Betas: Lorelei, Jennie, Erika, and Georgia all found things wrong with it that I corrected. Thanks, people. I and the readers of this appreciate the time you took.

Dedication: During all this, Jennie's computer went to that great hardware store in the sky. It dawned on me that many of us (me, too!) have undergone a similar calamity over the years that I have been involved in slash. This story is dedicated to those trusty machines who have given and continue giving their all for our continued sanity.

A Very Long Prologue to a Story

Skinner watched them escort the man in the orange body suit with less than his usual pleasure.

Usually he felt a thrill at seeing the rat-bastard hobbled with chains, empty sleeve and hand manacled to another around his waist, shuffling his way down the hall to the glassed interview room. It was a sight he had come quite to enjoy these past five months, though he had tried hard never to show it.

Krycek, of course, knew, even if he didn't say anything.

They had shaved his head again. His scalp had been covered with fuzz the last time he'd come to interrogate the man who had finally come into his hands. Who had voluntarily placed himself there.

That had been the deal. In return for handing over to them all the information Krycek had squirreled away on the Consortium and its dealings, on its connections to other illegal and often treasonous groups -- once all that had been confirmed, that he, Krycek, was to be given complete and total immunity.

Krycek had been smart enough to approach others than the F.B.I. and Skinner with the offer.

If it had been up to him... But it hadn't. The best that he could do was to finagle himself in charge of Krycek's security. Because that too had been part of the deal. That, until all checked out, Krycek was to place himself in custody, not only to be readily available to answer any questions, but to ensure that he would be alive to do so.

Krycek hadn't been too pleased to be turned over to Skinner for that purpose. But other than a token protest -- mind you, one good enough to see to it that those in charge of the investigations would occasionally inquire about Krycek's continuing good health -- Krycek accepted the situation.

Well, thought Skinner, it was either that or a quick death in some alley, if he were lucky. A less quick one if he were not. Because the rat had finally burned all his bridges behind him. If he wanted any kind of life, his only chance lay with the information he offered and this deal.

So Skinner had hidden him away in the securest place he could think of, a prison for special cases. A prison that officially did not exist. For people deemed to be of great risk not only to society but to the government. Twenty-four hour camera surveillance, unannounced daily room and person searches. No privacy. No movement without permission. Without chains and armed escorts. Guards whose loyalty and trustworthiness were equal to none. Because to betray either was to join the few inmates in their glassed cells.

To Skinner's secret disappointment, all the material Krycek had produced had proven not only valid but priceless. Those above him were more than satisfied that Krycek had carried out his part of the bargain. They were more than willing to fulfill theirs, no matter what Skinner presented as argument.

Ostensibly, he was here today to indicate that the next part of the deal was ready to be put into effect. A new identity had been prepared for Krycek along with all the appropriate immunity documents and a release date had been agreed to by all departments concerned.

All except Skinner.

He had other plans for Krycek.

He waited until they sat Krycek down in the chair that was bolted to the floor. A few more chains saw to it that the man could not move off it until released. The last of the four guards double checked that everything was solidly padlocked before he nodded to Skinner and left the room. Not that he and his colleagues would be far away. They took up positions around the room's perimeter so that they could watch all that was going on, though not hear anything as the room was sound-proofed.

This meeting, as per Skinner's orders, was neither being taped nor filmed.

Krycek sat quietly, his face bare of any emotion. As usual, he waited for Skinner to break the silence. He knew he was treading a fine line with Skinner who would love nothing more than be given an excuse -- any excuse -- to beat the shit out of him. The presence of the guards was not only to protect the interviewer.

Skinner sat on the only other chair in the room, also bolted into the floor some ten feet away from Krycek. With feigned casualness, he loosened the buttons on his suit jacket, crossed an ankle over a knee and settled back as though he were here for a friendly chit-chat.

"You'll be happy to know that officially we seem to be at the end of this charade of yours. The information you've given us has all panned out. The courts in several countries are going to be fully occupied for the next few years."

Krycek merely looked at him with those expressionless eyes of his.

Skinner had been hoping that the man would break down under the conditions he was forced to endure. Others had done so. He had been hoping that some of the information would have proven false so that there would have been an excuse to keep the man here, confined like the rat he was. But like the survivor he was, Krycek would soon be allowed his freedom, even though, in Skinner's mind, there would be no dishonour in not keeping their side of the bargain. Why should they? When had Krycek kept his? He had betrayed them while posing as a member of the F.B.I. He had killed Fox Mulder's father. Been involved in the abduction of Dana Scully, in the killing of her sister. Had stolen government secrets, used them to his own benefit. Had provided Mulder with information that had led him into near death experiences. Had beaten Skinner up, had killed him, had controlled him for his Masters' pleasure.

Which was the purpose of this day's visit, one that had not been cleared through channels.

A personal one.

One that was of no great importance to anyone other than Walter S. Skinner.

One that might give him his excuse to toss Krycek back into his cage and throw away the key.

"Those with whom you made this deal are very pleased that things have turned out so well for them. I, on the other hand, feel it is time for us to work out a little deal of our own."

Again no response from Krycek. Skinner felt an overwhelming urge to beat the nothingness out of the other man's face. Instead, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and fisted them. It would not do for the guards to see what he wanted so much to do that he was almost shaking with the effort it took to restrain himself.. It was enough that Krycek knew.

Krycek moved his chin up as though offering it for Skinner's pleasure.

Skinner discovered he was grinding his teeth. Consciously, he forced himself to relax his jaw.

"In all the documentation that you handed over, there was nothing about the nanocytes."

"Should there have been?" Krycek's voice was raspy as though he seldom used it any more. Probably he didn't. No one spoke here to him unless it was to issue orders. And then conversation was not permitted. The only people Krycek had spoken to in the last five months were those who had been sent with questions. And even those meetings had been fewer and fewer over the last weeks.

"You did say you were turning over everything, Krycek. Seems to me that you really haven't kept up your side of the deal. Hope you're finding your quarters comfortable because you may be spending the rest of your life in them."

Finally Krycek's face shifted from blankness to reveal some emotion. Just not the emotion that Skinner had been expecting.

He smiled.

"Frankly, Skinner, I would have thought that you'd have preferred to keep that information under wraps. Not much chance of promotion up into the power echelons if it were known that you were controllable. And had been controlled." Krycek smiled again at the effort with which Skinner forced himself to remain in his chair. "No, I thought that information should be something kept between us. Besides, I knew that you'd jump at any excuse to keep me in a...ah...secure environment and I didn't intend for that to happen."

Skinner's smile was cold. "I find that hard to believe, Krycek. In fact, you want to know what I believe?"

Krycek was once more expressionless and silent.

"I think," Skinner leaned forward in his chair, "that there is no information on the nanocytes left anywhere. If there were, there would have been some reference to them somewhere in all the material that you handed over. There was too much of it for you to have had the time to go through everything and remove any reference to them. Orgel's name popped up in a couple of places, but only as one of their scientists. Nothing about his work."

Skinner sat back, took his hands out of his pockets and clasped them together on his belt. "No. I think that you have nothing left to deal with, Krycek."

Krycek cocked his head to one side, not looking at all perturbed by Skinner's comments. "Do you have a cell phone on you?"

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "A cell phone? Why? Is there someone you want to call?"

Krycek nodded. "Well, that I want you to call." He smiled again, a sure, confident smirk that had Skinner tensing up again. "Just to prove to you that I still control the nanos."

Skinner glared. "Really?"

Krycek shrugged, as best he could, restrained as he was. "Insurance, Skinner. Did you think I would place myself into your or anybody else's hands without insurance? You want the palm pilot and all the info that was extracted from the documentation on the nanos. I want my freedom. I shall prove to you that I have that information and, if you want it, you will keep to the agreement."

Skinner slowly stood, anger radiating off him in waves. "Someone else has this information?"

Krycek nodded. "And before you find yourself using that old cliché of 'We have ways of making you talk,' let me tell you that yes, with drugs, you probably could get certain information out of me that you could use, but it wouldn't help. My partner and I took that into consideration. I have no idea what password he'll accept until he gives me a certain clue. And can you chance that the information I'll give you will provide you with the appropriate password?

"I know that you don't really believe me so, if you'll get a cell phone... Oh, you can put as many tracers onto it as you like. Makes no difference. If you'll get a cell phone, I'll give you a number to call. Just to prove to you that I'm not lying."

It took more time for Skinner to arrange for a cell phone in the interview room than it took to make arrangements that whatever signal went out of the room would be tracked. Krycek spent that time sitting quietly in his chair, head bowed, eyes closed.

"All right." Skinner took his chair again, cell phone in hand. "Show time, Krycek."

Krycek slowly raised his head, opened his eyes. Skinner punched in the 13 digits as Krycek rhymed them off.

Skinner held the phone to his ear, eyes firmly holding Krycek's.

There was one ring. Then nothing.. The line went dead.

Skinner glared at the phone in his hand. He was about to make some disparaging remark when the pain hit, like a knife slicing through him. It rapidly increased so sharply that he couldn't find the breath to scream. He dropped the phone, crumpling up onto the floor, writhing in the grip of pain that he remembered all too well from his nightmares.

The guards rushed in, quickly freed Krycek from his chair and dragged him out as the prison personnel ran to deal with Skinner.

Three days later, Krycek was once more escorted to the interview room. He staggered more than usual as he hadn't been allowed much sleep in the intervening days. Interrogation had been almost constant as to the cause of Assistant Director Skinner's breakdown. All Krycek would say was that he would speak only to Skinner. He said it once, then remained silent.

Skinner didn't look any better than he did. He was pale in spite of the veins still faintly blue on his face and his hands trembled like an old man's.

Skinner waited until they were alone, under the watchful glare of more than the usual quota of guards and cameras. Under protest, the audio part of the taping mechanism had been turned off.

"I take it the call was a signal that the nanos were to be activated. That they are not activated by the call itself."

Krycek nodded.

"There have been two more...episodes since the call. I assume that they will continue until you are released."

Krycek had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Insurance," he whispered. "The deal still holds. I go free, you get the palm pilot and the info. There is a time limit to this. If it is not met, then the nanos have been programmed to attack on a sporadic sequence. You'll never know when or how hard they'll hit. Your decision, Skinner. The pleasure of knowing that I'm rotting alive in this place or your living a pain-free life."

There really wasn't any option. "How do we work this out?"

Krycek nodded. "Got your cell phone? Punch in these numbers and go back to your office. You'll get instructions in the next hour or so."

Skinner's hand trembled as he punched in the numbers. Again the phone rang once before going dead. He waited for the pain. It still hadn't come when, sitting in his office, his computer signalled that a message had appeared in his inbox.

That night, Krycek was led out of the prison, wearing his own clothes which hung on him. His feet were chained, but with enough leeway so that he could walk without shuffling. His hands -- because he had been given back his prosthetic -- were manacled in front of him and attached to a chain that went around his waist.

His escorts led him to the large black sedan where Skinner sat waiting for him behind the wheel. Neither man said anything as Krycek settled in the passenger seat, was belted in, the door shut and the escort marched back to their duties.

Skinner glared at the man who sat staring in front of him as if this were just an everyday occurrence. He had been so certain that the rat was going to break, that he would have his revenge on the man for what he had done to him that he had never envisioned this day. He found the pain of disappointment almost as sharp as that of the nanos.

After a minute, he put the car into gear and took off for the destination that had been specified in the e-mail message. He had been advised to come alone with Krycek as the sender's patience was at an end and he hoped Skinner would not want the blood of innocent people on his hands if the exchange did not go as intended. He would be watched to ensure that he followed instructions.

They had been driving for about ten minutes when Skinner's cell phone rang. As ordered, he was carrying one that received e-mail messages. The location, it informed him, had been changed. And he had a time limit to get to it before consequences.

With a curse, Skinner quickly changed direction, heading for the new location.

Krycek, head back against the seat rest, eyes still closed, smiled. "Think Mulder will be able to follow that manoeuver on your part?"

Skinner cursed again, under his breath. After a few miles, he ventured, "What makes you think that Mulder is following us? Your partner's instructions were quite clear on the matter."

Krycek opened his eyes, turned his head so that he could see Skinner's face, green in the reflected light of the dashboard . "Mulder would feel that you shouldn't be doing this without back-up. That, since he no longer is with the F.B.I., he can do so on his own, without clearing it with anyone. Not even you. Though we both know that even if you had ordered him to stay out of this, he wouldn't have listened. He's rather predictable, is Mulder."

Skinner found he was grinding his teeth again.

The new location was a small plateau, about twenty miles away from the prison. The road to it went from paved to gravel, gradually narrowing so that it was wide enough for only one car at a time. Skinner pulled up into the clearing, parked the car, as per instructions, by the shrub/tree line that circled the open space. He opened the car door, got out and looked around, trying to see something, anything, in the Stygian night.

The site and the night had been well chosen, whether by purpose or by chance. There was no moon, no stars. The only light was in the far distance, that of the city's reflection in the night sky. There was no sign of anyone's presence.

The cell phone rang again. With a scowl of restrained anger, Skinner hit the correct code for his e-mail.

"I've been ordered to take you out of the car and remove your restraints." Skinner opened the passenger door and placed the muzzle of his gun against Krycek's throat. Krycek's head went back in his attempt to keep from choking. Carefully, one handed, Skinner unlocked the chains holding Krycek's feet together then released the handcuffs from the waist chain. He didn't remove the cuffs but he did stand and remove the gun from Krycek's throat.

"Out."

Unfortunately, Krycek complied without protest, without making any kind of move that would have given Skinner the excuse he so wanted to use the gun on the man.

Following instructions, Skinner moved the two of them to a position that was about centre to the clearing. He didn't like being this much in the open, but he figured Krycek would make a good shield if it turned out that he needed one. And, as Krycek had foreseen, Mulder would by now be positioned somewhere in the shrub/tree line, covering him.

The two men stood there, silently. Skinner kept his gun against the back of Krycek's head and nervously inspected the shadows for the rat's partner, ears on the alert for any sound.

When it came, it was from above, not from ground level.

A helicopter, matte black against the night.

It hovered for a bare breath over the clearing, almost distinguishable from the sky behind it then a flash and the sound and sight of a car exploding back along the road.

Skinner cursed.

"The next one has your name on it, Mr. Mulder." The voice from the helicopter was distorted, almost mechanical. "Do come out where we can all see you. Very wise of you, Mr. Mulder. Throw your weapon ahead of you, now face down on the grass, if you don't mind."

The chopper rose several feet higher, as though widening its perspective. "Mr. Skinner, you will release Mr. Krycek completely and allow him to come this way. If you should try anything, Mr. Mulder will pay for your actions."

Skinner cursed all the while he removed the cuffs, as he watched a stooping Krycek make for the helicopter which had dropped to hover just above ground so that all Krycek had to do was throw himself in.

As the helicopter rose, two things happened. First, a small bundle was tossed out of the side that Krycek had entered. Then, as the chopper rose even higher, there was another flash and Skinner's car exploded in a ball of flame.

By the time Skinner and Mulder had confirmed that each was unharmed, both cars were blazing and the helicopter had disappeared into the blackness of the night.

The bundle proved to contain a palm pilot and several computer disks filled with Orgel's notes and those of others who had conducted experiments using the nanocytes.

It took the local fire authorities twenty minutes to make their way to the site of the explosions.

Sixteen years later
(still part of the prologue)

"They're on their way."

The man with the receiver in his ear nodded at the information, even though the speaker was miles away.

"The Sheriff told him that it would take about an hour to get out to your place."

The man grinned. "Pissed off that much, was he?"

There was the sound of laughter. "Man, that Big Federal City Suit pulled up here with both his driver and his Pee Ay, and could barely keep his lip from curling about how backward we all are. Told Duggan that his men would be accompanying him, even though Duggan knows that you're expecting only the man by himself. When Duggan reminded him of the arrangement, he informed us that he would find his own way up there."

The speaker snickered. "'Course the mere the sight of them suits was enough to shut everybody up. Even when they waved some bills in front of their noses. Suit finally had to admit that he needed to abide by the agreement and the sheriff kindly condescended to drive him out."

The Deputy laughed again. "Man, they even tried old Freddie, in the bar. He said he'd be right interested in telling them where you were, but he wouldn't show them. So they gave him the hundred and he snatched it, told them that you were somewhere up in the hills behind the town and high-tailed it out of there before they could grab that bill back."

This time the man joined in the laughter. "Tell Fergus that the bar tab this weekend is on me."

"The whole weekend?"

The man shrugged. "Sure, why not. Friday night to Sunday midnight. Not every day we get to kick Big Federal City Suit ass around here."

The man settled in his location and waited the arrival of the Big Federal City Suit in question, aka Walter S. Skinner, retired Deputy Director of the F.B.I., recent member of the President's Counsel on Domestic Terrorism. All round big-wig.

In D.C.

He chortled to himself. Must have been a bit of a shock for the man to discover that here in the hills of Tennessee, his name and reputation carried no weight. That he was nothing but an outsider. Even with the local Law.

Hell, even after sixteen years, they were still outsiders. Until someone from the real Outside came in and stuck their nose where it didn't belong. Then, lines drew up and they were on the inside.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the bar bill was picked up once a year in maintenance of good relationships with the locals. And that they kept their noses clean and where they belonged.

He checked his watch. Usually it took maybe half an hour from what passed as the local town to get up here. The fact that Duggan was taking the long road meant that he had taken great offense. And that he was making certain that his passenger wouldn't be able to find his way back here again, not using the road anyway.

There were other means of finding their homestead, but they had prepared for that as well. They didn't believe in leaving anything up to chance. Probably why it had taken Skinner this long to track them down.

When the car stopped at the end of the path, it was so covered with dirt that its colour was completely hidden. The man shook his head. He wondered, in passing, if Skinner still had a spine left. He had an idea over which roads Duggan had taken him. Federal Suits often forgot that the local constabulary had to adapt to the environment, not the other way around. It may have been the Twenty First Century in the City, but here in the Hills, it was still the time of the Civil War.

"What do you mean, I just follow that path?"

Skinner was speaking through clenched teeth. He had expected to be treated as befitted his rank and now this toothpick-chewing excuse for a law enforcement officer had informed him this was as far as he was going.

"Just that. You follow that path and someone will meet you. And stay on it, don't go awandering off."

Skinner's eyebrows couldn't rise any higher. He sent the man the glare that had been known to make Assistant Directors break out in perspiration. To no effect. The man just got out of his car, yawning loudly as he stretched and looked around the vista.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, already writing in his head the report that would see this man up on insubordination charges, Skinner opened his door and got out of the car.

They were at the foot of a mountain, another one. Mainly bare rock and boulders, with sparse ground cover, some shrubs and what looked to be -- to one side -- a thinned out forest that had never recovered from its thinning. At least, he thought, they would not be driving over the rutted things that passed for roads in these parts. He doubted his insides were ever going to forget the journey up here.

Mind you, he started up the path, it was just the kind of place a rat would find to hide out.

"Stay on the path, Mr. Skinner. Wouldn't want to have to explain to your driver and that fancy Pee Ay you have what happened to you."

Before Skinner had time to ask, the air broke with the sound of howling and baying. From out of one of the small dips that made the non-treed side so perfect for hiding, there came a small pack of dogs. Skinner counted seven of them. "What the hell..."

"They won't bother you so long as you stay on the path."

Skinner took stock. They were a variety of sizes, most seeming to be a mixture of some kind, though two of them reminded him too much of wolves for comfort. They had taken up positions to either side of the path, heads down, ruffs raised, mouths open displaying excellent teeth, all growling menacingly.

Skinner turned his body slightly so that he could keep an eye on the animals yet be ready to take a run for the security of the Sheriff's vehicle if necessary. "What happens if I should take a step off this path?"

Duggan had cleaned himself a space on the hood of the car. He sat back against it, arms crossed, watching the drama playing out in front of him. "Well, few years back," he drawled, "we had a couple of kids who decided to test that very idea. One of them lost half an ass cheek and the other had to have his leg amputated."

Skinner was shocked. "Why weren't these animals shot?"

Duggan shrugged. "What for? They were only protecting what's theirs."

"I suppose," Skinner allowed his unease out as scorn, "that no charges were laid either."

"No. Mr. Krycek was very understanding about the situation."

"Mr. Krycek?"

The Sheriff shrugged. "Wasn't like the kids didn't know the place is private property. That trespassers aren't appreciated. And the kids did break the law. Still," Duggan exaggerated his drawl, " it was thought pretty decent of Mr. Krycek not to press charges."

The man listening hid his smile behind his hand. That little incident had gotten the community their own infirmary staffed by a full-time nurse with links to a local hospital.

Skinner continued up the path, careful of his gestures. The pack accompanied him step for step.

Still, thought the man, he had to give Skinner credit: he wasn't turning back.

There was a small dip where the path took a turn to the left, so that though Skinner could hear Duggan whistling to himself, he could no longer see him. There the pack moved in front of him, barring his way. Skinner had the presence of mind to stay very still. He had no trouble hearing the engine coming down the path.

This Hummer was the real thing, thought Skinner. Not one of those remodeled things for aging Hollywood action heroes. And he didn't doubt that the reason for its being here was utility. He had never experienced roads -- if you could call them that -- like the ones in these hills.

It stopped about twenty feet from him. The driver opened the door and stepped out, rifle in hand. After a moment, Alex Krycek lay his rifle on the hood of the Hummer, whistled, and the dogs, all but one, disappeared.

The two men stared at each other, quickly assessing the changes time had made, understanding that though older, neither was less of a threat to the other than he had once been.

The man watching knew that Alex was noticing that Skinner hadn't aged all that well. He looked older than his 66 years. His hair was a thin fringe of white that he kept clipped close to his scalp. The glasses were thicker. The face tighter, more bulldoggish. The dark grey suit, though tailor made, couldn't hide the fact that the body was thinner, less muscular than when they had last met. Mind you, that was made up by the aura that Power had given him. Skinner had risen high in the power echelon and he wore that power well.

The man tried to see Alex from Skinner's eyes. He too had aged. Well, it had been sixteen years! But he carried those years better than Skinner did. He was dressed casually, in pale washed jeans and a heavy navy sweater. His face was not as tight as it once had been. He still had hair, more grey now than sable, which he kept fairly short. The watcher would have liked Alex to wear his hair longer but Alex refused to go along with that idea.

Alex had put weight on. Hell, that hadn't been hard. By the time he had gotten a good look at Alex in the helicopter, he had been ready to go back and blast both Skinner and Mulder to kingdom come. But all Alex had wanted was peace and quiet and so he'd brought him here to these hills and the property he had bought up for them to hide in.

The man aligned his rifle sights on the man in the suit. Those first weeks, months Alex had had to relearn what it was like living without being under constant surveillance. It had taken him time to mentally accept that he could piss or take a crap without being filmed from a variety of cameras, that the door would not be opened every few hours so that the room would be searched, so that he would be ordered to strip and his body searched as well.. That if he wanted to sit in a chair and read all day, he could. That if he wanted to go outside, he could, and could walk until he could barely stagger back to house and bed.

He still had the occasional nightmare of his time in secret custody.

For that alone, thought the man, Skinner should die. Hell, wasn't like Duggan would do anything much about it. He and the lawman had a sort of understanding about certain situations. Sometimes even up here the Law couldn't get the people put away who needed to be put away. Sometimes those people disappeared. Duggan never looked very hard in those cases.

He raised his head from the sight and instead focused on the two men who still hadn't broken silence.

The dog edged closer to Alex. She was a terrier crossbreed, tenacious and faithful to one master, and one master only. The man watching had the scars to prove it. Hell, they couldn't have a fight -- not that they had many of them, but they were both stubborn men and, now and then, things did flare up and the air needed clearing -- without that damn dog jumping in to Alex's defense.

Skinner shifted his weight from one side to the other and Laika growled, showing her teeth.

Damn, but he was going to remember to give her an extra treat tonight for that. He had been against this meeting from the beginning, but Alex had insisted that Skinner was no threat to them. The immunity documents were all properly signed and sealed. There were copies in the proper places and, since the court system and Justice were still dealing with the fallout of his side of the deal, there was no way that Skinner could try to weasel out of keeping his end of the deal.

The man hadn't been so sure, but he had left the final decision to Alex. Didn't mean that he couldn't provide security for this meeting.

"Well," Krycek broke the silence, " you wanted to see me and you have. What do you want, Skinner?"

"Answers." Skinner's tone was brusque, officious. "And the truth."

Krycek shook his head. "The truth. You sound just like Mulder."

"Mulder's dead."

Krycek shrugged. "Had to happen. As it will to all of us."

"He...disintegrated." Skinner still couldn't believe the manner of Mulder's death.

Krycek nodded. "Well, there was only so much the vaccine could do. It brought him back to life without allowing the Replicant to develop, but the Rebel scientists didn't know how long it would last. It was very experimental, even for them."

Skinner gave his head a little shake, as though ridding it of his last memories of a man whose body had decomposed in front of their eyes. It had taken only four days for Mulder to go from a healthy man who was playfully tossing a child, his son, up in the air, to a gelled mass on a hospital bed.

"He barely had three years."

Again, Krycek shrugged as though he really didn't care. The watcher knew that he hadn't been that nonchalant about Mulder's death nor the manner of it, but as Alex had said, the vaccine had been experimental. Still was, as far as they knew.

Laika growled again and Krycek allowed his hand to rest on her head. "I agreed to a twenty minute meeting, Skinner. The clock's running."

"You have something to get back to?" Skinner's bitterness coloured the air.

Krycek just shrugged again. "Was that the only answer you were looking for?"

Skinner got himself under control. It was a visible effort. The watcher wondered just what the hell reason Skinner had for coming out here?

"The nanocytes."

Krycek nodded, showing he was paying attention.

"The information you dropped out..."

"That was the deal between us, Skinner. You got all the data that I had and I went free."

Skinner waved his hand as though relegating that to the sidelines. The gesture upset Laika whose head lowered, lips curling around her open mouth, displaying all those fine teeth that she had.

"'Sokay, babe." Krycek voice put an end to the sound but not to the animal's wary stance.

"The information, was that all you had? All of it?"

Krycek cocked his head to one side. "All that I ever found."

"There's not more of it somewhere else?"

Krycek grimaced. "Look, Skinner, I know what you thought and probably still think of me, but I said I would give you all that I had and I have. If there's any more, then I don't know about it."

"Would there have been another palm pilot?"

Krycek couldn't prevent the flash of irritation that crossed his face. The watcher focused on his rifle sight again. "No. There were only two palm pilots that were programmed for the nanocytes. One was for Orgel, the other for you. There may have been -- and probably were -- other test programs that were set up in one of the lab computers, but you were given copies of all that and, besides, I'm pretty sure that particular lab was among the ones that I and the Rebels blew up. Why? Is someone threatening you with them?"

Skinner's face iced over. As though having to force each word out involuntarily, he spat, "No. But I have cancer and it's a form that they've never seen before. It's not responding to any kind of treatment. Scully thought it might be a reaction to the nanos."

Krycek shrugged again. "Seems to me that I remember reading that unless activated, the nanos played no part at all in human biology."

"Well," muttered Skinner, "it seems that might be a false theorem."

Krycek sighed, looked down at Laika who was still completely focused on Skinner. "Look, Skinner, I have nothing to give to you. I'm sorry about the cancer, but I handed over everything I had on the nanos. That was my part of the bargain and I kept to it. The only thing I might be able to give you is the name of my contact with the Rebels, assuming he's still alive and in touch with them. I've been out of the game for sixteen years. I have no idea if any of the information I had then is still valid."

The watcher could see the knowledge that he wanted -- needed -- this information stuck in Skinner's craw. He had to clear his throat and even then nothing came out. Krycek went to the Hummer, reached inside for a pad and something to write with. He jotted down a name and a telephone number.

With Laika heeling at his side, Krycek approached the man in the suit and carefully extended his hand with the piece of paper. Eyes holding his, Skinner swallowed and then, with an almost reluctant nod of his head, he took the paper and slipped it into his suit pocket without looking at it.

Krycek turned back to his vehicle. "Skinner. A word of advice, which you don't have to take. If you want a faster, smoother trip back to town, you might start by apologizing for your Big City attitude to Duggan. And Skinner, there will be no further meetings between the two of us."

At Krycek's signal, Laika jumped onto the front seat and moved over to the passenger side. Standing by the open door, Krycek waited for the man from his past to find his way down the path, back to the dirt encrusted car and the local Sheriff.. He could hear the sound of an engine starting and knew from the way Duggan was pulling out that Skinner hadn't apologized.

Alex slowly counted to twenty, absorbing the peacefulness of the vista. "Okay. You can come out now."

The man who had been part of the shadows now moved out of them. He was dressed in relish camouflage, a similarly patterned balaclava over his head. Gloves and soft boots completed the outfit. His expertise with his weapon was belied by the casual way he held it, as though it was nothing dangerous at all. As he approached Alex, he pulled the balaclava from over his head and grinned unrepentantly at his partner.

Alex grinned back. He shook his head in false exasperation. "Misha."

The man called Misha shook his head back in exactly the same manner. "Alexei."

In exactly the same tone.

Because, other than the fact the he was chronologically twelve years younger than Alex, that his hair was longer, that he had two arms, Misha was the exact double of Alex Krycek.

End of Prologue

The Story
(at long last!)

The first time I saw Alex Krycek, he killed me.

I have since learnt that was pretty much customary behaviour for him.

That was also the day he saved my life.

I suppose I should start at the beginning.

I am a clone. A VC. A vatted clone. A clone created from donor DNA but developed in a vat whose liquid compound helps speed up physical growth so that what should have taken some eighteen, twenty years on the outside took a mere four.

The Consortium had been playing around with cloning and genetics for decades longer than scientists in the Outside World. I remember reading about Dolly the sheep in the late 90's and laughing my head off.

There were other kinds of clones the Consortium had also developed before they had refined the suspension I and others like me were "born" from.

There were their first successes, the drones. Brainless copies who could be taught a set routine and who would follow it until they disintegrated or were eliminated.

There were the WC's. Womb clones. Clones who had been implanted into women's uteri and allowed to follow the normal "human" route through birth and aging.

Eventually, they concluded that took too much time and concentrated on vatting.

There were other benefits for them on the vatting. WC's were harder to manipulate. Brain wipes or memory alteration could be dangerous. Some of their early experiments in that ended up with no brain at all. And then it was hard to control their environments totally for the number of years necessary for the end product the Consortium required.

Which in some cases -- my case -- was the perfect soldier. The perfect killing machine. Someone who could be aimed at a target and let loose to fulfill a contract and hurry on home. Well, back to the lab at any rate.

Someone who obeyed without question.

Which, to be honest, as much as I can be, was not me.

There were fourteen of us successfully vatted at the same time. All from the same DNA source. We were "born" adults with absolutely no memory of anything. They, our scientific mid-wives, then implanted us with just enough memory from their data banks so that we could walk, talk, and listen. And then they handed us over to our trainers.

Well, those of us who survived the memory implant. Twelve of us were handed over to the first set of trainers, who were in charge of our physical development. We were checked out constantly for co- ordination, ability to learn, to accept pain, to continue training when muscles were screaming for cessation.

Nine of us went on to the next level of training.

Here they incorporated education as well as continued physical training. Languages, reading skills, mathematics. Weapons training.

And again, those who were deemed inferior were weeded out. Terminated.

By us, the others. To prove our superiority.

It was at this stage that I realized I was different from the others. That I had questions that I wanted answered. Fortunately for me, another clone had the same "flaw" and beat me to the punch. His immediate termination taught me to keep quiet and to go along with the flow.

So we were "promoted" to the next level. Six of us.

Our new trainers were on us constantly, alert for the slightest flaw. They added a variety of experiments to our daily schedule: sleep deprivation, torture, drug interrogation and provided us with the mechanisms to handle all they could dish out without actually killing us.

One broke and was pulled out of line at morning inspection. The five of us were each given a Glock and told to shoot him. We found out later that there was only one live round in all five of the guns. He stupidly made a break for it and we fired pretty much as one, thereby ensuring that we lived to continue training.

That night, as I lay on the narrow cot in the dormitory we all slept in, I knew it would be only a matter of time before my flaw was discovered and I too would be terminated.

Still, I made it through that level of training without giving myself away.

I did wonder if the others were like me, hiding their feelings, their questions. I finally concluded that three of them were the perfect weapons that our developers had hoped for. I came to that conclusion when we were assigned personal termination targets. People who were brought in to a large enclosed space and let loose for us to deal with.

We were given deadlines which were gradually shortened so that we shot to kill on sight. Then they had us kill by other means. They armed the target and sent us in literally naked to deal with our assignment.

I sometimes awoke in the night with the memory of that day's training. If the others did, I never caught them at it.

The fifth one of us finally failed one assignment. Because of sloppiness. They gave him several other chances, but he kept on taking longer and making messier kills. He liked to play with his target, liked killing it as slowly as possible. They tried a mind wipe to train him out of this "bad habit" but it never took. He was finally terminated the day they caught him feeding on his kill.

So that left me and three others to move on to the next stage of training.

Actual outside kills.

At first, they sent us out with a team to ensure that not only was the deed done, but that we would come back. Then they ostensibly sent us out alone, but all the time keeping us under surveillance. By then the investment they had in us was considerable. And they didn't want to lose their investment.

Then, finally, the day when they really did send us out alone.

They gave us the target, a time-line and a pick-up location.

It was the second trial, I think, that gave me away.

I had no trouble locating the target. Eliminating it.

But then I had time to spare and, instead of heading immediately for the pick-up locale as the others did, I spent some time just walking around, looking at life as it was lived outside a training base. I really should have known that they would have the target under supervision.

Still, no one questioned the time discrepancy between hit and pick-up.

Not that time, nor the next. Not even the time after that.

I think I clued in when the time-line was suddenly extended by several hours.

Apart from the little I had read, my little excursions, I had no real experience of the Outside. I suppose I could have tried to make a run for it, but I knew that they would find me. I knew nothing about surviving in this world.

So, I hit my target like a good little weapon and then spent the rest of my time -- what I calculated would be pretty much the rest of my life -- wandering around. I went to a bookstore and read bits and pieces on subject matters that I had never been allowed. I wandered into a museum and looked at a history I would never belong to. I found some money on the sidewalk and used it to buy myself something that was being sold on the street from a container that was attached to something that looked like a bicycle. Ice cream. And when the man asked me what flavour, I found myself asking for chocolate. Not a taste that I was familiar with.

Damn, but that was good!

So, come pick-up time, I went back and knew that I was on my way to termination.

They waited until all of us were back in the training area.

By now they were sure of the three others, but they still didn't believe in taking chances. The head trainer was accompanied by the usual armed bodyguards whose faces were masked with balaclavas.

The head trainer gestured for me to come forward.

I did.

"You disappointed me, Clone. I had thought you would be one of our successes."

I shrugged, slipped my hands into my pants pockets. "Ty soplivy soplyak," I said, smiling at him.

Now I did wonder where the hell that had come from, as it certainly had not been part of any language class. Nor was it from any language I had been hearing on the Outside. Certainly wasn't in the English the head trainer had been speaking.

Still, he understood what I had said. And didn't like hearing it from me. That much was obvious from the stunned glare he sent my way. He took a handgun and handed it to his favourite.

Before my fellow VC had the opportunity to terminate me, the bodyguards suddenly began shooting. Not at me. Well, not immediately. The three other mes had their heads blown off while I stood there. Then, as the rifles turned on the head trainer and his staff, the bodyguard to the right of me took aim and shot me high in the chest.

I remember hitting the floor and that was it.

Not that I was dead. I came to fairly quickly to find that I alone was alive. Probably because I had been shot only in the chest. The others were all dead from head wounds. Even if they had been shot elsewhere, they had also been shot in the head. All except me.

Not that I took the time to appreciate that. I managed to pull myself up onto my knees. I made my way to the weapon that was supposed to have terminated me and slipped it under my waistband. Not that I had any delusions of freedom. I just wanted to take someone with me.

I dragged myself up onto my feet and staggered to the door, all the time bothered by a certain smell that didn't fit. I opened the door and then clued in. Smoke. The whole complex had been set on fire. And apart from this door, there was no way out of the area I was in.

I remember thinking that I would prefer not to burn to death. Not that I had any real choice in the matter. In the hallway or here in the training area. Either way I was going to die. Shit, I remember thinking, I hadn't survived this long to go down without trying.

So, off I went.

And then something really strange happened.

As I was staggering down the hallway, using the wall to keep me upright, a monster came out of the smoke right in front of me. It had a face like a canister. It stopped for a moment, made some kind of sound and then, the next thing I knew, I was hoisted over the monster's shoulder and it was taking me into the smoke filled hallway.

I don't remember anything else of that day.

I woke up in some private infirmary, being looked after by, of all people, nuns!

I was kept sedated for some time and then the woman who identified herself as Mother Directress informed me that I was safe, that I was to remain here until further notice and did I want anything to read?

I spent six months in that cloister. Getting better. Reading my way through their library. Learning to be a human being.

Being able to ask any question and get answers without having to worry about termination.

All except one. They wouldn't tell me the name of my benefactor. The nuns I saw every day because they didn't know. Mother Directress because she told me the one time I brought it up that I would know when it was deemed time for me to know.

I suppose I could have challenged her on it. One of the great pleasures I had in my time there was arguing. Debating, Mother Librarian called it. But Mother Directress was not the kind to encourage debate. Shit, she reminded me of the head trainer too much for me to try anything with her.

Then, one day, Mother Directress sent for me. But when I entered her office, she wasn't there. Instead there was a man standing, looking out the window, his back to the door.

I scanned the room, seeing more than a dozen potential weapons, and was deciding what to try for when the man turned.

It was me.

Well, an older me. A slightly more battered me. A me who looked me over with discerning eye.

"You look better than you did the last time I saw you."

Shit. My voice as well, though more sarcastic. Speaking Russian.

Hell, I hadn't survived training as long as I had without learning anything.

I stood very still and kept my mouth shut.

The man went to sit on the edge of Mother Directress's desk. I hoped she would open the door and catch him at it. I would have liked to see which one of them would win that battle.

"My name," said the man, "is Alex Krycek. I'm the one who shot you."

He waited. I suppose he wanted to see how I was going to react to that information.

"Are you also the one who carried me out?"

It took a moment or two but he nodded.

"Who did not shoot me in the head as all the others were?"

Again a small nod. The expression on his face was beginning to shift to amusement.

I shifted my weight to one hip, cocked my head and smiled at him.

"So, are you going to tell me why, when it was obvious that no one and nothing was supposed to survive that inferno, why it is that I have?"

Alex shrugged in exactly the same manner that I did.

I had to push it. I seriously wanted to know. Needed to know. Maybe the clone weapon that I had been could have let it drop, but for the last six months, I had been learning all sorts of human traits and tenacity was one that I found particularly pleasing.

"I should have been killed like the others. I'm no less dangerous than they were. So why wasn't I? Couldn't have been the sight of me. I was there in quadruple. What made you think I was worth keeping alive? Or am I assuming too much? That you've kept me alive only to kill me?"

Alex shook his head. "I'm not here to kill you. Or to send you out to kill and be killed. I would, however, like the answer to a question."

I smiled. "Ask away. No one here gets terminated for asking a question."

He nodded and I got from his expression that he probably knew more about me than I did.

"When you stepped up to be...terminated, you swore at the man. Why did you use that particular insult?"

An insult? I was alive because of some insult?

I thought of making up some story then decided against it. I stood at attention and looked him straight in the face.

As I had the head trainer.

"I have no idea. I'd never heard it before that I can remember. It just popped out of my mouth. And before you ask, yes, I know we hadn't been speaking Russian. It just seemed to be incredibly appropriate, especially as it seemed to hit home."

Alex nodded, holding onto my eyes. "You got a name?"

I shrugged. "Back there, I was 'Clone'. In here, I'm 'Young Man'."

Alex stood up. "Well, I suppose you'd better be a Krycek, for what that's worth. And Michael's innocuous enough."

So that's how I became Michael Krycek. Misha to my friends.

And to my lover.

Not right away.

Neither the Misha nor the loving.

I went with Alex to another location where he was certain I would be safe. He stayed with me, just a few weeks, I guess to be certain that I could survive on my own. That I wouldn't just plain disappear. That I had something to keep me busy.

A project.

Alex introduced me to my first computer and gave me my first hacking lessons. I have to admit I took to that like a duck to water.

And then he turned me loose to gather all the information I could on various Consortium projects.

He'd show up every now and then, just to see how things were going.

I think he knew right away that I would always cover his back if he was around. He used his time with me to catch up on his sleep. To recover from whatever had occurred since his last visit.

Which is probably why he didn't have the resources at hand to deal with the information I had for him about a year after he'd given me the project. Why my nose has this bump on its bridge.

From where he broke it.

We'd never really talked about it, but we had always assumed that I was Alex's clone. That he was the original.

He wasn't.

What he was was one of their WC successes. A womb clone.

He didn't handle that information well. I guess you could say he freaked out. First thing I knew, I was on the floor, nose throbbing, bleeding all over my sweater. He came for me again and I saw death in his eyes, as I had in the head trainer's that day. And that day I learned that no matter how well trained I had been, Alex, even with one arm, was better. I had survived training. Alex had survived in the Outside. I was struggling for breath when he suddenly pulled away. I didn't see him again for several months.

Now and then he passes his finger over my nose. "You should go for plastic surgery," he'll say. "Get a new nose. A new face. Take your share of the money and go live a real life."

I no longer try to explain to him that will never happen.

"Ty soplivy soplyak," I answer.

It took me a long time to track down the information on our original. A kid whose parents were scientists with the Consortium. Russian. Who, like Bill Mulder, had given up the child whose DNA was conducive to replication. Who didn't live to be as old as Samantha Mulder.

When Alex came back that time, we became lovers. Well, we had sex.

One of the things I had discovered when I was living with the nuns was that this thing I used to piss with had other uses. I guess while we'd been in training, they must had slipped something into our food so that our bodies had no sexual feelings. They hadn't wanted anything to detract us from their designated plan.

I had had the presence of mind not to ask the nuns about what my body was beginning to feel. Or how I should handle it. But I had found enough information in my reading to clue in.

Masturbation was still novel enough for me that I was more than satisfied with that form of sexual release at the time. Alex suddenly reappeared an afternoon I was lying on the couch, meat in hand.

I'll admit I was embarrassed.

He said nothing. Came over, sat down next to me and leaned over. Gave me my first blow job.

Shoot! Better than chocolate.

And that was about it. For the duration of his stay, we jacked each other off. And I learnt to give head from the way he blew me.

We never talked about the fact that we were both clones.

We never have. Not to this day. I doubt we ever will.

Before he left, Alex asked me to go through all the documentation and to assemble any and all references to Orgel's nanocytes experiments. Then to delete it from the main data. He also wanted me to pull out all and any references to the actual experimentation done on Samantha Mulder. Mulder, he said, didn't need to know what had actually been done to her.

He told me to set up some secure sites on the Internet where the main data could be stored for eventual downloading.

Then he asked me to hunt around for a new safe bolt hole. Somewhere in the continental United States where it would be safe to retire, should he live.

Then he disappeared again.

Nine months this time.

By the time I realized something had gone wrong, tracked him down to Tunisia, was getting ready to go in guns blazing to get him out, Marita-the-bitch had bought him out.

Meanwhile, I had found this land in the Tennessee mountains. Several hundred acres for sale by a coal mining company that had taken everything it wanted out of that part of the Appalachians and had now abandoned them. The land had been on the market for years. They were more than happy with the price I offered.

I had carefully checked out the lay of the land. Apart from a couple of sites, even a helicopter would have trouble finding a place to land. There were scatterings of tunnels that had been dug that went only down. Not that far down either as the coal in this part had not been of high grade quality.

There was a town...well, a village..nearby that lacked a great many amenities, but there was a larger centre not that far away. Besides Fed-Ex advertised they went anywhere.

I decided that our house should be built in the site of one of those empty mines.

Our, because if Alex thought he was going to ground alone, he would have to rethink his plans.

So, while I was trying to track Alex down, at the same time I paid for a select group of out of state construction people to come build us a small fortress. I personally flew them in with my new toy, a helicopter that I had gotten for a real bargain at a military equipment sale. The locals thought the mining company was up to something because I paid to use some of their trucks to haul in everything that was needed. I paid triple time -- cash -- so that in a matter of eighteen days, I flew the crew back home.

The house doesn't look like anything special. It looks like it's made of grey siding, the colour allowing it to blend in well against the bareness of the mountain. It's amazing what they can do with steel these days. The roof, what shows, is also steel. The veranda that runs the length of the front is wood, fire- retardant. Painted the same grey.

The house inside is open concept. The kitchen/dining/living room is L-shaped with windows -- bullet- proof glass, of course -- further opening up the space to the outside. The steel shutters which roll down are as effective at withstanding attack as is the house itself.

The enclosed areas are the library -- Alex's office, a john for visitors to use that also has the laundry facilities, and the bedroom with its ensuite bathroom. Complete with Jacuzzi, sauna and a tub deep and wide enough for two. Ditto the shower that's in the corner.

Did I explain that besides discovering the pleasures of my hand, I picked up the habit of long soaks and hot showers in the cloister? Washing in training had been cold, quick and efficient communal showers.

The back of the house is the next line of protection. Three floors of re-enforced concrete structures, constructed in the old mine itself, that we can easily move into to defend ourselves if necessary. With its own well in the lowest level, generators and a stockpile of supplies that would put any War-of-the- Worlds paranoid survivalist to shame.

It's also where I have my work area, on the middle level. Over the years I've added enough computers and satellite monitoring equipment to it that Alex says it reminds him of a NORAD bunker he once visited. It's also from there that I patrol our land, see to our security. Hacking into spy satellite systems is not much harder than anything else I've done.

The top area, which is on the same level as the house but deep inside the mountain, is a duplication of the outer house.

Not that it's been used much.

But it's there if needed.

Alex took one look at the set up and approved. By then, we had accepted that we often shared the same ideas about certain things without having to discuss them. Security was one of those things.

It was there in our new home that he finally fucked me.

It started out the usual way. Naked on our new bed, him giving me a blow job when he suddenly pulled away and got out of bed.

I protested with a loud moan.

He grinned this really wicked grin.

Shit! I still get hard when he flashes that particular grin at me.

He rummaged through his clothes and came up with a couple of small foil packs.

He took his time preparing me. He made me wait, dragged it out until I was almost screaming with frustration.

Then he taught me what else a dick was good for. He wasn't particularly gentle. Not rough either. Mind you, by that point, all I knew was that something was going to explode and I only hoped I would survive.

I assume he came. I know I did. A house made of steel, no matter how well insulated, has an incredible echo. If you scream loud enough. And I did.

By the time he left, there wasn't a place in the old homestead he hadn't fucked me in. And I was ready -- and willing -- anytime he was.

Before he left, he handed me a large box of condoms and a list of what he called "safe" places to experiment in. Sex, that is. A couple in Nashville, others in near-by states.

I went and tried all the clubs on that list. I found that I had no trouble getting men to come to me. I bottomed to some, topped others. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy all that. I did. Hell, I was young and still new to this sex thing. But it didn't take me long to realize that's all it was. Sex. A quick blow job, a fast hand job. An impersonal fuck. Satisfying at the moment, but that's all it was. A thing of the moment.

Not like with Alex.

With none of the holding. The teasing. The care.

The pleasure I got in knowing that when Alex screamed, I was responsible. The touching afterwards. Not much, but enough so that when one of us woke up, the other was at hand.

Convenient for dealing with nightmares.

Alex's nightmares.

I knew what I was and was to be from the beginning of my understanding. I don't have a problem with either. Alex, on the other hand, has history. And most of it not good. So, being close at hand made it easy for me to wake him before history replayed itself in his dreams. Made it nice to have an excuse to hold him and be held by him.

I found that though the release was enjoyable, I missed Alex. I threw the list away and went home.

So, while I worked on making the house more liveable, Alex went back out to deal with the remnants of the Consortium, Replicants and other things that go "Boo!" in the night.

I don't think that when he offered the DoJ the deal, he thought Skinner would be involved as much as he was.

Thank whoever keeps an eye on clones that we had prepared for any eventuality.

And I still wish I had gone back and blown him and Mulder up when I got a good look at Alex that night in the helicopter.

He may have been a clone like me, but damn, he was used to being in control of himself. Hell, even in Tunisia, he had taken care of himself. Now, more than ever after everything that had happened in the last couple of years, he needed it.

And for five months he had had none. In that glass cage they'd kept him in, they had controlled everything about his life. It was like being back in the silo, but instead of the darkness, now the light was neverending.

Shit, in the time they had him, he was never allowed a moment by himself, unwatched and unfilmed. Wasn't allowed anything to read. No TV. No radio. At the beginning, there were questions someone wanted answered but that distraction gradually disappeared so that he had nothing to keep him occupied but his thoughts.

Was never allowed to sleep in anything but the full light that they kept on him at all times.

Skinner would have crowed with victory if he had known how close Alex had been to breaking that night.

I managed to get him home before I realized just how bad he was.

He wouldn't let me near him. He had nightmares that had the house echoing with his screams, but he pulled away if I got within six feet of him.

I wanted to hold him. To help him deal with the after-effects. And he wouldn't let me.

That's when he told me to take my share of the Consortium accounts we have ferreted away in various banks around the world and get out. Change my face and go live a normal life.

I ignored him. It was hard sometimes when he was yelling obscenities at me at the top of his lungs. Some of the things he said were hurtful. I may be a clone but I'm human enough to have feelings. And he knew my weaknesses as well as I did.

I knew he was hurting and trying to deal with that. So, when he got in a certain mood, I started going for long walks to get away. It was either that or kill him.

After a few months, when his mind finally accepted that he could too, he would take off, walking until he barely had the strength to make his way back.

I think that first year there wasn't an acre of our land that he didn't walk.

A dog was what finally allowed him to accept comfort from me. What finally got him on the road to healing.

He came back from one of his walks, covered in blood, carrying some mutt that had been caught in a fucking leg-hold trap that some fucking idiot had placed on our land. The dog's left hind leg was hanging on by a thread and Alex was too.

He allowed me to help bandage the dog who was barely alive. And there he sat, cross-legged on the kitchen floor, holding this dying dog in his arms, crooning to it.

The mutt had lost way too much blood to survive. It died in Alex's arms.

When Alex realized the dog was dead, he began making these sounds. Loud, painful gasps that seemed to rip out of him. Like he didn't want to let them out but they weren't allowing him any choice in the matter.

He held onto that damn dog and finally gave in to the sobs.

At one point, I couldn't stand it any longer. I went and sat behind him, pulled him and the dead dog into my arms and held on for dear life.

He was so stiff at first. As though the sounds were so painful that his body could only handle them with rigored muscles. Shit, I hurt just listening to him.

Then, gradually, he leaned back against me and I discovered I could hold him even tighter than I had been.

I have no idea how many hours we sat that way. Eventually, his body gave in to exhaustion and he slept, still holding the dog, still leaning against me.

He was still sleeping when I eased the dog out of his arms and went outside to bury it. Then I came back in and took Alex in my arms again.

I was still holding him when he woke.

After a few minutes, he reached out with his hand and stroked the side of my face. His voice was so raw that I could barely make out the words he was saying. "Misha, why are you still here?"

What could I say that would make him understand that we were more than brother clones? More than a couple of weapons who were, according to the men who had created us, flawed? More than two men who found sexual release with each other?

"Ty soplivy soplyak, Alexei," I said.

It was as if the crying had rid Alex's psyche of a lifetime's pain and hurt.

He allowed me to touch him again.

I had been sleeping in the back house but now I moved into the front house bedroom with Alex. All we did was share the bed for some weeks. Then, one night, while I was jacking off in the shower, Alex joined me. He dropped to his knees and our sex life resumed. With one exception. Before, Alex had been top dog. Now all he wanted to do was bottom.

I saw to it then that the house echoed with his shouts of completion. I didn't mind being the one in charge. Hell, Alex needed care and time to recover, to learn to live again and I gladly gave both to him. And, though I loved fucking him, I have to admit that I missed having him fuck me.

So, whereas before, he had been the leader, now he was content to follow. Everywhere but off our land.

By the way, I found the fucker who set the trap. They never found him.

Duggan was just a deputy in those days. He came from the next town over but he took his role seriously. His grandmother had been a hill girl and she had helped raise him when his city mother had decided that she didn't like living in the back of beyond.

About the time I bought the land, some hill girls went missing. Three of them. On average, one every six months.

They finally found one of the bodies. The autopsy revealed semen in the girl's vagina, anus and stomach. She had been strangled. She was all of thirteen.

The State didn't spend much time on the case. The prevailing attitude seemed to be it was only a hill kid and who the hell cared?

Duggan cared.

Some of the girls were disappearing off his territory and Duggan took it as a personal insult. He was young enough to think that Justice should prevail.

Duggan is a big lad for these parts. Most of the people up here are shorter than city people. More wiry as well. Life is tough up here and it shows. Duggan may have had links to the hills but was not of the hills. His father had a decent job and Duggan was used to eating three square meals a day. He had played football in school. All that showed. He's about six foot tall and still weighs in at fighting weight. Around two thirty. Sort of Skinner in his prime, but with hair. And the same bulldog tenacity.

The girls kept on disappearing and they were growing younger and younger.

He finally had a suspect. The son of some Nashville big-wig. He even caught him in the act of picking up his next victim, a pretty little girl of nine.

And that's when Duggan learnt that there were two kinds of Justice. One for the poor and another for the rich.

DNA samples went missing. The girl and her family disappeared. The big-wig pulled out all his heavy guns and pointed them directly at Duggan.

It never even went to pre-trial.

And the asshole kid thought it funny to drive into Duggan's territory and offer rides to little girls.

Another girl went missing. This one from a village near us. They found her body three days later. She had been penetrated, but Asshole was now smart enough to use a condom.

No DNA samples to be had. Even if they would have made it to the State Forensic lab.

There was a big do going on at Fergus's a couple of weeks later. One of the local kids had gotten married -- properly churched with a minister and all -- and they were holding the reception in the bar. Everyone in the area had been invited. Even us. Well, even me. Most people were not aware that there were two of us living up here.

I was in the village for another reason. Picking up something, I think, though I can't remember what it could have been.

Duggan was there, keeping an eye on things, seeing to it that long-fought feuds did not flare up again.

I was getting back into the pick-up when Asshole drove down the street in the fancy red convertible that Daddy had just bought him. He slowed down to salute Duggan.

I knew what the expression on Duggan's face meant. He turned back into the small room that served as his office when he was up here and I followed him as fast as I could.

He was loading a rifle when I burst in.

Alex might have been more experienced than I was, but I was better trained than Duggan, even if he did outweigh me by a good forty pounds. I managed to get the rifle away from him and shoved him up against the wall.

"Listen to me!"

"FUCK OFF! He's here to prey again and I'm going to stop him!"

I pressed harder against his throat. He had to listen to me if he was ever going to breathe again.

"You go to the reception. You see to it that everyone, including the minister, sees you there. You stay there. You dance with the women. You talk hunting with the men. You stay until the place shuts down. You hear me?"

"Kry..."

"I'll take care of the problem."

He squinted his eyes at me. He had come up to the house when the trapper had gone missing. Now he just looked me straight in the eyes. I waited until he reached his decision. He nodded and I let him go.

Daddy's people tried hard to place the blame for Asshole's disappearance on Duggan. Fortunately for all of us the minister was one of those who took his faith seriously. No amount of money Daddy offered shifted him from his statement that Duggan has been there all that evening . And the hill people, remembering that the State had not been that diligent in pursuing the killer of their children, could also not be budged.

They found Asshole's car, but never his body.

When Duggan ran for Sheriff, Daddy parachuted in his own candidate, but again, too many people remembered and Duggan won. Of course, he'll never be anything other than the local sheriff, but he's okay with that. He married the girl he'd had a crush on in high school, one of the brainy girls who didn't have the time of day back then for a football jock. He spends a couple of nights up here maybe once a month, as he does in various parts of his territory -- his way of keeping a close eye on what's going on, and he joins us for supper. We talk about all sorts of things, but never about Asshole and his disappearance.

We'd been living here about four years when Alex decided he wanted to see what the village was like. He'd been gradually getting better. More like the old Alex who had carried me out of a burning lab.

Now and then, he even took the lead in our love-making.

We got to town as the school bus was dropping off the few kids who went to the next town for schooling. Many of the local kids dropped out as soon as they could. Education was not much of a priority around here.

Alex watched as two girls, about ten or eleven, got off. One crying silently, the other grim-faced. The toad of a bus driver was telling them what he thought of the girls from this part of his route. The boy following them off had clenched fists but said nothing to defend the girls.

The next time Duggan came for supper Alex asked him who he thought was the brightest kid in the area.

Duggan shrugged, didn't ask why. Thought and gave him a name. "Charlie Daniels. He made it to the last year of high school before he gave up. His father needed him to help work the farm, such as it is. I always thought he'd get out."

Charlie Daniels was tall, skinny, with blue eyes that even at nineteen could drill a hole through you. Alex made him an offer. He'd pay for a cousin to help his father on the farm. He'd pay for a tutor to make up that last year of high school. Then he'd pay for his schooling in Nashville if he came out with a teacher's certificate and a willingness to return home to teach for the same number of years that Alex paid for.

The school is in this big old house in the village that Alex bought. Charlie uses the downstairs for his teaching area, lives upstairs. He took courses year-round and finished his degree in record time. His students are all local kids so that no one has to take that bus trip to town. He's got maybe 20 to 25 kids at any time, from grade one to the end of high school. Somehow, Duggan got the County to pay for part of his salary. I'd like to know what he has on the trustees, considering the County feels this is a "private" school.

And if you start school with Charlie, you'd better be prepared to finish with him. One of the girls got pregnant and dropped out. Charlie went to pay a visit and the upshot was Mary Sue not only returned to class, but two weeks after her son was born, he was ensconced in a crib at the back of the room. And if Mary Sue was busy with some work, someone who wasn't got up to care for the baby when he fussed. Charlie insisted that the boys do their share of cuddling, feeding Charles David. Even diapering him. He feels that males who are not afraid or embarrassed to be seen with a baby in their arms make for better fathers. Charles David is not the only kid who started school just after he was born.

Charlie often comes for supper when Duggan does.

Then there's the infirmary.

True, that was because the dogs, our first line of defense, had done what they had been trained to do. Seen to it that trespassers were chased off. Not their fault that the two kids had been so drunk that they hadn't been able to outrun the pack.

Not much we could do about the kid who lost half a cheek. But the other one lost his leg, not so much because of the dogs, but because the doctor in the hospital where he'd been taken decided that the leg needed too much work. Hill people don't have medical insurance. So instead of trying to save the leg, he amputated.

Duggan was the one who came charging up to the house in one of his rare foul moods. We let him vent and, I knew from the look in Alex's eyes, we would be spending more money. Not that I mind. Hell, there's so much of it that we couldn't spend it all in two lifetimes each..

So in another house that had been abandoned, Alex paid for a nurse to come once a week. The place is well equipped but we had trouble finding nurses who wanted to come out this far.

Charlie came up with the solution. "Mandy Ferguson," he announced one night at supper, "has this hankering to become a nurse-practitioner."

"Good people, the Fergusons," said Duggan.

Mandy graduated a couple of months ago. Duggan picked up her parents, dressed in their Sunday best, and drove them to Nashville for graduation. He took his vid-cam with him. Mrs. Ferguson sat there, back straight as a rod, not saying a word throughout the whole ceremony, her face prideful. Her husband wept silently from the moment their daughter's name was called to go up on the stage to get her diploma.

The infirmary is now open five days a week and if there's an emergency, Amanda Ferguson carries a cell phone around with her.

Charlie seems to be very interested in her these days.

About a month after it became known that Mandy was going off to nursing school, there was a knock on our front door.

In the middle of the day.

We weren't expecting anyone and the dogs were off somewhere doing whatever it was they did unless we wanted them or they wanted feeding. We put them on guard mainly at night. Or if I was leaving Alex alone for any reason.

We both went for our weapons. I answered the door.

The boy was clean, well scrubbed. About sixteen. Shaking scared but brave enough to have made the trek up to our door.

"My name," he tried at least three times before he got that out, "is James Cameron MacDonald. I'd like to go to school."

Which is why we'll be paying MIT tuition for the next four years.

Duggan laughs. Calls us the Krycek Scholarship Foundation. Alex is seriously thinking about that. Well, we won't live forever and this place has been good for and to us.

Charlie wondered if we would only be paying for professions. Seems Mary Sue would like to take a one-year course in Cosmetology. She'd like to set up a beauty parlor in her home. Feels, she explained to us, that just because people here don't have money to throw away doesn't mean they shouldn't have nice haircuts and dos. How people look helps them feel good. Gives them confidence.

She's taking Charles David with her and she's given the boy's father an ultimatum. He has to finish high school. Then and only then will she marry him. Properly. With a minister. She wants her son to grow up understanding that education is important.

I think she'll get her way. They're stronger than the men, the women up here.

Alex is a whole lot stronger than he was, too. He's picked up the pieces of himself and put himself back together. As well as he could.

Part of the cure I think were the dogs.

He didn't mind bottoming to me but he sure as hell wasn't going to let any dog think he was bottom of the pack.

These days he fucks me as much as I fuck him.

The dogs pretty much just showed up. One at a time. Some found their way to our door. Others I brought home, or Alex did. Laika was a pup that someone tossed out of a car near the village. Duggan used his siren to stop them and it was amazing how many violations of the traffic code he hit them with. Seems her mother was a Champion fox terrier, sire came from a good neighbourhood. He couldn't keep the pup so he brought her up, dropped her into Alex's arms and took off before either of us could say, "What????"

She worships Alex and, as I said, if we have any kind of argument, if I'm dumb enough to raise my voice to him when she's around, Laika takes great offense and has no qualms in showing me whose side she's on. Alex finds it funny.

He's laughing again. Took him ten years.

So, here we are, with Skinner on his way back to the big city and Alex shaking his head at me as I come out of the bushes.

"Misha", he says, as though exasperated with me.

"Alexei," I answer, using the same tone.

I come around and grin at him. He shakes his head. What? Did he seriously think I was going to allow him to meet with Skinner and not provide back-up?

So I kiss him. Soundly. And then go round to the passenger door. Laika knows to jump into the back. I climb into the Hummer. Alex sighs, slips in behind the steering wheel.

We're going home where I will drag him into our bedroom and fuck him through the mattress. Just to remind him that he's not alone.

Duggan will come for supper, vent about Asshole Big Federal City Suits and remind both of us that we are not alone. That we have friends. Good friends. A life that has its ups and downs but is as real as anything else is in this world.

Alex switches on the ignition and turns to look at me. He grins.

Shit, maybe I'm the one who's going to get fucked through the mattress.

"Misha," he says, "Ty soplivy soplyak."

Ty soplivy soplyak.

You are a snotty snot-nose.

When I did the research on our original, he turned out to be a psychotic little cuss. I understood why his parents were so quick to hand him over. They couldn't control him and he was almost beyond what any of the geneticists and trainers could control. He must have realized that they were never going to stop "testing" him, that he was never going to be anything other than a lab rat, so he decided to put an end to it.

Eleven years old. He found a gun, ammunition and went into one of the vat labs and shot out the vats and either wounded or killed anyone he found in the place.

Of course, they killed him.

But all the time he fired, he kept yelling, "Ty soplivy soplyak!"

No wonder the head trainer reacted to my saying that to him. It had certainly never been said in front of me. And they had purposely weeded that out of the memories they had implanted in Alex.

He was strong stuff, our DNA provider. Nature over nurture.

It was Alex's favourite insult as a kid. Not that he ever said it aloud. Only to himself.

It was what made him decide the day that he and some Rebel aliens infiltrated a lab to destroy it that I should live.

He says it to me whenever he wants to tell me how he feels about me. I say it to him for the same reason.

Ty soplivy soplyak, Alexei.

La Fin

| X-files Index | Fiction Index | Main Page |