SPOILER WARNING: Lots of 'em, all over the place.
RATING: PG-13 for violence
CONTENT WARNING: Bill jr./Tara. Character death. Lots and lots of character death. Unlike most of my work, this isnot a happy story.
CLASSIFICATION: VA
SUMMARY: "Kill Mulder and you risk turning one man's religioninto a crusade." --The Cigarette Smoking Man, "Ascension"
The Crusade
by Brandon D. Ray
There's only one of them left now, and tonight he will be mine.
I've saved the smoking bastard for last. Not because he was themost powerful or the most important or even the most interesting -- Lordknows that all of these men and women were interesting, in a sick, pervertedsort of way. No, I saved the smoker for last because above all theothers he is the one most personally responsible for what happened to mysister and her partner.
For a long time after they finally disappeared forever I blamed Mulderfor what happened. We'd gotten off on the wrong foot with each otherfrom the very start, and before long it had become almost a preprogrammedresponse with me. To be honest I still don't like him very much,though far be it from me to speak ill of the dead. Especially someonewho mattered so much to Dana.
So it was easy for me to put the blame on Mulder. I'd alreadyput the blame on him for so many other things: Missy's death; Dana'scancer; the way she'd withdrawn from our family and become an isolated,closed-off workaholic. And all the rest. Even when they werestill alive, even at the height of my fury, a small part of me knew I wasbeing unfair to him, but I didn't really care. All the pain I wasfeeling over the harm done to my family had to have an outlet somewhere,and Fox Mulder was the easiest target.
I like to think Dana understood that, and maybe she did, since as herlast act she put her personal journal in my hands. Not literally,of course; from her account of the last days of their lives it is clearthat she had no time to come to me and explain everything that had happenedin the past five years, and so she simply copied her personal notes ontoa disk and left it with a friend for safekeeping. I won't mentionthat friend's name; it might put that person's life at risk, even now. But eventually the disk found its way into my possession, as Dana intended. I doubt if she intended for me to make the use of it that I have, but Ihad to be true to myself.
At first I didn't know what to do with that disk. I couldn't evenread it right away -- the pain of losing her, and my anger at Mulder, wasstill too sharp and fresh. But as the months went by I found myselfwondering more and more just exactly what had happened to my sister inthe five and a half years she worked on the X-Files. And day by daythe urge to slip that small piece of plastic into the floppy drive andfind out first hand got stronger and stronger. And finally, one Fridayevening, I sat down in my study and started to read.
I didn't sleep that night. Nor the next night. Dana's noteswere, as I should have expected, detailed and meticulous. She recordedeverything that had happened, every significant thought that she had had,everything that she had seen and said and done. And the farther Igot into her narrative, the more shocked and horrified I became. In my imagination I had dredged up scenarios of the sorts of things I thoughtshe might have faced in her work with Mulder and the FBI: Serialkillers, terrorists, enemy agents, and the like. But nothing I hadimagined prepared me for the sheer, stark horror that was my sister's life.
My God. Even today it gives me the shakes to think about it, eventhough I now know far, far more about the organization she called the Consortiumthan she ever did.
By Sunday afternoon I had finished reading her journal. I wasexhausted, both physically and emotionally, but already I knew what I hadto do, and I knew it was going to cost me everything I had worked for andbuilt up for myself over the years. In the distant back of my mindI mourned for the life I was about to give up, but I knew in my heart thatI had no choice. Long before I ever took my first oath as a Navalofficer, I had reconciled myself to the fact that I might someday be calledupon to make sacrifices in defense of my country, and in my mind this wassimply an extension of that oath.
I still feel that way.
I did grant myself one last indulgence. I went to bed that nightand slept for twelve hours, and the next day I called in sick at Miramar,and I took Tara and Matthew out for a day in the city, seeing all the sightsand doing all the things which I had expected to be able to spend a lifetimedoing. And that night I made slow, passionate love to my wife, andwhen she awoke in the morning I was gone.
I couldn't explain to her what I was about to do. I just couldn't. It wasn't that she wouldn't understand -- I knew that she WOULD understand. Tara and I have always understood each other, and although I knew she wouldbe heartbroken at my decision, I also knew that she would accept it. She would have no choice, really, anymore than I had a choice; she knewwhat she was getting herself into when she married a Navy man, and therisk of loss and separation was part of the package.
Nor was it because I was trying to protect her. Oh, certainlyI couldn't risk sharing any of the information in Dana's journal with her. That would have put both her life and Matthew's life in danger, and thatwas just not an option. But I would not have had to tell her thosethings; she would not have demanded it. If I had simply said thatI had to go, for reasons I could not explain, she would have accepted that. Tara loved me and trusted me, and I really believe that she would haveunderstood. But I simply couldn't face her; I couldn't look her inthe eye and tell her that I was leaving, and then turn and walk away.
I'm a selfish bastard, and in some ways a coward, and I always havebeen.
And so I dropped out of sight. I'm sure the Navy looked for mefor awhile, and Tara did, too, but they never found me. So far asI know, they never even came close. And I built a semblance of anew life for myself in another city, far removed from anyone or anythingI had ever known, and I started doing research. I needed to knowjust exactly what I was going up against, who and what my enemies were,before I could act. I had a good start with the information in Dana'sjournal, but it wasn't nearly enough; I knew I needed more before I couldact and be sure of getting all of them.
It took three years.
I really don't remember much about those years. I lived by myselfin a small Midwestern town, on the banks of a river which I'm sure wasvery lovely. Early on in my sojourn I'd contacted the one friendof Dana's who I was sure from her journal that I could trust, Melvin Frohike,and he provided me with money and other resources, so I was able to livecomfortably and do my real work. I never told him explicitly whatI was planning to do, but I think he knew. Frohike is a smart man. Smarter than me, in a lot of ways.
I did a lot of traveling in those years; I had to. A lot of therecords I needed to look at were only available on paper, for one thing. And for another, I had to check the terrain so that when the time cameto act I would be comfortable and familiar with my surroundings.
Once I almost bumped into Tara. I was in Seattle for a few days,running down a lead, and I rounded a corner and there she was, even morebeautiful than I'd allowed myself to remember. Matthew was with her,and he was walking on his own now, dressed in a cute little sailor suit. Tara, as I should have expected, was dressed in black.
Fortunately she had her back to me, and so she didn't see me duringthe fifteen seconds or so it took me to collect myself, remember my purpose,and turn and walk away.
I haven't seen her since that day.
Finally, six months ago, I felt I was ready. I had all the informationI could reasonably expect to get, and I had a plan. And on the dayafter Christmas I set that plan in motion.
The blonde bitch at the U.N. was the first to go. I don't knowwhy I chose to do her first; it just seemed right. Marita was hername; Marita Covarrubias. She never even saw it coming; it was quickand clean, as clean as any death ever can be. Cleaner than she deserved,at any rate. The police are still looking for the guy who did it;it never occurred to anyone to suspect a middle aged Y2K expert witnessfrom the Midwest who happened to be vacationing in Manhattan that day.
Next was the one Dana called the First Elder. I found out hisreal name in the course of my research, but it doesn't really matter. It's carved on his tombstone, and once a week his wife puts flowers onhis grave. Nobody else cares.
After that they sort of blur together in my mind. I had expectedthat each death would be etched in my memory, but it didn't work out thatway. As with anything else, after awhile killing just got to be anotherjob, another task. No big deal; go on a business trip, sign a coupleof contracts for the sake of your cover, kill a man or a woman, go home.
The only other one that really sticks in my mind is Alex Krycek. That was the only one I've allowed myself to enjoy. From readingDana's journal, it was clear to me that this son of a bitch was reallyat the heart of all her troubles, second only to the smoker. He wasthe one who killed Mulder's father; he was the one who prevented Mulderfrom rescuing Dana from Duane Barry. And he was the one who murderedMelissa.
I did him slowly. Very, very slowly. And I enjoyed everyminute of it, and by the time he begged me to kill him, whatever fragmentof a soul I still had by that point had fled.
I haven't missed it.
Now there is only one remaining. The smoker. I have chosen,this time, to let him come to me. I have been leaving clues hereand there, traces of my presence and my plan and my crusade. Frommy researches into his life, I know just exactly which buttons to pushto ensure that he will come to me in person rather than sending his thugs.
I'm sitting in my study now, in the house which my neighbors think ismy home. It's late, past midnight, and I've finally finished goingover the papers for the deposition I have to give on Monday. In myheart I suspect that there will be no deposition, but I can't be sure whenhe will come, and so I have to be prepared to maintain my cover.
I smell the smoke of his cigarette before I hear him, and I smile tomyself and rise from my chair and turn. He's standing in the doorway,looking just as he does in the countless photographs I've collected, wearingthat same annoying, know-it-all smirk of condescension which Dana describedin her journal so many years ago. While I stand there watching him,he drops the stub of his cigarette on my carpeted floor and rubs it withthe tip of his shoe to put it out before lighting up another one.
"Good evening, Commander Scully," he says at last. His eyes flickto the clock on my desk, then back to me. "Or should I say 'goodmorning'?"
I know how this man operates, both from Dana's journal and from my ownresearch. He is supremely confident in himself and in his abilityto control any situation he may find himself in. At least twice thatI know of he talked Mulder out of killing him, and once he talked his waypast Walter Skinner.
I've uncovered enough other, similar incidents in his life to know thatthis is his modus operandi. It's been such a long time since anyof us little people stood up to him and really tried to take him down anotch that he no longer really believes it is possible. And evennow, with the organization he has worked in for more than 30 years in ruins,he is still smugly sure of his own immortality. I can tell just fromlooking into his eyes.
He takes a drag from his cigarette and simply stands there, waitingto see what I'm going to say. He is confident; sure. He hasthe situation under control, and even though he must know that I've killednearly twenty of his colleagues, he cannot believe that I am about to killhim.
No time like the present. Without any hint or a word of warning,I pull my pistol from my belt and put five rounds into his chest wherehis heart should have been, and he falls heavily to the floor without utteringanother word. And I stand looking at his body for a moment, numbwith the realization that my work is finally done, and at last I can rest.
There is one more round in my pistol, but there won't be for long.
Fini