Tears of Betrayal

Date: Thu, 19 Jun 1997

Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers. I've
borrowed them for fun not profit.

This story:
I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially, intact and
with my name still attached.

==========

Title - Tears of Betrayal
Rating - R (language and violence)
Classification - SA

By Joann Humby (jhumby@iee.org)

Summary:
An alternative take on Gethsemane. Episode spoilers.

Thanks to Ann for her editing comments.

Joann

===========

<<
To: Dana(dkscully@fbi.gov): 'no subject'.

Hi Scully,

Never open a presentation with an apology, I learned that on a
training course. Guess I've never been good at learning
lessons.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you this face to face
or even voice to voice, but it just couldn't be done. This is
the wrong way for you to hear about it. I'm not sorry about what
I've done. I've done the right thing.

I'll try and explain what happened. I don't ask you to agree
with my reasons, just accept them as being mine.

...... continues
>>
---------

Mulder stared at the computer screen. The sooner someone
developed a system that read your thoughts and put them
coherently into words the better. It's called a brain, he
mumbled uncomfortably to the keyboard. The keyboard just stared
dumbly back.

Something a little more mechanical would be preferable of
course. Something that didn't keep remembering things, didn't
keep making excuses, rationalizing. Something that didn't have
its own agenda.

He blocked the chain of thoughts. Try to think, explain. The
chronological approach was his only chance. How far back? Just
the facts. Just the essentials. Uncluttered. You're an FBI
Agent, years of practice at leaving out unnecessary things from
your reports.

OK. Start with coming back from the Yukon. He remembered trying,
trying so hard in the autopsy. Playing it cool, not getting
caught up in it. He'd been trying to do Dana's job as well as
his own. Mulder had found himself watching the hands of the ME
like he was watching a stage magician and it was his job to
explain later to the audience how the trick was performed.
Disconnected, impersonal. Of course his mind had wandered from
that chore, quickly detoured, but he had tried.

It had been easier than he'd expected. Euphoric innocence had
long since gone, left behind on too many jobs where they'd got
close, only to find the evidence vanish before their eyes.
Enthusiasm was a strictly rationed quantity these days and
Scully's dismissal of his latest wild goose chase had been the
most damning yet. This could be the real thing, not a wild
goose in sight, but even if it was, then she still didn't want
to know.

She was right, of course. This could be the real thing. So what?
It wouldn't get Samantha back. It wouldn't cure Scully. It
wouldn't do anything. If it was real then it would be gone
before morning. That was the reality. The video tape copies
would be just another test case for plausible denial. It hardly
mattered anymore. Idle curiosity then. Idle curiosity that had
sent him away from his partner's side.

He looked at the keyboard and started to type again.

---------------------------

<<
....cont

That incident over the body in the Yukon, that was what told me
I needed to change things.

You always said we needed proof. Hard, factual, incontrovertible
evidence. I agreed. How could I disagree? Then you said that you
couldn't chase this ice entombed thing, that it wasn't worth it.
I could go off and chase EBE's or God, it really didn't matter.
You, the believer in proof, had admitted that proof wasn't
important.

That will read too harsh, I don't mean it to. I've just got to
get this down in words while it's clear to me.

You were right to pull me back to reality, to this world, to the
here and now. It's ironic, I think you believe in God, in an
after life. I believe in neither. Yet I'm the one acting as if
there are more important things in this life than the people who
are living it. Thanks for the reminder, I needed it.

cont ....
>>
---------------------------

Scully came to me and brought her apologist friend with her. Not
even that, her apologist stranger. Kritschgau, a DOD nobody
who'd introduced himself to her by pushing her down the stairs.
It's wild. She believes in me, trusts me. Yet she'd rather
believe in the words of strangers.

I recall a year or more ago, standing, looking through a window
in a closed compartment on a train, looking at a what? A human
made inhuman by experimentation; a genetic experiment; a thing
with a drop of alien DNA mixed in with the human; an EBE? I
stood with the proof, staring at the evidence, while you talked
to me down a crackly phone line. While you repeated whatever
story some guy in a suit told you. Why? Because he had armed
guards? Because he had a flashy black car to go with his flashy
black suit. Because he wasn't called Spooky by people who
didn't even know him?

This line of thought is doing me no good. I shake myself out of
the tantrum. I pretend I don't understand you, Scully. But I'm
lying to myself, I do understand.

I understand that it's less frightening to believe in mad men
with syringes who can be exposed, than in aliens with an agenda
of their own. The idea that the two groups might be working
together in some temporary common cause makes the idea of
fighting impossible, ludicrous. Less frightening to believe in a
conspiratorial minority of bad men protecting other bad men. At
least, that's a battle you can imagine winning, or at least
a battle you can imagine fighting.

Oddly, it's less frightening for me to believe that I was
powerless on the night that my sister was taken. I choose to
believe it, despite the fact that there are a hundred and one
alternative scenarios that my serial killer hunting brain will
offer on demand. So many ways to die, most would have worked on
Sam, I know this stuff. We all have our limits, our blinkers.
Different because we're different people.

Kritschgau. A good name for a crossword puzzle. It's probably an
anagram of something in some language. You presented him to me
as if another person telling me that I don't know what I'm
talking about would convince me. Who's being naive now?

Have I seen an EBE? Don't know. Have I seen things that could
only result from some government funded deal to obtain alien
technology? Sure. It's either that or believe in magic. I wonder
what Scully believes.

I know what Scully believes, she believes I've been manipulated.
I agree. Scully believes that my father was killed for me, that
her sister died in my personal war's crossfire and that she was
made to contract cancer to manipulate me more effectively.

Why do they bother? Pull any string, however flimsy, I jump.
They didn't need to try so hard. They did it to make me give up?
Bad psychology, I'm used to losing, I expect defeat. I've given
them so many excuses to throw me out of the Bureau, yet they
keep me in place. I'm a soft target for any killer, yet they
keep me alive. I mean something to them, I just don't know
what.

-----------

<<
....cont

There's nothing I can do to compensate for the damage I've done
to you and your family. In the years of working, there's nothing
I've achieved on my own or with you that can make up for what
it's cost you. Just believe me when I say, I always tried to do
the right thing.

We've always agreed on one issue. There are people who know more
than us, who have more power, who fight dirtier. There's a
conspiracy of silence protecting dirty secrets, a conspiracy
that plays with people like they are toys, pieces in a game.

I believe that those people have had the power of life and death
over us for a long time. I think you believe that too.

cont....
>>
------------

It was amazing how fast the factions moved when they knew I was
open to offers, for sale to the highest bidder. Gratifying I
suppose. I wonder why I'm worth it. They obviously had worked
out the terms of their offers beforehand, some of this couldn't
just be thrown together in a few hours. They always knew I'd
deal. They had the contracts drawn up in anticipation. Bastards.

How can I negotiate, when I don't know what I have to offer,
when I don't know why I'm worth bargaining with?

Scully's dying, she lies to me about it. No, not lies,
prevaricates. But I've seen her files. The bidders presented her
hospital records to me as proof of their abilities and of
course, as a threat. They wanted to remind me that I'm running
out of time. So I'm not going to waste any more time. No time
like the present.

Of course, I have the advantage of carrying the black cancer,
of feeling it eating away at me. It's easy to deal when you know
that soon, even if you don't deal, you die and so does your
partner. The selfish bits of the brain are easy to overrule when
you remind them of their irrelevance. And if I wasn't dying?
Don't know. Maybe I'd have looked harder for different
terms but in the end I would have dealt.

-------------

<<
....cont

I'm dying Scully. I'm sorry, I couldn't tell you. It was never
the right time to tell you, I never knew how. What could I say?
When would have been the right moment? After Penny died? When
your nose bled?

The info is in the file on Tunguska.

So don't think badly of me. I'm not on some martyrdom kick. I'm
not irrational. I had a last throw of the dice. I could try and
do something useful with my life or I could die and let you die.
I think I chose the best offer.

cont ....
>>
----------

I don't really feel like the ink is dry on the deal, it doesn't
really feel much more solid than a dream, it all took so little
time, but the deal's done. It'll only be a couple of hours
before they arrive to collect on their half of the bargain. A
couple of hours to explain it to Scully, to try and write an
explanation that'll stop her blaming herself, that'll stop her
blowing the deal.

I don't know the words that'll do the trick.

I can phone her. No, stupid. Then, the chances would be that I'd
blow the deal myself.

Get it over with, finish the email. Set the PC to automatically
post it in two hours and just pray that the timing works. Pray
she gets it before someone else gives her the news. It should
work, I know her habits.

------------

<<
..... cont

I saw your journal at the hospital. I thank you for that. I know
that I wasn't supposed to see it, but I'm grateful. I've nothing
to give you of equal value. Just that you should know, that for
a while, you made me better than I am.

The deal's done. Please don't imagine that you could have said
or done something that would have made me behave differently.
Please don't blame yourself for my choices.

I'm sorry that I couldn't let you have a choice. Sometimes it
looks like you are presented with a choice but it's actually no
choice at all. My father died when he made his choice, his body
stayed around for years afterwards but he was dead inside. I
died a little on that bridge, years ago, when I swapped Samantha
for you. It doesn't matter that I found out later that she was a
clone. When I chose to deal, I accepted that I was trading in
human lives.

I had no choice tonight, Scully.

Trust the Doctor whose file I left in your apartment, he's the
right one.

Don't investigate. This time, just let me go. An investigation
will do no good. If you push too hard they may ditch their side
of the bargain. I promised them there would be no comeback, no
risk of publicity. Please, whatever you think of the deal I
struck, don't break the terms and conditions.

Don't regret living, don't feel guilty, don't feel bad about
feeling well again. Enjoy your life, do what you want to do.
Don't imagine you owe me something. You don't. Except maybe, you
owe it to both of us, to live and enjoy life. No vendettas, no
more tragedy, please.

You've given me everything. Let me give you this.

I don't know the goodbye words.

Be happy. You deserve it.
Mulder

>>
-------------

I'll be gone by the time she sees the email, the inadequate,
incomplete email.

Forgive me Dana.

I'm not supposed to be crying. The deal's a good one. I'm doing
the right thing.

I have to believe that I'm doing the right thing.

She won't forgive me, this last act of desertion, but maybe with
the desertion so complete this time, she'll let me go and will
get on with her life.

I'm terrified that she'll melt. But she's tougher than that.

I'm terrified that she'll investigate. Skinner will keep her
away, so will OPC. I hope it will be enough. Will she cry? I
don't want her to cry, I've torn too many tears from her. But if
she cries then maybe it's safer, she won't be able to look too
closely if she's crying.

What a mess.

There's a knock on the door. How polite. I wipe the damp from my
face with my shirt cuff.

The two men who are looking at me from the glare of the hall are
both about my height or maybe an inch or so taller. One of them
is just a little bigger than me, the other one looks like he's
got an extra fifty pounds and it's all muscle. They are
expecting me to go quietly, but just in case. I suppose I should
be honored that they rate my fighting ability so highly. Then
again, the third man is out cold. An easy burden for these two,
so maybe that's why they chose to send the heavies.

I look at the body they are delivering. I'm impressed. They've
obviously been planning this for a while. Either planning this
or something else. Did he volunteer?

Bad thought, I beat a retreat to the bathroom.

The two heavies grin as I come out. I've brightened their day. I
can hear them recount it to their mates. 'Yeah, so we get there
and he's crying, takes one look at the body and goes and throws
up.' A nice locker room story.

I bet they don't know why I'm worth saving.

I hear the computer make its phone call to send the email, such
good timing.

I stand very still and look hard at the man they carried in. I
turn and realize that the other two are staring at me, waiting
for something. I try to get them to repeat their question.
"Sorry, what do you want me to do?"

The bigger man looks at me, five percent pity, five percent
amusement, ninety percent contempt. "Your gun, your
fingerprints. We can't risk damaging the plastic prints on him."
He points at the unconscious man on the couch. "Let's get the
basics right."

Oh. Makes sense. It has to be my gun, it has to be my hand. Even
the most casual investigator will check the gun for wrong
prints, glovemarks, smudges. If only to ensure that he can
shrug apologetically if Agent Scully rattles his cage. It has to
be my hand on the trigger. It'll probably only get a cursory
exam but even so. And of course it ties me to their deal, binds
me in to their authority. As if they needed more strings to tie
me with.

But, I can't do it. Can't do this.

I remove my gun from its holster and shake my head. I try to
hand the gun to one of the goons. He laughs at my squeamishness.
He glares at me when he realizes that simple mockery isn't
enough to make me kill.

He digs in a pocket, pulls out a syringe and a vial of liquid.
He points at the body. "I'll make it easy for you. He's a
killer, four dead. Death penalty pronounced, all nice and proper
by the Judge. We've looked after him, luxurious accommodation
compared to death row and he didn't even know that he was dying
until tonight. He thought he'd copped the best deal of the lot."

He starts filling the syringe. He smiles as he works. "He wasn't
keen on the modifications. Coped ok with the plastic surgery,
not much impressed by the nose job. You should have heard him
scream when we matched your bullet wounds. This'll kill him.
Not noticeable unless you're looking for it and no one goes
looking for potassium chloride in a body with a hole in its
head. You understand what I'm saying? If I inject him, he's dead
and you've a couple of minutes to shoot him before the heart
stops. OK?"

How can I be OK. I'm shaking.

The syringe plunges into the man. The goon turns to me. "Now.
Hurry up."

I start to head to the bathroom again. Two sets of hands arrive
on my arms. A professionally neat punch to the kidneys to stop
me struggling, to remind me of the futility of resisting. The
blow is not intended to injure or even really hurt, just a
simple punctuation mark to emphasize their point.

"Pick up the gun and hurry up."

I pick up the gun. I'm crying again, I can't really see the man
on the couch, I guess it's better that way.

An indignant growl from the biggest of the two. "For fuck's
sake."

A hand wraps round mine. The gun's muzzle is repositioned on the
unconscious man's head, my unwilling likeness's head. The hand
crushes my fingers into the trigger. It's over.

I just stand and shake as they shift the gun into my, his hand.
So little blood for someone dead twice.

The goon is beyond angry with me now. Looks like he's under
strict orders not to injure me. So he has to get rid of his
irritation with words. He's not even allowed to shout for risk
of blowing the secrecy, attracting more attention before we get
away, before a 911 call by a neighbor brings the police. I know
we have to run fast, but I can't make my legs move. I only hear
half of what he's saying. "Great. A fucking virgin. I didn't
know you were a boy scout. From your service record, I wouldn't
have expected you to be the squeamish type."

They drag me out of the apartment and down the fire exit. No
wonder they sent heavies.

I'm nauseous, one of them spots it and puts his hand over my
mouth. Just in case there is an investigation. Wouldn't want
anyone to get the wrong idea about what happened at the
apartment that night, no one to go off trying to explain some
odd chain of events. They are safe of course, no one will
investigate, this is Spooky's suicide we're talking about here,
no one will be surprised. Scully. I have asked her not to try.

They let me go when we reach the alley way behind the parking
lot. I slip to my knees, head down against the cool asphalt.
They walk away laughing. I've definitely brightened up their
day.

Who are these people I sold myself to?

I feel a hand on my shoulder, tense my body in anticipation.
It's Skinner, he leads me to the car.

Don't grieve for me Scully. I'm not worth it.

END

-- End --