From: Muzinke@aol.com
Date: Mon, 19 Feb 2001 20:26:03 EST
Subject: xfc: Threnody 14: What We Make of It (1/1)
Source: xfc

TITLE: Threnody 14: What We Make of It
AUTHOR: Tarin Z. Kesumin
E-MAIL: Muzinke@aol.com
CATEGORY: WIP, post-ep.
KEYWORDS: X-file, implied MSR, Angst.
SUMMARY: En route ruminations. 
SPOILERS: Requiem, of course. 
RATING: PG-13 for language.
DISCLAIMER: The ones you recognize, they're not mine. They hang with CC, Fox, 
and 1013. The newbies, they're with me.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The title of this series, 'threnody', means 'lament' or 
'mournful chant'. This is the fourteenth chapter in an ongoing series, and
at this point, you should go back and read the previous chapters before diving
into this one. You can find previous installments at the following website:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Orion/5345/TheHole.html
 
I'm sure many of you figured I'd forgotten about this series. Not so;
I was merely distracted by the beginning of a new season, and the very
hazardous 'real life'.  I'm very happy to say I've gotten back to this
project; I've sincerely missed it.
 
Thanks go, as always, to my beta Suzanne for the advice and the
support, despite the unannounced hiatus. 
 
And now, without further ado... 
 
* * *
 
Believe it or not, my father was quite an ordinary man. Worked a hard,
hone st living, provided for his wife and children. No shadows, no
secrets, no lies . Except for the ones he told my mother. After all,
he was just an ordinary man, who liked to drink, and had a fondness
for women. 
 
Those may be the only two things that my father and I have incommon. 
 
"Your drink, sir." 
 
Ahh. Speaking of which... With a lecherous smile I can't quite
suppress, I reach out and relieve the flight attendant of the flimsy
plastic cup of Smirnoff, and accompanying soggy napkin. She's got
curves that flow like honey, licorice slick hair, and dark chocolate
eyes. A veritable feast, if I had the time. 
 
Goddamn work. 
 
I take a long, last look at the rounded curve of her ass as she makes
her w ay up the aisle before settling back in my seat and cracking
open the bottle. The fiery balm runs thickly over the smooth cubes,
and I feel my head buzz in anticipation of the first taste.
 
The chiming of ice cubes as they collide against a glass, caught in
the slu r of an alcoholic current reminds me of nothing more clearly
than my father.  He told me, once, between heavy sips of vodka tonic,
that the world is what a man makes of it. The only truth he ever told
his only son.
 
A truth I've taken to heart, made my choices in accordance with, and
lived by. Because greater truths are coming, and we're going to need a
lot more people like me if we're going to survive them. 
 
Which is why I'm stuck in coach class at 32,000 feet with my kneecaps
being rearranged by the 300-pound asshole fully reclined in the seat
in front of me.
 
Not what one immediately thinks of when considering occupational
hazards is it? But, in my line of work, mobility is one of the
foremost job requirements. Get in; get out. And most importantly, get
away. Hard to do i f your knees have been rearranged en route by some
overweight, over-important schmuck on his way home from some
irrelevant finance meeting.
 
If you only knew what I knew asshole, you'd realize your high-power
job isn 't worth shit unless I'm able to do mine. And, ergo, you sure
as hell wouldn't be permanently indenting the words 'upright and
locked position' on the kne es which could very well save your
sorry-ass life.
 
But I digress. The point is, I'm on the job, and a path my father
unwitting ly helped choose for me. And he's hated me for it
since the day I shoo k hands and made the deal that has since sealed
my fate. After all, there's no getting out of this line of work once
you're in. Out means liability; out means dead. Besides, I like a job
that keeps me on my toes. 
 
Although, lately, things just haven't been as interesting as they used
to b e. Take this particular assignment, for example. There was a
time, no more tha n a few months ago, when this type of job would
require speed, cunning, intimidation, threats of physical violence,
and if I was lucky, gunplay. Goddamn, I loved my work back in those
days. 
 
Today, though, the thrill is gone. Wham, bam, thank-you ma'am, and I'm
on the next flight out to the west coast.

They didn't even try, for Christ's sake. Just stood there in that
office, n o more than twenty feet from the *very* watchful eyes of
Mr.Subterfuge himsel f, spouting out her destination, landing
locations, wave form readings; if it was pertinent to this assignment,
you can bet that they said it. 
 
No pride, I'm telling you. None at all. 
 
Now, Mulder; he was a man who took pride in his chosen field of work.
Jesus , that man knew how to play the game. Too bad he and I didn't
have the opportunity to work together more often; we would have made a
hell of ateam . 
 
Of course, Mulder's not going to be working with anyone, on anything,
anyti me soon. Mulder's not going to be of-this-Earth anytime soon.
Not if I can hel p it.
 
I've got a way of life to preserve. And there's no way in hell I'm
going to let someone as blindly naive as Dana Scully screw up my
plans. She has no concept of what it is the human race is coming up
against in the coming years; a trait the old man selected her for
specifically, in the hopes that she would be the blinders the
Consortium needed to keep Mulder out of their hair. 
 
Serious miscalculation, on his part; a decision which initiated the
domino cascade that has ultimately led to his very timely demise. Dana
Scully is n o fool; he was right that she would be blind to the
delicate truth he wished to keep hidden. Where he blew it was in
underestimating her willingness to act on faith alone. In particular,
her faith in Mulder.
 
Which leads us, once again, to me, in this goddamn stuffy airplane,
sipping vodka tonic and ruminating on what the next 24 hours may
bring. 
 
She can't find him first. The only way to ensure my success and the
safety of humanity as we now know it is to beat her there, and send
Mulder back to th e black hole of hell he came from. After all, that
was the deal. The hybrids in exchange for our unhampered continued
survival on this planet.
 
Unfortunately, this seems to have caused some kind of monumental
inconvenience to Dana Scully's as yet unconfirmed sex life. The way
she's been searching for him these past few months, it's one
of either tw o things: faith-driven devotion on a cultist, Jim
Jones-type scale, or blow-your-mind sex the likes of which I've only
fantasized about. 
 
She's giving no clues, which leaves me to the wanderings of my own
sordid mind. A place even *I* am too dignified to show you.  Shit, if
she and Mulder had stayed the hell out of this mess from the get-g o,
neither one of them would be in the positions they're in now. If they
hadn't been exposed, they'd have had no fucking problems. 
Instead, the pair of 'em got eyeball-deep in this shit, and
now don't seem to be willing to pay the consequences. 
 
Tough fucking luck, Scully. In this game, it's all about the
consequences. And it's time that you and Mulder both anted up. 
 
 
* * *