TITLE: Good Intentions
EMAIL: firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com
ARCHIVE: Yes. I'll submit to Gossamer directly.
SPOILERS: Existence because I'm naughty and can't resist.
DISCLAIMER: They just aren't mine. I leave the hard stuff to the big boys.
AUTHORS NOTES: In a fit of creative frustration (this little vignette slipped out. Please forgive me!
I certainly never intended this to happen. Blood is everywhere on this hard concrete floor, blood of a protege I once considered telling all my secrets to. If things had gone the way they should have, he'd be standing over a long-time enemy, laughing at the poetic justice. Instead, his wooden arm lies outstretched, like a puppet's, toward his unfired weapon.
I wonder who did it. Who fired the shot that killed my last hope. Who made a mockery of my good intentions.
All I wanted to do was save the world.
So did this man lying at my feet. His entire goal was to stop what is now inevitable. He could've done it, had that fool Mulder listened.
Mulder. Was it you, still seeking vengeance for the dead? Was this the final twist of the knife your mother inserted in my back?
Or was it that New Yorker, that cocky SOB that I wasn't able to keep out of the X-files?
Was it Skinner? After all these years of torturing him for the good of the Project, did he rebel?
I won't ever know for certain. There were no witnesses.
There is a look of surprise on Krycek's face. I'm reminded of a time, not so long ago, when that look was rage, hatred, and a reluctant respect.
The sound of heels clicking, coming closer. I involuntarily jerk, thinking for the briefest of moments that this is Scully, come to finish the job started with the death of this brilliant man, come to remind me that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
But its not Scully. The blonde is dressed as casually as I've ever seen her, in a blouse and jeans. Her hair is disheveled and she's obviously out of breath, tears are coursing down her cheeks. Who had contacted her? How had she known? The questions must be spelled out on my face because she speaks, "I don't know, he just told me Alex had been killed."
I nod. Of course. They were always watching, weren't they? Even now, with the Syndicate dead and gone, there is always someone watching.
I throw my cigarette on the ground, like a flower on a coffin. Marita's sobs pierce my ears, and I turn to walk away so she won't know they also pierce my heart. All I'd ever had were good intentions. Alex Krycek is now a martyr for a futile cause.
My shoes are sticky with blood, and I know I'm leaving tracks on the ground. They'll know it was me, even though I'm dead to them, and they'll look for me in dark corners and hallways, never suspecting that the real threat is where it has always been.
In the skies.
the end. feedback gratefully accepted at firstname.lastname@example.org
"How do you explain the things you love? You can't. You just do." -- Dawson's Creek
enigmatic office monkey
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