used one of my razors to do it. It's short now, and though the ends are kind of jagged, but it suits her.

I used some money from the accounts you set up to buy her some new dresses a couple days ago, the last time I went into town. Isn't that a guaranteed smile for any red-blooded woman? At least it always worked on my wife. New clothes were right up there with roses and candlelit dinners. Of course, when I bought *her* clothes, they weren't exactly the same kind.... but that's not important. The only colors they had were ebony black and wine red. I didn't know what she'd like, so I took them both.

I was hoping she'd wear the red. It was a vibrant color, alive on it's own. There's so little about her that's alive now days. Everything about her is black and white and gray like the dresses she wears. And true enough, the black dress is a hot item but the red hangs in the closet collecting dust and dust mites.

I have never asked what you did to arrange her freedom, and I am sure I don't want to know. But whatever it is, wherever you are, it's time to think about coming home. Forget all the other reasons I could give you, she needs you. She'll never admit it, it's not her way, but this kind of guilt is killing her slowly, in pieces and in whispers.

Get here soon, Mulder. Or when you do, you might find that there is nothing left.

Sincerely yours Uncle Frank.

The impact the last sentence of the letter had on him was doused by the latest glass of liquid fire. Mulder wiped his mouth, staring at the black handwriting and white paper. He buried his face in the letter, inhaling the starched smell of the paper mixed with a faint wisp of salt like from the ocean. A tiny smile flickered around his eyes. So she was near an ocean. It was fitting. She had always loved the sea.

<Get here soon....>

If only it was that easy. If only he could just pick up and walk away. At this point he might just be crazy enough to do it too, except that her location remained buried under layer after layer of secrecy and well laid deceptions. Mulder had asked Skinner to protect Scully from *all* dangers. If he had become one of those dangers, Skinner would protect her from him too.

And after reading the letters, there wasn't much doubt in Mulder's mind that his former boss would kill him to do it.

Carefully folding up the letter, Mulder crossed the room and pulled up the left cushion of his couch. A pile of older letters, folded and creased from handling greeted him, and he laid the letter on top of them. He would read it more times than he would be able to count the next few weeks.

He was nowhere near as eager to open the second letter. Mulder took his time- and another drink- before picking up the manila envelope. He took his time opening it, shaking out the papers inside. First was a neatly typed up memo congratulating him and Krycek for a job well done and dropping subtle hints of vacation time in the near future. Mulder made a half-hearted attempt at reading it, until the hypocrisy became to much for him, and he crushed it into a paper basketball, tossing it into the wastebasket. Swish. Three points. If Krycek wanted to read the lies, he could dig them out himself.

The only other slip of paper was small, unobtrusive by itself. Mulder unfolded it, reading the neatly typed orders near the top.

Wanted for high crimes and treason against the state. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

Another piece of him died when he read the names listed in cold impersonal ink.

John Fitzgerald Byers. Melvin Frohike Ringo Langly.

Mulder folded the paper back up and left it on the table. He reached for the glass, but changed his mind and headed straight for the bottle. He welcomed the numbing effects of the liquor. Tonight's mission would be one he didn't want to remember or feel at all.

Scully was alive and well, so three more good men had to die at his hand.

*************

She adjusted the control knob of the microscope, watching as the jewel-like kaleidoscope of blood cells came into clearer view. Tiny deposits of amber colored liquid within the cells distinguished her blood from the other samples carefully arranged within easy reach. It was the mark of the vaccine, a silent testimony of the time Mulder had pulled her quite literally from the jaws of an icy death.

But she didn't want to think about that now, did she? It was hard enough to comprehend that he ended his life to buy something as trivial as her freedom. It was also hard to understand what had made it so important before. If she had known that he would make such a foolish bargain once he found out how much she loathed the idea of slavery, Scully would have kept her thoughts to herself and said goodbye to him.

She didn't even get that small privilege. Had he known, that day so very long ago, when he kissed her goodbye that it would be forever? Maybe that's why he had kissed her at all. While the memory was treasured, it wasn't exactly the kind of kiss she would have given him if she had known it was indeed the end.

Scully supposed she should do something to pull herself out of the melancholy way she viewed the world. After all, she had everything she had said she wanted. A normal life. No midnight escapes, no fear of capture at any moment. She even had a booming "medical practice", which was something she had longed for even back in the old times. It just wasn't the same without him. Nothing was good anymore, and even the food she ate was tainted with an indescribable taste of blood.

With a sigh she turned back to her microscopes. She had arrived home from the village one day to find them sitting on the table, and to see Skinner trying to hide a smile at her reaction. Although times had changed, there was very little that was different about her old boss. He was a little gruff at times, unsure of quite how to act around her. It made her smile to see the uncomfortable look he got whenever he handed her new clothes, or a book or some other item he had picked up in town for her amusement.

He seemed to like it when she smiled. Maybe she should try it more often. If only she remembered how.

She had finally isolated the vaccination, but the problem remained how to isolate it and cull it from the normal blood cells. All truth be told, the limited tools she had just weren't up to that task. Scully had on several occasions brought up the idea of moving into the "real world" as she called it, only long enough to get the information in the hands of the resistance scientists, but Skinner refused and made it clear that there would be no room for argument. He said Mulder had asked him to make her disappear from the face of the earth, and disappear meant no turning back.

As tranquil as their home was, a modest clapboard house on the beach, and as happy as she could be, Scully didn't know if she could live here forever knowing that the rest of the world was being destroyed in the same way she had almost been. The time of the running and the camps blurred together now, in jumbles of emotions and tangles of memories. She chose to let the past be the past. It was simpler that way.

"Find anything?"

Scully turned around to see Skinner standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "No, nothing new. I'm just re-checking my work."

"It's getting late."

"I know."

"So are you going to hit the sack or do I have to pull rank on you?"

She almost argued, but an unexpected yawn changed her mind. "Well, I do have a busy day tomorrow." She said, more to convince herself than him. "I have to deliver the chieftain's wife's baby and from the size of her belly, it'll be twins."

"Sounds like you'd better go to bed."

Powering down the microscope, Scully carefully covered the remaining slides and then wrapped them in strips of cotton. She yawned again as she passed him. "G'night, sir." She couldn't quite keep from omitting the title unless she thought about it.

"Good night."

Her bedroom was dark, but Scully chose the mellow light of candles over the louder lights of the ceiling. The room was suited her well. A baby blue rug that her bare feet had grown to love covered the wooden floors to match curtains on the windows. The bed was underneath one of those windows, since she liked to feel the moon as she slept. Secretly she knew it was because she could pretend that Mulder could see her through the moonbeams, like he was still with her in some tangible way. A small closet occupied the far corner, and there was a full length oval mirror beside that.

She slipped out of her dress and into an oversized flannel shirt. It was something Skinner had taken her into town with him to buy- she could tell he had been embarrassed to even bring the subject up, but she had to sleep in *something*. And the shirt was soft, warm against the chill of night. Like Mulder's arms used to be.

Scully refused to dwell on the thought, instead turning her attention to the reflection the mirror threw back at her. This time she recognized herself much more easily. Her head was back to it's original flame red, hanging just to the middle of her neck. Sure, a razor might not be the New York salon way to do things, but her long hair had been a permanent reminder of things she needed to forget. She had saved a lock of it, though, still in the strange brown color. It sat in a drawer, wrapped in cloth. At times she would take it out, and look at it, fingering it almost lovingly. At others she would come close to throwing it away.

The longer she looked in the mirror, the more she realized that this woman looked like her, but was very different too. The changes were less noticeable, for they were not of the physical kind. Haunted eyes. A hollowed soul. The ever present sigh of unshed tears. Scully didn't know if she would ever look like herself again, if she would ever *be* herself or if the rest of her life would be spent as a stranger in a borrowed body.

A yawn reminded her what the bed was for, and she took the candle with her across the room, setting it on the dresser beside her bed. The kiss of the flame cast a soft glow around the small bronze crucifix hanging beside her bed. Scully touched her lips to her fingers and her fingers to the cross. She moved to get into bed, but as an afterthought slid to the floor beside it.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among woman and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death" Now that her life had slowed down, she could afford the time to pay attention to her faith.

"Holy father, I come before you tonight in thanks and praise for the gifts and the life you have so freely bestowed on me...."

Her voice trailed off. It wasn't good policy to lie to God.

"Actually I'm not grateful. I know I should be, that it is wrong not to take joy from what I am given, but how can I when all of it is coated with his blood ? I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't even pray properly because he is in my mind constantly like his phantom haunts me still. Sometimes at night a strange feeling that he is still alive comes over me, like he out there somewhere thinking of me at the exact same moment. I knew this is but an illusion, and I pray you to give his soul the peace and rest he could never find here."

Scully let her pray die away and climbed into the bed, sliding under the blankets. Her eyes wandered through the window, up into the full moon and the sea of stars. Maybe it was just because she mentioned it, but the feeling was creeping up from some hidden place in her soul again, warm but melancholy like his eyes used to be.

She whispered in her mind what she could not speak aloud.

<And if he is alive, Father, keep him that way. Forgive me if he should ever think he has to commit sin on my behalf....>

*************

Mulder noticed the full moon, but his thoughts were far away from the beauty of it. A full moon and clear skies meant a harder mission. He wore black, although not his uniform, simply to make it easier to blend in with the shadows the moonlight made. His gun was outfitted with a silencer, and tucked in a pocket under his shirt. The first priority of the mission, the part he would go solo on, would be to actually get into the building.

Outwitting the infamous Lone Gunmen security systems was close to impossible. He planned to walk right on in. They still called him friend. Paranoid as they might be, they wouldn't expect a betrayal. Not from him. Krycek played backup this time, coming in during the confusion after the first shots had been fired. If Mulder did his job right, the mission would be over by the time he arrived, bringing the plastic explosives that would forever bury the secrets his friends had uncovered.

"Showtime." Krycek pulled the car to a stop in a rotting section of some generic city east of New Orleans. "Intel gives their location as a warehouse two blocks down the street. We'll leave the car here, and then you take it on foot. I'll give you eight minutes to get in and ten to get the job done. It's longer than usual, but you might need the time to talk your way in."

Mulder nodded, his throat suddenly dry and wishing for the other half of the tequila. He had been truly *drunk* for a few wonderful hours earlier that afternoon, but over the months he had developed a high tolerance for alcohol and now only a little of it remained in his system. Just enough to help him forget how many times he owed his life to the men he was going to kill. Not enough to effect his aim.. "Eighteen minutes. Got it." He got out of the car, but before he shut the door behind him, Krycek leaned over the seat, looking him in the eye.

"Take it from me- don't make it personal." he said. "Once you get in, you don't know them from Adam. Aim accordingly."

"Coming from the expert on close betrayal, I'll take it as good advice." Mulder slammed the door shut on the last of his sarcasm and followed his demons down the street.

The red glare of the video camera caught him as soon as he rounded the last corner before the warehouse, even though he was still a vacant parking lot away. There was no turning back now. They saw him, and if he didn't act convincing, Mulder was sure he would find his way into any one of their nasty brand of surprises.

He crossed the pavement toward the camera, until he was close enough for them to recognize his face. "Guys, it's me." Mulder couldn't believe he was actually doing this. "Cut off the booby traps."

Byers' voice come out over a hidden speaker. "Step over to the warehouse door." A slightly nasal voice in the background muttered something that sounded like "land mines". "Oh and Langly says watch out for the mines. He isn't sure if Frohike got them all turned off this time."

Land mines. Great. Mulder was very, very careful where he stepped as he walked towards the warehouse, expecting a flash of light at any moment to part the company of him and half of his body. He stopped at the door, which, to no surprise, had at least twenty locks on it. Another video camera watched him. They had obviously forgotten to turn off the speaker beside it, because he could hear their conversation clear as a bell.

"Looks like him." That was Byers, his voice steady and even.

"Well it did the last time too. Remember what nearly happened?" Langly's voice was a little more cautious.

"I remember." Frohike piped up. "You and the narc almost got wasted. Let me see." There was slight scuffle and then silence. Mulder looked directly into the camera and tried to appear sincere.

"How do we know it's you?" Frohike said, a healthy dose of his usual suspicion heading his words.

"I'm the only one crazy enough to cross a mine field just for an audience with the Three Stooges."

"The last one didn't know our nickname." Langly commented, his voice quieter now that it was in the background.

"Yeah well they might have learned." Frohike must be in front of the speaker, because his voice was the loudest. "If you're really Mulder, where's Scully?"

"She's somewhere safe. I sent her there after we got out of the camps."

"Where?"

"I don't know the location."

There was another pause as the three thought his answer over. They had stepped away from the speaker again, because he could barely hear their voices.

"An imposter wouldn't have known that." It was Langly again.

"I dunno. It'd be safer to blow him up and see if he bleeds green."

"That's Mulder we're talking about, you little troll!"

"Shut up, punk! If I hadn't caught onto the hybrid last time your ugly blonde head would be sitting in a trophy room somewhere."

"Both of you!" Byers spoke with the patience of one who was accustomed to mediating. "We'll let him in. Langly's right- no one but Mulder and Skinner know about Scully. If he was a fake, he would have tried to make something up."

"I still think we should blow him up." Frohike grumbled, even as the locks on the door clicked out of position, and the door itself swung open. Mulder looked up to see an empty warehouse.

"Guys?"

A rat skittered across the floor as the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him in the pitch black. Turning around, he noticed tiny red and green lights on the locks which meant they were robotic. Mulder shrugged off his nervousness.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are...."

A plank in the floor slid open, light spilling from inside to illuminate a man with thick black horn-rimmed glasses and stringy blonde hair. "C'mon in Mulder. We've been expecting you." Langly smiled and then disappeared underground again, leaving Mulder to follow.

The new "office" wasn't much different from their old headquarters, at least as far as the organization went. Old coffee cups with as yet unidentified types of fungus growing out of them sat side by side with computer equipment sensitive enough to rival the government's. The security seemed even more frenzied than the first time he had visited.

And while they were very good at what they did, the simple reality was that they just weren't good enough.

"So what brings you to our humble abode?" Langly asked, perching atop a ragged chair. "We'd almost given you up as dead."

"I had some business to take care of."

The three exchanged glances. "And it's finished now ?"

He glanced at his watch. Krycek would be coming in two minutes. His friends had to die, but better at his hands than at the hands of a stranger. "It will be." He said. Before the words were fully out of his mouth, his hand had darted in and out of his jacket. The deception was over, the gun now trained on the three of them.

"What the-" Frohike never had time to attach his curse word of choice. The silenced ping of two gunshots cut him off, followed by a muffled thud as Langly and Byers hit the floor, blood oozing from the holes in their foreheads. To his credit, Frohike lunged for a gun of his own, and got off a wild shot in Mulder's direction before a bullet caught him in the stomach. The little man crumpled to the floor, his hands trying to ebb the flow of blood coating the floor.

Dropping his guard and his gun, Mulder rushed to the side of his friend, rolling him over. Shock and disbelief registered in Frohike's eyes underneath a glassy coat of pain. "Tell me...it's not you." He begged. "Mulder couldn't do...this."

"I had no choice. It's my job now." It was a pathetic attempt at apology, but the best he could do.

Understanding dawned in Frohike's eyes. "So that's why...they...let her go." He coughed, the sound garbled as if there was fluid in his lungs. "You sold out."

"I had to stop what they were doing to her..."

He nodded, his face a contortion of pain as his free hand reached into a hidden pocket of his coat. Mulder almost wished he would pull out a gun, and give him peace by a violent death, but instead Frohike held out a tiny slip of white paper.

"What is it ?"

"Skinner left this in case...you came back." A smile crossed his face, twisted by a fresh wave of agony. "This wasn't exactly what he had in mind, I'm afraid... but find her. While you're still human."

<If you only knew how long ago I passed that point...> Mulder took the paper from him and placed it inside his pocket. He met his friend's eyes with sorrow. "I didn't want to be the one to do this. I'm sorry."

"For what ?" Frohike's laugh broke off in a fit of coughing that brought up blood this time. "I'm the lucky one. I get out. Now do an old friend a favor and finish me off...I don’t want to die this way."

Nodding in numb agreement, Mulder left his side long enough to retrieve the fallen gun. He stood over Frohike's body, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch his own doing. A single shot rang out and then all was silent as Death came to claim his quota of souls.

*************

"NO!" Scully bolted upright in bed, her eyes flying open in horror. Sweat soaked her hair and face, and she felt her heart pound inside her like a racehorse in sight of the finish line. She stood to her feet, pacing the floor in an attempt to calm herself. Something horrible was happening. Death was in the air, the scent of destruction she knew all too well from her bout with cancer. Death and horror and in the middle of it all Mulder's eyes staring at her from the back of her mind in silent grief.

Somewhere under the cloak of the sky, she knew that a terrible thing had happened, but it drove her to insanity that she didn't know what.

<Just a nightmare...nothing more. Go back to bed.> Her mind issued the order to her body, but somewhere in between the rational explanation fell short. She winded up sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up into the sky and wondering what the moon saw and if he knew why she dreamed.

*************

Mulder was locked in the final stages of a drinking contest with himself. He let the last gulp of tequila blister down to his stomach before reaching for the glass and the bottle. The world was sliding from one side to another in a blur of dulled emotions as the drink began to at long last numb his consciousness and his conscience.

He turned the bottle upside down. Nothing came out. Frowning to himself, Mulder shook it again. Still nothing. Where had it all gone? And more importantly, where could he get more? Krycek had to stash liquor somewhere around this place... He pushed himself away from the table, trying several times before actually succeeding in standing up. The mush that was the leftovers of his brain sloshed backwards, nearly taking him with it.

"Whoaaaaaaa . . ." He grabbed the corner of the table before he tipped completely over, focusing with serious concentration on the counter a few feet away. On the count of three, he let go of the table, staggering forward until he crashed into his goal. "Ouch." Mulder whispered to the voices in his head laughing at him. It wasn't nice to ignore a conversation, now was it?

"What do we want tonight, guys?" Throwing open the cabinets under the sink, Mulder dug around until he pulled out a short square bottle of clear liquid. "Jackpot. . .I knew our little Russian friend kept vodka around here somewhere." He looked back toward the table and decided it was way too much trouble to walk the long distance back to his seat. Besides the floor was comfy in a strange sort of way.

The cork wouldn't hold still long enough for him to get a good grip on it, but after five minutes of fumbling around with the three bottles dancing before his eyes, Mulder finally got it off. Smiling, he tossed the offending object aside and raised the trophy to his lips, his throat open in eager anticipation of the drink.

Right as the first few drops began to tantalize his tongue, the bottle was suddenly wrenched away from him. Mulder looked up, confused for a moment, until he saw Krycek towering over him. "Heyyyy now, that'ss mine." He reached for the bottle, but the movement threw his balance off, and he missed both Krycek and the vodka completely. The floor wasn't so comfy the second time around, when it slammed into his face. Undaunted, Mulder rolled over. "Gimme it back." He said, to the closest of the three Kryceks. This was interesting. . .three of everything. An X-files, yes. Maybe he could call Scully and they both could track it down just like old times. . .

"Not this time, Mulder." Krycek reached down and helped the man up. He had seen Mulder drunk before, but not like this. It would have been funny if it wasn't so sad. "I think a pot of black coffee is more what you need at this point."

"I don' wanna no coffee." Mulder mumbled as he was deposited back in his seat. "We like being drunk jest fine."

He didn’t bother to ask what Mulder meant by "we", instead reaching for the jar of coffee and a pot, a tiny smile playing on his face. "Well you certainly have achieved that." When there was no answer, he turned around to see Mulder in deep contemplation of the mysteries of the human hand. <At least he's occupied.> He put two scoops of coffee into the pot, then added two more as an afterthought. Turning the stove on, he added water before setting the coffee pot on the nearest burner.

"You know we should be celebrating." Krycek poured half a glass of the vodka for himself, taking a tiny sip- one of them had to stay sober- as he talked to Mulder, or whatever part of him was sitting in the chair. The man didn't look up from the study of his thumb. "Those guys were packrats- they had loads and loads of old data and new data that the guys in lab will just eat up. The explosion was nice too. Neat, clean, everything went perfect."

Still no answer. Krycek wasn't really expecting one. As soon as the pungent aroma of the coffee hit his senses, he took two cups from the cupboard and filled them both with the thick black drink. He set one of them in front of Mulder. "C'mon now. It's good for you."

Mulder grudgingly picked up the cup, his mind barely registering the fact that it was hot, and took a sip. His face contorted into a grimace. "What'ss this shtuff ?"

"Coffee." Krycek picked up his cup. "It'll blow away the fuzzies." He blew on the drink to cool it before taking a sip. A second after his taste buds kicked in, he leaned over the sink and spit his mouthful out. "Strong" wasn't quite enough to describe it. After he poured the rest of his portion down the drain, he turned back to Mulder, setting the pot in front of him.

"Drink up." He said. "If this doesn't get you sober, nothing will. I'll be back in a minute- I have to call in our report to Headquarters."

Mulder shuddered again as the bitter coffee mingled with the aftertaste of the tequila. It wasn't a pleasant taste at all. But Krycek was right, it was at the least effective, and after three cups the world was back to right side up. His brain had stopped moving, and the beginning of a killer headache were just sinking its claws into him.

He noticed slight burns on his fingertips, red and puffy, and for a moment it was puzzling where they came from, until he touched his cup again. It was warm. In fact, it was hot and he hadn't even noticed it. <Find her. . .while you're still human.>

Was it really the drinking or had he just lost the capacity to feel pain? Hybrids didn't feel pain. Neither did clones. Even the aliens didn't experience the sensation to its fullest extent. Only humans did. So maybe it really was too late.

He was going to find out.

It was easier to stand this time, although the headache sharpened when he did so, putting pressure on the area of his skull right behind his eyes and forehead. Mulder took a slow step forward, looking around the kitchen. Shoot himself? No, that was too messy. A knife? The pain was sharp but over too quickly, like a fireworks display. His gaze lighted on the stove and the brightly glowing burner where Krycek had heated to coffee and forgotten to turn it off. He walked until he was standing right in front of the stove, one hand gripping the side for support. The heat rose from the reddish coils in waves he could feel on his face and neck.

<I want to be human...>

He laid his palm on the surface of the burner, waiting for the pain to overwhelm him. It came, but not in the torrent he would think the burning would cause. "I want to be human!" he told his body, his voice louder this time. Even as he could hear his own flesh sizzling, he didn't pull away.

"Have you lost your mi-" Krycek couldn’t finish his sentence for the surprise at seeing Mulder with his hand planted firmly on the burner. "What are you doing ?" He rushed over to the stove, pulling Mulder and his hand away. Some of the flesh stuck behind, crackling and hissing like bacon on the surface of the burner.

"I want to feel..." Mulder felt the world take a nosedive again, spinning him around and around until his legs gave out from under him. "I can't feel it."

"Huh." Krycek snorted, reaching above the sink for their first aid kit. "Wait until your liquor buzz wears off. You'll be feeling it all right." He smeared some burn cream on strips of gauze bandaging and wrapped it around Mulder's hands. "Now let's get you a nd whoever else is in that head of yours into bed."

Mulder made no protest as Krycek helped him over to the couch, laying him down then tossing him a blanket. "Sleep. You'll be back to normal tomorrow morning."

<What is normal about us?> He didn't bother asking the question aloud, choosing instead to roll over so that his face was against the back of the couch.

"And Mulder. . .if you decide to play patty cake with another burner, I'm not going to be here to peel you off. So behave." The lights went out and a few seconds later, Mulder heard the door open and shut.

He was alone with the darkness and the ghosts. They stepped out of the shadows of his mind, a silent congregation of the dead. Some were strangers made familiar by their appearance in his nightmares. Others he knew all too well.

"Leave me alone..." he whispered, knowing it would
be useless to plead with those who lacked ears to hear and souls to understand. He had taken that away from them. This was only part of his punishment. Even the solace his tequila used to provide was gone like vapor under the sun. His senses drew away from him, whether at the hands of sleep or unconsciousness he didn't know.

"Times up Mulder! Pull the trigger or they both die!"

Pavlov's face loomed in front of his, the black void of his eyes glowing from inside out, his voice dripping the venom of a snake. He stepped aside, motioning toward Samantha. "Shoot her!"

"Fox...please..." her voice was a thin pale whisper lost in the very air that breathed it. "Don't do this..."

"Don't listen to her! Finish the job!"

"Fox!"

The faces and voices slammed into each other, growing louder and louder until the glass walls of his mind threatened to shatter with the noise. There was only one way to end it.

The crack of his gun silenced the confusion. Samantha's body crumpled to the floor, but when Mulder looked down it was Scully that sprawled lifeless in front of him, her blood staining his hands. Screaming his anguish, he turned and emptied the rest of his gun into Pavlov.

The alien smiled as green ooze dripped from the bullet wounds, the toxic fumes already stinging Mulder's eyes. As Mulder fell to his knees, the creature's voice surrounded him, low and hissing.

"You didn't think we'd let her live, did you?"

"I'll kill you!"

Mulder opened his eyes, his breathing coming in ragged gasps that threatened to rip his lungs in two. He sat up, shaking his head to clear the last of the nightmare- or what ever it was- from his head. He fumbled in his pockets until he found the tiny piece of paper Frohike had left him with. He left the couch, crossing the room until he stood by the window. A mix of moonlight and overflow from the streetlights outside illuminated the words on paper smeared with bloody fingerprints.

72.5 degrees south.
39.5 degrees west

One word scrawled under the coordinates stopped him cold.

Scully.

He stared at the piece of paper for a long, long time, his thoughts on things of treason

************

I don't know if I am real without you
What is left of me without you?
I dont' know what's real without you
How can I exist without you?

- Shame
Stabbing Westward

*************

to be continued... part 10