AUTHOR: Eve (alfa_fighter_3@mailhaven.com)
TITLE: Category Mistake
PAIRING: none that I can see. It's about Krycek and PscyhoScully with references to Marita and to Mulder (but not Marita and Mulder *together*)
SPOILERS: up to and including Requiem. Mulder's gone, people!
DISCLAIMERS: if I owned them, Alex would be eating grapes from my fingers, all right? Oh, and Pendrell would still be alive.
NOTES: this story was inspired by my Philosophy 231 prof. All semester I had visions of maiming and torture because of his bloody boring lectures. Now the class is over, so I decided to take it out on poor Alex :)
MORE NOTES: For anyone who's interested, a category mistake is a problem with our concept of the world i.e. the mistake of thinking that something belongs to a particular category when it does not. This is how philosophical behaviorists tried to argue that Descartes was on crack when he came up with his dualistic theory of the mind. Let me tell you people . . .
Alex absent sipped his whiskey, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection. The bartender appeared, bottle at the ready, but Alex waved him off. If this had been a social call he would have been more than happy to get wasted. But this was business.
Marita wanted him to leave his 'business' be. They had more important things to do apparently. But what was more important than getting rid of one more enemy? Now that Spender was gone, they had to let everyone know who was running the show. They had to set an example for anyone who might be thinking of crossing them.
What Marita hadn't even known was that Spender had a personal confidante. One which knew everything about him, the Consortium, the Project, you name it. With all that knowledge he wielded just as much power as dear old Smoky had. When Alex had been the golden boy, the prodigal son, he had often met Spender at an acreage in Montana. Spender's confidante was always there, lurking in the shadows.
Alex sometimes wondered if they were lovers, and pushed the thought away with a disgusted shudder and the distinct shrinking of his genitals. Quick, think of something else before the urge to vomit puts to waste this expensive whiskey. A brief but vivid flash of red hair proved to be his salvation. Ah, red. Red reminded him of blood, of apples, of that 'vette he'd always wanted as a kid, and . . . Scully. Poor Scully.
He'd been so busy rebuilding the empire to his own specifications that Scully and the newly abducted Mulder had not been tops on his priority list. The reports he'd had time to skim indicated that Scully-without- Mulder was more of a handful that Mulder-without-Scully. She was a real pitbull, but without that flying off the handle quality that always prevented Mulder from really discovering anything.
Mulder would be returned, eventually. They always returned them. Mulder might not be himself, but Alex was prepared for that possibility. He could never kill Fox Mulder, but a Replacement . . . that was another story.
He suspected Spender had activated Scully's chip before his untimely demise. The current operatives hadn't yet discovered and decrypted all the intel involved in the implants. Alex was unsure what to do when he found out. The power of that chip would be in his hands. A few buttons, a code maybe, and DNA would break down. Scully's baby would be no more. But he had no desire to completely destroy the woman. First her sister, then Mulder, then her 'miracle' baby? He didn't want to--he had no desire to be a baby killer, but if it came down to one baby or the rest of the world, he only had one choice.
He could always shoot himself afterwards.
Another flash of red hair, the sound of a glass breaking. Alex saw his mark enter the bar and join two other men. They ordered a round and settled into conversation. So he was talking already. Telling Spender's dirty little secrets.
Alex was making mental bets with himself over whether it would be the bathroom or the alley. The gun and silencer were a reassuring weight under his arm if he needed a quick, clean, quiet kill. But he had a variety of toys up his sleeve to set a messier example. Knives, a garrote. His left arm served as a useful club if needed. Marita had turned her nose up at him. Well, somebody had do the dirty work, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her. She might chip a nail or something.
He watched the men talk for a minute. The other two were familiar--he recognized them as some of the fringe members of the Consortium. People who had lived just outside the inner circle. Like him. Scratch that. Like he had been. Now he was the inner circle.
Suddenly his mark blanched and froze. Something had spooked him, and it wasn't Alex. Alex discretely scanned the bar, wondering who else could be there. The man got to his feet and hurried toward the back. Alex followed just in time to see the exit swing shut. The alley it was then. He stepped outside, gun at the ready. His target was just standing there, staring into the shadows.
"This is going to be too easy," he said to himself. Then he wondered why the man wasn't even looking at him. Remembering someone else had him spooked. Oh shit.
"Took the words right out of my mouth, Krycek," came a feminine voice from behind him. A searing pain lanced through his skull and colors exploded behind his eyelids before fading to black.
TITLE: Category Mistake
PAIRING: none that I can see. It's about Krycek and PscyhoScully with references to Marita and to Mulder (but not Marita and Mulder *together*)
SPOILERS: up to and including Requiem. Mulder's gone, people!
DISCLAIMERS: if I owned them, Alex would be eating grapes from my fingers, all right? Oh, and Pendrell would still be alive.
NOTES: this story was inspired by my Philosophy 231 prof. All semester I had visions of maiming and torture because of his bloody boring lectures. Now the class is over, so I decided to take it out on poor Alex :)
MORE NOTES: For anyone who's interested, a category mistake is a problem with our concept of the world i.e. the mistake of thinking that something belongs to a particular category when it does not. This is how philosophical behaviorists tried to argue that Descartes was on crack when he came up with his dualistic theory of the mind. Let me tell you people . . .
Alex absent sipped his whiskey, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection. The bartender appeared, bottle at the ready, but Alex waved him off. If this had been a social call he would have been more than happy to get wasted. But this was business.
Marita wanted him to leave his 'business' be. They had more important things to do apparently. But what was more important than getting rid of one more enemy? Now that Spender was gone, they had to let everyone know who was running the show. They had to set an example for anyone who might be thinking of crossing them.
What Marita hadn't even known was that Spender had a personal confidante. One which knew everything about him, the Consortium, the Project, you name it. With all that knowledge he wielded just as much power as dear old Smoky had. When Alex had been the golden boy, the prodigal son, he had often met Spender at an acreage in Montana. Spender's confidante was always there, lurking in the shadows.
Alex sometimes wondered if they were lovers, and pushed the thought away with a disgusted shudder and the distinct shrinking of his genitals. Quick, think of something else before the urge to vomit puts to waste this expensive whiskey. A brief but vivid flash of red hair proved to be his salvation. Ah, red. Red reminded him of blood, of apples, of that 'vette he'd always wanted as a kid, and . . . Scully. Poor Scully.
He'd been so busy rebuilding the empire to his own specifications that Scully and the newly abducted Mulder had not been tops on his priority list. The reports he'd had time to skim indicated that Scully-without- Mulder was more of a handful that Mulder-without-Scully. She was a real pitbull, but without that flying off the handle quality that always prevented Mulder from really discovering anything.
Mulder would be returned, eventually. They always returned them. Mulder might not be himself, but Alex was prepared for that possibility. He could never kill Fox Mulder, but a Replacement . . . that was another story.
He suspected Spender had activated Scully's chip before his untimely demise. The current operatives hadn't yet discovered and decrypted all the intel involved in the implants. Alex was unsure what to do when he found out. The power of that chip would be in his hands. A few buttons, a code maybe, and DNA would break down. Scully's baby would be no more. But he had no desire to completely destroy the woman. First her sister, then Mulder, then her 'miracle' baby? He didn't want to--he had no desire to be a baby killer, but if it came down to one baby or the rest of the world, he only had one choice.
He could always shoot himself afterwards.
Another flash of red hair, the sound of a glass breaking. Alex saw his mark enter the bar and join two other men. They ordered a round and settled into conversation. So he was talking already. Telling Spender's dirty little secrets.
Alex was making mental bets with himself over whether it would be the bathroom or the alley. The gun and silencer were a reassuring weight under his arm if he needed a quick, clean, quiet kill. But he had a variety of toys up his sleeve to set a messier example. Knives, a garrote. His left arm served as a useful club if needed. Marita had turned her nose up at him. Well, somebody had do the dirty work, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her. She might chip a nail or something.
He watched the men talk for a minute. The other two were familiar--he recognized them as some of the fringe members of the Consortium. People who had lived just outside the inner circle. Like him. Scratch that. Like he had been. Now he was the inner circle.
Suddenly his mark blanched and froze. Something had spooked him, and it wasn't Alex. Alex discretely scanned the bar, wondering who else could be there. The man got to his feet and hurried toward the back. Alex followed just in time to see the exit swing shut. The alley it was then. He stepped outside, gun at the ready. His target was just standing there, staring into the shadows.
"This is going to be too easy," he said to himself. Then he wondered why the man wasn't even looking at him. Remembering someone else had him spooked. Oh shit.
"Took the words right out of my mouth, Krycek," came a feminine voice from behind him. A searing pain lanced through his skull and colors exploded behind his eyelids before fading to black.