From: Marcia Elena <marciaelena@hegalplace.com>
Date: 26 Sep 2003 03:02:32 -0700
Subject: NEW: Distortion (1/1)
Source: atxc

Title: Distortion 

Author: Marcia Elena 

Email: marciaelena@hegalplace.com 

Keywords: Krycek fic, with maybe a hint of M/K. 

Spoilers: Set during 'Terma'. 

Rating: R 

Summary: What happens after Alex loses his arm.

Written for the Cube's 'When Cubes Collide' Challenge, a.k.a. the
Canon vs.  Fanon Challenge, August 17, 2003.

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

Author's notes: I know this is a rather cruel story. But what happened
to Alex was cruel too.

`````````````````` 

Distortion 
by Marcia Elena 


No arm, no test. 

That was the assurance the peasants I met in the woods gave me, the
words they kept repeating to me while they hacked off my arm. Over and
over again, as a means of soothing me, perhaps; consoling me for the
loss of my limb. A regrettable event, yet necessary.

Stupid fucking bastards.

I'm not entirely aware of the logic that led them to believe they
would be left alone if they were missing their left arms. Something to
do with the vaccine, most likely. While I wait to be transported to a
hospital, I have time to ponder on this, yet my mind is clouded by
pain, and I might be missing a vital clue or two. Not that it makes
much difference; whatever their conjecture was, it was flawed, and it
did not save them.

Since I've been found and returned to the camp, every one-armed man in
the area has been rounded up and brought in. They might, in the end,
be unsuitable for Black Oil exposure, for any number of reasons. But
there are other tests being conducted here, tests which most of the
camp's population is blissfully ignorant of. Knowledge of these tests
would be denied by the people involved in them, all details about them
classified and compartmentalized so as to allow little chance of
discovery. And yet the tests are very much real, and are being carried
on even now, deep in the bunkers, where the subjects screams never
reach anyone's ears but their own.

The only requirement one apparently needs to have as a possible
candidate for these tests is being alive. I have been told by the
camp's Supervisor, as a joke, that the newly arrived prisoners fill
that condition quite nicely, despite their disfigurement.

Funny how I don't feel particularly alive at the moment.

My conscience -- yes, I have a conscience, even though I know Mulder
would fiercely disavow any claims I make to it -- weighs heavily on me
on some moments, a difficult thing to bear. Yet the absence that now
exists in place of my arm is just as heavy, and constant. It drags at
me, allows room for nothing else.

No pity for myself.

No clemency for them.


`````````````````` 
The End