TITLE: My Little Demons
AUTHOR: a frightened little girl
ARCHIVE: Okay Gossamer, Spookys - otherwise just drop me a line.

SUMMARY: Krycek is ordered by God to shape up or ship out.
CATEGORY: Story-Humor
TIMELINE: Takes place directly after "The End." No movie. No S6 & S7. 

RATING: R for adult situations and language
KEYWORDS: Minor slash overtones; alternate universe, in a way; probably
some sort of blasphemy
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/afrightenedlittlegirl/

FEEDBACK: Yippie! sosilently@aol.com
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files belongs to someone other than me. Therefore,
my use of its characters and plotlines is inherently illegal. Sorry
'bout that.


MY LITTLE DEMONS
by a frightened little girl

PROLOGUE
--------

I met God today.

Perhaps "met" is too strong a word. "Met" implies something casual and two-
sided, a friendly greeting, an introduction. You know, "Hi, I'm Alex," and
"Hello, I'm God."

Maybe a better word would be "encountered."

Although I'm sure it means something vastly important on the great cosmic
scale, to me it was just a very bad end to a very bad day. My life in
general had been sliding down the gutter for almost a year, ever since the
fucked-up mental patients in Tunguska sent me home missing an arm and a good
chunk of my self-esteem. I mean, if you spend most of your formative years
trying to become a top-notch assassin/ruler of the free world, the last
thing you need are some peasants drunk on rebellion going after you with a
cleaver.

But I've survived. I've moved on. I cried my bitter tears, went home, got
completely wasted and shot at some traffic signs. I sobered up. I found out
I could survive without a left arm. Of course, I had previously been almost
entirely left-handed, but hey, what's the big deal? That's life. You roll
with the punches. I learned how to write again. One night I got drunk and
crafted a makeshift prosthetic arm, which consisted of a harness and a
long, rusted metal pole. It was actually quite useful - I could wander
the streets freely, unafraid of the ne'er-do-wells that hid in the
alleyways, waiting to beat me down. One quick thrust of my arm and they
doubled over, succumbing to the sweet sweet kiss of tetanus.

Anyway. God.

I started out the day in less than the best of moods. I called in to work
and asked for my daily assignment, faintly optimistic. I was hoping for
something gritty and sinful to take my mind off my growing depression.
Shooting at puppies, or something. Anything relatively evil would do.

Instead, however, I was informed by Cheerful Consortium Operator Debbie
that my instructions were to drive the British guy around for the day.
They had an 'elegant luxury sedan' waiting, which was Secret Consortium
Code for 'an elderly car roughly the size of Arkansas.' I remember
spluttering a lot and violently insisting there must be some mistake,
and then Debbie cheerfully saying "Fuck you, asshole!" and hanging up.

Of course. I, Alex Krycek, world-class assassin, would-be ruler of the
free world, would spend the day playing Jeeves to the damn British guy.
I, Alex Krycek, the one-armed man, would steer an enormous car through
the narrow city streets.

I should have realized then that something was just cosmically Not Right.

So. Sure. Reported to HQ, grabbed the giant car, grabbed the British guy,
drove around. Nearly hit a lamppost while attempting to both change lanes
and make an obscene gesture at the motorist next to me. Met up with old
Ciggy and watched him and the Brit dicker over a little kid. I knew the
instant we showed up that the two were going to argue cryptically for at
least fifteen minutes, so I allowed myself a little time to daydream,
mainly of gunning the car to the obscene speed of 55 and hurtling over
the edge of a bridge into the sea. By the time the Brit won custody and
tumbled the kid into the car, I had died peacefully of oxygen deprivation
and was feeling rather serene.

So. Drove them to the airport. Kid turned out to be a telepath and went
to great lengths to explain how my depression was merely a subset of a
false self-image problem, and that once I realized my basic adequacy as
a person I would be free of all inner conflict. I told him to go fuck
himself and he lapsed into silence.

So. Dropped them off at the airport, and that was it. Returned the company
car. Drove to my tiny apartment and ordered a pizza. It was bland and
greasy and just generally unsatisfying. I spent the rest of my evening
exercising my laudable assassin skills by standing on the fire escape and
shooting at the rats in the alley below.

So. Life was basically a deep black hellish pit, devoid of hope and light
and love, and when God decided to announce his presence by smacking me
sharply on the head, I really wasn't in the mood.

One moment I was hanging off the side of the fire escape, targeting the
little plague carriers and making hissing noise in my throat, and the
next I was crumpled on the ground with a goose egg the size of Cleveland
rising on my skull like freshly baked bread.

"Alex!" The voice was a hideous, mind-boggling mixture of Darth Vader and
Nathan Lane.

My reply was an inarticulate moan and something resembling but not
technically a sob.

"Alex!" the voice insisted, thumping my shoulder.

Pain sliced through me in gleaming electric bolts, and I took the
opportunity to scream "Holy FUCK!" at the top of my lungs. I cradled my
head gently and attempted to sit up, then decided vomiting would be an
easier and more beneficial course of action.

When I had gotten most of the semi-digested pizza out of my system, a hand
grabbed hold of my collar and swung me to my feet. My hand flew to my head,
still clutching the gun, hovering protectively over the bump. "Who *are*
you?" I managed waspishly.

"God."

A few thoughts rumbled through my abused head at that point, including
"Ah" and "Perhaps I should shoot at him." Unfortunately for me, God was
as much a telepath as the tyke in the car and he gave me a brisk,
skull-rattling shake. The gun slid neatly out of my hand and fell to join
the pizza below.

"I've had it up to here with you, Alex," the voice said. He slapped the
top of my head to give me an accurate measurement.

"Fucking HELL!" I shrieked. My brain was declaring mutiny and threatening
to leak right out of my ears. "What do you want?"

"What do you want?" he mocked, giving me another hearty shake. "I should
ask *you* that question, Alex! What do *you* want?"

I briefly considered turning around to look at him, but my neck was
threatening to follow my brain into the abyss. Instead I mumbled, "I want
you to put me down."

"Tough shit." My sensibilities were mildly offended, given it was God and
all. "If I'm going to go from one preposterous length to another to keep
your sorry ass alive, what do plan on doing with it?"

"Wasting it on decadence and booze." I tried to make it sound lighthearted
and jestful, but apparently God wasn't in the mood for my little jokes. He
jerked me back and my knees struck metal with a satisfying crack. The two
fresh slices of pain rendered my tongue inoperable.

"Listen to me, Alex," the voice whispered. "Listen good. I've saved your
worthless hide time and time again, hoping you'd get the hint. But that
skull of yours might as well be a radiation shield for all that gets in!"

He dropped me and my knees forgot how to lock. I found myself hugging the
floor quite gratefully.

Something small and hard dropped onto my skull and clattered next to me.
My eyes went to the right as far as they could go and just barely discerned
the tip of a pencil.

"Think about it, Alex," the deep-sweet voice said. "The silo? I thought
maybe you'd learned your lesson after a few days. But what do you do? You
run right back to killing and destruction and mayhem. I get your arm
chopped off. I think, 'Maybe this will give him pause, teach him that
sinful actions have harmful consequences.' And so you go parachuting
around, aiding and abetting known criminals." He inhaled deeply and let
his aggression out via a swift kick to my lower back.

I reached out tentatively and grabbed the pencil. "Just to avoid any
further confusion," I mumbled, "I'm also a bisexual hedonist."

God made a small sound of exasperation. "Alex, if I intervened in the
lives of all the bisexual hedonists in this world, I wouldn't have
time for anything else. Now listen to me!"

I tried to sound humble. "Yessir."

"You," God began, "have the potential to become a great, productive,
happy member of your society, sans killing and larceny and wanton violence
and destruction. I am taking a personal interest in you, which is a very
big deal. Normally I'd just send you straight to Hell and forget you ever
blighted my Universe."

I swallowed.

"However, I believe in you. I believe you have the power to make changes
for the better, to right your wrongs. I just think you need a little
direction and some tough love."

Another kick thudded into my back for emphasis.

"As I see it, you've got inner potential, strength, and my guidance. All
you need to do is haul your ass out of the gutter and utilize it!"

Something light fluttered down and landed in the dip of my neck. Muscles
screaming, I reached back and picked it up.

A blank piece of paper.

"I'm sending you on a Quest," God said. "You succeed, you live. You fail,
you suffer."

I propped myself up gingerly on my elbow, clutching the pencil in my hand.
I snuck a glance out of my peripheral vision, but I can't even begin to
describe what I saw. Whiteness and purity like gleaming stars, and those
were only his teeth.

"Take this down," he ordered.

I poised the pencil above the paper, my hand unfamiliar and shaky. "Do me
a favor, go slow," I rasped. "I used to be entirely left-handed."

God made a sound that suspiciously resembled a snigger.

"Yes," he said. "Rather clever of me, I thought."

~

TASK 1: You Make Loving Fun
---------------------------

I woke the next morning in my bed, relatively free of pain and half a
minute from succumbing to heatstroke. I vaulted out of my bed deftly,
yanking on my collar. Cool air flooded down my torso and I let a contented
sigh ease its way from my lungs. I felt unseasonably good and couldn't
quite place the reason why.

Hunger growled in my stomach, demanding a sacrifice of Cap'n Crunch and
2% milk. I padded over to the kitchen, noticing the cheerful way the
sunlight slanted through the window.

I was halfway to the cupboard when a slip of paper on the counter caught my
eye. After noticing with a certain childish delight that the kitchen was
clean and all the dishes had been washed, seemingly of their own accord,
I focused my attention on the paper.

"Shit," I said, my tone very mild.

The paper was in my own strangely slanted, affected writing. Rather messy,
sure, but it was clear enough in its message.

"STUFF TO DO TO EARN GOD'S FAVOR" was written boldly across the top, with
a smaller subtitle: "or he'll kick my ass."

That's right. My visitation with the Lord, last night. I allowed my hand
to drift curiously up to my head, but the goose egg was gone and all pain
was strictly of your typical garden variety.

Stuff To Do. A Quest, he had called it. Right, like Indiana Jones and all
the other Spielbergian heroes. Go on a Quest, maybe save the World.

Or, in this case, your own Ass.

I counted down the list. Eight simple steps to salvation. Well, perhaps
'simple' isn't correct. 'Completely fucking ludicrous' is perhaps the more
apropos term. But the most frightening line by far was the very last one.

"You have one week."

I sighed and continued on to the cupboard. One week. One week to right
my wrongs, start anew, whatever. Repent.

I hauled out the Cap'n Crunch, grabbed a handful, and jammed it directly
down my throat, dry. I began to choke violently and spent the next five
minutes distracting myself with the prospect of death by asphyxiation. Of
course, when I finally swallowed, my problem hadn't left, but I felt as
though I had at least done something faintly productive.

I glanced back at the list. It stuck its metaphorical tongue out at me.

"Fuck fuck fuck," I said in a quirky, sing-song sort of way, turning
the normally coarse words into a charming little ditty. I swept the paper
up and stared at it again.

"TASK 1: Tell Mulder the truth about what happened to his father."

"Fuck fuck fuck," I sang again, this time with a bit of a jazzy touch.
Something decidedly spider-like was inside my throat and creeping
menacingly upwards toward my eyes. I swallowed hard. Now was not the time
to get emotional.

"I don't want to," I said aloud, addressing the list. "I - I can't face
Mulder with that kind of information."

"Too fucking bad," the list said, metaphorically.

And that, indeed, was that. When inanimate objects fling obscenities at
you, you know you've scraped the bottom of the barrel.

~

From birth to about 16, I was considered a 'good' child. This wasn't
surprising. My community had a fairly relaxed view of things, so as long
as you didn't commit arson or incest you were pretty much guaranteed a
standing of 'good child.' "Every kid takes a little heroin now and then,"
was the community's feeling, "but so long as our family trees remain
properly forked, why complain?"

When I was twelve I committed my first petty theft. It was no random, spur
of the moment affair - no no. At twelve I was already intelligent enough
to know that the key to success is planning - being one step ahead of the
game - knowing the rules better than the rulemakers. My first theft was a
Hershey bar, and I plotted and planned for weeks before even setting foot
in the store. Watching, waiting, taking notes. Tracking employee schedules,
seeing who was attentive, who was lazy. My friends thought I was an idiot
and started avoiding me on the streets, but my day came. Oh, did it come.

My first trip was pure success - I shared the fruits of my efforts with my
friends, who ate all the chocolate and promptly went back to shunning me.
I stayed up all that night in the dark grip of depression, my soul tormented
and grieved.

The next day I went back to the store and casually walked out with a bottle
of tequila, and my problems from there on were pretty much solved. Aside
from achieving overnight popularity, I had also learned an important life
lesson. Once you knew how to walk the walk, you really could get away with
murder.

That first brush with crime was the foundation on which I built my career.
Plan carefully, and everything will work out. Know everything, so you'll
never be surprised. Don't ask questions unless you already know the
answers - I actually stole that one from a John Grisham novel, but the guy
knows his shit, all right?

So when I found myself on the sidewalk in front of Mulder's apartment
building, leather-bejacketed, one sleeve breezing languidly back and forth
in the wind, I realized with a flush of panic that I had absolutely no
idea what I was going to do or say. The truth, of course - I was going to
tell him the truth, which was going to be painful enough in its own right -
but how could I make him believe me?

'Tell Mulder the truth about what happened to his father.' God had dealt me
a cruel and cutting blow with this first task, and I had no doubt that it
was intentional.

A whisper of an idea blew seductively on the back of my neck. I slapped at
it. It blew harder.

The letters.

Somewhat numbly, I unlocked my car door and opened my glove compartment.
Among the tapes, dead spiders, and random ammunition clips was a small,
thick packet of papers. I drew it out and unfolded it, slowly, my breath
caught in my throat with something akin to reverence. Which was amusing,
I guess, since when had I ever had reverence for the dead?

The folds creaked open, sighing with age, and a faint, mystic scent
floated into the air - brandy, cigarette smoke, mildew. I inhaled deeply,
savoring it.

It had been a long time since I had allowed myself this memory.

The Task List, as I had come to call it, metaphorically shouted "TICK TICK
TICK!" from my pocket. Of course. Time was sliding irrevocably into the
past. Now was not the time to dwell and second guess. It was time to leap,
boldly, into the very forefront of my problems and resolve them with my
sweeping (and of course mandatory) regret.

Unfortunately, I had a feeling that Mulder was more the type to dwell and
second-guess.

I took the elevator up to his floor and walked down the ever-familiar
hallway. The letters had joined the Task List in my pocket, and except
for the List's occasional muffled whines, the building was silent.

The floorboards directly in front of his door creaked ominously under my
weight, and I curled my hand into a fist. The peephole stared at me like
an unblinking eye, and I could just imagine Mulder pressed up against the
door, watching. Salivating.

The boy really does like to knock me around.

I rapped twice on the door. The dark eye contemplated me with cunning, and
I tried to look grave, hoping that some sort of shining, luminescent Kiss
of God would appear on my forehead and dissuade Mulder from shooting me on
sight.

There were muffled thumps from within. I heard all the familiar, tell-tale
sounds - shuffling feet on the floor, a gun yanked from its holster, and of
course the upsetting, meaty crack of a forehead against wood as Mulder
attempted to squint through the peephole. Then silence. Dangerous silence.

"Mulder?" I called, tentatively.

Then there was the sudden thud of a decent-sized human body crashing against
the door in utter, utter exhaustion.

"What the fuck do you want, Krycek?" he groaned.

It was a reasonable question. What the fuck did I want? I wanted to be
back home, shooting wildly at innocent people in the almighty name of Evil.
I wanted to be over at Consortium HQ, drinking imported beer and snacking
on their limitless supply of fattening hors d'oeuvres. I wanted to be on a
fucking cruise ship with Kathie Lee Gifford in the middle of fucking
Antarctica, or back in Russia suffering more minor amputations at the
hands of homophobic peasants, or anywhere, anywhere but here, telling
Mulder the truth about his father's death.

"I have to talk to you."

Silence.

"About your father."

The door swung open and caught me smack in the nose. The sudden darkness
of the room swirled black and violet and a hand shot out, grabbing me by
the collar and yanking me forward.

The door slammed shut. There was something suspiciously cold and metallic
pressed against my forehead.

"All I ask is that you hear me out. Okay?" My voice had an ugly,
embarrassing squeak in it, which I could only hope lent me some sort of
credibility.

Mulder gripped my shoulder and spun me around. I jumped when I saw him -
it was a rude gesture, but I couldn't help it. He looked like hell. Random
chunks of hair jutted like icicles out of his skull, and his rumpled clothes
were matted and stained with God-knows-what. Under different circumstances,
I would've liked to sit down with him, give him some styling tips, maybe
experiment with a few competing brands of laundry detergent, but now was
not the time.

Bill Mulder had some whispered secrets that only I could tell.

"So you've come back to gloat?" Mulder's voice rasped with hate. "To see
if you can get me to believe your little lies?"

"No - " I tried, but he ground the gun even deeper into my forehead.

"You *murdered* my father, Krycek!" His voice rose to a shout. "You
*murdered* him and you think you can prance back like it was no fucking
matter?"

There was a succession of loud thumping sounds above our heads. "We don't
care who the fuck killed your father, KEEP IT GODDAMN DOWN!" someone
shouted.

This deterred Mulder not an iota. In fact, it seemed to make him even more
angry, as though his history of verbal excess could somehow be traced back
to me. He couldn't grind the gun any deeper into my flesh, so instead he
elected to poke me with it, harsh little jabs that penetrated my skull and
began to build themselves into a most spectacular headache. "WHAT DO YOU
HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?" he bellowed.

"I didn't kill him." My voice was trembling now. Actual-goddamned-trembling.
Hysteria was playing me like a poorly tuned piano, and she was a bad-assed 
harpy who liked to bang on the keys.

Mulder fell silent, staring at me with a suspicion that would've done Ken
Starr proud. He eased up the tiniest bit on the gun, more for his wrist's
sake than my skull.

"Then why are you here?" he asked after a moment, his voice just a few
octaves shy of Satan. "Why are you pleading innocent to a crime that I
know you committed?"

Something happened just then. I would like to say I calmly proceeded to
explain the truth of the matter to Mulder, and that he nodded, gave me a
fraternal and entirely heterosexual hug, and escorted me politely to my
car, no worse for the wear. Unfortunately I would be lying, and I'm sure
that lying would just get me into even more trouble, so, what really
happened was this:

The Task List, crowded and unhappy in my pocket, decided to hurry things
along by biting me directly in the upper thigh. Given that its teeth were
completely metaphorical, I may have overreacted, but the pain stabbed
through me - I jumped a little - and then, completely inexplicably, I
started to bawl. 

Yes, bawl. Crying wasn't good enough for practiced professional Alex
Krycek. The little lump that had been resting oh-so-peacefully in my throat
decided that if ever there was a good time to express long-suppressed grief,
by God, that time was now.

Mulder forgot about his gun entirely. He stared at me with almost childlike
amazement as I hunched over, gibbering pathetically, trying to decide
whether to remain standing with some dignity or simply collapse to the
ground in a sniveling heap.

"What the fuck is your deal, Krycek?" he asked, marveling.

Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the violent wriggling of the Task
List - maybe some sort of axon-terminal-nerve-type-thing popped in my
brain - maybe it was just my natural inclination to cut through the
bullshit and get to the point. Whatever it was, it made my decision clear.
I stood up as straight as I could, scrubbed violently at my eyes, and
hollered right into Mulder's face.

"I didn't kill your father! I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR FATHER!"

Silence. Crickets chirped. Mulder stared at me with blank, unfixed eyes,
his gun dangling from an unthinking hand. His jaw drooped at a messy
angle. The little computer behind his eyes experienced a total system
shutdown.

The person upstairs thumped on the ceiling again. "When I said SHUT THE
FUCK UP," he yelled, "I meant both you AND YOUR QUEER-BOY FRIEND!"

I took a deep breath, calmly reached over and took the gun from Mulder's
hand, and shot into the ceiling five times.

Silence. Mulder didn't seem to have noticed anything. His brain appeared
to be rebooting, and, given the lengthy wait time, I could only assume it
was running a shoddy Microsoft product.

I stuffed the gun into my back pocket. Finally something glimmered in his
eyes, dark and faint and slightly upsetting. I was glad I was the only one
armed. "You weren't in love with my father," he said, his voice low.

I ducked my head, rubbed at my nose. "Yeah, I was."

That set him back a good fifteen seconds. "But," he said finally, "my
father wasn't in love with you."

My head was still ducked. Slowly, very slowly, I reached into my pocket
and pulled out the letters.

Mulder took them from me. I didn't look at him.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

Tears began to leak from my eyes again. That scent was floating on the air
once more - ancient cigarettes, ancient whiskey, the hint of the moldering
beach house, eaten away by time. Bill Mulder had penned those letters over
six short months, each a treatise of the heart and soul, each a declaration
of the deepest affection and love. For six short months he had been my sole
bright light in a world of darkness, my sole comfort in a world gone mad. I
loved him. More than life itself, I loved him.

"Gaahh!" Mulder suddenly dropped the entire packet of letters to the floor,
backing away in horror. Of course, Bill was also something of an old lech,
and most of his letters contained passages of such lewdness that even I got
creeped out. Mulder raised his arm and blew my head clean off my shoulders
before realizing that he no longer had his gun.

"I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, Krycek," he said,
artfully disguising his mistake by leveling a finger at me, "but I'm not
falling for it. I'm not going to let you tarnish the name of my father just
so you can allow yourself some twisted justification!"

"But it's *true*!" I snatched up the nearest paper and shoved it at him.
He cringed and drew back. "It's *his handwriting.* You know it is. It's his
words! It's the truth!"

"My father was NOT a homosexual!" Mulder sputtered.

I gritted my teeth. "Well, he was when I was around!"

I easily ducked Mulder's first messy punch and shoved him to the floor. I
had to pin him down by sitting on him, but I can safely say that I got very
little sexual gratification out of it.

"Look, Mulder," I said, looking straight into his snarling face, "I'm not
doing this because I want to fuck up your life any more than I already have.
I'm trying to make a clean break of it, and you needed to know the truth."

Mulder writhed. His brain was obviously having problems upgrading to
GayFather for Windows 3.1, but I didn't mind having to wait. Especially
if he continued to writhe.

After a moment, something crafty stole over his face, a shadow. "Let us
say, hypothetically, that you're telling me the truth," he began.

"Okay." I could see where this was going and I didn't like it.

"You - " he swallowed " - loved my father. And he, his mind terribly warped
by years of alcoholism, sort of..."

"Reciprocated," I prompted.

He nodded heartily, glad to find a word that mentioned neither love nor
anal sex. "He reciprocated the...sentiment. Then," Mulder's voice shook a
little, "who actually killed him?"

God. This was a moment of reckoning if I had ever had one. I closed my
eyes briefly, seeing the picture in my mind that haunted me to this day.
Bill Mulder's body sprawled before me on the bathroom floor, his blood
staining my hands, his assassin blinking at me in the reflection of the
mirror. Smiling.

"Truth?" I asked.

"Hypothetically speaking." He held his breath.

I let mine out. "Brian Pendrell."

His entire body bucked violently under mine, nearly throwing me off.
Fortunately, I had strong thighs. "What the FUCK kind of MADNESS IS
THIS?" Mulder yelled. "You're lying. You're lying! Hypothetically
speaking, what the FUCK do you mean, 'Brian Pendrell'!"

"He was my ex." The words were tight in my throat. "We went out for a
year, and I dumped him for your dad. He was kind of upset."

Mulder's expression failed to relax reassuringly. "Brian Pendrell was
*not* your 'ex'!" he hissed. "You lying sack of shit! You don't know a
goddamn thing about him!"

I snorted, despite myself. "Oh, yes I do."

Mulder's eyes narrowed, that crafty look reappearing just below the
surface. "If so," he said quietly, "then what was his first name?"

I stared at him in disbelief, but he was completely serious. "BRIAN!" I
yelled.

His face fell. Obviously, something had been lost in the translation.
"That doesn't prove anything," he muttered.

Frustration and grief suddenly boiled to explosion in my head. "You want
proof?" I clenched my thighs around Mulder's midsection to prevent any
further insubordination and dug around in my pocket. I fished out a
crumpled business card and dropped it on his chest. "There's his home
address. Go ask him yourself."

Mulder poked at it briefly but didn't look at it. Those slitty eyes were
trying to shred me, metaphorically speaking.

"Pendrell's dead," he whispered.

I stared at him for a minute, something like panic flickering down my
spine. "Since when?"

"Almost two years." Mulder's voice was hushed.

I snorted again. "I just saw him two weeks ago. He stalks me every time
I go to the supermarket."

Mulder blinked at me. Little gears were grinding behind his eyes, and from
the looks of it, they were grinding hard. His body suddenly tensed beneath
mine, and quietly, deliberately, he picked up the card and put it in his
pocket.

"I don't know if you're lying or telling the truth, but I'm going to find
out." His eyes were flinty. "Don't get in my way. Don't come anywhere near
me. Just get the hell out of my life for good."

I stared seriously back at him, as if I were giving the matter thorough
deliberation. Frankly, I was just glad he was giving in so readily. It
would be the first time in a long time that I'd walk away without some
sort of crippling, Mulder-inflicted injury, and at this point I was
welcoming any change I could get.

"All right." My voice was dull and raspy, just how I liked it.

I yanked the gun out of my pocket and staggered to my feet. I made a
little gesture to the letters on the floor. "I'd pick those up, but..."
I let my empty sleeve sway a little for effect. "Um, enjoy them."

Mulder bared his teeth at me and I strode quickly to the door. I turned
back just as I passed the doorframe, trying to think of something pithy
and appropriate to say as a goodbye.

About thirty seconds passed and nothing came to me, so I just muttered
"Bye" and left.

I jogged to my car and drove a few blocks away, out of gunshot range.
The List was wiggling and squirming in my pocket, and when I finally
parked next to the curb and yanked it out, it growled and hissed and
danced about in fury for a good half a minute.

"God is very displeased!" it shrieked, waving its tiny metaphorical fists
angrily. "You completed your first task, but you KILLED A MAN while doing
so!"

Inwardly, I couldn't help but be proud of my accuracy, but I made myself
look concerned. "Bigotry is an ugly, ugly problem in this world, and I
deal with it the only way I know how."

The List threw itself flat on the passenger's seat. "Have you never thought
of involving yourself in local politics?" it seethed.

"Anyway, there's nowhere on..." I swallowed "...you...that says I have to
stop killing, or even stop any violence whatsoever. Perhaps you should have
thought of that in advance. I finished my first task, and that's all that
matters."

The List flipped itself over. Emblazoned across the line where the first
task had been was the new phrase: "TASK 1: Refrain From Killing Or Any
Violence Whatsoever."

My jaw tightened. "Extremely humorous, but that isn't allowed. You can't
just make this up as you go along."

The List smirked. "On behalf of God: Bite me, mortal."

~

TASK 2: Sweet Girl
------------------

I've always hated the snotty sense of superiority some people can get, just
because they're God.

Despite my misgivings towards the legitimacy of the revised first task, I
agreed to avoid any killing, mutilation, or general mayhem for the duration
of my Quest. I tried crossing my fingers behind my back but it didn't work -
the List gave me several ill-tempered paper cuts until I vowed it honestly.

Well, as honestly as I could, being Alex Krycek and all.

The counterfeit first task disappeared and I focused on the second one. 
The Task List permitted me to pick it up, so that I might seethe at it more
efficiently.

"TASK 2: Tell Scully about your involvement with her sister's death."

A moment of silence passed.

"You're not happy, are you," the List observed.

I attempted to crumple it into a small paper ball, but it turned out to be
annoyingly resilient.

Instead, I shoved it into my glove box, turned on the radio to drown out
its screams, and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do. I
put my car into drive and started wandering aimlessly through the streets,
trying to jump-start my brilliant strategic mind into action.

After about half an hour, I could only conclude that I must've left my
brilliant strategic mind back on Mulder's floor.

The next best option was complete and total panic, so I did that for about
an hour. I drove around looking for potential bridges to hurl myself from,
or, even better, an office building with a large plate-glass window to smash
spectacularly through. I found neither, however, so I took some deep breaths
and tried to think again.

My involvement with Melissa's death. Very simple. I was supposed to meet up
with Luis Cardinal, kill Scully, and then maybe go out for some beers or
something. We hadn't really decided - we figured we'd just wait and see what
we were in the mood for after we were done killing Scully. Unfortunately,
due to Luis' stupidity and my naive faith, he shot Melissa Scully instead.
Whoops, damn, there went any plans for beers or pizza. We ran like fools,
I thoughtfully let him take the fall, and the Consortium decided that it
was just another sign that proved decisive action should be avoided at all
costs. Eventually Scully found Luis, shot him, and we all went home happy.

End of story.

Scully never knew I was in the room at the time of her sister's death, and
why should she? I didn't kill anyone. I just stood there and mentally
criticized her choice in wallpaper. Luis was the killer - I merely observed.
If God was going to insist there were two sinners in that room, I would
concur - Luis, and the wallpaper. Me? I was as pure as driven snow.

So why the fuck couldn't we just let sleeping dogs lie?

I half-wished that I could express these views to the Task List, which was
murmuring quite piteously over the sounds of "Woolly Bully," but I decided
against it. It would simply argue and disagree and ridicule me until I was
enraged, and then it would smirk. I'd attempt to kill it, God would accuse
me of going back on my vow, and I'd end up shoveling coal into the furnaces
of Hell.

Of course, confronting Scully would very likely end the same way.

Although I was always wary of facing Mulder because I knew he'd beat the
crap out of me, I was also pretty sure that he would never kill me. I was
the little catnip mouse of his life, metaphorically speaking - every time
he got near me he'd go a little crazy, clawing and hissing and loving every
minute of it. While it wasn't the healthiest relationship around, it was at
least predictable.

Scully, on the other hand, would probably shoot me on sight. I'm not sure
why, exactly - I mean, so I betrayed Mulder, stranded him in Tunguska, and
did everything within my power to make sure he remained an utter failure in
all aspects of life. HE didn't seem to be all that overtly upset. Why should
she?

Well, never mind that now. Given my superlative efforts in completing the
first task, I allowed myself a little breather in which to have some lunch
and plot my next strategy. I was in a completely unfamiliar area of town,
but after a search I found a slummy little place labeled "RESTAURANT."
Brevity being the soul of wit, or something, I decided it was a good omen.

"RESTAURANT" turned out to be fairly remarkable. Not in the sense that the
food was any good, because it wasn't. It was remarkable because when I
walked in, I found a thin, owlish little man laying on top of a scaffold,
painting a large mural on the ceiling. This wouldn't be altogether too
noteworthy, except for the fact that the mural's basic theme was: here are
some clouds, and here are some nude men frolicking among them.

Now, I wasn't complaining. At all. These nude men were of your typical
Greek god variety - finely built, well-muscled, erections the size of
bowling pins, etc. The thin little man was painting one such man feverishly,
obsessively, crafting the chiseled face, the smooth abdomen. After a few
moments I recognized that he was actually just trying to get the top half
out of the way so he could focus lovingly on the bottom, and a little wave
of unease scurried down my spine. Sex and lunch weren't usually things I
liked to mix. Not in public, anyway.

Someone grunted to my left. I turned to see a swarthy man in a ridiculous
little chef's hat wave a spatula at me. "Order or get out," he rumbled.

I was about to tell him which orifice his spatula might be most comfortable
in when a prissy little "Tsk tsk!" showered over the two of us. The thin
little man, his artistic fervor temporarily halted, was glaring at the
swarthy man over his spectacles.

"Politeness," he enunciated clearly, "is the key to good business."

The swarthy man looked back at me, his spatula faintly trembling.

"Welcome to Restaurant," he said. "Please order. Or get out."

I snuck a quick glance at the thin little man, but he had retreated back
into his trance. The swarthy man permitted himself a small smirk at my
expense.

I looked up at the small cardboard sign above the counter, featuring what
appeared to be Polaroids of the dishes of the day. Nothing looked even
remotely recognizable - the artistic genius for nude human bodies didn't
translate well into food, apparently.

"I'll have the #6," I said finally, dropping a five onto the counter. The
picture appeared to be some sort of bread with a darkish substance inside,
presumably meat.

The man didn't move an inch. "Take a number," he said.

The restaurant was completely empty save for the three of us, and the paper
tab jutting from the dispenser was a proud #1. The idea of taking a number
was not only completely ludicrous, but it was an obvious test - his
annoying little method of revenge. Rage bubbled through me, and I suddenly
found myself wishing that I could follow my instincts and shoot him between
the eyes.

I took the number. If I was going to go to Hell, it might as well be for
something more gratifying.

I took a seat at a corner table and tried not to stare too obviously. The
thin little man had successfully completed the top half and was now painting
the man's penis with obvious relish. I tried to focus my thoughts on the
next task, but it was hard. Forgive my choice of words.

Scully. My best option, at this point, was to simply show up at her
apartment as I had Mulder's. If she wasn't there, I'd wait for her to
show up. If she was, I'd burst into tears again and pray that her maternal
instincts would kick in faster than her reflexes.

"Number 1." The swarthy man peered around the empty restaurant, as if he
expected a throng of slavering customers to accost him. "Number 1, your
order is ready."

I went to retrieve my tray. The Polaroid hadn't been lying. Even on the
tray, I had no idea what the hell it was - bread of some sort, and some
darkish filling that looked extremely suspicious.

The swarthy man looked like he wanted to hit me with his spatula. "Enjoy
it," he said.

He disappeared into the kitchen and I sat back down. The thin little man
was doing the requisite legs and feet, but his heart had obviously gone
out of it. I turned my attention back to the food, which had no obvious
signs of spittle on it. I wasn't relieved.

By the time I managed the courage to fork some of it into my mouth, the
thin little man had completed his task and descended down to take a little
break. He smiled pleasantly at me as I took my first bite, watching my
reaction. I managed not to retch audibly.

"How is it?" he asked.

I swallowed, letting my stomach deal with it. "Hideous. Someone should
ashamed."

He recoiled visibly, his hands clutching at his chest. "Are you quite
certain?"

I pushed the tray to the edge of the table, fighting an overwhelming wave
of nausea. "You're welcome to see for yourself."

He eyed the food over his tiny spectacles, as if it might attack.
Delicately, he pulled a clean paintbrush out of his pocket, dabbed it on the
unidentifiable substance, and tasted it.

His thin little body suddenly began to convulse wildly, his mouth opening
in a silent, tortured scream. I was beginning to get the impression that
something was a little bit odd about the whole situation.

A thin, reedy sound emerged from his throat. He staggered backwards,
clawing at the air, fighting for balance. I stood abruptly, more from the
desire to get the hell out of there than to help.

Finally, he found his words. "Roscoe!" he screamed, a soprano sound two
decibels away from shattering glass. He lurched back another few steps,
steadfastly avoiding any semblance of calm. "ROSCOE!"

For a moment, I felt a brief, flickering sympathy for the swarthy man,
which was quickly replaced by a surge of warm triumph. Typically, the
great wheel that is karma never approaches me - those who get in my way
tend to be dead or incarcerated before the wheel has a chance to exact
revenge. I had no doubt that the upcoming Castration Of Roscoe was God's
way of extolling the benefits of nonviolence, but I also had to applaud
his method. This was very cool. There's something to be said for having
Fate on your side - timely gratification, for one.

The thin little man was still moving tirelessly backward, his lean little
face turning an ugly shade of purple. The swarthy man peered briefly out
of the kitchen, slaughtered me with his eyes, and ducked back inside.

I laughed. It felt good - strong and loud and amazingly free of cynicism.
Suddenly, going to Scully's and telling her about my involvement with her
sister's death didn't seem all that difficult a task. Fate was kind. So
was God, when you were on his good side.

I laughed again, just for the hell of it. "Thank you," I told the man. He
gaped soundlessly at me for a moment before staggering backward into the
kitchen, out of sight.

I left my meal for the rats and jogged out to my car, a peculiar lightness
in my step. Perhaps I was getting overly cocky - after ten minutes in
Restaurant, I was bound to be highly susceptible to mood swings. I greeted
the Task List pleasantly, although I wasn't stupid enough to let it out - I
listened to its muffled thumps and screams and nodded politely. The day was
young. The sky was blue. Dana Scully and the world were mine for the taking.

Life was maybe actually somewhat good, for once.

~

By the time I figured out where the hell I was in relation to Scully's
house, it was almost dusk.

I drove onwards, slightly subdued - a couple of hours wandering in a
blissful daze, completely and totally lost, had taken most of the spark
out of me. Suspicion and nagging doubt had entered my mind right on
schedule about twenty minutes ago, and they were damn persuasive. What if
Mulder had called her about our little get-together? Somewhat unlikely,
since he rarely thinks before he acts. What if she really did shoot first
and ask question later? Well, I supposedly had the divine intervention of
God on my side - whatever that was worth. A wrathful Dana Scully was a
creature like no other.

And her taste in decor could drive a seeing man insane.

The drive to her house was a little over an hour long, and between the 
tortured moaning of the List and the upsetting abundance of Paul Anka
songs on the radio, I was growing irritable. When I finally reached her
house I didn't bother to sit in my car and make some perfunctory plan -
I just got out, knocked on her door, and waited for the Apocalypse.

Dana Scully was not one to disappoint.

There was a cool, gentle, cricket-infested silence for all of 30 seconds.
The little hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle again, as if they
knew full well what was coming. I rubbed at them idly, trying to appear
relaxed and unthreatening.

The door exploded open and I took an involuntary step back. Scully stood
doorway, motionless, staring at me. She was illuminated starkly, her gun
raised, her eyes alight with dull blue fire. Unlike Mulder, she looked
fantastic. I wanted to applaud.

She bounded forward and attempted to jam her gun up my right nostril.

"If now's not a good time, I can come back later." My voice, while slightly
nasal, sounded pleasingly assertive.

"No." Her voice was husky and violent. "No, now's not a good time. What
the fuck are you doing here, Krycek?"

Her unwavering grip on the gun was making me nervous. "I, ah, needed to
tell you something. Some information." Her expression didn't change. "Um,
maybe you've heard from Mulder? About what's going on?"

She snorted, briefly. I felt a warm rush of affection for her just then,
inexplicable but solid. Yes, her and I both knew the idea of Mulder calling
her with important information was entirely out of character. It was
something only we would know - a kinship we shared, of sorts. Perhaps
someday, when her utter hatred of me faded, we would look back on this
scene. We'd laugh, fast friends, sipping designer coffees. Someday.

Presently, her utter hatred of me definitely had the upper hand. "Since
Mulder has failed to tell me the important news, why don't you go ahead?"
Her voice dripped like melting ice. "It's no doubt of the utmost concern
and drama. Let me guess - imminent colonization of the Earth by aliens?
Even more deranged alien/human hybrids?"

I went for broke - I always have been a suicidal bastard. "It's about
Melissa."

Let me tell you something. Scully has a very pale complexion, which is
pretty typical, from my experience. You get red hair, you get pale skin -
it's a two for one deal, and everyone walks away happy. Well, her
expression didn't change - her hand never wavered - but the color of her
skin slid directly from pale to brutal white.

Perhaps the subject was still a bit more sensitive than I had assumed.

A breath rasped out of her throat, a hurricane wind. "You're pushing all
the wrong buttons here, Krycek. You're - " She set her jaw. "Put your hands
behind your head."

I glanced at my empty sleeve for a moment. She rolled her eyes. "Don't
quibble over semantics. Do it!"

I shrugged and put my hand on the back of my head. She frisked me, making
sure that her gun remained firmly jammed into my nasal passage. Which was
too bad, because otherwise I would've enjoyed it more.

I had left Mulder's gun back in my car, so after a thorough check Scully
grabbed my wrist, twisted it spitefully, and pushed me into her house. As
soon as I walked inside I saw that her wallpaper was still alive and well,
and a little involuntary shudder whispered through me.

The pressure of the gun relented briefly, but I knew it was too good to be
true. Scully swept up a pair of handcuffs from a nearby table and clicked
them around my wrist. I would've been mildly annoyed if my attention hadn't
been suddenly distracted.

"What the hell IS that?" I asked, staring at the aforementioned nearby
table. It looked like a combination end table and umbrella holder, which
was eccentric enough in its own right, but attached to the back of it was
a large, roughly carved wooden crucifix. Jesus was predictably splayed
across it, and he looked none-too-happy. He probably didn't like the idea
of an end table/umbrella holder either.

Scully was holding the empty cuff, looking a bit lost. She glanced at the
table. "My mother gave it to me. To make sure I didn't forget my faith or
have wet umbrellas laying all over the place."

She looked again at the empty cuff, again at the table, and in a sudden
decisive motion attached the cuff diagonally across the crucifix.

"Uh..." I was momentarily at a loss for words. "Scully, I really don't
think I can handle this much symbolism so late in the evening."

"Fuck you." She sounded tired. "If you're going to try and escape, you'll
have to take the damn thing with you. That way we both win."

I guess it was nice of her to even contemplate letting me win. She kept the gun
trained on me. "Now. You are going to tell me exactly what you mean. You are
going to start from the beginning, and if you lie..." The look in her eye more
than emphasized her meaning.

I started from the beginning. "Yesterday, I had a visitation from God."

Her swift backhand alerted me to the fact that I had said something wrong.
"Don't screw around with me," she growled, poking the gun against my chest. "I
have had a very bad day. I have had a very bad year. In fact, the last five
years of my life have tended to be exceptionally bad, and a lot of it has been
due to you." I felt that was a tad harsh. "Now tell me the truth. Or make me
angry. Whichever you prefer."

I took a deep breath. "Yesterday, I had a visitation from God."

Mistake. I should've known better, really. Karma is a never-ending wheel, and
it doesn't play favorites for very long.

Scully leaned in close to me, soft and glowing in the lamplight. "All
right," she said quietly. "If that's how it is."

That's when I belatedly remembered the Number One Rule when dealing with an
irate Dana Scully - always wear a protective cup.

When God was trying to put the fear of, well, God, into me, he at least had the
tact to avoid kicking me directly in the crotch. Dana Scully, on the other
hand, seemed to be firmly entrenched in a state of religious apathy, as
evidenced by her swift and calculated blow directly to my testicles.

I experienced what could mildly be described as an "explosion" of pain. 
That's really not an accurate description, unless you wanted to try to work the
concept of "nuclear" in there somewhere. My legs turned to jelly and I fell to
my knees, gasping for breath, my wrist pulling the crucifix over at a dangerous
angle. Very suddenly the roasting flames of Hell weren't looking like such a
bad alternative.

Scully stood above me, gun poised, a fallen angel in sharp business attire.
"Tell me now!" she shouted.

Red dots were flickering in front of my eyes and my body couldn't produce the
endorphins fast enough. I pulled my legs together, closed my eyes, and started
to gibber. "I was here with Luis Cardinal when he killed your sister. It was a
complete accident. He was supposed to kill you, but he was a fool and he
mistook Melissa for you. I'm sorry it had to happen. Really. Really."

There was that deceptive silence again, full of crickets and my own heavy
breathing. I decided to live dangerously and let one eye creak open.

"You..." She was barely audible. Rage and confusion were fighting for control
of her face. Rage appeared to be winning. "You were going to kill me?"

"Yeah." I bit my lip and drew myself up into a pained crouch. "I mean, believe
me, it wasn't anything personal. You were just some stupid random woman we were
supposed to knock off."

Even I could agree that I deserved the kick she levered into my stomach.
"Misogynistic pig!" she spat.

I attempted to raise my arm in a casual display of negation, but it didn't
work. "Whoa!" I negated aloud, instead. "I never once said I hated women. I
love women! I just sometimes have to kill them because I'm a professional
assassin!"

She did something highly erratic then. Moreso than her unseemly kick of a few
moments previous, if you can believe it. She knelt down to my level, all
slowness and sleek deception, and touched my chin gently. From out of my haze I
could hear all my internal warning sirens begin to wail, but there wasn't much
I could do. She drew my face in close to hers, her fingertips gentle, and
shoved fully three-fourths of her gun down my throat.

"You seem to think I won't kill you, Krycek." Her eyes danced, pain and fury in
a crazed tango. "I will. I would've killed you before you told me any of this,
and now all you've done is absolve me of any guilt. Response?"

The metal was cold and bitter and tasted strangely of certain death. I
squeaked.

Tears were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. It wasn't a good sign.
"You've ruined my life," she whispered. "You've ruined Mulder's life. You've
destroyed so much, and I don't even know half of what you've really done.
You're a bastard without a conscience and you have the gall to say it was all
in a day's work."

I tried to squeak a little in my defense, but she wasn't listening. "Really.
Why should I let you live? What possible redemption could you have?"

The phone rang.

God, I could only hope that was some sort of omen.

Scully froze as her answering machine clicked on. After the requisite beep,
Mulder's voice fluttered wildly into the air. "Scully?"

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. Mulder's voice sounded panicky. "Scully,
it's me. Um, there's been a lot of crazy stuff going on, and I need your help.
Krycek was here, and he told me something incredible, but then he ran off with
my gun, and that's the fourth one I've lost in the past six months, and it's
all just a big mess and I'm going to try your cellphone."

He hung up. Scully and I stared at each other, equally amazed. She pulled the
gun slowly out of my mouth, wiping it off a little distastefully on my jacket.

I swallowed gingerly, wishing I could pat protectively at my throat. "I - " My
voice croaked. "I actually got him to call you for once."

Her cellphone shrilled and almost instinctively she pulled it out of her
pocket. She didn't take her eyes off me.

"Fortunately for you," she said, and hope crept quietly back into my mind,
"very fortunately, I love him more than I hate you." A whole host of questions
stormed into my throat at that but I swallowed them. She stood up. "I'm going
to answer this. I'm going to hear what he has to say. And when I hang up, you
will be gone from this room."

I panicked briefly before I realized she meant to let me escape. I stood on
rubbery legs, letting the crucifix rock back into place. She pressed the answer
button on her phone but didn't lift it to her ear.

"Get out of my life for good, Krycek," she whispered. "And take the damn table
with you."

She turned her back on me and spoke into the phone. Relief washed through me
right alongside the steady stream of endorphins, and I inhaled deeply,
thankfully. I wrapped my arm around the crucifix as best I could and hauled it
upward, lugging it towards the door.

I was almost outside when that feeling hit me again, of something unfinished,
incomplete. I hadn't found the words for it at Mulder's house, but I suddenly
knew what they were now.

I turned back. Scully's head was bent as she listened patiently, an
incomprehensible mixture of sorrow and strength. 

"I'm sorry," I said.

She looked at me, nodded, and looked away.

It was probably the best thing that had happened to me all day.

~


By the time I managed to fit the crucifix and end table into my car, Scully had
left the house and sped off into the night. I closed the car door with my teeth
and collapsed against the back of the seat. My crotch still burned and ached,
my wrist was badly chafed, and my stomach was ready to call the whole thing
quits. Nevertheless...I felt good.

A tiny, sorrowful little squeaking noise echoed to my right. I flipped open my
glove box and pulled out the Task List.

It was sniffling, limp and soundless. The second task had disappeared, but in
its place was a new line. "TASK 2: Do Not Lock God's Messenger Into A Small
Airless Box For Several Hours At A Time."

I bit my lip. "Look, I'm sorry," I said. It folded its metaphorical arms and
slumped against the seat. "Really, I am. I won't do it again."

It turned pointedly away from me and refused to speak.

Then, hesitantly, it turned back. Its small metaphorical hand was touching the
carved, wooden face of Jesus.

"What on earth *is* this?" it asked wonderingly.

I started the engine. "Penance, I'm guessing."

~

TASK 3: Tusk
------------

One of the big problems with being a professional assassin is the fact that you
have no close friends to run to when you're handcuffed to a large crucifix.

The Task List refused to let me try bashing it to pieces against a stone wall -
not that it would've done any good, anyway. It was extremely well-constructed
and the wood was solid and godlike. The only option would be to find someone to
remove the cuffs, and I was rapidly running out of both energy and
acquaintances.

I was on the verge of just giving up and driving home when the List suddenly
perked up. "Your third task!"

I groaned, rubbing discreetly at my genitals. "Please, not tonight. I finished
two in one day. I deserve some goddamn sleep."

"No, you don't understand," the List explained patiently. "While you're
completing your third task, you can also ask him to remove the cuffs for you."

I was so tired that it took me a good thirty seconds to become suspicious.
"What exactly is my third task?" I asked.

The List clambered up onto the steering wheel and puffed out its metaphorical
chest. I squinted at it in the darkness.

"TASK 3: Apologize to Brian for emotionally deserting him."

I stared at it. It stared back with equal graveness. "You've got to be fucking
kidding me," I said.

It didn't answer, so I stuck my head out the window and directed my vulgarity
heavenward. "Fuck you!" I yelled. "'Emotionally deserting' him? What kind of
weepy New-Age crap is this?"

The List bit me solidly on the thumb. "Blasphemy!" it chirruped.

I shook it off angrily. "Look, Mulder and Scully I can understand. I may have
been reluctant to approach them, but that's just because I knew I'd get what I
deserved. Brian Pendrell is a murdering, sadistic bastard and I refuse to go
anywhere near him. Let alone apologize!"

Somewhat predictably, a huge flash of lightning erupted from the sky, followed
almost immediately by a jolting boom of thunder. The List gave a tinny little
shriek and jumped back into the glove box.

"You don't scare me!" I shouted, although I didn't stick my head outside to say
it. "Not only is this car grounded with rubber tires, but I've also got the
biggest damn crucifix this side of the Rockies with me! You're powerless!
POWERLESS!"

The List peered at me from its hiding place, shaking its head sadly. "You
really do have a lot to learn."

The car suddenly switched from park to drive, entirely of its own accord, and
with a jerk it took off down the street at seventy-five. I'll admit I screamed
a little in surprise, but I think I was entitled to it. The List clutched
desperately at the edge of the dashboard and closed its tiny metaphorical eyes.

"Just sit back and enjoy the view," it said. "You know how he is when he gets
this way."

~

As the old proverb goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him
get out of his car and apologize to his murderous ex-lover.

God parked my car pointedly in front of Brian's house. Actually, he parked
directly in a fire lane, but I had a feeling that the minor infraction would be
overlooked. I sat there for a long time, my silence just as pointed. I would've
crossed my arms, had I more than one, which I didn't. I tried instead to give
off the aura of one who is crossing his arms, but after awhile it got tiring.

The Task List was rooting through the old junk in my glove box, steadfastly
refusing to get involved. It finished sweeping the dead spiders into neat
little piles and began to stack the tapes in the corner. "I never pegged you as
an acid rock fan," it remarked conversationally.

I blinked at it. "I'm not."

It blinked back, uncomprehendingly. "I know. That's why I never pegged you as
one."

I let my head thud quietly against the steering wheel for a few moments. The
whole situation was a stand-off of the worst kind, because whatever happened, I
would lose. If I got out and approached Brian, I would lose. If I stayed put,
Brian would eventually find me, and I would lose. If I drove away, God would
probably attempt to smite me, and I was beginning to worry that the whole
"rubber-tire-insulation" thing was just a lie my mother told me to keep me
quiet. Any way you looked at it, I lost. It was just a matter of by choice or
default.

There was a clicking sound and a sharp intake of breath. "Now, maybe I'm just a
poor judge of character," the List called, "but I *never* pegged you as a Jeff
Foxworthy fan."

I wrapped my arm around the crucifix and opened the car door. If there was one
thing I couldn't stand above anything else, it was personal ridicule by
inanimate objects.

I dragged the table along the ground, my wrist raw and aching. There were two
steps in front of Brian's door, tasteful and sculpted, and I stood there for a
long time, staring at them. I didn't have the energy available to drag myself
up those steps. I didn't have the energy, the strength, the will, or the
desire. I didn't want to do any of this. I really didn't.

The door made a quiet clicking sound, and suddenly his face appeared from out
of the darkness. Same as it was before, same as it always would be - red hair,
pale skin, gentle smile.

"Do you need some help?" he asked, and I vaulted the steps and heaved the end
table directly at him.

Given my previous lack of energy and the whole one-arm thing, my heft was
excellent. It landed about half a foot away from him and sent a killing pain
through my wrist, but it was all worth it for the expression on his face. It
was a wonderful blend of startled fear and inane politeness, and he spent
several moments simply opening and closing his mouth at me.

"Yes, I could use your help," I said, brandishing my wrist. "But please bear in
mind that I hate you with all my being."

Brian looked at my wrist, then at the Lord Jesus Christ. "I've got some keys,"
he said faintly, and disappeared back into his house.

I made a show of tapping my foot impatiently as I waited, and when he emerged
with the keys he didn't look at me. After a few fumbles the cuffs snapped open
and I rubbed my abused wrist against my neck. "Thanks," I muttered.

He glanced back up at me, his gaze intense. "Alex," he whispered, "your arm..."

He reached for my empty sleeve and I took a step back. "Don't pretend it's a
big surprise," I said, exasperation creeping into my tone. "I know you follow
me around whenever I go shopping."

His face brightened, glad that hurdle had been cleared. "Speaking of which,
your dietary habits have become very erratic lately. You're intaking far too
many carbohydrates and nowhere near enough protein."

I cringed. "You do realize how completely fucking creepy that is, don't you?"

"I'm just looking out for you." His voice was carefully hurt.

I briefly considered hurling the table at him again, but my energy really was
beginning to falter. "Look. I think we need to talk. I don't really want to,
but I know that if we don't get things settled you'll just keep stalking me and
my car will be struck by lightning."

He looked confused, but I pushed relentlessly forward. "Let's just talk, okay,
Brian? Let's talk."

I brushed past him decisively and went into the house. He stood in the doorway
for a moment, looking lost.

"What should I do with Jesus?" he asked finally.

"Whatever you want," I said tiredly. "Whatever the hell you want."

~

Brian's house hadn't changed at all since the last time I saw it. The furniture
was exactly the same, as was his large collection of 70's-era sexual sculpture.
I spent about five minutes looking for a place to sit down, but every time I
approached a couch or chair I'd inevitably recall some time in the past when we
had had violent, mind-blowing sex on it. Eventually I realized that the whole
endeavor was futile and I collapsed on the nearest seat.

Brian lugged the end table into the room, scanning the decor with a
professional eye. He found a little niche between one of his sculpture displays
and the wall, and with a grunt he fitted the table in. I looked at it and
groaned.

"Yes," he said impatiently, "I realize that crucifixes and penis art don't mesh
well. At least give me some credit for trying, would you?"

I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering if I could get away with feigning
sleep. I heard him sit down on the chair across from me. There was a brief,
blissful moment of silence.

"Hey," he said slyly, touching my knee. "Remember the time we were on that
chair and - "

"Shut up," I snapped. I opened my eyes and tried to ignore his obvious pout.
"I'm not here to rekindle anything, or reminisce, or whatever. I'm here because
you shot Bill Mulder and I need some sort of closure."

His jaw dropped. He seemed genuinely surprised, the asshole. "You're still hung
up on that?"

I nearly flung myself at him and he scooted back a bit in alarm. "What?" he
protested. "I wrote you the letter about it. I told you what happened. We
agreed that it was as much your fault as mine!"

I filed that last sentence away for later indignance. "What letter?" I spat.

"The letter I sent you! Two days after it happened!" Brian was beginning to
panic. "I told you why it all happened! I said you never had to speak to me
again, and that I would take your silence as a tacit acceptation of my
apology!"

I thought back, but nothing was clicking in my memory. "I never got this
miracle letter," I said.

His hands began to flutter slightly in agitation. "I - I sent it - " His voice
faltered. "You mean you've spent all these years completely hating me and
wishing I was dead?"

A tiny part of my mind began to feel slightly abashed. "Well, yes."

He blinked terribly at me for a few moments, his breath hitching in his throat.

"Oh, God," I moaned. "Don't cry. You know I can't stand it when you cry."

"I - I can't help it." His voice wavered. "I thought this was all in the past.
I thought we had both moved on."

Tears began to streak from his eyes and I shifted uncomfortably. "Look," I
said, and in a sudden brilliant burst of inspiration I took one of his hands in
mine. "Why don't you go ahead and tell me what happened, and we'll figure out
what to do from there."

He smiled bravely through his tears and squeezed my hand. "Okay."

He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. I willed God to give me patience and
tried to smile back.

"You know how I have to take Zoloft to control my hysteria and rage and
irrationality," he began.

I wanted to roll my eyes. "Yes."

He looked at me resentfully. "And you remember how you kept insisting that it
was pointless for me to be taking it because I was still hysterical and
vengeful and irrational?"

Clever boy, putting me on the defensive. "Yes, and I think I made a good point.
You were *always* hysterical around me, no matter how much of that damn stuff
you took."

His eyes narrowed, that maniacal glint I knew all-too-well shining out from the
blue. "I was *always* hysterical around you because you never had any patience
for me. Is it my fault you were always an insensitive bastard?"

I probably would've punched him then if he hadn't used his two-hand advantage
to restrain me. "Anyway," he said pointedly, "when you left, you took all the
prescriptions with you. Including my Zoloft. I didn't know whether it was an
accident or some sort of subtle hint, but I decided to go ahead and take your
advice. I was completely and totally without medication for six months."

I stared at him for a long moment, trying to think of something to say that
wouldn't utterly condemn myself. "What happened?"

His eyes bulged. "What do you think happened? I got hysterical and vengeful and
irrational and I shot an innocent man!"

"Ah." I made sure to say it carefully. "And so...how is this my fault?"

This time I had to evade his wild, lunging attack. "You *never* take
responsibility for your actions, Alex!" He was almost screaming. "I have a
*mental disorder*, and you deliberately caused me not to take my medication.
You treated me like dirt, mocked my problems, and dumped me for a 65-year-old
man!"

I grabbed his wrist just before it launched toward my skull. "So you're saying
I emotionally deserted you, is that it?"

Of course, he lapped that right up. "Yes. That's exactly the phrase I'm looking
for. You emotionally deserted me. I am desperately sorry that I killed Bill
Mulder, but I wasn't myself!" He paused. "Or, well, I was, but - you know what
I mean!"

I sighed. "All right. Okay. I - I'm sorry I...emotionally deserted you." I
gritted my teeth. "I'm sorry I was so insensitive to your problems, and I
apologize for my behavior when I got here." Something was catching in my throat
again. "Only - I really did love him, you know."

Brian's faced softened a little. "I know."

And that, apparently, was that. We lapsed into an uneasy silence, unsure of
where to go to next.

"But, you know, me and you - we just weren't working out," I said finally.
"We're too different. It's amazing we lasted as long as we did."

He considered that. "You're right. I mean, I care about you deeply, Alex, but I
tend to care about you more when you're not anywhere near me."

I laughed, despite myself. Stupid God, turning my pure hatred into benign
amusement.

A yawn tugged through me and the exhaustion of the day suddenly hit me full
force. "I should get home," I said quietly, stretching my arm out. "It's late,
and I've still got a lot to think about."

He nodded, but there was something in his eyes again. Something I didn't trust.
"Why did we last as long as we did?" he asked suddenly. "We really aren't
compatible people. I mean, everyone told us that. And they were right. So
why...why did we last a whole year?"

I frowned slightly. For the first time since the death of Bill Mulder, I
allowed my mind to go back freely to the days before I found his love. Days
when assassination still meant something in the Big Game, when you were lucky
if you could find one breed of alien anywhere, as opposed to twenty-seven. The
days when the sun always seemed to be shining, when everything was reasonably
happy, provided it was heavily medicated. The days when I had two arms, high
self-esteem, a ravenous sexual appetite.
The good days.

Brian caught my eye, and in a single blossoming moment we were both grinning.

"Yeah," he said, and when his hand crept out to touch my knee I didn't protest.
"It was the sex, wasn't it?"

"Pretty much," I said, and I swear to God Almighty that he started to purr.

~

The rest of that night's events should probably remain unsaid.

Needless to say, I didn't end up going back home. Around 3 o'clock I woke up
and wondered what the Task List was thinking about the whole situation, but
before I could worry about it too much, Brian woke up and we had sex again. I
apologize - I meant to let it all remain unsaid, but frankly when you have it
eleven times in six hours, you develop something of a fixation with the
subject.

Around 7 a.m. I realized I was too wired to actually fall asleep, and Brian was
beginning to eye me meaningfully again, so I decided it was time to lock myself
in the bathroom and get a firm handle on reality. Brian pouted in a very
persuasive manner and almost convinced me to come back for "lucky number
twelve," but I casually mentioned that seven was the universally accepted lucky
number and managed to escape in his resulting confusion. The door locked behind
me with a satisfying click and I stared into the bathroom mirror, trying figure
out where I had gone wrong.

So Brian's cold-blooded murder of Bill Mulder had been partially my fault. Yes,
I could grudgingly accept that - Brian's Zoloft habit had been what eventually
caused us to break up. That and his constant needy possessive hysteria, of
course, but it had mostly been a matter of the pills. So perhaps my earlier
assessment of him as a sadistic murdering bastard was a bit off - murdering,
yes; sadistic, only in bed; a bastard - not really.

Brian's bathroom was also untouched by time, I discovered - his tasteful
color-coordinated washcloths were stacked neatly on the counter, as they always
had been. I picked one up and began to wash my face briskly.

So I had emotionally deserted him. The phraseology continued to irritate me,
but I could accept that the sentiment was true. I also couldn't help but notice
that a common thread was beginning to emerge in the Quest Thus Far - the fact
that I was an insensitive murdering bastard. On a normal day I would just agree
and move on, but now -

Well, dammit, I was feeling guilty.

It was exactly what God wanted, of course. His plan was working superbly. By
the time the week was over I'd be a quivering mass of humble jello, weeping and
apologizing and maybe painting large sexual murals on restaurant ceilings. I
didn't want that. I didn't want any of this.

I just wanted the image of the tears in Scully's eyes out of my mind.

I hung up the washcloth on Brian's color-coordinated towel rack and stole some
of his mouthwash. Also, in retrospect, it probably hadn't been the wisest
decision to stick around and have hot wild sex with him for most of the night.
The last thing I wanted was to rekindle our disastrous relationship, for both
my sanity and his. But it was a hell of a lot more fun than going home and
weeping into my pillow, although I must admit that a night of weeping into your
pillow doesn't make it difficult to sit down for the next two days.

Scrubbed and minty-fresh, I opened the door and carefully evaded the lampshade
Brian threw playfully at my head. "Where are you going?" he whined as I picked
my jacket up off the floor. 

"Busy day today," I said vaguely, shrugging the jacket on. "I've been thinking,
Brian. We should probably agree never to see each other again."

His face fell and he collapsed back into his nest of pillows. "Yeah, you're
probably right."

Something occurred to me. "And when I say never, I include my trips to the
grocery store."

He snickered under his breath and nodded lazily. "I understand."

Against my better judgment, I walked back over to the bed and stuck my hand
out. "It's been...interesting, Brian."

He smiled without malice and shook it back. "It's been fun."

Something else occurred to me, curdling in my mind. "I - I heard from someone
that you supposedly died two years ago. What was that all about?"

He rolled his eyes. "I got shot in the shoulder in this attempted
assassination, and when they transferred me to a hospital on the other side of
town, everyone just got the impression that I died. I mean, I'm still working
for the FBI. I'm still down in SciCrime. People come up to me all the time and
gasp and act shocked. Let me tell you, it's damn irritating."

I laughed. "Enjoy it, Bri."

"I will." He smiled. "Take care."

I almost made it to the front door before he remembered.

"PROTEIN, Alex! Red meat! Peanut butter!"

~

TASK 4: Rhiannon
----------------

When I got into my car, the Task List smiled pleasantly and motioned for me to
be quiet. Jeff Foxworthy was just completing his routine and the List was
soaking it up.

I sat down rather gingerly, closing the car door as quietly as I could. The
List was giggling spasmodically, but I could still tell that Task 3 had
disappeared from sight.

Jeff's routine ended to thunderous applause and the List hopped up and pressed
the stop button. "Good morning," it said cheerfully.

"Hi," I said, a trifle uneasy. "Um, how are you?"

"Good, good." It watched me smilingly. "And you?"

"Fine." The car started without a hitch - praise be to God, I guess.

"That's good."

I pulled out of the fire lane and onto the main road. Out of the corner of my
eye I could see the List looking at me expectantly.

"What?" I asked.

It frowned innocently. "What?"

"Why are you looking at me?"

The frown deepened. "I wasn't looking at you."

"Oh." I tried to sound casual.

We drove on in silence. Unfamiliar streets flickered past.

"I noticed you were walking rather strangely when you came outside," the List
remarked.

"All right!" I yelled, despite myself. "I stayed over at his house and we had
sex! Stop judging me!"

It recoiled a little, folding its metaphorical hands with a bit of a huff.

"It was just an observation," it muttered.

~

I hadn't purchased flowers in several years, so when the florist rang up my
order it took a lot of willpower not to collapse into a dead faint.

The List, snug in my pocket, tugged on the lining of my jacket. "Pay it!" it
hissed discreetly.

My patience was almost entirely depleted. I glared at it. "Sixty-five bucks for
roses?" I whispered, angrily. "It's ridiculous!"

The florist observed me carefully for a moment. "Feigning insanity will not
cause me to lower the price, sir."

I moved my glare from the List to him, but he was too level-headed to be
provoked. Muttering angrily, I hauled out my wallet and hunted for bills.

When I had gotten over my humiliation back in the car, the List had leaned back
on his metaphorical elbows, humming lightly. "Ready for the next task?"

My gut instinct had been to smash him with my fist and run shrieking into the
middle of traffic, but I was trying to think before I acted for a change. "Lay
it on me," I said, attempting to sound jaunty and cool, and, predictably,
failing.

The List craned its neck, trying to read itself. "TASK 4," it said haltingly.
"Apologize to Melissa for your participation in her death."

I had been all ready and prepared to yell and scream, so I was a little
disappointed. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" I asked finally.

"Hey, don't ask me," it had said, raising its hands. "I don't writes 'em. I
just lists 'em."

I pawed violently through my wallet and scraped up three twenties, two ones and
a handful of change. I dumped the pile on the counter and tried to make my
breathing sound violent. The cashier must've given me credit for trying,
because he merely scooped the pile up and said "That'll be fine, sir."

He spent a few moments busily putting the roses into a box of tissue paper,
humming cheerfully. The List gave me a discreet thumbs-up and I sighed. A
headache was beginning to thud monotonously behind my eyes, I was officially
out of cash, and the first penciled notation on my To-Do list for the day was
"Go apologize to a ghost."

And me without my Ouiji board.

The florist shuffled my money about and pushed the box across the counter.
"Enjoy them, sir."

"Right," I muttered, and slunk outside before he could politely mention my
strange limp.

The Task List had flatly refused to use his Lordly connections to figure out
how I was to go about apologizing to Melissa. Eventually, through some intense
brainstorming, we decided that I should find the place where she was buried and
pay my respects. The List insisted on flowers as a 'token gesture,' a phrase
that now infuriated me even more than 'emotional desertion.'

The drive to the cemetery took a little over an hour, so the List plugged in
another Foxworthy tape and we bonded via mutual laughter. A little feeling of
unease occasionally tapped its fingers down my spine, but I brushed it off as
nerves. I had never been a big fan of cemeteries, despite my professional habit
of stocking them well.

When I pulled into the small dirt parking lot just outside the cemetery, I
couldn't help but notice that the place was entirely deserted. There were no
other cars, no other people - not even a requisite employee driving around on a
giant lawnmower. Unease played a few more chiropractic tricks on my shoulders
before skittering away, laughing.

"I'm not too sure about this," I said aloud.

The List hopped into my pocket as I picked up the box and stepped carefully out
of the car. I settled into a slow, mincing stride and walked through the
dramatic wrought-iron gates.

I realized once I was inside that I had expected someone to be here - someone I
could walk up to casually and say "Melissa Scully, please?" Without this person
I would be forced to wander the rolling stretches of graves, looking for her
name, letting unease try to correct a major scoliosis problem in my back all
the while. The List was hanging halfway out of my pocket, scanning the
landscape alertly, and just looking at its tireless efficiency made my headache
surge to new levels. "Where to now, Oh Sage?"

"If my sources are correct..." It brandished a metaphorical finger straight
ahead. "Through that clearing, on your left."

I started forward, obligingly. "Your *sources*?"

It jerked its thumb up toward the sky. "Oh," I said, feeling foolish.

The morning dew was still heavy and undisturbed on the grass, and I sloshed
through it with as much reverence as I could muster. The List kept its finger
pointed outward like a compass, and after a few moments it began to drift to
the left. "Wait a minute," it said, frowning. "There. Right there."

The smooth slab of stone he pointed to was in the shade, sheltered by the
branches of a healthy young tree. The List tucked itself quietly back into my
pocket, letting me move forward on my own.

I approached it very carefully, mindful of the atmosphere, mindful of where I
placed my feet. The List had been right - the slab was elegantly engraved
"Melissa Scully. Beloved Daughter. Beloved Sister."

I knelt down off to one side, cold water seeping happily through the knees of
my pants. I opened the box and lifted the flowers out of their graceful bed. I
wouldn't admit it aloud, but I was grudgingly thankful the List had conned me
into buying them. Anything less than the best would've really made me nervous.

I set the flowers against the stone, trying to make them splay artfully. The
silence was deep and full, devoid even of the ever-present crickets. I needed
to say something.

It was just a matter of where to begin.

"Look, Melissa," I began, than inwardly cursed myself for sounding like a fool.
"I didn't really know you that well, except for the fact that you were Scully's
sister - " A thought struck me from out of the blue. "Unless - you were - I
think we were actually in that pottery class together a few years back. Were
you? The one with that Jed guy as the teacher?" It was a memory back from the
Brian days, when I had been convinced I could create my own inexpensive dishes
via pottery and thereby Stick It To The Man. "You were the one who always sat
in front and flicked clay at him when he tried to hit on you."

The memory was vivid. The red hair, the laughter, the good nature that had
settled over everyone like a warm blanket. Melissa Scully. I looked at the slab
again in a sudden new light, guilt hacking away at my stomach with ginsu
knives.

"Well, Jesus, Melissa," I said. "I didn't realize it was you. I'm sorry."

It wasn't the most graceful apology ever uttered, but deep down, I really did
mean it. What had Scully said to me? That I had the gall to say it was all in a
day's work - well, it was. When it didn't have to be personal.

When it was personal, I was almost nearly as human as anyone else.

I reached out, a little awkwardly, touching the stone. "I don't know if you can
hear me, Melissa, but I really mean it. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," someone whispered, and a hand erupted from the earth and shook
mine briskly.

I shrieked like a baby and launched myself backwards, instinctively reaching
for a gun that continued to be in my car. The cold dew attacked with gusto and
I began to scramble backwards madly.

Melissa Scully's disembodied spirit burst from the ground, looked at me
briefly, and fell into hysterical laughter.

It took a good thirty seconds to convince my body that the danger was over and
the wild flailing was no longer necessary. Melissa had fallen to the ground
behind her tombstone and was laying on her back, kicking her feet with glee.

Indigence coiled inside me like smoke. "Fuck you!" I fumed, trying to sit up.

"Go ahead and try!" she howled cheerfully. "I'm nothing but light and corporeal
air!" Her heels battered against the spot on the stone that said "Beloved
Daughter" and great gobs of laughter poured liquid-like from her throat. I had
never previously had a big problem with blasphemy, but for some reason this
scene made my stomach turn.

The Task List was making little pained moaning noises from my pocket. Both it
and my entire back were annoyingly numb and damp, and for awhile the List
couldn't decide whether to whine or cry. Finally it decided to simply doze, and
in a burst of sudden optimism I decided that a numb ass was preferable to a
raw, painful one, so I focused my attention on the spectacle before me with
decidedly renewed vigor.

"Melissa," I said loudly. She was tilted back, her feet still kicking, her face
contorted in wildly ecstatic glee. "Melissa!" I shouted, creeping forward on my
knees in what I hoped was a threatening manner.

"You should have SEEN the look on your face!" she wailed happily, heaving
herself to a sitting position. "My wittle-precious bad boy was soooo scared of
the big mean scary ghost!"

She leaned over and pinched my cheek, her fingers cold and unreal. I didn't
have enough nerve to try and push her away, mostly out of my newfound guilt.
She pinched harder and scrunched her face into an obscene baby coo. "Poor
widdle murdering bastard Krycek! He's so sad and scared and put upon by our
Almighty Lord!"

I really couldn't think of anything witty or succinct to say in response, so I
just let my lips flap nonsensically and tried to wrench out of her grip.

No go. Her scrunched face became impossibly flat and smooth, her eyes narrowed
to evil little slits. "You know what I'm going to say, Alex. Nevertheless, I'm
going to say it. You are an insensitive murdering bastard, you cut my life off
in its prime, and you sure as hell can't take a good joke." She snorted. "You
have to admit, this was a really good joke."

"Hysterical," I muttered, and she reluctantly released my cheek.

Despite her ghostly luminescence and the fact that I could faintly see through
her, she looked just as I remembered. Same laugh, same smile - although they
were a little bit more willfully macabre than before. She saw the flowers and
picked them right up, sniffing.

"Well, at least you made some sort of token gesture," she said, and I glanced
involuntarily at the List. She separated them all from the bunch and began to
strew them around, her back casually against the stone slab. "Anything you have
to say for yourself?"

She tossed a rose into my lap and I caught it, wincing as the thorns bit into
my skin. "I really am sorry, Melissa. For the insensitive murdering bastard
part and my, uh, coarse reaction a minute ago. You startled me."

"Good." She didn't make any specific reference to what was good, so I took it
to be a blanket statement. "Actually, when I was talking about my joke, I was
referring to both the clawing hand thing and everything else."

"Everything else?" I set the rose gently on the ground.

She grinned suddenly. "This. The Quest thing. It was my idea to start with, and
everyone involved in making it work seemed surprisingly eager to help."

I graced her with my dull bovine stare for a few moments, my mind taking the
information in and twisting it into listless rags. "You - " I sighed. "Yeah.
Whatever. Damn me to hell, I get what I deserve."

She leaned forward, peering at my pocket. "How's the List doing?"

"It's fine," I said, twisting my hip away from her protectively.

This time she sighed, reaching over and placing a cold hand on my leg. "It's
working though, isn't it? You're learning. I can tell."

"Yes." The adrenaline was leaking out of me and I started to slump a little.
"Raw guilt, 24 hours a day. Abject humiliation. Hostile ghosts. I'm just loving
life, yes, thank you."

She smiled, the smile of old. "Glad to hear it."

She stood, proffered a hand to me. I stared suspiciously at it until she made
an impatient little sound and hauled me up by my empty sleeve.

"I realize it's hard," she said, brushing dirt particles off her non-existent
clothes. "And it's not going to get any easier, let me tell you. But it'll be
worth it."

She leaned over and picked up the nearest rose, that smile back on her lips.
"Just trust me, okay?"

And she disappeared, quietly, without fanfare.

I blinked for a little while, looking around me, as if she had disappeared
behind a tree or under the ground and was just waiting for me to make a wrong
move. But nothing happened - the air was still again, nothing but my breathing
and the imperceptible wind.

The List stirred in my pocket, peering blearily around. "She's really nice when
you get to know her," it said sleepily.

I patted at it absentmindedly, and with a sigh let the guilt carry me away with
the tide. "I know it. God, I know it."

~

TASK 5: Temporary One
---------------------

The list and I went out to have some depression a la carte.

I refused to take my chances with another nameless restaurant, so I drove about
grimly until I found a well-lit McDonalds. I ordered myself a Big Mac Extra
Value meal and tapped my fingers against the counter in an irritating manner to
speed up the process. I shoved myself into a corner booth and began to eat
ravenously, reveling in good old-fashioned meat and grease.

The List climbed out of my pocket after awhile and snacked absently on some of
my fries. I studiously avoided looking at, although I did check to make sure
Melissa's task had disappeared. It had. I continued to eat.

"What's your deal?" the List asked after awhile.

I thought about it. "Guilt," I said finally, my mouth full.

The List, better-versed in the art of manners, swallowed before replying. "Yes,
I imagine you have a lot of that."

I didn't find the comment particularly helpful, so I just ignored it. My
stomach was swelling rapidly with food and soda, but the knotted sensation
remained the same. Guilt, massive and heavy. For Melissa, for Brian, for Bill
Mulder and his poor abused son. For Scully.

And I had apologized to all of them, almost. Still it remained.

"What'm I supposed to do?" I asked abruptly. I ran out of soda and began
chewing on the ice. "When does the guilt go away?"

The List tried to sound cheerful. "Oh, it's different for everybody. Hopefully,
it'll be soon."

I glanced at it reluctantly, trying to smile, and my eyes lingered a little too
long. Damn my curiosity.

"TASK 5: Apologize to Marita for using her."

The List quickly angled its body away from me. "Did you see it?"

"No," I lied, and let my head smack against the table with a satisfying thud.

It groaned, patting my hair reassuringly. "It won't be that bad," it said
enthusiastically. "She's only a few miles away, and when you're through with
her, you're more than halfway done! And it only took you two days!"

I looked up, hazily, protests and excuses running tired laps in my head. "She
used me too," I whined, feeling like a child.

"Yes, well," the List sounded distressed, "her day will come. In the meantime,
you get to make the first move. It's just the way it is."

"I hate the way it is," I said petulantly.

In a sudden fit of parental-type wrath, the List began to gently box my ears.

"Yes, well, tough," it said.

~

The List allowed me to go back and order another Extra Value Meal, after I
cited my lack of food the previous day and my alarming need for protein. After
I attempted to order a third one it began to get suspicious, and with a noise
that sounded a lot like "This will hurt me more than it will hurt you", it
jumped on top of my head and began yanking on my hair.

I was really at the end of my rope at that point, so instead of trying to
reason with him I just started shrieking, running out of the restaurant and
clawing at my hair. I got into my car and was pleased to note that my antics
were causing other patrons to run outside in a complete state of panic,
glancing about wildly and clutching at their throats. Yes, that was me, Alex
Krycek - bringing panic and mayhem and murderous insensitive bastardtry
wherever I went. The Anti-Santa.

The List swung down from my head and slapped me briskly. "Just start driving."

I obliged without comment, feeling a bit put-out. After a few moments I
recognized where I was and sighed, starting the journey to Marita Covarrubius'
apartment at the healthy speed of 45.

Ah, Marita. If ever there was a girl that a guy like me could be interested in,
it was all embodied perfectly in Marita. Conservatively attractive - low,
cultured voice - and a backstabbing traitor to boot. We had only encountered
each other once before, but when we did we made the most violent, passionate
love I'd ever experienced. We were kindred souls, fellow traitors, searching
for a little humble meaning in a world that had turned its back on us.

Of course, all the information that I gave her was patently false, and I just
happened to use the encounter to infect her with the Black Oil, but I knew that
when she woke up (if she woke up), she'd understand. She would've done it
herself.

And really, everything had worked out just fine in the end. I produced the
cure, the Consortium welcomed me back with open arms, and Marita lived. She was
going to have consistent inner-ear problems for the rest of her life, but at
least she lived.

So to see her again - it didn't have to be a bad thing. Provided she was at
home, which I knew she was. God was running the show under Melissa Scully's
very thorough plan. Provided she wasn't armed and wrathful, which I was a
little worried about, but not much. Provided she didn't get weepy and emotional
and start to cry, which, deep down, I almost expected. It seemed to be one of
the many popular reactions to Alex Krycek, Anti-Santa.

"What're you thinking?" the List asked quietly from its perch on my shoulder.

I sighed again. "That maybe this won't be quite as bad as I originally
implied."

The List's voice was warm and rich with pride. "I'm glad, Alex. Really, I'm
sure it will go wonderfully. You've done it four times before - you'll survive
this one, no problem."

I nodded, trying to get my spirits up, although there was a tiny nagging voice
in the back of my skull that started repeating itself quite incessantly.

Namely, "Famous last words."

~

Marita came to the door wearing only a white bathrobe and a smile. 

Amazingly, when she saw it was me, the smile widened. I took that as a good
sign.

"Hello, Alex," she said, her voice silken and pleased. "It's so good to see you
again."

She proffered her hand and I had the sudden mad desire to kiss it. She seemed
to realize it and laughed, tossing her head back as I instead shook it gently,
as if it were a delicate bird.

"So, what brings you to my humble abode?" she whispered, leaning in close. I
was momentarily at a loss for words and she giggled again, tracing the collar
of my shirt, enticing me inside.

"I - I - " I was a stuttering fool, for one. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Of course." She shut the door gently behind her, her movements subtle and
liquid. "It's been so long since we last saw each other."

The suggestion in her voice was unmistakable and I bit my tongue, trying to
focus. "Yeah. I actually, uh, wanted to talk about the last time we saw each
other."

"Oh?" She opened her eyes wide, fluttering sculpted eyelashes at me. She took
me by the hand and drew me further into the room, soft and caring.

"Tell me," she whispered.

I took a deep breath. Everything seemed to be going fine - she obviously had no
harsh feelings, and she didn't seem like she was ready to either cry or kill.

"I..." I swallowed. "I just wanted to apologize. For everything."

Her lips curved upwards, a smile of warm tenderness. "Oh, how utterly terribly
precious of you!" she exclaimed, giving my cheek a little pinch. "I'm so
touched. It's fine - I've had much worse before."

I looked at her for a moment, a wan smile on my lips, little levers and cogs
pulling and rotating around suspiciously in my head. "What exactly do you mean
by that?" I asked finally.

She blinked at me, those perfectly frosted eyelashes both conservative and
attractive. A demure allure. I suddenly had a feeling I wasn't going to like
her answer.

"I'm just saying..." She picked her words with thoughtful deliberation. "I'm
saying that you did fine! There's no need to beat yourself up over the matter.
You performed with great...vim, for one of your...particular..." Her eyes
angled delicately toward my crotch. "Erm. Stature."

A small, wildly suppressed sound erupted from the vicinity of my pocket. The
List, which had come along for moral support, was pressing its metaphorical
hands tightly over its mouth.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention once again. "I
wasn't..." My voice rasped painfully in my throat. "I wasn't apologizing for
my..." I took a deep breath. "Performance."

She blinked at me for a few more moments, the epitome of calm and poise. "Well,
you should have," she said after a moment, "it wasn't very good."

The List began to vibrate madly, helpless little asinine giggles leaking out of
its metaphorical mouth. I slammed my fist against it without hesitation,
devoting my full attention to trying to comprehend what the hell she was trying
to say.

"What the HELL are you trying to say?" I growled, aloud. There was a flush in
my cheeks that I hoped to God was nothing more than pure masculine rage.

"Look, Alex," she said quietly, fluttering those great winged insects at me. "I
have been with many men. I have been with men of great talent, great skill, and
great size. I emphasize 'great size.' Alex, we are talking about horse-meat,
here. We are talking about the circumference of aluminum cans. We are - "

"What the hell is your *point?*" I shouted.

She placed a manicured hand on my wrist, her voice damningly gentle. "Alex,
your penis is five inches long."

The Task List began to unapologetically whoop, beating its tiny metaphorical
fists against my thigh in utter delight.

"That - is perfectly - typical - for the average - American - male," I managed
through clenched teeth.

Her poised look faltered at that, her upper lip curling. "You're *Russian,*"
she said, almost distastefully. "You're supposed to be *huge.* My God, you're
even circumcised! When did that come about?"

"Oh, so now we're getting into stereotypes, are we?" I yelled, glad to at last
have the upper hand. "Just because I speak Russian and have parents of Russian
descent, I'm supposed to fall conveniently into your simple set of labels,
right? Well, by all means, let me go put on my little fur hat, swig down some
vodka and waggle my intact foreskin at the livestock! Why don't I go ahead and
do a traditional folk dance while I'm at at it! Will that make you happy? Huh?"

"Listen here, buster!" she snapped, thrusting a glossy fingertip dangerously
close to my eye. "I never once mentioned fur hats, liquor, bestiality OR
traditional folk dancing! All I wanted from you was a big dick and some
classified information! And all you gave me was five inches, some unconvincing
lies, and a major smog infestation!" Spittle was beginning to dance on her
lips. "If anyone should be upset, indignant, or SHOUTING around here, it should
be me!"

"That's why I'm apologizing!" I screamed.

"GOOD!" she screamed back, and the vindicated expression on her face was
dampened only slightly by the bullet that exploded through the window and
caught her in the shoulder.

She collapsed to the ground heavily, her jaw dangling, blood seeping in
rivulets down the white cotton. "And now I've been shot!" she hissed,
accusingly, before losing consciousness.

I allowed myself only two seconds of dull bovine gaping before vaulting to the
phone, dialing 911. I flattened myself against the wall and peered out the side
of the window, but there was no sign of the gunman.

The List, silent and wide-eyed, hopped out of my pocket as the operator came on
the line. I gave her the address and as much information as I could. The List
pressed itself gently against Marita's wound, as if it would help.

"I told you," it said, and its voice was trembling and shocked. "Piece of
cake."

~

I followed the ambulance to the hospital, even though Task 5 had technically
disappeared from the List. When I got there the medical professionals tried to
keep me away from her, but fortunately I was able to wheedle a little divine
intervention out of the List. Marita was reclining in her bed, conscious and
pale, when I slipped into the room.

"Hey," she said, and her voice was a bit more subdued than it had been the last
time I heard it. "What a day, huh."

"Yeah." I wished belatedly that I had brought her something. "I'm, uh, sorry
for upsetting you so much. And, you know, for you getting shot."

She smiled, waving a limp hand dismissively. "Don't blame yourself. I get shot
at least twice a week. Too many stabs in the back, you see. Let it be a lesson
to you."

"Okay." I could tell my smile was slightly dopey. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Pah. They only nicked me." Her voice was soft and breezy. "It's all right,
Alex. I don't want you to worry about me anymore."

She extended her hand again and this time I did kiss it, a little awkwardly,
but with great vim.

"Until we meet again," she said. "Just remember - the timing is the key."

She winked at me and promptly lost consciousness.

I walked out of the room as quietly as I could, my face a vibrant, burning red.
Still, the knotted feeling had loosened a little - obviously, Marita would be
fine. Despite my insensitive murdering bastardtry.

That was good, at any rate.

The sky was brilliant orange when I walked outside, the sun creeping behind the
horizon. I stopped to look at it for a moment, enjoying the unapologetic purity
of motion.

After awhile it occurred to me that I might go blind and I continued on to my
car.

The List poked its head out of my pocket, its smile tentative. It had wiped off
most of Marita's blood, but it retained a slight pinkish tint. "Well, that was
hell in a bottle, wasn't it?"

"I'm not speaking to you," I said tightly, sliding into my seat.

"Oh, come on!" it protested. "I apologize for my laughter, but if our
situations were reversed, you know you'd do the same!"

I didn't speak and it hopped onto the steering wheel, trying to appear
contrite. "C'mon, Alex," it wheedled. "I'm an inanimate object. I don't even
*have* genitals. Why be embarrassed?"

"It's the principle of the thing!" I spat. "One minute you're lecturing me on
being responsible, the next you're mocking me and making me feel extremely
insecure! Commit to a sentiment, would you?"

It watched my face carefully for signs of humor and found none.

"Oh - " it grumbled, and clambered spitefully down to the seat. "God, Alex. You
never let me have any fun."

~

TASK 6: Go Your Own Way
-----------------------

To celebrate passing the halfway mark on my Almighty Quest, I took the List out
to a seedy bar three blocks from my apartment and attempted to get it drunk.
Unfortunately for me, its metaphorical stomach was as solid as iron, and it
just drank and drank my money away while failing to get amusing and giggly.

I, on the other hand, got amusing and giggly almost immediately.

"Let me tell you," I said, enjoying the delicate way the words slurred on my
tongue. "This whole Quest thing is just some crazy shit, all right? I thought
my life was made. I mean, I'm a great shot, I've got serious job security, kind
of, and I didn't ever have this giant bowling ball of guilt to lug around
inside my stomach." The last phrase struck me as particularly apt and I happily
repeated it under my breath a few times.

The List continued to lap at its scotch. "Alex, you weren't happy."

"Yes I was!" I protested. "Let me tell you, there were these rats in the alley
below my place. And I shot at 'em. All the time. Like this great arcade game
right in your own backyard, only for real." I took a sip of my beer. "Fucking
fantastic."

"So the highlight of your life was shooting at rats?" the List asked casually.

Suddenly it didn't sound so great, when it said it in that careless tone of
voice. "Oh my God," I groaned, putting my head down on the bar and starting to
weep.

"Alex," the List soothed, taking a final swallow and pushing its glass aside.
"Let's get you home. Okay?"

I staggered out to my car and the List insisted that I give it my keys.
"Friends don't let friends drive drunk," it said, and I really couldn't argue
with that logic. I climbed into the passenger seat and curled into a happy
little ball.

The List somehow managed to get the keys into the ignition and the Divine
Spirit seemed to take it from there. The ride home was bumpy and jarring and
only served to remind me to get my shock absorber looked at. The List attempted
to parallel park and actually did a pretty good job.

I staggered up the stairs and into my apartment, glad to see it. I gave the
living room couch a big friendly hug in greeting, and it hugged me back so
tightly that I couldn't find a way to move.

The List scampered off to my closet to find a blanket, which it then dragged
across the floor to me. I worked my arm out of the couch's grip and pulled it
up, smiling a little.

"Have a good night's sleep," the List whispered. "But keep in mind tomorrow's
task, okay?"

"Whazzat?" I asked, closing my eyes.

"Um, hold on," it said. It made a disturbing folding sound. "TASK 6: Quit the
Consortium."

The words rattled around my skull for a few moments. "Well, shit," I mumbled,
and fell asleep.

~

Unfortunately, when I woke up, the world had failed to explode.

My head, on the other hand, felt like it had exploded a good four or five times
during the course of the night. I cradled it gingerly, rubbing at my temples,
wondering how I could get rid of the large, persistent ringing in my ears.

Eventually, I discovered it would go away if I answered the phone, which was
ringing. "Hello?" I said hoarsely.

"Krycek!" Cheerful Consortium Operator Debbie sounded far from cheerful. "Where
the fuck were you yesterday?"

"Getting my affairs in order," I said, liking the sound of it. "What's going
on?"

"The Elders all flip-flopped again. Now the smoking guy's back in power, the
British guy is in disgrace, and we're back on a decaf-only policy at HQ."

I sighed. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Ciggy wants to talk to you. Something about his son and pyromania. Don't
hassle me, Krycek, I just work here." She hung up.

I set the phone down in its cradle and peered around the kitchen. The List had
made itself a little nest of Kleenex and was snoring on the counter. The Cap'n
Crunch started serenading me from the cupboard again, so I decided I might as
well begin the day.

The List woke up as I poured the cereal into a bowl, wisely electing to forgo
the suicide attempt this time. "What's going on?" it asked, rubbing its eyes.

"My boss wants to talk to me at work," I said, finding a spoon. "Power
struggles, cryptic messages, all that."

"And you're going to tell him you quit, right?" The List seemed strangely
adamant about it.

I shoveled cereal into my mouth. "Something like that."

It glared at me.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I muttered, taking the bowl with me as I escaped into my
bedroom. "Take away my livelihood."

I showered and got dressed, taking some Tylenol for my head. Plans whirled
pell-mell through my head, each trying to figure out a scenario that didn't end
with old Ciggy shooting me in the head. I had no doubt that he would want to
shoot me in the head, just because he seemed to enjoy it. My quitting the
Consortium would just give him a good excuse.

I went into the kitchen to find my jacket. The List was in the sink, trying to
scrub itself free of the pink. "There's no time like the present!" I hollered
in a cheerful, devil-may-care manner. "Let's go get me killed!"

The List scrambled out, rolled around on a paper towel for a few moments, and
jumped onto the palm of my hand. "You're not going to get killed," it said as I
playfully vaulted down four stairs. "What, you're not allowed to go pursue more
meaningful aspects of life?"

I shook my head. "Do you even know anything about the Consortium?"

It shrugged. "Old guys. Playing God. Overly obsessed with aliens."

We went outside and the bright light did a little tap dance on my abused head.
"Yeah," I said, climbing into my car, "but you forgot the fact that they're
violent. And closed-minded. And short-tempered."

The List and I sat down, and I closed the door behind me. "Wait a second," I
said. "Where are my keys?"

The List produced them seemingly from nowhere and dropped them in my lap.

"Don't bother asking," it said serenely.

~

When I opened the door to HQ, the first thing I heard was the snoring.

Even though it was just past noon, the light level inside was low and hazy and
full of smoke. I coughed as quietly as I could, but it didn't really matter.
The elegant furniture was piled high with various Consortium Elders, all
dressed in expensive suits and polished shoes, all fast asleep. The power
struggle between the Brit and Ciggy was as boring as it was predictable, and
the initial switch from regular coffee back to decaf always left most of the
older guys incapacitated for 24 hours. Within about a week the Brit would
regain control, and the resulting switch back to regular would cause everyone
to get jittery and panic, often with dire consequences.

Debbie waved casually at me from her desk. "It's like a fucking mausoleum in
here, isn't it?" she called loudly. I nodded politely and escaped through a
door to my left.

Ciggy's office was at the end of a long, narrow hallway that he insisted be
left unlit. He liked the idea of people creeping through the dark, terrified
and uncertain, lulled only by the single orange spark of his cigarette through
the frosted glass. Fortunately Debbie had gotten the bright idea of placing
flashlights at both ends of the hallway, to give us lowly underlings a fighting
chance.

I tapped on the glass and waited. After a significant pause, I heard him rasp,
"Come in."

I walked inside, preparing my lungs for the worst. The smoke was fresh and
thick and I tried to make my cough as polite and friendly as possible.

"Alex..." he said softly, that casual, deadly smile appearing on his face. "How
are you?"

I swallowed. "Fairly poor, sir, thank you."

He nodded. "I needed to talk to you about...things."

Steeling my courage, I took a step forward. "Actually, I need to talk to you
first. It's a matter of the utmost importance."

He was surprised, but he hid it well. "By all means, Alex."

I took a deep breath. "I'm going to need to take a leave of absence from the
Consortium."

He looked at me, sucking thoughtfully on his cigarette, and reached down for
his gun.

"Um, please wait!" I exclaimed nervously, trying not to sound shrill. "Let me
explain. I - I - "

I had no explanation. "I'm seeking out other professions!" I yelped suddenly,
deciding that maybe the partial truth would work in this case. "I've been going
through a lot of grief and guilt lately over the state of my life, and I just
need some time to go and...work it out of my system."

Ciggy's face was almost completely inscrutable, except for the faint lines of
confusion on his forehead. "Grief? Guilt? Whatever for?"

"Er, you know, killing...and stuff," I finished lamely.

He exhaled and tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. "I see." After a moment of
deliberation, he lifted his gun again.

"Wait!" I screeched, letting my voice go as damn shrill as it wanted to. "Look!
I, uh, I'm going to come back! Really! I'm not going off to backstab you or
sell you out or anything, I just need some time for personal reflection! Time
to explore my dreams!"

Ciggy's face suddenly turned to stone. "Really, Alex? Like the last time you
left to 'explore your dreams.' When you sold us out, betrayed us, went to work
for the Russian government. Do you expect me to be so stupid this time?"

"No!" Ah, blissful Hysteria was back to play an encore. "I swear to you! You
can keep tabs on me all the time! It's not a problem! It's just - I need to - "
I threw my arm into the air. "You know!"

"No, I don't know." He blew smoke vengefully through his teeth. "What exactly
is this miraculous dream of yours, Alex? Enlighten me on what is going to
fulfill your dark, empty world so much better than the Consortium."

"Uh - " I glanced about wildly, looking for a profession somewhere. "I - "
Inspiration struck like lightning. "I'm going to be a hockey player, sir."

He made no effort to conceal the surprise that bounded cheerfully onto his
face. "A what?"

Relief washed through me. "A hockey player. You know that baseball pitcher, you
know, with the one arm? Well, uh, my dream is to be the first one-armed hockey
player to win the Stanley Cup. You know, and I'll play for charity, and I'll
work through my guilt, and it'll all be good and I'll come back as soon as its
done!"

I mentally congratulated myself in the silence that followed, glad to have
found such clever grace under pressure. Ciggy stared at me with stony eyes,
contemplating.

He finally exhaled. "That's the most pathetic thing I've heard in my entire
life, Alex."

He raised his gun and my heart jumped into my throat, trying to save itself.
"The truth, Alex," Ciggy said coldly. "Or death. Your choice."

I sent a single panicky look down into my pocket, but the List was curled at
the bottom, hiding.

"God, sir," I said abruptly, looking him in the eye. "God came down from heaven
and ordered me to reform my life."

I waited for the blast, but it never came. Ciggy lowered the gun a few inches,
then, incredibly, began to smile.

"You too?" He chuckled. "You should've just said so. Come here."

My heart remained in my throat cautiously, but I crept forward, terrified.
Ciggy motioned for me to lean forward and I did, never taking my eyes of the
gun.

He whispered into my ear. "Happens to the best of us, Alex. No way you can
avoid it. Here." He pressed a piece of paper into my hand. "Come back when the
Big Boy looks away, eh?"

I glanced at the paper. It read, "Never lose hope. Evil will always triumph."

"Repeat that once a day," Ciggy whispered. "You'll be fine."

He sat up and cleared his throat, sucking busily on the cigarette. "Anyway,
Alex, enjoy the rest of your Consortium-free life," he said loudly. "And
really, next time, keep your warped, inane lies to yourself, all right?"

He waved me towards the door and I managed to get out of the building without
once breaking into a panicked sprint.

The sunlight exploded onto me with a punch, but I ignored it. That was it. I
was free.

The words struck me oddly, and a strange giddiness seemed to overcome me. I was
free, really and truly. No more snapping Debbie, smoky rooms, chauffeuring or
pots of decaf. No more crazed missions to obscure little countries or cryptic
conversations about nothing of any importance.

I was free.

I pulled open my pocket, peered inside at the List. "I'm free," I whispered,
and the smile that stretched my face was wide and real.

The List glared up at me. "Yeah, well, I don't know about you, but I wet
myself."

~

TASK 7: Everywhere
------------------

I zoomed down the street at 95 miles per hour, high on bliss.

The List had retreated back into the glove box, citing the lack of a reliable
seatbelt. "I understand that you're happy," it called over the roar of the
engine, "but couldn't you please be happy on a slightly lower speed limit?"

"Never!" I hollered, the wind whipping my words into a froth. "You don't
understand, List! For the first time in years, I can actually make a goddamn
choice about what I want to do with my life!"

The car in front of me studiously kept its speed at 55. I swerved into the next
lane, shrieking, and the List shrieked with me.

"You always had a goddamn choice about what you wanted to do with your life!"
it screamed, momentarily forgetting itself. "And you did it at reasonable
speeds! Don't make me take away your divine intervention. I could get cops on
your ass so fast it'd make this seem like nothing!"

Its glare was laserlike and deadly, and reluctantly I settled for a sedate 70.
"Jesus," I entreated. "Let me enjoy my glee."

The List was huffy. "And who exactly manipulated you to this point so you'd be
here to ENJOY this glee?"

"MELISSA!" I screamed, gunning the accelerator again. I stuck my head out the
window. "I LOVE YOU, MELISSA!"

"Oh, and I suppose me and God are chopped liver?" the List screeched. It jumped
out of the box and sunk its metaphorical teeth into my arm. I started and the
car swerved a little, tires squealing.

"BE CAREFUL!" The List held its hand up. "One snap and your ass is toast!"

I braked steadily, taking a deep breath. "Sorry. I've never been able to handle
ecstasy well."

"Yeah." It sounded spiteful.

We drove on in an uncomfortable silence. "Where are we going?" the List asked
after awhile.

I thought about it. "Beats me. I was just driving for the hell of driving."

I glanced at the clock. It was only one o'clock. "Task 7, babe. At this rate
I'll be done before tomorrow."

"Get a job," the List said.

I frowned and rolled up my window. "Pardon?"

"TASK 7," it emphasized pointedly, "GET A JOB."

Dark anger crept through my natural high. "Well, make up your fucking mind," I
said irritably. "I just had a job."

"Get a 'respectable' job," it amended. "I apologize, I omitted the
'respectable' part to make it sound more angry."

I shrugged, my temper simmering down. "It's all right."

Get a job. This quickly? I supposed I could put it off for a day or two, but
there really wasn't any need - I felt so good right now, I'd be better off
finding one soon and happy than later and slightly more dismal. Get a job.

"Really, I can do anything," I said conversationally. "I could be whatever I
want to be. I can go anywhere I want to go."

"That's what everyone says," the List grumbled. "And I suppose your dream is to
become an astronaut, yes?"

"Fuck you," I said cheerfully. "No. I want..." I thought about it. "I want..."

We traveled six miles before the List bit me to get my attention. I looked at
it in a panic.

"I have no idea what the fuck I want!" I exclaimed.

"Yes," the List sighed, "that's fairly typical."

~

"What we need," it explained to me three hours later, "is some sort of list."

For the past three hours I had swerved about in a state of total emotional
distress. My high had hit rock bottom in such an outstandingly short amount of
time that I was thrown completely off-guard. The List tried to reassure me and
calm me down, but I was far beyond its limited wiles. I was officially in the
Deep End, and there was no life preserver anywhere in sight.

When my breathing became slightly more relaxed and regular, the List started
barking out various professions - woodsmith, barber, postal worker, teacher -
supposedly with the intent of finding one that I liked. Instead I got even more
scared and had to pull over into an industrial parking lot and weep.

After an hour and a half had passed and my panic attack showed no signs of
abating, the List eventually resorted to crooning soft, unfamiliar lullabies
into my ear. It did the trick - I practiced some deep breathing exercises and
listened to the unearthly music, rapt. As soon as I was calm it stopped
abruptly and grabbed me by the nose.

"Look, Alex," it said. "We need to find a place to sit down. We'll list all
your skills, likes, and dislikes, and we'll figure out what to do together.
Then we'll look around for some jobs, go searching. Calmly. You still have the
rest of the week, you know."

I nodded, not letting myself speak. It let go of my nose and sat back down.
"Thanks," I muttered.

The List smiled faintly. "All in a day's work."

I pulled back onto the main road and started scanning for a restaurant or cafe.
I also began to mentally tabulate my skills in my head, trying to figure out
how they would translate to a job in the working sector. I mean, world-class
assassins had to have something when they retired, right?

Yeah. Like rule the world.

"Pull over!" the List exclaimed. He pointed to the right side of the street.
"Park here!"

I did as he asked. "What's going on?"

"There." He pointed out the window. "We need to go in there."

I looked outside. "Fuck no," I said briskly, starting the car again.

"Alex! I'm getting very strong...suggestions that we go in there immediately."
The List attempted to open its door. "If you know what I mean!"

I turned off the car, my face scrunching in disgust. I peered outside at the
bland, faceless front of RESTAURANT.

"If you mean what I think you mean," I said, "I'm going to kill myself."

It struggled futilely with the door for a few more moments. It looked so sad
that I finally reached over and picked him up, shoving him none-too-gently into
my pocket.

"Fine," I spat, kicking my door open.

RESTAURANT's door was wide-open, and the aroma of paint fumes drifted out,
giving me a delicate kiss. The front window had been soaped clean, and painted
in bold, bubbly red letters was the phrase "A CLOUDY DAY IN ATLANTIS."

The little "Help Wanted" sign in the corner did nothing for my nerves.

I looked at the List. "I don't want to."

It sighed. "Look. A piece of general advice. It's not very often you are
confronted with a premonition of such magnitude and strength as the one I just
felt. When you do get one, you should follow it."

I frowned. "But I don't want to."

"ALEX." The List, in a remarkable display of dexterity, ascended my jacket and
grabbed me by the collar. "Don't - fuck - with - God."

Of course. How could you argue with that?

I walked inside. The scaffold was still planted in the middle of the room, but
the thin little man was sitting glumly behind the counter. There was no sign of
the swarthy man, although his spatula was resting on the floor, abandoned.

"How are things?" I asked abruptly, careful not to look upwards.

The thin little man jumped. "Oh, hello!" he said, bravely attempting to be
jovial. "Not so good. I was unfortunately forced to terminate the employment of
my previous cook, Roscoe, and I have yet to find any sort of replacement."

Hope suddenly glimmered behind those little spectacles, but I pushed
purposefully away from that venue. "Uh, the name in the window. What's that all
about?"

He brightened. "A Cloudy Day In Atlantis! Yes, it's the theme of the
restaurant, as depicted by my murals!" He swept his arm into the air. "I hope
to have a proper sign made as soon as I begin making money, although of course
with no cook, that's unlikely." He eyed me significantly.

I snuck a quick look at the Task List, who had slid back into my pocket, but it
was staring at the ceiling in frank, innocent amazement.

"Um. A cook, you said?" I took the bait as casually as I could.

"Yes." He smiled widely. "Do you cook, by any chance?"

"Ah, some," I said evasively, casually looking at the ceiling. "What's the job
like, just out of friendly curiosity?"

He clapped his hands. "I'm so very glad you asked! Why don't you come into my
office?"

With a lithe little leap, the thin man vacated his seat and disappeared into
the back. I followed him, my teeth clenched, wishing I could run and run and
never come back.

The thin little man's office was more accurately a "broom closet," but he had
managed to smash a desk and two chairs inside. He busily sat down and started
sorting through his desk drawers, ruffling papers in a light-hearted manner.

I took a seat and tilted back a little bit, staring at the ceiling.

"Now, sir, my name is Cyrus, and I am extraordinarily glad you came back to my
humble little restaurant. Let me invite you to look at these papers."

I didn't look at him. I couldn't look at him. If God himself had descended out
of the ceiling and asked for my attention - which wasn't all that unlikely, at
this point - I would ignore him. I would completely and totally ignore him.

There was a mural on this ceiling as well.

"Now, the job description is technically that of a short-order cook," Cyrus
said. "This involves the preparation of raw ingredients, the cooking and
arranging of the food, and menu planning."

The mural on the ceiling was not entirely unlike the ones out in the dining
area. It was a man, of course, and he was in the clouds, nude, of course.
However, it was obvious that Cyrus had saved this particular man specifically
for his own enjoyment, as evidenced by his massive, glistening, foot-long
penis.

Cyrus began writing something. "You'll also have to do kitchen work,
unfortunately, since I don't have the resources to hire a busboy of any kind.
However, I can tell you that I will more than compensate you when business
picks up, as I'm sure it will as soon as we start getting actual customers."

The name of the man, scrawled in cursive in the corner of the room, was Adonis.
I had to admit it fit perfectly. Adonis wore an expression of gentle love, a
face any romantic soul could adore. Not that anyone within their right mind
would be looking at his face. Really, I thought, my neck starting to ache, even
Marita would be perfectly content with this man.

"So I've filled out this form and all it requires is your name, signature, and
the answers to a few brief questions." Cyrus finished. "Ready?"

The sudden pause startled me. I squinted at him. "What?"

"Your name," he prompted.

"Oh." The Task List popped briefly out of my pocket, gaped at me in terrified
horror, and hid again. "Alex Krycek."

He wrote it down carefully. I wanted to look back up, but I fought it with
every ounce of my willpower.

Cyrus finished his laborious scrawl and peered at me over his spectacles. "And
have you had any previous experience short-order cooking?"

"Yes, but not on a professional level," I said, trying to sound breezy.

"How refreshing! And has that been fulfilling?" He watched me expectantly.

My eyes had jumped guiltily back up to Adonis and I really couldn't look away.
"Um, just a little piece of advice," I said, distantly. "Maybe you should
conduct these interviews in a room with a more, uh, genital-free atmosphere."

"Oh? Do you think so? Is it distracting?" He craned his neck and examined
Adonis with intense concern.

After a minute and a half of silence I began to worry. "Cyrus?" I asked. His
jaw had gone slack and a little trace of moisture was traveling down his chin.
"Uh, Cyrus?"

He jumped guiltily, focusing on me and grinning. He discreetly wiped off his
mouth and adjusted his pants. "What was I saying?" he asked.

I did my best to suppress the shudder that ran through me. He obviously was
suffering from some sort of mental disorder, or at least some severe sexual
repression, and even though I had only known him for a combined total of ten
minutes, he already irritated me. But, then again, a job is a job, a
premonition is a premonition, and my eternal soul was getting a bit tired of
all the strain.

"You were saying you wanted to hire me immediately," I said.

His face brightened. "Did I? I don't actually recall saying so, but I have
faith in your innate sense of honesty!" He pushed his papers forward and
extended a thin hand. "Welcome aboard, Alex!"

I shook his hand, picked up a pen, and looked at the List. "I'm never going to
forgive you," I muttered.

It was busy swooning, so I just signed the damn papers.

~

TASK 8: Silver Springs
----------------------

"End of the line, buddy," I shouted.

The man looked up and I slid his tray down the length of the counter. It came
neatly to a stop in front of him and he grinned. "Thanks."

Cyrus peered waspishly over my shoulder. "Be careful!"

"Fuck you!" I replied cheerfully.

My second day at the newly christened A Cloudy Day In Atlantis was actually
going well. The first day had been pure hell, and it wasn't because of the job
itself. The job itself was easy - all I knew how to cook was barbecue chicken,
eggs, and hamburgers, so that's all I put on the menu. No, the real difficulty
was having to be in such close proximity to Cyrus.

Cyrus meant well. He had ambition and dreams and lofty artistic fervor, but in
conversations he seemed to be lacking something. The first day, every ten
minutes, he'd approach me cheerfully and begin to talk. I didn't have to talk
back - it wasn't necessary. He'd just babble until something shiny distracted
his attention and broke his train of thought. 

Ten minutes before closing, I had snapped.

"Atlantis is well-known for being located under the sea," he was saying
proudly. "Placing it in the *clouds* not only tickles our innate sense of
absurdity, but it also questions our assumptions of what is normal and what is
merely intellectually above our reasoning. I find this very thought-provoking
and I'm sure our customers will too, provided we ever get any."

Without thinking, I whipped my spatula around and brandished it in his face.
"Cyrus!"

"Wh - what?" he asked, startled.

I suddenly had a glimmer of understanding as to why Roscoe had been so swarthy
and ill-tempered. "I DON'T FUCKING CARE," I pronounced loudly, several
centimeters from his face.

He had looked hurt. "No one does."

But the second day - the second day was going well. I had convinced Cyrus to
add an addendum to the sign in the window, as a ploy to generate more
customers. He had steadfastly refused, insisted the customers would come on
their own, but by the lunch rush even he had to notice the dank, hollow
emptiness of the place.

So he got out his little paints and wrote underneath the title, "Featuring Nude
Men."

And sure enough, by dinner time we had enough single women and gay men to make
any NBC executive proud.

This frightened Cyrus immensely. He hid in his office for half of the day,
leaving me to deal with the hungry masses. I held my own pretty well, and even
began to enjoy myself a little. A very little.

The Task List, completely and total scarred, curled catatonic in my pocket for
the entire two-day period. I briefly considered unrolling it and looking at my
last task, but I decided to get accustomed to the new job before messing with
any more Godly plans.

By closing time the second night, Cyrus had emerged white-faced from his office
and went to mingle with customers. They uniformly praised his artwork, which
did wonders for his self-esteem, and said that the food wasn't all that bad,
which I guess was better than nothing. By the time the last guest had left, he
was radiant and sparkling and just full of words.

"Oh, Alex!" he exclaimed, dancing about like a sprite. "Success is in our
hands! I can feel it! I can taste it!"

I shuddered a little. "Just stick to observing it, Cyrus."

He suddenly stopped in mid-glide. "We must celebrate."

My shudder was significantly larger this time. "Um, maybe another time."

"Tsk tsk!" Cyrus grabbed me by the hand and attempted to twirl me about. I
weighed about 3 times more than he did, so needless to say I won. "I know of a
wonderful little establishment with fabulous beverages, just down the street. I
insist!"

"Um..." He fluttered his eyelashes at me in a way that reminded me chillingly
of Marita. "Jesus, Cyrus! I'll go, but swear to me you'll never do that again!"

"On my honor!" he said happily, and twirled out of the room to find his coat.

"Psst."

I glanced around, startled. The Task List had poked his head out of my pocket,
pale and shaken. "Are you okay?" I asked, concerned.

"Not really," it said. It looked up and cringed. "Can we go outside?"

I walked out into the cool of the night. Cyrus began to shut down all the
appliances and lights. "What's wrong?"

"Oh..." the List moaned. "I really just don't have the stomach for the earthly
life. Too many nasty surprises, and far too much abuse."

I blushed a little. "I'm really sorry."

It waved a metaphorical hand, faintly. "Not your fault. Anyway, we're almost
done." It struggled to get out of my pocket. "Last task."

I helped it gently onto my palm and stared at the last penciled line.

"TASK 8: Love."

The List leaned over, read it for itself, and looked up. "Love."

"Love," I repeated, more mystified than irritated. "Kind of vague."

"Yeah." The List sighed. "Good luck."

A mild panic thrilled through me. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"Naw," it said, but its voice was faint. "I'm sticking with you 'til the end,
buddy."

~

Any establishment called "Titty Town" is not somewhere you want to go with your
employer.

Cyrus waved jovially to a group of people as we walked in, a few of whom  waved
back. The rest of them carefully averted their eyes and continued drinking,
which was, in my estimation, very wise.

The theme of this "establishment," as he called it, was breasts. Lots of them.
Everywhere. Unavoidable. It seemed to me a very unlikely place for a person
like him to go to, but then, I tried as hard as I could not to think of Cyrus
as a sexual being.

All the light fixtures in the room were shaped like breasts. All the signs
featured large-chested, nude women. For an addition $8.99, you could purchase a
large sip cup shaped like a breast, although after glancing at one I could tell
the quality and workmanship was quite poor. The bartender, however, was a
large, bearded man, with not a small pair of breasts himself.

Cyrus sidled easily up to the bar, grinning happily. "What'll you have?" he
asked.

I looked around. There was a woman sitting next to us, along with her husband,
who was having an animated sports-related conversation with what looked to be a
transsexual prostitute. The woman was gulping her drink like Kool-Aid.

"Hey," I said to her, trying be friendly. "What's in that?"

She swallowed, eyeing her cup suspiciously. "Alcohol," she said after awhile.

I nodded. "I'll have one of those," I told the bartender.

He rolled his eyes and walked away. Cyrus grinned, bouncing a little to the
blaring overhead music, and slapped me fraternally on the back. "Are you as
happy as I am?" he shouted over the din.

"Oh, indeed," I assured him, wondering how drunk I would have to get him before
I could sneak away. "Nothing like a successful business and millions of breasts
to cheer a guy up."

The bartender slapped our drinks in front of us, and Cyrus made a big
production out of paying for us both. I ignored him entirely and sipped my
drink, jumping a little as it slid down my throat, lighting it on fire. "Strong
stuff," I managed to the woman next to me, who looked like she was on her
third.

"Not strong enough," she vowed, and raised her finger for another one.

I turned back to Cyrus, and to my amazement, he had struck up a conversation
with the man next to him. Well, perhaps this wasn't so amazing. What was
amazing was the fact that the man was talking back, animatedly, some blather
about the early Renaissance. Cyrus argued some point and they both laughed.

I was about to feel upsettingly jealous and slighted when I saw Fate out of the
corner of my eye.

I paused. Looked back. Yes, it was him. I blinked a few times, just to be sure.
Yes.

I tapped Cyrus on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go mingle," I shouted.

He nodded absently and forgot about me entirely. Thank the good Lord for small
favors.

Or large ones.

I picked up my drink, turned around, and headed directly for Fate's table.
There was no hesitation in my mind, just faint, simple hope.

Fate drew his gun and pointed it lazily at my head.

"What happened to that stuff I said about leaving my life for good, Krycek?"
Mulder's tough persona was dimmed a little by his brief pause to take a drink.
"Fuck you. You wanna sit down?"

"Sure." I took a casual sip of my drink, my heart pounding. I sat. He stared.

"Went to Pendrell's house," he said vaguely, waving the gun in a flimsy manner.

"Oh?" I belatedly remembered that I hadn't warned Brian about that.

"Yeah." The slur in his voice was evident. "Said something about being on
drugs, or something. Scully talked to him, mostly. Said it was your fault too."

I picked my words carefully. "Yeah, maybe. I'm sorry."

He took another drink, resting the gun on the table. "Anyway, we decided to let
him live, since, you know, he was already, dead, sorta. You know."

"Yeah, I know." I stared into my drink.

"Krycek." Mulder said it with surprising gentleness. "What's been going on
lately? Why've you been all the sudden telling the truth and acting all sorry?"

The Task List stirred gently in my pocket.

"Um," I said. "It's a long story."

Mulder waited in patient silence.

"Oh." I set my drink down. "Well, I, uh, sort of...I've been trying to change
my ways. You know. Apologize to the people I've wronged, make myself a better
person. Change my way of life."

The List stirred again, and with deliberate slowness I began to reach for my
pocket.

Mulder frowned. "And, it's been working?"

I drew the List out quietly, set it on the table. "Yes, it has," I said.
"There's really nothing better than the knowledge that you've been forgiven."

Mulder took in that little factlet and pondered it silently for a few moments.
Discreetly, I lifted the List up.

It was blank.

I jumped. "What happened?"

The List smiled, weary but radiant. "You're done."

"What?" I turned halfway around in my seat, trying to look discreet. "What do
you mean? I'm just talking with Mulder. Trust me, there's no love here. Well,
nothing consensual, at least."

"No, no," the List murmured patiently. "It's not him, although if you choose to
pursue that vein, you might be fortunate. No. Yourself."

"What?" I didn't get it.

"Yourself," it repeated. "You and your life. You've come to accept that your
life has changed - you've accepted the fact that you can't go back - and you've
accepted the fact that you can be happy without being evil. You have love for
yourself and the kindnesses you can find."

I couldn't help but frown. "Sounds like a bunch of sappy shit to me."

The List chuckled, faintly.

Someone started tapping me on the shoulder. I turned back around and saw Mulder
frowning at me, the drunken gears grinding away behind his eyes.

"Who are you talking to?" he asked finally.

I looked at the List. "This piece of paper," I said, trying to sound
nonchalant.

The lines in his forehead deepened. The computing skills required for this
situation were staggering.

Inspiration struck him with an audible gasp. "Why?"

"Because I'm drunk," I said.

That was exactly what he wanted to hear. "So you are," he said, reaching over
and patting my shoulder in a reassuring way. "So you are."

He went back to nursing his drink and I couldn't help but smile.

The List gave a tinny little cough. "It's time, Alex."

Without warning, pained emotion tugged at my throat, my eyes. "Do you have to
go?" I asked, trying not sound overtly piteous. "I mean - this is all still
really new - I don't know how I'll get by, you know. Without you."

"Oh, Alex," it whispered, and it patted my hand gently. Tears were lurking
behind my eyes and I fought them dully.

"You'll be fine," the List whispered. "Just remember."

It pointed its small metaphorical fist towards the ceiling, and I looked up.

"I'll always be watching."

And with a tiny shudder and sparkle, the Task List disappeared, leaving nothing
behind but fine granules of dust.

I looked up, stunned, and saw Mulder staring at me again. Suspicion, pure and
vile, echoed in his eyes.

"The paper disappeared," he said, a bit incoherently. "Why?"

My jaw was hanging open a little bit. With as much resolve as I could muster, I
drew it shut and smiled. "Because you're drunk," I said.

His face cleared, and in a sudden burst of sad, aching happiness, I reached
over and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"So I am," he muttered, "so I am."

~

"My little demon, comin' on down
 My little demon's turning me around
 All of my friends all telling me
 That I just ain't the man I used to be."

- My Little Demon, Lindsey Buckingham

~

- aflg, sosilently@aol.com