Title: All the Pharaoh's Men

By: Voodoo Cannonball

Rated: PG-13

Category: Action, Drama

Disclaimer: I plead insanity and am therefore not responsible for anything I say or do. Having said that, everything in this universe belongs to Chris Carter, none of it is mine. Except for the stuff that is. Eh, the X-files is over, who really cares about it's copyright status anymore anyway? ;)

Spoilers: None

Setting: Early in the X-files, say season 2 or 3. Agent Coke sort of evolved as I wrote the story, but I think it's best to see him as an amalgam of Kieffer Sutherland from "24," (bad attitude), Val Kilmer is "Spartan" (attention to detail), Vincent from "Collateral" (human weaknesses), and Matt Damon from "The Bourne Identity" (supernatural physical abilities?).

Summary: Agent Coke is a hard man. He's killed men before, and he doesn't even know why. The chief gives him a job, he gets it done. That's what he gets paid for; nothing more, nothing less. But under all the glamour of being a secret agent lies this cold bit of reality: years living the life of a licensed killer can take its toll, even on the best agents. So what is one to do when given a seemingly impossible task?

Arlington, 2:15 a.m.

The golden light from a streetlamp outside filtered through the window and its half-drawn Venetian blinds, casting a dull light over the scene and illuminating the swirling dust particles that crossed its path. Steven Coke sat in the living room, silently surveying his handiwork. Laid out on the low coffee table in front of him were the guts of his disassembled service pistol, shimmering in the dull light. Next to them was a half empty bottle of Black Seal rum and a partially filled glass. Coke reached over and picked up the glass, swirling its contents before throwing his head back and finishing it off in two swallows. He grimaced as the fiery liquid slid down his throat and the warmth spread across his chest. He was going to have to slow down if he wanted to make the bottle last all night.

Replacing the glass on the table, Coke picked up an oily rag and began to rub down the slide of his pistol. He had always been very good at taking care of his weaponry. Back in basic he had never been the fastest to get his pistol reassembled, but he was always meticulous and had never once experienced a weapons failure in the field. To him, cleaning his pistol was more than just a chore. Coke had secretly enjoyed the process; the feel of the oil-slick surface of well-greased metal slipping under his fingers, the resounding clicks and snaps as each part locked back into place, the heft of the mighty killing device and the comforting way it filled his hands when he held it tight. But not anymore.

Truth be told, Coke was rapidly losing his fondness for weaponry. Where once he had enjoyed the process and the satisfaction of a job well done he now merely felt numb. Cleaning a pistol was now no more important to him than taking out the garbage or filling up the car. It, like so many other aspects of his life, simply no longer interested him. Now the only thing which consistently held his attention was the bottle, its contents, and the weekly visit to the liquor store to refill his "prescription." Deep down he knew he was rapidly becoming an alcoholic and that his job performance was starting to suffer. If this went much further it could start to have some serious implications. In his line of work people played for keeps and employers were not known for their gentle touch. Not that it would really matter much after tonight.

Coke replaced the slide on the table and refilled his glass. After taking another strong swig of liquor, he was finally ready. In fifteen seconds he had replaced the barrel, firing pin, and spring in the slide, slid the slide onto the weapon's frame and locked it together with a sharp, resounding click. After another deep drink, he pushed the magazine release button and smiled as the magazine slid out of the weapon's handle. Perfect. He was almost there.

Coke reached forward and pulled the box of nine millimeter ammunition across the table to the edge closest to him. He pushed the box's glossy lid open and reached in, savoring the cold, tubular feel of the bullets under his fingers. Pulling out a handful, Coke aligned the bullets one by one into a neat little row. The liquor had made him clumsy and it was trickier than he had imagined it would be, but he finished it just the same. After silently playing a game of ennie-meenie-miney-moe with his right index finger, he settled for the bullet in the middle. Reaching forward, he picked it up and snapped it into the magazine, then slid the magazine back into the weapon.

The glass was empty but he didn't bother to refill it. Instead, Coke grabbed the bottle by the neck and raised it to his lips. He knew he was drunk and that he would probably have a hell of a hangover in the morning, and then corrected himself. If he had a headache tomorrow morning, it wouldn't be from the alcohol. Coke laughed aloud at that particular drivel. What was he? A stupid, depressed teenager writing up crappy poetry in his "blog" and strumming pathetically on some guitar as he stabbed himself in the arm with a pen? No, he was a man and he was going to die like one. No more useless pathetic thoughts. It was time for this to end the way he wanted it to end: quietly, in private, with no-one to mourn or feel sorry for him.

Quickly, before he lost his courage, he put the bottle down, racked the slide back and thumbed off the safety. He stood up, quickly placed the muzzle to his head and closed his eyes. This would be it. And yet, somehow, he couldn't quite seem to pull the trigger. He would slowly start to squeeze, feeling his sweaty pad sliding further and further across the trigger, and then relax. Squeeze, and relax. He blinked. Sweat was dripping down across his face and into his eyes.

Well, come on, he thought. Are you gonna do this or not? Still he could not force his body to act. C'mon Steve, it's not that hard. You've killed before, this is no different. Pull it and end it. NOW!! And yet, somewhere deep inside of him a voice (perhaps his conscience, perhaps his finely honed sense of self-preservation) screamed out against it. He was drunk, he was depressed, and he needed help, there was no shame in that. All he had to do was put the gun down and-

He gasped audibly as the ear-splitting sound of a phone ringing sliced into his mind and cut off his brain's conversation instantly. Who the hell would be calling at this time of night? It was nearly 2:30 in the morning and- he knew. For a moment he stood there stupidly in his boxers and t-shirt, gun pressed to his head and wincing each time the phone rang. Part of him wanted to answer the phone. The other part wanted to just ignore it and get this over with. He was almost there! Wasn't it the fault of the man on the other end of the line that he was in this situation? Wasn't it HIS fault that he was within an inch of taking his own life in his tiny suburban apartment? Instinct, however, proved to be too strong for his desire. He put the gun back down on the table and staggered over to pick up the phone.

"Yeah?" he asked in his raspy, alcohol-tinged slur.

"Coke. We need you. There's a situation that requires your urgent attention," came the even, nicotine-flavored voice on the other end of the line. Coke could almost smell the Marlboros through the receiver. "Same place, half an hour."

"Make in forty-five," replied Coke.

"See you in a half hour, Coke. Don't be late." The line went dead.

Coke replaced the receiver in its cradle. Great, he thought to himself. He looked back over his shoulder at the place where he had almost killed himself and was struck by how pathetic the scene was. Just great. He hesitated for a split second before sliding the magazine out of his weapon and pulling back the slide, ejecting the round. This would just have to wait until later.