Date: Sun, 07 Jun 1998 23:41:14 GMT From: Margaret Howell Subject: *NEW* "Submerged In The Present" by L. Howell Title: Submerged In The Present Author: Linda Howell Disclaimer: Yeah, okay....They are not mine. Don't sue. No money. Got it? Fox, CC, and god knows who else owns these characters. Classification: S Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name and address stay attached. Spoilers: Through fifth season Feedback: Welcome as always at bookdal@bellsouth.net Author's notes: I am trying something different....hope you like it. Thanks to Linda, Carolyn, and those who write me feedback. This is what keeps me writing, which is a good thing, right? Summary: One man must wade through his present circumstances. Submerged in the Present by Linda Howell There's a foul odor in this room which invokes visions of dead roaches and decaying food. Its human occupant stares absently at the pock-marked walls, visualizing the last time he lived in cleanliness, finding it difficult to conjure up the memories of the childhood innocence he lost so long ago. A deadly smile steals across his face, engraving cynicism on his handsome mask with large, calligraphic strokes. The pungent fragrance of destruction caresses his body, seducing him with the vow of further obliteration. Somewhere in the cheap hotel, a phone rings. The paper-thin walls reverberate with its loud obnoxious voice, and the man's smile falls into a meditative grimace. He shifts his weight, allowing his legs to slide off the bed and onto the cold hard floor. Sitting up, he rests his elbow on a bent knee. His dark eyes trace the torn pieces of tile that rise unevenly from the wooden surface. He tries to find a pattern in the fractures, but to no avail. They are as random as everything else. His feet make no noise as he walks across the room. At the window, he looks down upon the city. Cars and trucks pass below his sight, their lights shining into the darkness like vulgar beacons on a deserted shore. *Someday,* he thinks, *I will forget this.* Loneliness and despair appear for a moment in his mind, but they are pushed back into oblivion. He has an appointment with his destiny tonight, so there was no time for emotional redress. The muted click of a door grabs his attention. His hand instinctively palms the gun stuck in his black jeans. Suddenly, he turns around, raising the weapon so that it is eye level with the intruder. His first glance at the visitor tells him to lower the gun, but a sick, vengeful part of him keeps it there for an extended period of moments. *Sweat, damn you, sweat.* Of course, the caller doesn't. Instead, the raised hands fall back to his sides, and his wrinkled face lifts into an accusatory gaze. Walking slowly toward the armed man, he stops beside him. "Put the gun down. There will be no death this night." He places his hand on the younger man's arm, pushing it down with surprising strength. Time passes in silence before the older man ponders, "Do you ever the answer the door without that," he points to the gun, "or is it your way of greeting visitors?" The younger man emits a caustic laugh. "Yeah, I like them to understand I am -dead- serious about my house rules." He stuffs the gun back into his jeans. "You want something to drink?" The older man shakes his head. He watches as his host pours a glass of liquor. It is an awkward process. The one dangling arm holds the bottle at a suspiciously bent angle at his hip while the good arm twists the top off. Finally, the drink is poured. A pair of tolerant eyes stare at him over the tipped glass, mentally sizing him up for the hundredth time. Feeling the need to assert some control, he begins to state his purpose for this visit, "Alex, the time is here. Our plan must become effective immediately. You know your assignment. You must complete it tomorrow night when he arrives at home. Mistakes and miscalculations cannot happen, do you understand?" At first, Alex does not answer. He lets the warm whiskey swirl in his mouth, coating his tongue with a slick film of the acidic taste. His gaze never leaves the time-ravaged face standing before him. *Someday,* he thinks, *I will forget him.* He sets the glass down on the slightly tilted table. "I will die, you know? I've come up with a series of different plans, and all of them ends with both his and my death. Why should I do it?" "Your refusal is not an option." "It is if I say it is. You don't own me. Remember that." "I made you. I can do with you as I wish or dispose of you, if you wish?" Alex laughs, "Empty threats, old man. I've been dead for years. You know, my mother once asked me to understand you, and for a brief second I did. Now, look at me. I am a fleshly incarnation of your hatred.....Don't look so down. I'll do it. I already decided I would, but when you turn your inhuman eyes to her sorrowful ones, remember you are the murderer." A hint of emotion flits across the old man's eyes, but it is quickly tamed. Larger issues are at play now. The existence of actual relationships was doused years ago underneath the deluge of global hazards. His crimes, when reviewed, were necessary to the containment of more dangerous adversaries. Against this justification, he had built his entire life, and even though it rings a hollow note, it is the only explanation he could offer for his willing participation in the most tragic of deeds: the murder of one's own son. He turns to leave. But before this, he looks back at his young soldier, "Take care.....Take care not to jeopardize the objective." He shuts the door, leaving the echo of his British accent behind. Left alone to the silence, Alex returns to his post at the window. He sees the old man walk out. A black, indescript car pulls up, and he notices the back seat window roll down. *That black-lunged son of a whore.* He watches as the curl of cigarette smoke wraps around that callous grin; the old man slides smoothly into the car, and it drives away. Without thought, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Opening it, he sorts through the various menusia collected from his transient life. Passports, business cards, etc. He finds it. A picture, bent and tattered from age and frequent use, lays in his manufactured hand. It is a couple. They are young and innocent, or at least they appear that way. The man laughs at something off camera. Who would believe that deep smile was capable of holding his own son hostage in the bowels of a foreign ship? Who would believe those same eyes belonged to a man who dabbled little drops of filthy water into a parched mouth? Who would believe him when he said that his father conspired to kill him in a fiery explosion? Who would??? Alex glanced back down at the photo. His father's dark-haired companion smiles up at him with loving kindness. The picture is perfect. He smooths his finger over her open smile, so familiar, yet so alien. He remembers her happiness as a rare jewel which one glimpses from time to time in an antique display case. Every once in awhile, she would share this smile with him, but all too often, her eyes would cloud over with the intuitive sadness of those who know too much. Violent blasts of malevolence scorch the inside of his body. Anger and resignation clash in his eyes, and for him, this war signals the knowledge that others do not possess. It keeps evil at bay. As long as he holds onto the hate, the evil will not take over. Any kind of feeling is preferable to the all-encompassing stagnation of polite tolerance. That is evil: the total lack of emotion when faced with the widest range of human depravity. Evil is the men who rode off in that phantom car. His hand clutches the photograph once again. Balling it up, he throws the plastic-coated paper across the room, missing the trash can by inches. Sifting through the wallet, he finds the other picture he stashed away. Newer, without the experience of much time and handling, it shines up at him like a copper penny. Another couple, another snapshot of a happy moment. It is a fairly normal representation of these people. In the scene, one of the man's arms rests lightly on the small of his partner's back. Her hands hold a box full of old files. They are walking into his apartment building. It is normal....ordinary. Alex captured the moment for one reason: their eyes are focused on each other. A strong current of tension and trust links them together. The picture tells the story of their partnership; it is an immortal image of bonds that don't break. Alex recalls the time she disappeared. When the assignment came down, he wasn't sure if he could pull it off. Common knowledge placed the woman high up on the agent's priority list, and when he was introduced to Agent Fox Mulder, the term welcoming does not spring immediately to mind. Alex shrugs off the memory for the hate it produces. He can still feel the almost visceral need to kill Mulder; he pleaded with them to allow him to strangle the life out of the big-nosed genius. They wouldn't go for it. The craving was somewhat abated by the Duane Barry incident. For the first time, Alex heard Mulder's steely-edged, monotone voice crack with desperation. It still echoes down through the years. Shortly thereafter, he was discovered, but he keeps the transcript of that conversation with the smoking bastard in his head at all times. It was the last time he asked to kill Mulder. Oh, he volunteered to torture him, but not to kill him. The only time he worried about the possibility of revenge was Melissa Scully's death. Everyone suspected that Mulder's partner was the target, but only Alex knew that she wasn't. He was ordered to kill her; he changed the order to teach her a lesson. He kept tabs on her that whole night and knew she was sitting uncomfortably with Skinner while he and his men waited for the door to open. At the time, the group worried about whether or not Mulder was alive. Alex knew Mulder didn't die. He sensed it because Scully did not grieve, and she, above all else, would've recognized his absence. Fearing the worst, they ordered her death. These men were afraid of Scully, of what she would do if Mulder was dead. Like an avenging angel, she circled their thoughts, penetrating the shell of protection they wrapped around themselves. They maintained that without Mulder, Scully was a loose cannon aimed at nothing in particular, but deadly in her singular impact. They could control that situation. Kill her. But Alex maintained that without Scully, Mulder would walk calmly into the middle of their whole damn world and explode into a million pieces, taking out everything they had built. That's why he chose Melissa-to divert their attention until her partner returned. Honestly, he thought the sister would live. Who knew the killer had such horrible aim? Now, after five years, Alex stands looking at a picture of them. *Someday,* he thinks, *I will forget them.* But even as the thought crosses his mind, he recognizes its futility. The night, the man, and the couple are a part of each other, inseparable in his mind. A long-suffering sigh escapes him....so many years, too many. He looks at the packed bag on the bed. A new passport along with several pieces of identification verifies his soon-to-be identity. He didn't lie when he told the old man that he would die tomorrow night. Alex Krycek would meet his maker when Carl Thatcher enters the world. He took extraordinary precautions this time....the force of the explosion will break the body into several jagged parts, the heat of the fire will burn those parts beyond recognition, and Alex Krycek will be pronounced dead. Two weeks from tonight, Carl Thatcher will assume his position as a History professor at a small community college in an obscure Florida township. He will rent an apartment for two or three years, and with his "savings," he will buy a house on the outskirts of town. When people ask about the missing appendage, Carl will weave a tale of childhood stupidity which ended badly. Foolish things, lasting consequences. After a few more years, he might marry and have children, but until then, he will be the model citizen. No parties. No women. No hints of Alex Krycek. With these thoughts formulated in his mind, he prepares for his mission. Explosives and weapons are carefully sorted out and placed in proper order. Everything is arranged. No turning back. Returning once again to his eye on the world, he watches as the cars drive along the street. His brain replays the night's earlier visitation. He gazes blindly down into the black tar, and sees the old man lean down to talk to the smoking bastard. Alex wonders if irony is a part of the human experience. He can't help but compare the two men. One sends his flesh and blood to die in a war he proliferates while the other has done everything under heaven to prevent his son from knowing the horror of the truth. *I wonder what's worse? The father you know, or the one you don't?* Grabbing his suitcase, Alex heads out the door. Suddenly, he stops. The glitter of the photograph catches his eye. It lies on the bedside stand, baiting him with its simple banality. He searches the room and sees the other picture laying next to the garbage can. His gaze shifts back and forth between the two: past and future submerged in the present. Finally, giving into his urge, he snatches up the shiny photo and walks out the door, abandoning the other snapshot to be victimized by the bolstering wind that blows in through the open window. Approaching his car, Alex Krycek turns around to cast one final look on the third story window. The curtains billow in a seductive dance, crashing in and out of the darkened room in a steady rhythm. Unexpectedly, a smile appears on his face once again. Getting into his car, he laughs at his own private joke. It is too easy.....but it will be done. Pulling out into traffic, he continues to smile. It is a living photograph of freedom.....owned by the prospect of killing two men in one night. *Someday,* he thinks, *I will forget me.* Because for Alex Krycek, death is the only road to life. The End Author's notes: All right, what do y'all think? Good? Bad? Or don't even bother writing again Linda?