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cover by Touchstone

AUTHOR: Eve (alfa_fighter_3@hotmail.com)
TITLE: Category Mistake
SPOILERS: up to and including Requiem. Then it's my own little universe. Mulder's gone, people!
NOTES: this story was inspired by my Philosophy 231 prof. All semester I had visions of maiming and torture because of his bloody boring lectures. Now the class is over , so I decided to take it out on poor Alex :)
MORE NOTES: For anyone who's interested, a category mistake is a problem with our concept of the world i.e. the mistake of thinking that something belongs to a particular category when it does not. This is how philosophical behaviorists tried to argue that Descartes was on crack when he came up with his dualistic theory of the mind. Let me tell you people, the philosophical behaviorists were definitely on *something*.....

Alex absently sipped his whiskey, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection. The bartender appeared, bottle at the ready, but Alex waved him off. If this had been a social call he would have been more than happy to get wasted. But this was business.

Marita wanted him to leave his 'business' be. They had more important things to do apparently. But what was more important than getting rid of one more enemy? Now that Spender was gone, they had to let everyone know who was running the show. They had to set an example for anyone who might be thinking of crossing them.

What Marita hadn't even known was that Spender had a personal confidant. One which knew everything about him, the Consortium, the Project, you name it. With all that knowledge he wielded just as much power as dear old Smoky had. When Alex had been the golden boy, the prodigal son, he had often met Spender at an acreage in Montana. Spender's confidante was always there, lurking in the shadows.

Alex sometimes wondered if they were lovers, and pushed the thought away with a disgusted shudder and the distinct shrinking of his genitals. Quick, think of something else before the urge to vomit puts to waste this expensive whiskey. A brief but vivid flash of red hair proved to be his salvation. Ah, red. Red reminded him of blood, of apples, of that 'vette he'd always wanted as a kid, and . . . Scully. Poor Scully.

He'd been so busy rebuilding the empire to his own specifications that Scully and the newly abducted Mulder had not been tops on his priority list. The reports he'd had time to skim indicated that Scully-without-Mulder was more of a handful that Mulder-without-Scully. She was a real pitbull, but without that flying off the handle quality that always prevented Mulder from really discovering anything.

Mulder would be returned, eventually. They always returned them. Mulder might not be himself, but Alex was prepared for that possibility. He could never kill Fox Mulder, but a Replacement . . . that was another story.

He suspected Spender had activated Scully's chip before his untimely demise. The current operatives hadn't yet discovered and decrypted all the intel involved in the implants. Alex was unsure what to do when he found out. The power of that chip would be in his hands. A few buttons, a code maybe, and DNA would break down. Scully's baby would be no more. But he had no desire to completely destroy the woman. First her sister, then Mulder, then her 'miracle' baby? He didn't want to--he had no desire to be a baby killer, but if it came down to one baby or the rest of the world, he only had one choice.

He could always shoot himself afterwards.

Another flash of red hair, the sound of a glass breaking. Alex saw his mark enter the bar and join two other men. They ordered a round and settled into conversation. So he was talking already. Telling Spender's dirty little secrets.

Alex was making mental bets with himself over whether it would be the bathroom or the alley. The gun and silencer were a reassuring weight under his arm if he needed a quick, clean, quiet kill. But he had a variety of toys up his sleeve to set a messier example. Knives, a garrote. His left arm served as a useful club if needed. Marita had turned her nose up at him. Well, somebody had do the dirty work, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her. She might chip a nail or something.

He watched the men talk for a minute. The other two were familiar--he recognized them as some of the fringe members of the Consortium. People who had lived just outside the inner circle. Like him. Scratch that. Like he had been. Now he was the inner circle.

Suddenly his mark blanched and froze. Something had spooked him, and it wasn't Alex. Alex discretely scanned the bar, wondering who else could be there. The man got to his feet and hurried toward the back. Alex followed just in time to see the exit swing shut. The alley it was then. He stepped outside, gun at the ready. His target was just standing there, staring into the shadows.

"This is going to be too easy," he said to himself. Then he wondered why the man wasn't even looking at him. Remembering someone else had him spooked. Oh shit.

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Krycek," came a feminine voice from behind him. A searing pain lanced through his skull and colors exploded behind his eyelids before fading to black.

He came to on a lumpy bed, his right arm stretched painfully over his head, and his left . . . Fuck. Someone had taken his prosthesis. An experimental stretch revealed the jangle of handcuffs. His legs were spread eagle, but immobile. By the lack of feeling in his feet he suspected he'd been tied up for awhile now.

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus in on the red blur above him. Red. The bar. Red hair. Oh shit.

"Scully," he croaked.

"Gee, you really are a smart one, Krycek."

He blinked a few times and tried to swallow away the cotton in his mouth. She sounded funny. Not the calm, imperial Scullyvoice he was used to hearing. She sounded a little . . . girlish. And he'd never pictured Scully as the type of woman to say 'gee'. Then again, she didn't seem like the type of woman to cold cock him and tie him to a bed either. Where the hell were they anyway?

His vision cleared enough for him to make out garish flowered curtains and a TV that looked older than he was. A hotel room. Dana Scully had spent money on him. How sweet.

"Wakey wakey. I got something for ya."

His gaze flicked back to her, and the gun she was pointing at him. His own gun. In her white-knuckled grip. Her finger tightened on the trigger and he tensed. He'd had that gun specially made with a featherweight trigger. He'd be dead in a second if she didn't relax. His face must have betrayed genuine fear because she smirked and relaxed her grip. "Scared?"

Hell yes. And the smell of liquor permeating the room was doing nothing for the throbbing at the back of his head. He remained silent, calculating his chances of escape. He was tied up, no weapons in reach, no way to get free. Right. Slim to none. But hey, if Scully really wanted him dead, he would have died in the alley. She probably thought he knew where Mulder was. Well, he did in the most general sense. He's in a spaceship, Scully. I don't think aliens have a missing persons department.

"You never seem scared. I was starting to wonder if you were really human." She lowered the gun as she spoke, and it was only then that he noticed the bottle dangling from her other hand. Cuervo Gold. Oh shit. Saint Scully was getting wasted on tequila. She turned away from the bed, teetering slightly on her way to the dresser.

Check that. Saint Scully *was* wasted on tequila. He was getting a bad feeling about this.

"Maybe you're not human. What do you think, Krycek?" His jacket and boots were on the dresser. When she spun back unsteadily to face him, one of his sharper knives was in her small grip. "Do you bleed red or green?" She advanced slowly, but with feverish intent.

Jesus Christ. Who was this woman? This was not Scully. Maybe she was a replacement. He began to struggle. The Mulder thing must have really pushed her over the edge. And she obviously didn't know she was pregnant, not if she was drinking like that. She'd tied his legs to the bed posts with the phone cord. Bonus points for creative use of a utility. He would have laughed if he wasn't so scared. Mulder had never scared him. But Scully cut up people professionally.

The bed shifted under he weight. He couldn't have felt more vulnerable. Well, there was the last time he'd been held down and threatened with a knife. His stump twitch with sympathy pain. Still, he'd rather be facing a Mulderbeating than PsychoScully.

She took a gulp of tequila large enough to make him wince, then banged the bottle down on the nightstand. Her eyes grew more dazed.

"Red or green. Green to match your eyes. Such a pretty, pretty green." She leaned toward his face and he thought for one bizarre moment she was going to kiss him. Then she grabbed his t-shirt and ripped down the middle with his knife.

This didn't bode well for his image. He was in charge, yet a skinny, drunk, little FBI agent was gleefully preparing to torture him. "Scully, you don't want to do this."

She was running the tip of the knife in random patterns over his bared chest. "Do what? You mean this?" She applied some pressure and a thin line of blood welled up down his sternum. It was a deep cut, but clean thanks to the knife's razor edge. He gritted his teeth against the sting. He could take much worse. Had taken much worse.

Abruptly, Scully leaned back to admire her handiwork. She seemed a little disappointed. Maybe she really had been expecting green. Scully groped the nightstand and chugged down some more tequila. Eyeing him thoughtfully she tipped the bottle and let the liquor splash over his chest. He hissed and jerked against the bonds as the tequila seeped into the wound. She waited for the sting to fade before tipping the bottle again. Then she did something Alex would have never expected. She leaned down and ran her pink tongue up his chest, lapping blood and tequila.

Scully obviously didn't appreciate his whimper of pleasure/pain, because she reared back and slashed. This time it was deeper, across his stomach. The blade zigzagged across his ribcage a few more times and then she seemed to collapse. Which was great, except for the fact that she had collapsed *on* him. The blade was dangerously close to his left eye. Her hand shook for the first time, and he tilted his head back. He really didn't need to lose another body part. He tried to move his head farther back, but the fingers of her other hand gripped his short hair. Her nails dug into his scalp, the flat of the blade pressed against his cheekbone.

"You tell me, you bastard," she hissed. "Why him? Why take Mulder and leave a filthy thing like you? Why? Why do you get to live? Tell me dammit!"

He was getting tired of being compared to some sort of savage animal. He didn't have to take it anymore. So he snapped. "Because he chose to go you crazy bitch!"

She jerked away as if he'd struck her. She stared at him for a moment, at the bleeding welts across his chest and torso. The knife clattered to the floor as she sprinted to the bathroom. Her wretching was loud, even from behind the closed door. If she hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes slicing him, he would have felt sorry for her.

Alex became aware of the suddenly overpowering smell of tequila and dampness under his side. Shit. When had that happened? The bottle was laying by his hip, soaking the sheets beneath him. If he could get a hold of it, and if he could break it, and if he could reach his feet, he could use it to cut through the phone cord. Yeah. Good plan.

Scully finally stumbled out of the bathroom wiping her chin and looking green. She wouldn't even glance his way. She slipped on her pumps, gathered her jacket and wallet. She grabbed all of his confiscated weapons and bundled them in his leather jacket. Then she tucked his gun in her pants and hid the bloody knife somewhere in her jacket. She was just going to leave him there. Shit.

"Scully."

She ignored him, opening the door.

"Scully. You can't just leave me here!"

The door slammed shut. She'd come back, he was sure of it. She was just putting that stuff in her car, then she'd come back and . . . what? Shoot him? Arrest him? Let him go? He snorted, causing the pain in his head to increase. Arrest him, more likely. At least then he'd be able to get away.

She had to come back.

Part 2      Back to Fiction