From: Dragan Antulov <dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr>
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1998 22:53:33 +0100
Subject: NEW: Thicker Than Water (1/1) by Dragan Antulov

TITLE: Thicker Than Water
AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov
E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
CATEGORY: SA.
KEYWORDS: Character Dies.
SPOILERS: Tempus Fugit/Max
SUMMARY: The long forgotten minor incident in the past
brings catastrophic consequences in the present.
RATING: R (language, violence)
ARCHIVE: yes to Gossamer; to others with previous notification
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Special thanks to Suzanne Bickerstaffe for her
beta-editing.
DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters
created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen
Productions. The characters named are the property of those
entities and are used without permission. No copyright
infringement is intended.

THICKER THAN WATER
X-Files Fan Fiction Story
by Dragan Antulov

December 1999

"I'll better have some good reason for this, you son of a
bitch."

Cancerman observed Agent Mulder for a long time before their
meeting started. He knew that the agent didn't like winter.
Probably he hated fact that he had to leave the warmth of
his little basement for another mind-fuck with his worst
nemesis. Yet, the blunt and erratic expression of his
dissatisfaction somewhat caught him by surprise. The old
Mulder, Bill's boy, rising star of FBI, even the Spooky of
the X-Files fame, wouldn't be so bitchy.

Yet, it had been his idea all along. Most of the last eight
years Cancerman spent by cleverly orchestrating Mulder's
gradual change of character. When Mulder joined FBI, he was
brilliant, yet at the same time burdened with a dangerous
combination of personal obsession and boyish idealism. The
latter forced him to follow even the simple bureaucratic
guidelines of that agency, and it was impossible to think of
him as someone who would willfully break not only the law,
but his own high moral standards.

But Cancerman knew better. His career had taught him that
anybody can be pushed in the proper direction. It all
depended on the right circumstances and the right methods.
And he knew Mulder - his background, his career, his
strength and his weaknesses, everything. With few, but
well-calculated moves he slowly begun to undermine Mulder's
character, isolate him from friends, family, colleagues,
everyone. And in the end all that remained was a lone,
pathetic man in a basement whose dreams, aspirations and
hopes for the better tomorrow, both for himself and for the
rest of the world, slowly faded away with each passing year
of his futile crusade. Even Scully, who Mulder still
considered his personal savior, later turned out to be
useful tool in Cancerman's plans. First the abduction, then
her cancer - both affairs drove Mulder over the edge - right
in the direction he intended. Yes, at times Mulder's trips
over the edge were risky, both for Mulder and for Cancerman
himself, but the risk began paying off.

And now, after almost eight years, Mulder was beginning to
see the whole picture, this time not blurred by his childish
constraints of blind morality. After resurfacing from his
semi-official exile, Cancerman used that opportunity to
continue with his manipulations, this time directly to
Mulder. His friends and subordinates, who unsuccessfully had
tried to use the same approach for their own personal
advantage had paid a heavy price for their mistake. Yet at
the same time, their little games provided an excellent
future opportunity for Cancerman. Now, precedent was already
set and Cancerman slowly began his transformation from
Mulder's nemesis, "the black-lunged son-of-a-bitch", into
Mulder's informer.

It wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be. Mulder's
quest for truth brought only disappointments, despair and
pain so far, yet his fanatical obsession with that elusive
goal was still there, able to cloud his judgment and quash
any suspicions. And Cancerman had been using that in last
few years. First he provided small hints, giving away minor
details to satisfy Mulder's desires, then began creating
enough mayhem in the Consortium to make his betrayal look
genuine. Of course, nothing was farther from truth than his
betrayal of Project. In a very short period of time, Mulder
would finally realize that he had been manipulated all
along; but this time it would be too late for him to escape
the cynicism that had already begun to consume him. After
the final blow, Mulder should know that only one path
remained for him. The path Cancerman took long time ago. And
just in time before the Project began, Mulder would finally
find his true place in the grand scheme of things.

Cancerman's plan required a series of brief meetings in
isolated places. One of those places was this park, almost
always empty in the middle of December. Cancerman could have
chosen a warmer place, perhaps a museum, and at the same
time, he wouldn't have to worry about his own personal
security. But for Mulder, the illusion had to be complete,
so he had to avoid crowds. And now Mulder was standing in
front of him, with his feet buried in snow, inimical,
suspicious and angry; yet desperate for another dose of the
Truth from his former enemy.

"Don't worry about that, Agent Mulder," Cancerman answered,
smiling satanically as he always did. "Aren't you satisfied
with the information I gave you last time?"

"Yes," Mulder admitted. "But not with the result."

"Naturally, Agent Mulder. You really thought that your
investigation would lead to such boring legal shenanigans
like indictments or convictions?" Cancerman has lit another
cigarette. He was thinking about offering one to Mulder, but
decided to abstain from such obvious gestures. An
experienced psychologist like Mulder would read such a sign
very easily. "You know better than that."

"I wasn't lucky this time...", Mulder tried to counter it.

"Oh, you were very lucky. And very successful. After your
sabotage, they will need years to start that operation
again. And if you had tried to go by the book, ask for
warrants and back-up, they could have found time to remove
the equipment." Cancerman smiled, knowing that Mulder would
share that sentiment, even if he was afraid to admit it.

"All right, then, what do you have for me this..."

Mulder never finished the sentence. Cancerman heard three
distant shots and suddenly felt something on his coat. He
looked at the coat and saw blood and parts of tissue. Then
he saw Mulder, who was for the briefest moment standing,
mouth agape and with the eyes open in surprise. Then he fell
down on the ground, and the small stream of blood from his
chest began to color the snow red. Mulder made a little
twitch and then his body remained still.

His death was so quick and plain, Cancerman suddenly
thought. Not a long, never ending agony of pain. Not a
chance for melodramatic last words, solemn pledges or
tearful embraces. Simple and functional. Here now, gone the
next second - the death he would wish for himself.

The last thought woke Cancerman from shock and brought him
to reality. Instead of depressive reflections, he suddenly
became preoccupied with more immediate task - survival.
Instincts, acquired by vigorous training many years ago, and
decades of experience overtook him in an instant. Without
thinking, he took his never-used 10 mm Smith & Wesson
Automatic from the holster and quickly begun assessing the
situation. The shot had to be fired from the bushes some
fifty yards away.

He already saw movement in the bushes. His own security team
would take care of the assassin, but he wasn't going to take
any chances. Perhaps they were all taken out - not so hard a
task, because there were only three of them; he had never
liked to bring more. Perhaps they switched their loyalty.
Now I don't have time for this, Cancerman said to himself
and began to run to the nearest cover.

"Mulder!" He heard a female scream from behind. He quickly
recognized it. Scully, he thought. Mulder had probably used
her as his personal back-up team. But Cancerman didn't have
to worry about her, at least for a couple of minutes. Before
she recognized that her partner is beyond any medical help,
he would have time to deal with more immediate threats.

He quickly realized that he would need to take care of the
assassin himself. He began to zig-zag towards the bushes,
using the trees as his cover. As he approached he heard the
faint scream, followed by a word he couldn't recognize -
most probably a curse. He smiled to himself. This boy was
good in hitting, but bad in running away, definitely below
Cancerman's league.

Very carefuly he entered the bushes and glanced through
them. He saw a figure of young, short man, lying in the snow
and desperately trying to get up. But he wouldn't make it,
Cancerman concluded. While trying to run away, he slipped,
fell down the slope and probably broke his left leg. In his
right hand he held the high caliber sniper rifle.

O.K. It's time to see if I'm still a good shot after all
these years, Cancerman said to himself. He took the gun in
both of his hands, aimed very carefully and fired.

A savage scream echoed through the woods, followed by
somewhat quieter sobs of pain. Assassin's right fist was
covered in blood, now obviously useless.

"Game over," Cancerman said when he rose from the bushes. He
took the opportunity to study the assassin's face. He had
piercing black eyes, dark hair and expressions of pain,
anger and defiance fighting for supremacy on his face. His
white coat and trousers, probably chosen for camouflage,
were painted red by the bleeding fist.

"No, it's not," assassin answered with an expression that
could be either a feeble attempt at a grin, or a wince of
pain. His words revealed small traces of a foreign accent,
probably East European, Cancerman concluded. "It's just
beginning."

"I wouldn't say so. For you it's ending." Cancerman kicked
him in the stomach once, than stepped few times on his left
fist, crushing the fingers in the process. He did it to
incapacitate the assassin's another arm. The man probably
wasn't ambidextrous but Cancerman didn't want to take
chances.The extra cruelty was just to make the point. "But
it could be a happy end, if you tell me who you are working
for."

"I don't work for nobody," assassin answered, breathing
heavily.

Funny, Cancerman thought, it sounds like he might be telling
the truth. And he didn't look too professional either.

"I wish I could believe you. But don't worry. I'll find out
one way or the other. You know that." Cancerman's tone was
deprived of anger, but it was still menacing.

"This wasn't business... This was besa... Two years ago..."
Obviously in great pain, the assassin was trying to find the
words. "For my cousin, Shpejtim."

Those exotic words and names managed to baffle Cancerman for
a second. "Shpejtim?" He didn't know or could remember
anybody anybody with that name.

"Shpejtim Pe..."

The assassin's words were cut by the series of shots. In a
couple of seconds bullets were flying all over the place,
hitting trees, grounds, and at least one of them hitting the
assassin. Cancerman quickly threw himself to the ground,
trying to assess the possible damage and threat. A few
seconds later, he could hear the "clicks" of a gun with an
empty magazine, his own heavy breath and the quiet sobs of
the assassin now newly wounded in the back. Cancerman
himself was slightly grazed on the forehead.

"He killed him... You killed him... You fucking bastard..."

Cancerman could hear hysterical cries of Dana Scully, who
was slowly walking towards them with Sig Sauer gripped in
both of her hands. Her coat was covered with Mulder's blood,
her face in tears that ruined her make-up, disfigured by the
unbearable mask of maniacal anger and utter despair. She
stopped pulling the trigger and reached for her inner
pocket, probably to take another clip.

"You fucker... You set him up all along... You and your...
First my sister, then him... And before that even that
la..."

Cancerman knew that he had to act quickly. If she loaded
another clip, she would shoot again. And this time she could
be more accurate. He took aim and fired. Scully silently
fell, with the back of her head turned into bloody mix of
skull, hair and brains.

Cancerman rose from the ground, covered by snow. He gave a
quick glance at Scully's corpse, feeling nothing but relief.
With Mulder dead, Scully lost her purpose and became
expendable. Cancerman congratulated himself for personally
taking care of that dirty yet routine business.

His focus of attention shifted to the assassin, who was
losing blood. Unlike Scully, this one was still useful. He
was thinking about giving him first aid, then he remembered
to call for his security team. He took a portable radio from
his pocket and turned it on.

"White Horse to Black Mare. Code 17-5-1. Alpha Zebra. I
repeat. Code 17-5-1. Alpha Zebra."

"I copy. Code 17-5-1. Alpha Zebra." The voice from the other
side was trying to sound professional, but Cancerman could
sense the disbelief and panic. The man has got all the
reasons to feel anxiety, Cancerman thought. Heads would roll
because of this unimaginable security fiasco.

"Don't worry." Cancerman said to assassin. By the look of
things, the wounded man could last for an hour, at least. "I
hope that the latest distraction won't prevent me from
hearing the rest of your charming little story. We were at
someone named..."

"Shpejtim Pendrillo," assassin almost yelled after being
reminded of those words.

Cancerman tried very hard to remember any connection with
the name, yet he couldn't make anything of it.

 "You don't know... What besa is... My family spent six
decades... Between the walls at our farm... None of the
males was allowed out... Only women were working in the
field... All because my grand-grandfather... Killed a
Bajrushi over a stolen sheep... And Bajrushis... Gave
besa... Avenging his death..."

Cancerman couldn't believe it. If the man was telling the
truth, then everything - the Project, his career, everything
that he worked for or built through the decades - everything
could be crushed in a moment because of a mere triviality.

"My name is Xhevad Pendrillo... Remember that name, because
I... I'm glad..." Xhevad was fighting with pain while
talking. "I'm glad that you live... I was going to tell you
anyway... Thirty years ago... Ramiz... My uncle... Escaped
from the house... In the night... With the wife and baby
son... Came to America... Hiding... Converted, took a job...
Took another name... Ramsey..."

Cancerman stoped paying attention for a moment and saw one
of his bodyguards, quickly approaching with the Heckler
submachine gun. He signalled him that he was okay. But that
incompetent bozo who didn't pay attention won't be okay in
the near future, he said to himself. He turned to the
assassin again.

"Twelve years ago... My family and Bajrushis took... Another
besa... To reconcile... To be at peace... Until our land,
Kosova, is free from Serbs... I came to America to raise
money for arms... Then I met my uncle... Ramiz... He told
me... His son Shpejtim... Became Sean... Changed name into
Pendrell..."

At least some things were becoming clear to Cancerman. This
man somehow connected him with the clan feuds and ethnic
conflicts in the Balkans. How ironic, Cancerman thought.
While he spent his entire life to save the Project from big
powers and politicians, the biggest danger came from some
backwater country that would otherwise be remembered as
minor footnote in global history. The plan that promised a
future bright beyond the wildest imagination, global in
scope, was destroyed by an almost extinct tribal custom from
someone's primitive past.

"My cousin Shpejtim... Sean Pendrell... Killed..."

"And you think that I have something to do with it?"
Cancerman inquired.

"I took the besa... We couldn't survive centuries if...
Family is everything... We take care of our own... Alive or
dead... Shpejtim might not even know... He could have
forgotten his blood... He was Sean... He didn't know... But
we don't forget... Nor do we forgive... Ever... Or anyone...
Blood is still blood... Thicker than water..."

"Then why didn't you kill me?" Cancerman asked, finally
realising the motive.

"If I killed you, your son would kill me...  And another
Pendrillo would kill to avenge me... So, I killed your
son... You may kill me..." Xhevad was trying to grin,
despite terrible pain he felt. "But your line... Dies... You
like an old man..."

Cancerman was shocked. If bloodline was anything that this
Balkan hillbilly cared for, he obviously didn't have an
slightest idea how futile his aim was. Yet, he still managed
to hurt him. An entire lifetime of the most delicate
intrigues was ruined. Only because the bleeding fanatic
didn't know the whole story.

His thoughts were taken away by the sound of a helicopter. A
Medevac team was coming. They would pick him up and carry
this pathetic little assassin to the secret base with the
most advanced medical facilties. They would take care of
him; he knew that they could patch up people who had been in
much worse condition. And then they would find out how he
had managed to trace Cancerman and fool his security.

"You know what?" he said to Xhevad, lighting another
cigarette. "I was really thinking of killing you. But I
changed my mind. You'll live, that's for sure. Perhaps even
to reach an old age."

Then he bowed down, puffed the smoke into his face and
whispered in his ear. "And I'll make sure that you hate
every second of it."

The meatwagon people and members of the clean-up team were
popping out from the helicopter. Cancerman began to walk
away from the bloody scene. He had to think fast; his plans
were shattered and now he was faced with the immediate task
of finding an alternative to his ruined grand scheme. He
would need to rearrange personnel plans, rethink strategies
and policies; and all that to save himself from his rivals
within the Consortium. But before he could start thinking,
one question simply couldn't leave his mind: Who was Sean
Pendrell?

SPECIAL DISCLAIMER: The author of this story had no
intention to use negative stereotypes towards any ethnic
groups. If the members of such groups find themselves
offended by reading this story, they have my most sincere
apology.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Names "Shpejtim" and "Xhevad" are pronounced
"Sh-pey-tim" and "Ge-wad". I can't guarantee for the correct
spelling of a word "besa", because I don't have Albanian
dictionary at hand. The word is spelled as I had found it in
a Serbian reference book. If someone can give me the correct
spelling, I'll be more than willing to revise the story.

The story was inspired by an anecdote my History teacher
used in order to explain the concept of blood feud. A
bartender in one Zagreb cafeteria was shot by a man who
later calmly waited for police and turned himself in. Under
interrogation it turned out that the killer was
Montenegrian, and that he had to avenge the death of his
cousin, who had been accidentally killed by the same
bartender in a bar brawl years ago... I hope that you
noticed similarities with a certain incident in the X-Files
timeline.

Although both Albanians and Montenegrians kept their blood
feud traditions alive until the end of this century, I
decided to use Albanians for the purposes of this story.
Unlike Montenegrians, Albanians, especially those who live
in the now-troubled Serbian province of Kosovo (or "Kosova",
as majority Albanians call it) have a custom of building
nine foot walls around their houses, whose purpose is to
protect the family members from eventual attacks by rival
clans. Their blood feud traditions and customs are also
codified in a 15th Century document called Leka Djukadjini.
The most important part of their tradition is "besa" - based
on Arabian word for "faith" - the most solemn promise that
an Albanian can give. When besa is given, the obligation in
question (whether it is vengeance, a financial debt or peace
between previously feuding clans) must be fulfilled by all
means necessary, and the rest of community can enforce
severe penalties on those who break it.

Comments are welcomed at dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr