"Lesser Evil III, Return of the Rat"

Warning/ Summary: NC-17 This is MulderTorture, violence and sexual
content. Mulder is abducted (again?) this time by sexual sadists.
Lucky for him, Krycek's having a psychic kind of day.
Story copyright by Jen Collins October, 1997
morganablack@mindspring.com

Lesser Evil III, Return of the Rat

by Jen

The unnatural strength of my left arm amazes me. I know that it
shouldn't, but it does and I twist it and fist it in front of my face.
But the shadows swimming across it in the dark remind me of my
purpose and I stop my play, let my arm float silently back down to my
side and continue my pilgrimage. Each soft step brings me closer to
my prey, who snores oblivious in the blackness of his bedroom. I'd
bend over backwards for this man's identify and location. Pardon, I
mean forward.

Several catty steps and I am bent over him, studying his hated face.

I finger my stiletto as I allow myself to recall the moment when I
decided this man would die. It wasn't when he was hitting me as I
sat chained and helpless in the chair. Nor was it when he pawed me
so crudely. I grab his lower mandible with all the strength of my
mechanized left arm and shove upward. I think it fractures in my
hand. His death was decided when he shoved Mulder, that simple. He
screams through his nose and clutches at my arm. Useless. I sink
the thin blade of my stiletto into the corner of his eye and slide it
home to his brain. The eye ruptures, causing tiny splatters of fluid
to sprinkle my face. The body convulses for some moments, then
stills. I smile and kiss his forehead lovingly before I leave.

*****

Fox Mulder bolted awake, a scream tangled in his throat. He
hyperventilated as his eyes wildly searched the room. Relaxed upon
realizing he was alone in his apartment. Jesus... His hand
fluttered up to his mouth and covered it. He dreamed he was Krycek,
killing someone. God, and the details of the dream had been so real,
so...tangible. And the man Krycek killed, he remembered that face.

Took a moment to access the memory. Oh yeah, black suit, gun
pointing at his head, duct taping his wrists together. The MIB who
jobbed Krycek. Small wonder Krycek killed him.

With a chill, he realized that Krycek had killed this man and that he
experienced it on a sort of secondary level. He rolled to his
stomach to peer at the alarm clock. Light from the streetlamp
outside his window washed over his chisled features making him squint.

3:40 a.m.. He may as well get a run in, he was up now.

The driver of the nondescript van across the street watched a figure
in jogging sweats detach itself from the apartment building and
strike a brisk pace, steam billowing behind him. This was way too
easy. Waiting until the retreating figure huffed its way out of
sight, he motioned his companion to follow him. The men stole into
the darkened foyer of the building and waited for the runner to
return.

Their wait wasn't long. Within half an hour, the door swung open and

the agent returned, panting from his run. The driver heard the
sudden intake of breath as the man realized he wasn't alone. He
struck with professional speed, the baton blurring with cold
efficiency into the back of the man's head. The runner spilled onto
the worn carpet and lay still.

*****

I actually feel a little depressed as I negotiate the fire escape and
head out onto the street. It's cold and I pull my leather jacket
tighter around me. The thrill of the game is over. I hurry now, I
want to place as much distance as possible in as little time as
possible between myself and the place of execution.

This town is full of back alleys and concrete underpasses. Shadowy
places where rats like me dwell. Through this underworld jungle, I
twist and dart, past chain link fences and smelly winos and grafitti.

As I enter the mouth of a dank, darkish tunnel, my perception shifts,
doubles. Now not only am I standing in the stench of D.C.'s
underbelly, I am also, somehow, entering a familiar apartment
building. I see too late dark outlines lying in wait for me and I
breathe in sharply. An echo of pain flashes at the back of my head
and suddenly once again, I stand alone in the tunnel. I give a
little shake of my head to clear it. What the fuck???? I don't know.

I can't take the time to think about it. I resume my loping gait
through the tangle of the city.

*****

Mulder woke to the bang and shudder of a large vehicle moving much
faster than the factory recommended speed. Dull throbbing at the
back of his head released the spool of his memory and he tried to
move, unsurprised when he found his wrists and ankles tied. He
craned his neck around, searching for his captors. They sat in the
captain's chairs of the van, the only seats that hadn't been removed.

 The passenger, a tall, leanly muscled young man, sat with his hand
gun resting in his lap and his seat swiveled backward to facilitate
his guard duty. Noticing that his charge was awake, he moved onto
his knees next to him. He brushed the bangs out of Mulder's eyes as
he slipped the tip of his handgun under the waistband of the agent's
sweats. Mulder lifted his head to watch the gun pressed into the
flesh beneath his belly button and stroke downward to rub against his
sex. Again and again. The dark young man shined a loving smile down
at Mulder and crooned, "You are so beautiful."

Mulder opened his mouth to speak and nothing emerged. HIs captor
brought a calloused finger to Mulder's lips to hush him. Metal walls
thundered when the van hit a sudden bump and Mulder had a fleeting,
hideous fantasy of the gun firing into his crotch. He squirmed
beneath the terrifying caress, trying to ease his body away from the
gun.

Instead of the anger Mulder expected, his captor tossed him a quick,
secret smile and removed the gun, shoving it into the waistband of
his jeans. With a predator's grace, he moved on hands and knees to
the back of the van, rummaging around. Mulder let his head drop back
to the floor, breathing silent, ragged sobs of relief. His eyes
scanned the roof of the van

//motel room//

and he wondered dimly whether he would die here.

His captor crawled back to him. He kneeled back up on his knees and
held up for display a ball of twine and bits of cloth. Mulder
touched a nervous tongue to his lips and the cracked quality of his
voice startled him as he asked, "Did my father send you?"

His captor's dark eyebrows shot up with surprise at the question.

"No? Who did, then? What do you want from me?"

"No more talking, now." A wadded cloth appeared and was shoved into
his mouth. His bound hands flew up and he tried to spit it out and
now his captor's anger flared with a heavy blow to the side of his
head. Consciousness reeled and when he became aware again, the cloth
was tucked into his mouth beneath a gag wound firmly around his head.
And his arms were pulled up above his head, tied securely with
winding twine to a handle on the inside of the van door.

"Billy..." the driver said and both men in the back of the van turned

to the voice. "What are you doing back there?"

"Just having some fun."

Stern eyes bore back at them from the rearview mirror. "Be careful."

"Quit worrying." He traced a purple scar on his captive's abdomen
that peeked out between t-shirt and sweats. "How did you get these,
I wonder? They look surgical, almost, but there are so many. Are
they on your legs, too?" and he ceased his monologue, suddenly, as
he fisted the material of Mulder's sweats in both hands and yanked
them down to the agent's knees. "Yeah, there, too." Billy breathed
to himself. He pulled the sweats all the way to Mulder's ankles.
Mulder was tossed onto his side. Strong hands pushed his legs into a
bent position angled forty-five degrees from his torso. Mulder
pistoned his feet, catching Billy square in the abdomen. The
kidnapper doubled forward with a rush of forcefully expelled air,
fell forward onto his left hand. Desperation lent strength to
Mulder's frantic tugs at his bonds, within seconds his wrists were
slick with blood. Billy lifted his head, regarding Mulder from
behind dark bangs. Pulled the gun from his waistband and clicked off
the safety.

The familiar sound broke through Mulder's panic and he froze. He
swiveled his head toward the other man. Their eyes locked. Moving
with calculated deliberation, Billy brought the gun down between the
other man's legs. Mulder swallowed dryly. With his other hand,
Billy pushed his captive once again onto his side. He moved in
closer. Mulder watched the gun disappear behind his hip and then
felt a cold pressing between his buttocks. He tensed and offered a
muffled sound of protest. Billy's eyes jumped back and forth between
Mulder's ass and face, concentrating both on his progress and the
other man's expressive response to it.

*****

Finally, I reach the motel. The adrenaline is long gone. I lock the
door behind me and fall backward onto the mattress. Early morning
light is filtering into the room through ragged motel drapes. I
should undress, but I'm too tired. I sink into the mattress,
relaxing.

Behind closed eyes, I am looking at what appears to be the roof of a
van. A young man's face appears in my field of vision and despite
his beauty, I am terriified of him. He says something to me, I don't
know what, and shoves a cloth into my mouth.

I bolt upright in bed, my hands flying to my mouth. No cloth.
What's happening?

Now I'm struggling, trying to tear the rope...twine...off my wrists.
They're bleeding. Long purple scars undulate up and down my twisting,
jerking arms. I look back at my captor His expression is grim and
his gun is...God...he's shoving the barrel of his gun up my ass.
Fucking me with his gun.

With a gasp, I am back in the squalor of my motel room. I know
those terrible purple scars. I helped create them. And now I know
what's happening. I am channeling Fox Mulder.

*****

Mulder tried to relax the muscles of his perineum as the gun wedged
through his anus. He couldn't; the thought of a bullet tearing
through his intestines made his muscles clench with horror. Agony
arced up his pelvis as the gun traveled, millimeter by millimeter,
into his rectum. The barrel pulled out suddenly and was shoved
forcefully back in. Billy began a hard, savage rhythm. Each plunge
inflicted jagged pain in his ass and cramped his stomach and Mulder's
throat issued tiny, helpless grunts. Billy leaned over him, his body
jerking with each thrust he administered, focused on his charge's
profile. He relished every nuance, the clean jaw line, the perfect
mole, the beautiful eyes now shut against the pain.

Suddenly, Mulder no longer heard Billy's labored breathing or his own
throaty sounds. Gone also was the low thrum of the van. He opened
his eyes to a squalid motel room. Heaven by comparison. The T.V.
was on the floor, broken and smoking. He panned the room. It was
trashed. He held a lamp in his hands. Apparently, he was the one
doing the trashing. He looked down past the lamp to see blue jeans
and black boots. Looked back up and caught a flash of his reflection
in the dresser mirror.

Then he was slammed back into his body, back to Billy and
unbelievable pain. He looked up at the other man. Billy's face
twisted with ecstacy, his breathing quick and harsh as he rubbed at
his crotch through his jeans. He stiffened and gasped as the orgasm
tore through him. Jesus, the fucker came in his pants. He let the
gun slide out of Mulder's body, then patted his hip with affection,
in the manner of an owner patting his dog. He wiped the bloody gun
on a cloth absently as he rose to return to his seat.

Mulder's sweats remained in place around his ankles. He didn't care.
At least Billy wasn't touching him anymore. He curled himself into
a ball as tight as his bound wrists allowed. Needing to think of
something, anything, other than the shameful rape he'd just endured,
he closed his eys and let himself replay his flash to the motel room.

The T.V., the lamp, the boots, the mirror. Alex Krycek's face in
the mirror. HIs mind picked up the thread of the dream he had
earlier, his conviction that he experienced some sort of communion
with his former partner. He wondered whether Krycek was also
experiencing these flashes.

Then he seized on it. As pathetic as it was, it felt like his only
chance and he'd take it.

*****

I awaken from my fugue standing in the middle of my room, holding my
lamp amidst chaos and dim confusion. Then I remember Mulder, his
fear and shame as that young monster hurt him in the worst way
imaginable. With startling speed, I fling the lamp against the wall,
the explosion of ceramic and glass briefly comforting. What can I do?

I don't know where he is. My stomach flutters with nauseous
anxiety and I sink into a squat. I need to think, I need to think.

Go to his apartment. It's suicidal, but the only option currently
available.

I scan for a vehicle as I leave the motel and find a candidate within
blocks. A slightly dented light blue 1987 Mercury Sable, not an
attention getter. And easy to hotwire. Within moments, the engine
is purring and I'm on my way to Mulder's apartment.

My wrists are still bound, but my ankles are free. I am pulled onto
my feet by my young tormentor and his heavier-set blond companion.
They stand next to me, speaking between themselves. I see an open
wrought iron gate surrounded by rolling hills. The two-story tudor
is a lonely sight at the end of the driveway. I take off running,
through the ornate wrought iron gate with the number 178 sculpted
into it. "Fuck!" a voice calls behind me, "He's getting away!" I
hear footfalls behind me. My goal appears to be the street sign
ahead. I'm able to read CRESTVIEW LN in black enamel against white
background before something wallops the back of my knee and my feet
fly out in front of me. My backward spill and the report of the
bullet fling me back to the Mercury. I slam on the brakes and rest
my forehead on the steering wheel. Adrenaline roars in my ears and
my heart hammers at my ribs. Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax.

I now know my destination.

*****

"Oh Christ! Whadya shoot him for, Billy?"

"Screw you, Jack. He was getting away."

Jack squatted next to the fallen agent. His face set in grim lines,
he leaned onto one hand. With the other, he reached to gingerly move
the torn sweats to reveal the bloody ruin of Mulder's knee. Mulder
jumped and uttered a strangled shout. The blond man reeled his hand
back quickly and husked, "You're in a world of hurt, aincha, boy?"
The layer of sweat that covered the agent's shuddering body was
answer enough.

"It looks like shit, but it's not bleeding too bad." Jack addressed
Billy, who paced anxiously behind him. "C'mon. Help me get him
inside."

The two men hoisted Mulder up and over Jack's shoulder. The sudden
change in position was too much for him and he lost consciousness,
relaxing against his captor's back. They took him to the basement of
the tudor and laid him carefully on a bed in the corner. Billy
hovered as Jack removed Mulder's sweats and carefully examined the
bloody wound that marked the bullet's exit. "Well, you got lucky.
The bullet went all the way through. You hit bone, but I think you
missed any major arteries. I guess he won't be jogging anytime soon."
he said, then, "Billy, get me the first aid kit and some clean
towels. This needs to be packed and bandaged."

Billy returned shortly, with arms loaded. Jack snatched away the
largish box that contained medical supplies and rummaged, surfacing a
moment later with a large amount of gauze and a bottle of rubbing
alcohol. He put them aside and picked up a towel, tearing it into
precise strips. When an entire towel had been thus reduced, he
carefully folded a second into quarters, placing the folded towel
gently under Mulder's knee. The shifting of his knee roused the
agent and he moaned. "Shit." Jack muttered. He tried to work
faster. The bleeding had almost stopped. Jack looked meaningfully
at Billy and mouthed the words, 'Hold him down.' Billy nodded his
understanding, sat on the bed next to Mulder and laid his weight
across the wounded man's waist. With both hands, he firmly grasped
Mulder's lower thigh.

Revolted and terrified by Billy's touch, Mulder struggled to sit up.
But he was weak, the effort exacting a heavy toll in pain and he
flopped back down to the bed. His strength returned at the sight of
Jack opening the bottle of rubbing alcohol and he again lunged upward,
pushing at Billy and trying to yank his leg from beneath him. "Hold
him!" Jack cried as he grasped Mulder's injured leg below the knee
and upended the bottle of alcohol onto his wound. Mulder screamed.

He dropped to the bed as every muscle in his body clenched. Hideous
burning in his leg fired thousands of nerves, random muscle groups
contracted to make the agent writhe helplessly. Urgent cries tore
from his throat only to break against the gag in his mouth.

Slowly, slowly, the pain lessened to a monstrous throbbing. One by
one, muscles relaxed and left Mulder shivering in a cold sweat. Jack
patted his calf gently, said, "The hard part's almost over. Just try
to relax."

"Why wasn't I informed of your return?" a voice boomed from the
stairs. Jack and Billy started guiltily and whirled to face the
newcomer.

Mulder focused on a spot on the ceiling and concentrated on breathing.

  In. Out. In. Out.

"Sorry, Mr. Walker. We got a problem. Billy shot him."

"What?"

"He was escaping." Billy replied, his tone defensive. "Should I
have just let him go?" In. Out.

"No. No....Dammit. How bad is it?" Mulder heard footsteps
approaching. In. Out. Think about breathing, not the awful
throbbing.

"Not bad. Bullet went clean through. There isn't much bleeding. I
think he'll be okay so long as we keep it from going septic."

Mr. Walker stepped into Mulder's range of vision to peer down at his
wound. He was a well built middleaged man with the better part of
his blond hair turned gray and blue ice for eyes. Billy leaned over
Mulder to hold him down once again and Jack began stuffing gauze into
the exit wound. Mulder's body jerked and twitched under the
treatment. He continued to concentrate on his breathing, tried to
keep from screaming his head off. Walker watched intently, then
remarked, "Look at him. Sweating and flinching already. And we
haven't even begun."

*****

Some cavalry. I had to stop at 7-11 to get a map. Looking at it now,
I can't find a Crestview Lane anywhere in the city. Fuck. I crush
the map in my hands in frustration. Take several angry breaths and
then, repentantly, reopen the map and smooth it across the passenger
seat with my hands. I *have* to find this place. I know if I don't,
that Mulder will die an ugly, degrading death. He may be dead
already, I mean, I don't know for sure, but I think he isn't, if he
died, I would have seen it. The way I saw him being raped. I'm
gonna kill that little rapist motherfucker when I get my hands on him.

I'm gonna tear him apart.

I'm naked on the bed, facedown spread-eagled and they're finished
tying me to the bedposts. Why tie me down? I'm fucking hobbled
already, I'm not going anywhere on this knee. I know why, I just
don't want to think about it. The other guy, Walker, he's standing
over me, looking, just staring down at me, God...I hate this. I can
see his erection through his Armani slacks. He smiles at me, speaks
to me, leans over to touch my cheek. I pull away, turn my face to
the wall.

And see my wrinkled map of the metro area. Newly inspired, I review
it methodically and, I'll be fucked, find Crestview Lane. It's way
out of town, at top speed, it's going to take me at least an hour to
get there. Better hurry.

*****

Mulder felt tugging at the base of his skull and the gag loosened.
He spat out the cloth and turned back toward Walker. "Can I have
some water?" he rasped.

"Later."

"Mr. Walker. I am a Federal Agent." Jesus, his knee hurt. So hard
to concentrate while it throbbed like that. "Do you have any...grasp
of the consequences of kidnapping and assaulting a Federal Agent?"
Mulder managed.

Walker laughed. "Oh, I know what you are, Mr. Mulder. I saw you on
T.V.. Your fifteen minutes of fame. You testified at some trial, I
didn't pay attention to the story. Just you. And when I saw you, I
knew I had to have you."

"That's very flattering." Oh, it hurt. Concentrate. Reason with
this man. "You'll get 20 to life, you know." Shit, that was
brilliant.

"Perhaps. If I'm caught. But I don't believe I will be." The bed
shifted as the other man sat down next to Mulder. "Now, tell me
about these scars." A finger trickled down his back.

"I'd rather not."

Walker turned and snapped his fingers. Billy entered Mulder's field
of vision fleetingly. When Walker turned back toward him, he held a
coiled bullwhip. He leaned into Mulder, bringing the whip to his
face to brush it lightly. "See this? Note the weathered, yet well
maintained leather. It feels soft on your face, now, doesn't it?"

Mulder thought desperately for a way to deflect the conversation from
its present course. The scars, okay, he wants to know about the
scars. "I was tortured." he blurted.

"Oh really? How interesting." The coiled whip moved from his face
to his back. It stroked him; long, loving strokes that started at
the nape of his neck and slid all the way down his spine to the cleft
of his buttocks. "And who tortured you?"

Jesus, this was hell. Utter fucking hell. If he could just have a
drink of water, maybe his knee wouldn't hurt so bad.

"Mr. Mulder. Who tortured you?"

"It was...a German name...or maybe Danish...Falkenberg. Yeah. Dr.
Falkenber." Mulder finished. It was getting harder to think. His
knee throbbed angrily. That fucking stroking on his back was pissing
him off and he was so thirsty. "Can I *please* have a drink of water?"
he asked again, hating both the whine in his voice and this man,
for causing it.

The maddening stroking of his back stopped. "You aren't interested
in civilized conversation, I take it? Very well." Walker stood and
flicked his wrist. The bullwhip unwound like a party favor. Three
of its seven feet hit the floor with a slap. "Let us begin."

He took several backward steps and swung his whiparm overhand,
bringing the whip across Mulder's shoulder's with a booming crack
that split flesh instantly. Mulder felt a thud, then fleeting
numbness before incandescent agony scorched his back. His shocked
inhalation was broken by the second heavy blow. He couldn't take in
enough air to scream. The whip cracked the third time into the small
of his back, slicing through skin. Mulder drug in a shaky lungful of
air and when his hips were laid open by the fourth blow, he screamed
high and loud and long. As Walker paused for a breather, Mulder's
scream broke off into gasping sobs.

His hands white-knuckled the wheel of the car he drove. He blew by
other traffic at around 95 miles per hour, per the speedometer. An
abused map of the city floated around the floor of the passenger side
as wind rushed through open windows. Mulder clutched the wheel
harder. He didn't want to go back, maybe if held on tight enough he
could stay.

Then he fell back into horror, his limbs drawn taut and wide, leaving
him profoundly vulnerable. Rivulets of blood spilled down his sides
from the cuts across his back and Walker looked like he was gearing
up again. The guy had a raging hardon. Mulder rested his forehead
on the mattress and prayed Walker would come in his pants, they way
Billy had. He couldn't face another rape. Maybe hurting him would
be enough for this guy. The whip whistled down to crack across his
ass for a fifth stroke, wringing another scream from him. Walker was
working his way down Mulder's body, he was getting way too close to
the knee.

Krycek was on his way, he was pretty sure. If he could just hold on
a little longer.

*****

It's taken me an hour to drive the hundred miles or so to 178
Crestview Lane. Everything is exactly how I saw it in my vision or
whatever you wanna call it. I'm relieved to confirm I'm not crazy.

Climbing from the car, I quickly case the area. This property is
very private, nearest neighbors are a half mile away, at least. I
pass a small sign hanging on the iron gate advertising the security
company whose alarms are installed here. Security has never been a
problem for me. There are no cars in the driveway and the place
seems quiet. I decide on the direct approach. As I climb the porch
steps, I feel a blow across the backs of my thighs, a ghostly sting
and the pain is enough to take my breath away. Staggering a little,
I grab the iron railing to keep from falling. The pain from my
thighs resonates down to my knee and I clench my teeth and will the
vision away, I cannot afford to succumb to it now. The effort causes
me to break out in a sweat. I wipe my forehead with the back of my
wrist, move to the doorway and ring the bell.

My stiletto buries itself in the throat of the blond man who answers

the door. He gurgles and blows a blood bubble out his right nostril
before his knees collapse and he sinks to the floor. I retrieve my
blade and wipe it off on my shirt even as I slink through the foyer
and down the hall. Red fury posesses me when I hear a sharp crack
followed by a raw shriek come up from the basement. I shift my
stiletto into my throwing hand and reach into my boot for my Bowie.
It's bigger and meaner than the stiletto and I heft it into a
stabbing position in my other hand as I move down the stairs.

*****

Walker let the whip slip out of his fist onto the floor. It
splattered designs of blood onto the tile. The agent was almost
unconscious and he didn't want that. He wanted Mulder wide awake for
Act II. He moved to the bed while undoing his fly. He liked the
fear in his captive's eyes, the way he watched him almost continually
since the beating began as if he could second guess his assault and
cheat him out of the pain. His slacks were around his knees when the
thin point of the blade sprang out of his adam's apple. He staggered
forward, his fingers finding his throat and moving with surprise
around the point of the blade as he died.

*****

I sprint to Mulder, still clutching my Bowie. I leave the stiletto
for now in the throat of the whipping boy. Kick the fucker a good
one on my way past. Oh God...Mulder's back...He doesn't realize I'm
here. I ease myself slowly onto the mattress next to him and slash
through the first hated rope binding his wrist. The free hand plops
onto the bed. My vision blurs as I work my way through the rest of
the ropes. I put down the knife. He's free now and the blood is
everywhere; I'm afraid to touch him. As I bend my head down to his,
a droplet splashes his temple. I touch my lips to this soft place,
tasting him along with my tear.

His eyes pop open. Vast relief swiftly replaces the fear on his face
as he understands his ordeal is over. He licks his lips before he
speaks, a mannerism that usually slays me with lust, but this time
escalates my rage and I want to kill the whipping boy all over again.
HIs lips are dry and his tongue is coated because he's so dehydrated.

"You came." he croaks. I nod at him, I don't trust myself to speak.
His eyes widen suddenly, and as he shouts a cold numbness pierces
me, I crank my head leftward and see the handle of my stiletto
jutting out of my shoulder. I whirl around.

*****

After plunging the knife into Krycek's shoulder, Billy turned to flee.

Krycek struck like a cobra, one long step and his arm lunged and
Billy was choking, dangling from the Russian's hand. Krycek shifted
his feet apart and bent his elbow so that Billy was nose to nose with
him. "Where's your fucking gun, boy?" he hissed and his green eyes
shone not at all. The struggling man wasn't capable of answering him,
his larynx was crushed on impact . Instead of attempting speech,
Billy shook his head no as much as the grip on his throat allowed.

"What do you mean, no?" Krycek reached over with his right hand and
yanked the knife out of his shoulder. "You knew where it was earlier,
in the van." He brought the tip of the stiletto down and angled it
precisely at the young man's crotch. "So tell me, where the fuck is
your gun, now?" Billy stilled suddenly, not chancing any contact with
the knife at his balls. His fear widened eyes bulged suddenly as his
face purpled. His legs kicked out once, twice. His head rose up
several inches and oozed to the left as Krycek squeezed his
mechanized hand closed.

He opened his fist and Billy's body dropped to the floor. He glared
down at the corpse, his right hand holding his left shoulder, as the
rage washed out of him.

*****

I'm afraid to look back at him. Afraid to see revulsion and
condemnation in his eyes after witnessing Billy's murder. But he
needs me so I go to him and I look at him and all I see in his eyes
is glassy pain and the quiet melancholy that always dwells there.
He's trying to sit up and my fingers press him firmly back down and I
lay next to him. I take him gently, so gently, into my arms to hold
him for a little while.

*****

Neither man noticed the security camera set in the wall. On the
receiving end of the signal, another man smoked in the dark. And
wondered how the situation unfolding before him could be used to the
project's advantage.

eeez done...

____
Jem, GMT, NMMKRA, CKOTHF, TROEM

"Todd, get in here, we're meeting Grandma at The Olive Garden in an
hour. And you better not wear you're freaky cape." --Glenn to his
younger brother Israel Abyss--Goth Talk

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