*Takes place in the Red universe.*
*For mature audiences only for references to sex, implied non consensual sex, violence and swearing!*
*Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters you might recognise, and I ain't making any money off them either. I just play with them cause I love playing God with them!*
*Date: March 2004*
Factor:
I'm lying on concrete. I could feel the roughness of the floor biting into the skin on my arms and legs. Great. I'd taken my eyes off Lee Morrison for two seconds, and that was long enough for him to pump me full of something and knock me out. I have to admit, though, it was great to know that the only way he could take me out was with a syringe full of drugs while my back was turned. He was taller than me by almost a foot, and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, but the sorry bastard was scared of me. I guess it was the threat that I'd fucking well castrate him if he every laid a finger on me that tipped him off. Or more to the point, it was the fact that I would -- and could -- castrate him given the chance. I'd done it once, to a paedophile I'd been hired to kill, and I could do it again.
My hands were tightly tied behind my back, and I was lying on my side in a foetal position, not because I'm hurt, but because the cocksucker had tied my hands to my ankles. Shit. That was the kicker about having one of your work colleagues kidnap you -- they knew your weaknesses and strengths.
I relaxed and tried to concentrate on what I could feel rather than what I could see. I was not going to panic. My training took over and survival instinct kicked in. Morrison was so dead. I wouldn't even castrate him. I'd geld him like a eunuch and watch him eat his balls. That seemed real good right now.
The ropes were tight, the air in the room was frigid and there was very little natural light. Either we were underground or it's late in the day or very early in the morning. Personally, I'd go for underground. Great.
Officially, I work for a personal security firm. We had branches in just about every major city in the country. We took personal investigator cases, bodyguarding cases, and other little odd jobs on the side. Unofficially, I was an assassin for a covert government agency. The personal security thing was just a cover. It was legitimate, I mean you could really walk into our plush offices and recruit a team to do some security work for you, but occasionally, we were asked to do some clean up jobs, usually things that the government didn't want to be tied to. The jails were getting fuller, so the government figured that offing some of the scum of society wouldn't hurt.
Morrison and I had been working together tracking a serial kidnapper, one of our legitimate cases. I usually worked with a four-man team, but Morrison had specifically requested my help. Nothing wrong there, it was done all the time. If there was another operative in the House that possessed skills that you could use, once they were not on another job, there was nothing wrong with their working with you. In this case, it meant that nobody would miss me till the end of the week for the very least. Morrison and I had been in the field for two days, and we weren't required to check in till then. I wouldn't have gone with Morrison willingly, he was a slimy little bootlicker, but his boss, his Handler, Greg Cortez, had ordered me to. If the request had come from Morrison, I could have gotten my Handler, Fox Mulder, to concoct some excuse for me. But it wasn't a good idea to piss off the other handlers in the House. You never know when you needed a favour. So I'd unwillingly gone along with a man who had once told me that if he ever got me alone, he would rape me, and take great pleasure in doing so.
House politics were never in a woman's favour. There were three of us in the DC House right now; for a long time I was the only woman working with twenty-five other men. All of them were physically bigger than me, and it was very intimidating for an eighteen-year-old girl to be dropped in the middle of all that. I quickly learned to fight and to give as good as I got. It earned me the grudging respect of most of the men I worked with, and a loyal bodyguard of about five guys who would kill for me, if the occasion ever arose. Of course, I'd have to be out cold for my boys to kill for me, cause I'd kill the bastard first.
Of course, Morrison was one of those men who had never respected me, and he'd made his threat the first night I was there.
I opened my eyes and tried to look around. I was right; I'm in a windowless room with a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a chair, a military knife and a rubber hose. Shit. I know if I'm not careful, I'm not going to make this out alive. I had to remain calm and collected. I heard a door open behind me, and Morrison walked into the room and my line of vision. He is a Nordic looking man, with white blond hair, and startling jade coloured eyes. He reminded me of a young Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner. He is very photogenic and he knows it. He's so damn vain at the best of times.
"Dana 'Red' Scully. Wonder woman of the Washington DC House," he greeted me, jovially, as if we were having a sociable chat. "I told you I was going to get you alone. Had to wait for six years to finally carry out my plan, but here I am," he continued in the same tone of voice.
He came to stand in front of me, and then hunkered down to reach my face. His jade coloured eyes were over bright and feverish. "I've heard you're very inventive in bed, and it's intrigued me, it really has. I've also heard that you like to be dominated."
"You shouldn't believe everything that you hear." Great going girl, taunt your captor, why don't you?
He ignored me anyway, but took a hunting knife from a sheath strapped to his back. He cut down the front of my black tee shirt and spread it, so that it lay like an open shirt, exposing my black sports bra. He also cut that down the centre, and parted it to expose my breasts.
"Is it just about sex?" I asked him. "I could give that to you willingly." Well, I can certainly act like I was willing. I was very good at acting, especially if my life depended on it.
"I don't *want* you willing," he spat at me, and drew the point of the knife lightly down the centre of my chest. A thin line of blood welled up and I tried not to breathe. "I want you scared, I want you fighting," he crooned, leaning into my face.
"You'd never get me scared, but I'd definitely fight you," I replied, not showing how worried I was. If he was going to untie me, I could do something with it and try and get away.
"I know *that*."
He cupped one of my breasts and thumbed the nipple. It jumped up, erect, more from cold and stimulation rather than from a sexual response to his touch. Unfortunately, he didn't see it like that. "Looks like they were right. Look at you, all tied and helpless, and the touch of my hand gets you all excited."
I didn't bother to correct him.
"Why do you want to want to do this to me?" I asked him. It was good to keep him talking, keep his mind off the task at hand.
"I like you," he purred.
Sick bastard has a strange way of showing it!
He cut down the front of my jeans and panties, and for the first time, I was totally terrified. Sweat started to pour in rivulets down my body. I've seen what madmen do to women's crotches with knives, and it ain't pretty. But instead of gutting me like a fish, he pulled away the ruined material away from my body, leaving me still tied but naked on the concrete.
He straightened up and stood there, gazing down on me, a rapturous look on his face. He looked like a man communing with his god. His eyes had a glazed over look, and I realised that this was no longer the Morrison that I knew. Morrison the operative was bleeding away, and Morrison the madman was stepping in his place.
Slowly, he took a step back, placed the knife on the floor, then started to strip, slowly, methodically. Shit, the cocksucker was going to rape me while I'm tied up. He unbuttoned his the top buttons of his polo shirt, and pulled that over his head, then unbuckled his jeans. Morrison was pretty much physically perfect. Washboard abs and buns of steel. If this was any other *normal* circumstance, I would be falling over my feet to get him naked in front of me. I was out of luck today. Psychotic co-workers *so* did not do it for me.
He stepped out of his jeans and boxers, folded them, put them on top of the polo shirt and turned back to me. I have to admit, for such a muscular guy, he has a tiny prick. But somehow, I don't think now is the right time to point out his inadequacies...
He knelt back down, and I steeled myself for the inevitable. I'd been taught from early on in the game how to separate my conscious mind from reality. It's the only way I was going to survive anything like rape or torture. I'd been warned repeatedly by handlers that if I was ever captured by an enemy, rape was high on the list of fun things that would be done to me. I had to survive it and get out. Self-preservation was the key.
I started my breathing and disassociation exercises, and was somewhat surprised to realise that he was leaning past me and untying the ropes. "I want you fighting," he told me, sounding like he was excited and turned on in a *major* way. I resisted looking down to see if he was at full mast, and concentrated on what he was saying. The fight he was proposing made no sense. Whenever we'd fought in the House, in the gym, I'd always beat him. Sometimes by a wide margin, sometimes by a whisker. But I always won. Didn't he remember that? Then he did something really, really freaky. He called me Marjorie.
"I'm going to beat you again. You can't win against me. I'll always beat you, Marjorie."
I knew enough about his life to know that his mother's name was Marjorie. That she had been a large domineering woman, and that she'd abused him for most of his childhood, until she'd keeled over from a heart attack when he was 12. Clearly, he felt like he'd been cheated of revenge when she died. So he'd take it out on women. He was taking it out on me.
Morrison was a Grade A fucking card-carrying psycho. Dear god. How the hell am I going to get out of this one?
I was bought back to reality as the ropes fell away and were replaced by a tingling burning sensation as the blood rushed back into my hands and feet, and I felt my limbs start to cramp up. I tried not to gasp out loud and let him know how badly I was talking it. How long had I been tied up on the floor? I painfully willed myself the strength to rub circulation back into my arms and legs, but it was hurting like a motherfucker.
I unsteadily got to my feet, and moved experimentally. I wasn't going to fall over, but I wasn't too sure that I going beat him hands down either.
"So," I said, congratulating myself for making my voice sound so nonchalant and tremor free, "what will it be? Bare hands, knives, or some other weapon of choice?"
In response, he kicked the hunting knife in my direction. In the couple of seconds it took for me to get it, he rushed me, using the military knife that I had seen earlier next to the chair. I expected him to do that, and dodged out of the way, my limbs feeling heavy and slow. I felt the pain from the knife swipe blossom up my right arm, making my eyes water. Shit! I hadn't moved fast enough. I could still fight with it, the cut wasn't *that* bad, it was just bleeding a hell of a lot, and I could use it to my advantage. I switched the knife to my better hand, and started to bounce on the balls of my feet, ready to dance out of the way.
I saw the triumph all over his face when he saw me switch hands, and I let him think he had the upper hand. Made him feel overconfident. It's always good to make the resident psycho feel like he was large and in charge.
I knew Morrison's weak point; he was a telegrapher. When was going to make a move, his body language informed his opponent what he was going to do. Which might work out OK in a quick fight against a stranger, but against me, someone who had trained almost daily with him, it was a major flaw. I also knew that he favoured his right side, and was not an ambidextrous fighter. I was ready to fight *very* dirty. Alex Krycek, my second in command, had taught me that. Fighting in real life was nothing like fighting on mats, in a gym. There were no Marquis of Queensbury rules here. I knew I had to disable him quickly, mainly because I didn't know how my untied limbs or cut arm would hold up. I needed to conserve my strength, and to do that I had to end this farce in a hurry.
He rushed me again, trying to use his size to intimidate me, and stabbing down with the knife. I dodged around him, on his left hand side -- five foot five was handy sometimes -- and whirled around, driving a blow to his kidneys with the hilt of my knife, using my full body weight behind it. He bellowed and dropped to his knees and I followed through with a blow to his temple, again with the hilt of the knife, causing him to topple forward heavily. I heard the crunch when he fell flat on his face, breaking his nose, and maybe a couple of teeth too.
I danced back, just out of reach, waiting for him to push himself back up. It was at that point that I realised that the only breathing I could hear was my own. His muscular back wasn't moving. He was dead. I could see that there was now a stream of urine slowly pooling around his midsection.
My breath whooshed out of me in a rush. Shit. I had meant to kill him, but not like that. I wasn't sure what did him in -- the fractured skull, or more than likely, a bone fragment from his nose was driven into his brain when he fell flat on his face.
But he was dead. I wasn't. Now I had to think about how the hell I was going to get out of here. I didn't even know where the hell I was. I was staring to feel sick -- I think it's a combination of the drugs that Morrison gave me, and the adrenaline high that I'd experienced while fighting him. I could feel the contents of my stomach rushing up my throat, so I turned to one side and threw up. When you need to barf, do it, cause it's your body's way of telling you it needs to get rid of some toxins.
Shit. I would really like to know what drugs he shot me full of. It would help me understand what was happening to my system, and how I would react later.
I have to get in contact with Mulder, my Handler, and let him know how close he was to losing one of his best operatives. I know that Morrison had a cellular phone on him. I'd seen him use it earlier. I'd had one too, but I don't remember feeling it in my jeans pocket when I was lying on the floor. I'm willing to bet a year's salary that he'd smashed it, in the unlikely event that if I got out of there, I'd have nothing to contact anyone with. I checked my ruined jeans just in case, but I was right. It's gone. I move to his jeans, giving his body a wide berth. Despite what you see on TV, death ain't pretty. All the muscles let loose, and the body stinks. Like his was doing right now. I steeled my mind against the smell and pick up his jeans. It was about that time that I realised that the cut on my arm is a hell of a lot deeper than I realised, and I'm starting to get dizzy from blood loss. I'd better find that phone...
I've trained myself to be ambidextrous, but I'm very slightly slower with my left hand. And its hard to think straight. I pull on his polo shirt -- I'm gonna look a sight wandering around nekkid and bloody -- and look at the reception on the cell. Nothing. Shit. I have to get out of here. I go through the door on the far side of the room, and I'm faced with a flight of stairs. Blood loss or not, I have to be alert. I think Morrison was working alone, but I can't take that as gospel. I have to act as if I expect the whole place to erupt into a fire-fight at any minute. I climb two sets of stairs to realise it looks different and I'm not in the building that Morrison and I had entered. Great. I could be anywhere in the city of big ol' city of Washington DC. I emerged into what seems to be the main hall, with huge grimy windows looking out over a disused yard, or parking lot, I can't tell too good from this angle. The building seems to be a disused warehouse, with wonderful reception. I punch in Mulder's direct number and pray that he's at his desk.
"Mulder."
"Hey, boss, it's me."
"Red?"
"The one and only. I need you to get me out of here."
"Where's Morrison?"
"He's dead...I killed him. It's a long story, but basically I don't know where I am, and you're gonna have to send a cleanup team for Morrison's body."
"Ok..." Mulder didn't sound too fazed, and I could hear his fingers flying over a keyboard. "I'm triangulating your cell phone signal...got it. You're about two blocks away in the old warehouse district. I'll send a team now."
"Great!" A wave of nausea washed over me. Shit. "Mulder, I gotta sit down, I don't feel so good." I told him, breathing shallowly thorough my mouth.
"Red? What the hell happened?" he barked out. Was it just me or was there panic in his voice?
"He pumped me full of drugs, I don't know what, and cut me, but I think I'm in shock or something, I told him pushing tendrils of my red hair away from my clammy face.
"Red, keep talking to me," Mulder's voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel, a long way away.
"Whatcha wanna talk about? You sending Krycek too?" I could hear myself babbling, but strangely enough, I didn't care.
"No, he's not here, but Doggett's on his way. Keep talking, Red. What happened?"
"Dunno... he was planning this for a long time... It was all designed to get me alone. Morrison was a psychotic son of a bitch...I gotta sit, Mulder."
"Ok, how bad is the cut?"
I held out my right arm in front of me and gazed at the cut. "The bleeding's stopped, but this feels like a bad trip, boss." I dimly hear a van pull up outside the warehouse, and through the window see hazy five figures get out. John Doggett came first, crashing through the door like a hurricane.
"Red?" he yelled, looking around for me.
I raised my good hand weakly. "Hey pard, over here. Come and talk to Mulder and tell him that I'm ok, cause I think I'm going to pass out."
I heard my name in stereo -- Mulder from the phone at my ear, and Doggett from the other side -- before pitching forward as the world faded to grey.
@ @ @
I woke up in infirmary back in the House. My arm was numb, but a cursory exam told me it was still attached to my body, and I had stitches. Great. Another scar to add to my collection. There was clear plastic like stuff around it -- the medical tech team had created a clear semi-permeable material that could be put over wounds so that you could do things like bathe and get on with life as usual without worrying about ripping out stitches or something really inconvenient like that. It's like a sticking plaster, but a hell of a lot better. I felt weak, but better. I wasn't connected to any drips or anything, so I started to sat up, slowly, wondering if I could leave now. I like hospitals -- when I'm unconscious. Now I'm awake, I want to get out. Personally, I don't like to be flat on my back for any length of time unless I'm getting some kind of pleasure out of it.
"Hey chica." I heard a male voice from the other side of the room and I looked around.
Alex Krycek, D'ante Miller and John Doggett, the other members of my team, Alpha team, were all there. It was Miller that had spoken. Krycek, tall and dark with sexy brown eyes, was sprawled in a chair. Miller's a tall, muscular black man who can make anything electronic sit up and sing. Think of a younger, bald Samuel L Jackson and you've got him. Doggett is leaner than the other two but just as cute and just as deadly. Miller and Doggett both looked like they'd been arguing about something really juvenile just before I woke up.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you've got a tribunal on your ass." D'ante told me.
I sat up just a little too fast, and felt slightly dizzy. "Say what?" I gasped.
"Greg Cortez, Lee Morrison's Handler, has put in a request for a tribunal. He says that you're too volatile and that the other Handlers pamper you. And he says that the circumstances that Morrison died were too mysterious."
"Jesus, what's he on? He can't be serious! Morrison attacked me and I defended myself!" I struggled push the covers away, and all three guys came across to help me. Despite the gravity of the situation, I laughed. Cortez might be right about me being pampered. "Look guys, I'm ok. Really." To demonstrate, I swung my legs out of the bed and put them on the floor. I managed to stand up, but only by holding onto the side of the bed. I have to give credit to my team; they pretended that they didn't notice my weakness.
"What did that frigger give me?" I asked them, wary of the slow response time from my limbs.
"Some kind of horse tranquilliser." Doggett supplied, his ice blue eyes serious.
"Shit." I shuffled away from the bed and willed my head to clear. "So when's the tribunal?"
Miller looked at his watch. "You've got about 45 minutes." Seeing the mutinous look on my face, he added, "Mulder went ballistic. He ripped Cortez a new one. But you know the system, once there's a formal request for a tribunal, there ain't nothing you can do but prove your innocence.
"I'd better go and get dressed." I took a deep breath and sighed. "Any volunteers to help me wash my back?"
"You get Doc Sandler to ok you and we'll all help," Krycek grinned.
"Fair deal," I nodded, and sat on the bed to wait, while Doggett went to get the doctor.
@ @ @
Forty minutes later, Mulder called me into his office. I had dressed in a short burgundy skirt and white short-sleeved shirt, with my long auburn hair pulled away from my face in a ponytail. Understated makeup completes the look. I know that I looked like somebody's secretary, but the shirt showed off the fresh, angry red stitches. I needed to remind Cortez that I had to fight to get out of that damned warehouse alive.
"Red, I know you know about the tribunal, and I tried my damnedest to stop it. Cortez has an agenda, but I don't know what it is. What exactly happened out there? I was under the impression that it was a routine operation, that Cortez called you in because you've had a case with a similar MO."
"That's the impression that Morrison gave me, right up to the point where he shot me full of horse tranq. Shit, I was examining something, I wasn't expecting an attack from him like that," I told Mulder.
"How'd you get the cut?" Mulder asked me, gesturing at the stitches. I gave a half smile. My boss made it sound like a paper cut.
"Well, that's the freaky part; he challenged me to a fight. A trial by combat. I mean, I knew that I had to get him down, otherwise he would have killed me, but ... I could see he was crazy, Mulder, he was well and truly gone. How come his psych tests have never showed a psychotic tendency?"
"I don't know Red, its something that Cortez has to answer in the tribunal." I watched Mulder make a notation on a pad, and picked up the phone as it rang.
When the call was done, he sighed and stood up. "It's show time. Lets go."
@ @ @
The room used for the tribunal is the House boardroom. It looked like the library for a country club: all wood paneling and floor to ceilng bookshelves. There were a few paintings on the walls; a Renoir, a Monet and a Picasso. They are all originals, I believe. The Handlers for the five teams are already there, plus the head Handler, Tobias Mendelssohn, who's going to lead the proceedings. He's a tall, distinguished looking man with salt and pepper hair, and an authoritative bearing. He looks like a headmaster for a very exclusive school. He was seated at the head of the large oval table, with one chair for me at the other end. The other Handlers were seated around the table between me and Mendelssohn.
Mulder guided me to my chair, not because I needed the help, but to show where his solidarity lay. All of the Handlers, with the exception of Cortez, nodded to or smiled at me. Hmmm. Mulder was right. It was purely personal. Cortez's agenda was to get at me.
Mendelssohn turned on the audio recorder that sat in the middle of the oval board table and stood, looking at all of us.
"Gentlemen," he said, but nodding to me, "I'd like to call this tribunal to order." He looked at me and continued speaking in that mesmerising Shakespearean actor's voice of his. "Can you state your name for the record, please?"
"Dana Katherine Scully, also known as Red." I said in a clear voice.
"Good. Greg Cortez, the Handler for Gamma team, has levelled a charge of murder against Red, who maintains that she killed in self-defence. Is this correct?"
"Yes," Cortez and I said together. I'd never actually *told* Mendelssohn that I'd killed in self-defence, but I figured that it was pretty obvious from the evidence what happened. Mendelssohn knew that this was a bum rap, and he trusted me enough not to lie about this.
"Greg, can you relate to the others the events leading up to Lee Morrison's death?"
"I asked Mulder for permission to use Red on this serial kidnapper case. He agreed." Cortez said, a bit defensively, to my mind.
"Why did you do that?" Stuart Coburn interupted. He's a short man who never actually acted as if he was only five-five. He looks like a pixie with his dark hair and green eyes, but you always knew to take him seriously. "Weren't there any members of Gamma who were competent enough?"
"Red had a case with a similar MO a while back. Morrison thought it was prudent to enlist her help with this," Cortez replied.
Coburn nodded. "So where were the other members of Gamma at this point?"
"Brian Anderson and his twin Frankie are both on a bodyguarding gig with Marla Fuentes, the actress. Sam Mead is on leave and Chad Weatherhead is in the infirmary."
"Oh yeah, that's right, he busted his leg a couple of days ago." Coburn nodded again. "So, basically, there was no one else to help Morrison."
"That's right,"
"So what happened next?"
"They left together yesterday morning. I received a call around midday from Morrison giving me an update, and I heard nothing till Red was rushed into the infirmary late last night." Coburn made a note on his pad, and looked at Mendelssohn, indicating that he was finished with his line of questioning.
"Mulder?" Mendelssohn looked at him.
"I approved it, but asked Cortez where the rest of Gamma was. He told me essentially the same thing he's told the tribunal." Mulder replied and Mendelssohn swung his serious gaze back to me.
"So Red, what happened?"
"We followed a few leads, made a few enquiries and were directed to a place in the in the old warehouse district. We poked around for about ten, fifteen minutes when something caught my eye. I've always been wary around him and tried to keep a safe distance wherever possible.
"Why?" Alvin Kersh asked. He's the only black Handler in the House, and serious as hell. He scares the shit out of me, not that I'd let him know it.
"The night I came in, he threatened to rape me." I held up my hand as Kersh opened his mouth to jump in. "You have to understand the situation. When I was recruited six years ago, there were no women at the House. I was eighteen years old and scared shitless. I was put to room with Alex Krycek cause Grey, my first Handler, wasn't sure that some of the guys could be trusted to ... 'control' themselves."
"So why didn't you tell Grey about Morrison's threat, if you were so 'scared' by it?" Kersh persisted, making his disbelief obvious.
"If any woman in the House - or man for that matter, came running to you whenever somebody made a threatening remark to them, what would you think?" I asked him.
"They couldn't hack it." Kersh gave me a half smile; he could see where I'm trying to go with this.
"Exactly. I was a total unknown, an experiment. If I had wimped out, Leon Thompson, the head Handler at the time, would never have approved more women to be brought onboard. As it is, I learned to beat any guy in the House. They respected me after that."
"And it had nothing to do with who you slept with?" Cortez asked archly.
I swung my head around and narrowed my gaze at him. "Excuse me?"
Mulder shot me a warning shot. He knows I've broken bones for less intimate questions.
"Greg seems to be confusing sex for respect," Kersh replied calmly, forcing me to calm down. "But I've never slept with Red and I respect her immensely. I think you're forgetting what we're holding this tribunal for. Red's not the one on the stand here. We're all here to talk about the 'unusual' circumstances of Lee Morrison's death."
This was news to me! Kersh usually doesn't say more than two words to me in any given week. But here he was, sticking up for me like he's my new best buddy. And more importantly, he's implying that he thought that this tribunal is a waste of time.
"So Red, you've tried to keep him at a safe distance?" Mendelssohn questioned, looking back at me.
"Yeah, I mean, most of the guys made real sexist remarks at first, but I think it was normal, you know trying to see what I was made of. And they were following Blundell's lead. Once he was ok with me, they all were. I mean, Blundell was ok with me, once I broke his arm."
"Wasn't that the time he fell off a wall or something?" Stuart Coburn asked, curious. He's Trey Blundell's Handler. "That's the only time I've known him to break anything."
"I broke his arm when was trying to get too personal with me, and I asked him nicely not to," I retorted.
Coburn guffawed. "Well, well, well. He told me that he fell off a wall, or something equally as foolish." I caught sight of Mack Allard, a newer Handler, looking puzzled. He's about 27, and has taken Mulder's title as the youngest Handler in the house. "Isn't Blundell about six foot ten and built like a brick house?" he asked everyone in general.
"He's six foot three, and solid muscle. Not that I let that stop me," I smiled sweetly at him as I said it.
"Remind me never to piss you off!" Allard smiled nervously, and everyone, with the exception Cortez, laughed. They were all used to my tough guy persona.
"See," Mulder said grinning, "that's why we all respect Red. She never pisses around."
I sobered up and continued.
"So you realise why I stayed clear of Morrison. That kinda thing didn't faze him. He wasn't following Blundell or anyone else. He was on a totally different page. It was a ... vibe I got off him. He said he was going to rape me and he meant it, one hundred percent."
"And that's why you killed him?" Cortez jumped in, quick as a flash. He's like a fucking pit bull - tenacious as hell, he didn't leave the damn subject alone - and he's beginning to really piss me off.
"I killed him in self-defence! He was going to kill me! He pumped me full of drugs, hog-tied me, cut my clothes off me with a hunting knife, and told me he wanted to kill me in a trial by combat. I think it's clear he wasn't sane anymore."
I raised my arm so that Cortez -- and everyone else -- were all looking at the stitches.
"I didn't get this for a freaking joke, *sir*! Its not some kind of elaborate hoax to get on your good side. I don't need to prove anything, like its some kind of pissing contest. Morrison was insane. Mad. I could see it in his eyes. So you'll have to excuse me for wanting to defend myself."
"He was naked. How do we know it wasn't some kind of sex thing?" Cortez fumed.
I'm thoroughly pissed off by now, and I'm not thinking straight.
"Oh for fuck's sake, Cortez," I exploded, "he stripped down to fight me. Sex was the last thing on my mind, believe me! When he was cutting my clothes off, I was convinced he was going to kill me. I could see it. I thought I was going to lie there and watch my intestines on the floor, and feel myself bleed to death, and nobody would find me cause he was going to come back to the House and tell everyone a whole pack of lies. So when he stripped I knew it was now or never. He was locked in some fantasy world, and there was no way I was going to get out of it unless he killed me or I killed him. It was pretty damn simple to me!" My voice was starting to rise, and I forced myself to calm down. I'm doing myself no favours my getting all riled up. I focused on the stitches on my arm until I was calm enough to look Cortez in the eye.
"I'm playing devil's advocate here, Red, so please bear with me." Kersh interjected into the turbo charged silence. "If what you are saying is true, Red, then why has there been no mention of this in Morrison's psych reports? He has to have one every six months. They would have picked up some kind of devient behaviour" Kersh looked directly at Cortez as he said this.
Mendelssohn picked up a file in front of him and idly flicked through it. "You know, I was looking though Morrison's files, as a preliminary exercise, and the lack of psych tests did strike me as odd. I was going to ask Greg this privately, as an aside to this tribunal, but seeing that Alvin has bought it up, I think it's only fair that Greg answers the question. Why *are* there no psychiatric reports in Lee Morrison's file?"
Cortez looked panicked for a second, then said, "I wasn't aware that he hadn't been going to Doctor Lyndley."
"Oh?" Mendelssohn picked out a page out of the file. "So why did Alva Lyndley make a note in Morrison's file three weeks ago that you had refused to send him?"
Cortez's mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out.
Mendelssohn stood. "I think we've wasted enough valuable time, Greg. I declare this tribunal in Red's favour. She is innocent of all charges against her."
"Thank you, sir," I started to say, but Cortez jumped up and cut me off.
"This bitch killed my best operative! He didn't deserve to die like a dog!"
Best operative? What the fuck?! Morrison was good but not *that* good!
"Cortez!" Mendelssohn roared, and the crazed-looking man swung round to look at his boss. "Greg, I'm relieving you of your duties."
"I promised him I would look after him. I promised that I would never abandon him like his momma did. And this bitch killed him! She fractured his skull!" He lunged at me, and I scrambled to get out of the way. The only thing on my mind is not to rip open my stitches. I've done it before and it hurts like a motherfucker. Mack Allard, the baby-faced Handler who was sitting between me and Cortez, jumped up and punched the older man full in the face. Cortez dropped like a stone. "You ok?" Allard asked, extending a hand to me. I took it and stepped over Cortez's prone body to stand next to him.
"I'm fine, really." I replied, looking at Cortez, then back at Allard. "Is he dead?" I asked out of disinterest.
Stuart Coburn came round from his seat next to Allard, dropped to one knee and checked for Cortez's vital signs. "He's fine. Well, about as fine as he can be at the moment." Coburn looked up at Mendelssohn and straightened up. "What the hell are we going to do with him?"
Mendelssohn sighed. I don't envy him his job right now.
"Fox, take over the as the Handler of the Gamma team," Mendelssohn said after thinking for a little while. "I don't want to split them up, and I think this will only be for a few days. Two weeks at the most." Mendelssohn turned his cerulean gaze on me. "What about it, Red, you want the job?" he asked, a half smile on his face.
"Are you crazy?" I smiled back. "I don't want to get out of the field. But I think Gil Hamilton would be good for it. He wants to get out of active duty."
"Oh?" Allard turned and looked at me. He's still loosely holding my hand. "And how do you know that?"
"Gil treats me like his kid sister. He tells me stuff he wouldn't tell the other guys."
"Gil's a good choice," Kersh agreed. "And a lot of the other operatives look up to him."
"He's been here forever," I reminded Mendelssohn, "and he's got contacts in every damn House across the country."
"So shall we hold a formal ballot on this?" Mendelssohn looked around at the assembled Handlers. They all nodded. Cortez groaned from his position on the floor, and I stepped away from him, putting Allard between us. "Uh, sir, I don't want to complain, but if Cortez rushes me, I don't know if I can stop him." I looked around at the distinguished looking head Handler and made an apologetic face, gesturing with my right arm, letting my stitches talk for themselves.
"I'm sorry Red, I should have thought of that." He stopped the audio recorder and picked up the intercom. "Darlene," he told his secretary, "I need you to get Dr Sandler. Greg Cortez isn't feeling well."
Five minutes later, the tall, lanky House doctor came in with his trusty black bag of tricks. He looked down at Cortez, who was sitting looking groggy on the floor. "What happened?"
"Greg's losing it. I think it's too much stress, and I'm relieving him of duties for the moment." Mendelssohn gave the doctor a gentle smile. "He's delirious and we think he's having hallucinations. It might be best if he goes to the vacation house in Florida to recuperate for a while."
I caught sight of Kersh standing slightly behind Mendelssohn; he'd raised a sarcastic eyebrow in lieu of a comment, but kept quiet. I found it hard to keep a reasonably straight face.
Cortez raised his head and looked directly at me. The look in his eyes was chilling. I've faced sociopaths without batting an eyelid, but Cortez was giving me the creeps.
"Get that bitch out of my sight!" he roared, surging up toward me. I took a step or two back, and it took Doc Sandler, Mulder, Kersh *and* Coburn to keep him down. Allard now had his arm protectively around me. Shit. I really must remind him I'm capable of looking after myself. I'm five foot five, not an invalid. I raise up to whisper in his ear, "With all due respect, sir, it was in a situation like this that I broke Blundell's arm. I'm just concerned about ripping my stitches out, not scared. I'm not a big fan of self induced pain." Allard widened his eyes slightly but dropped the arm. But he still hovered. Hovering was ok. He was between my arm and the still struggling Cortez on the floor.
Doc Sandler managed to put a syringe full of something in the stuggling man, and Cortez flopped back on to the floor. Doc checked that he was ok, then looked round at me. "Whatcha do to him, Red? I warned you about your smart mouth."
I blushed. "I didn't do anything, honest!" I protested. Doc Sandler treated me as one of his daughters. Doc smiled at my show of innocence. "None of the other Handlers seem too concerned, so I'm not going to be. But you're not too old to be spanked, young lady." Damn, I swore my blush got deeper.
"That's an idea," Mulder grinned. He straightened up from his kneeling position next to the fallen Handler and brushed off the knees of his designer suit trousers. "If it keeps you in line, Red, I'm willing to try it."
"I think most of the guys in the House would be willing to try it!" Coburn chipped in with his two cents worth, grinning like a madman.
"Aw c'mon, I'm a sick woman, don't dump on me!" I just wanted to climb into a hole and die there, I was so embarrassed. "I know that humour was a good way to diffuse tension, but hey, not at my expense, huh?"
"Leave Red alone," Doc Sandler agreed, smiling. He pulled Cortez into the recovery position, "I'm the only person allowed to spank her."
"Gee, thanks, I think," I replied, grinning.
"Red, you're out for the next week at least. At the end of the week I'll talk to Doctor Sandler and we'll discuss you going back to work," Mendelssohn informed me.
I nodded. I really wanted to say I was fine, but I know better than to argue with Mendelssohn. "Thanks sir. Ummm, can I leave now?"
"Sure, sure."
I left the room, with Allard and Mulder in tow. In the hallway, we passed two of the medical team coming in with a stretcher, and found Krycek waiting for me.
"Well?" he pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and took my hands in his.
"Well, what? I ain't crying, am I?" I retorted, grinning. "I'm clear."
"Good. Everyone wanted to be here, but Darlene chased them off."
"Except you."
"'Cept me." Krycek grinned, mindful of his boss and the other Handler. I know he has a thing going with Mendelssohn's drop dead gorgeous secretary. They met whenever she was horny and had mad sex -- you know, hot sweaty, sweep-the-dishes-off-the-kitchen-table-and-fuck-me-till-I-can't-stand-straight sex. The kind that Darlene's strait-laced husband refused to give her.
Krycek nodded to the two handlers. "See you back in the room, chica," he told me and strode down the corridor.
"Don't leave the House yet, Red, I want to talk to you tomorrow," Mulder informed me, firmly back in boss mode.
"Sure, sir."
He then surprised me by giving me a hug. "Don't scare me like that again, you hear me?" he said into my ear, loud enough only for me to hear. "I don't want to ever receive another call like the one from the warehouse."
I pulled back and smile. "Boss, I didn't know you cared!" I sassed him, but gave him a peck on the cheek anyway. Fox Mulder was a pretty good boss to have.
I caught Allard looking at us, a bemused look on his face. "God, Red, life around you is never boring. No wonder Mulder won't give up your team." I raised an eyebrow, and I could swear that the great Fox Mulder was blushing.
"Thanks, boss!" I grinned. I blew them both a kiss and walked down the corridor to the elevators. The pain killers were wearing off, and I still felt light-headed from the shit Morrison gave me, and all I wanted to do was get to the second floor suite of rooms I shared with Krycek, Doggett and Miller and sleep, but it didn't matter. I was alive, and when it boiled down to it, that's all that mattered. It really didn't pay to sweat the small stuff.
fin
© Chaynne Taylor/Shateri Jordan, 1997-2004
Comments? sexychaynne@aemail4u.com
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