Title - "Blood-stained Banner"
Author - Wintersong
E-Mail address - wintersong .ca

Rating - R
Category - SA
Spoilers - DeadAlive
Keywords - none

PURity Category: Minor Characters

Summary - Wave, wave, the bloody shirt high.
This time we go to war.

Disclaimer: They belong to CC and 1013.

Note: This story was written for the PURity
Summer Season Challenge. It takes place between
TINH and DeadAlive.

***********************************************

Shit.

That was the first word that came to mind. God
damn and Fuck it all to hell followed close
behind.

Banging his head repeatedly against his desktop,
Alex Krycek considered the fact that there was a
reason the fucking Roman Empire had waved the
bloody fucking shirt of a defeated general before
the masses.

It damn well worked.

Come on Alex, he told himself. Think. Think damn
it. And while you're at it...he considered the
wooden surface only centimeters from his pain-
blurred gaze. Find yourself some aspirin.

Or vodka. Yeah. Vodka might do it. Tradition was
a wonderful thing.

Too bad he didn't drink.

Mulder had finally managed to get himself killed.
And not conveniently either. Mulder, being
typically Mulder, had decided to fuck Alex Krycek
but good. He couldn't have died in some messy but
scientifically explainable way. Nope. Monster Boy
had to get fragged in a very public, very
noticeable manner. So noticeable that his
tragically abandoned, tragically PREGNANT partner
got her tragic ass broadcast on national
television as she publicly collapsed over his
mutilated corpse.

Wave,wave the bloody flag of war...

Re-broadcasting every hour on the hour in 52
states - oh , and don't forget fucking Canada.
Damn FOX satellite feeds. And how the hell was he
supposed to know that the news editor for the BBC
was a bona fide UFO nut who subscribed to The
Lone Gunmen? Less than 1500 subscribers-how
serious a threat were they supposed to be?

Except now they were 1500 pissed off subscribers.
Just when did Agent Spooky and Doc Ice become the
poster children for the paranoid pocket protector
set anyway? And now they were all mad enough to
get off the damn nail and do something about it.

Shit.

Pregnant women and the sympathy factor. He had
seriously underestimated the sympathy factor.

He just wished that he'd underestimated Scully.

If Mulder had just become the official martyr of
the god damn Church of X, Strange and Truth,
then Scully had managed to become Mother Mary,
Moses on the Mount and the fucking Archangel
Gabriel and his fucking flaming sword all in one.
Skinner now rode his white horse with all the
guilty fervor of the newly converted while the
three choirboys from Hell continued their hymns
of doom, gloom, and alien invasion.

Scully was doing exactly what he'd figured she'd
do.

She was calling in the dogs of war.

It was, he thought morosely, sort of like the
homosexual telling the hetero that it was okay to
be gay. No bloody credibility. Mulder could spout
his scripture to the people and the congregation
would nod their heads gamely, give rousing cheers
of support and maybe throw a little money in the
collection plate. But that's as far as it would
go. Because in the end, Mulder was one of them
and he was preaching to the converted.

But Scully belonged to the masses.

She was the sane one. The scientific one. The
unbeliever. The one who was causing lab techs and
local PD to laugh at her crackpot theories first,
then, after meeting a very focused, very tortured
and very sane blue-eyed gaze, pause and ask
"really?". Lab techs and flatfoots who were
going home with the eerie feeling that maybe...
just maybe...what if she was right? And how could
any red-blooded American male still call himself
a man if he wussed out over a little humiliation
and embarrassment in the face of such obvious
and overwhelming feminine courage and pain?

Guilt with a testosterone chaser was a damned
inconvenient thing.

Belief was bloody contagious too. Like the case
in Jersey. Six homeless men ripped apart by
something the only survivor said was a werewolf.
Not so unusual. He was 24 ounces into a 40 ounce
bottle of whiskey when he saw it. Just another
crazy loose on the streets. The PD even agreed.

And then requisitioned 1000 rounds of silver
plated bullets.

The fucking werewolf never had a chance.

All because of the sympathy factor.

Damn it. It was socially acceptable for men to
suffer for unrequited love. For lost love. For
the unattainable goal. Hell, it was a Hollywood
cliché. Boy meets girl, bad guy does something
terrible to girl, boy becomes the tragic hero
with nothing left to lose.

So much for the girl.

Reduced to the currency of a game. The quality of
her pain, the extent of her losses used as
nothing more than the benchmark to gauge a man's
standing among his fellow players. Was she raped?
Dear me, you should have moved faster. Was she
killed? Ah ha! Now we've got some psychological
drama. Will you allow us to use it to manipulate
you or will you rise above our petty machinations
and prove yourself the better man? And if she
lives? Well, hell man...you win.

The fools actually bought this shit.

Morons.

Only now there was Scully.

The hell with potentially turning Mulder into the
icon of a crusade. They should have been worried
about his partner. He'd told them. He'd told them
it was a mistake. Hell, he'd known since the
minute she'd stuck that pain-in-the-ass nose in
the air and snubbed him in the autopsy bay. She
was supposed to be glad to get away from her
fruitloop partner. Grateful even. Not
territorial. But there she was, hiking her leg
and squatting with the best of them.

When the hell had it all gone to hell? The first
case? The third? For someone who claimed the
motto "Trust No One", the man had a powerful
drive for wanting to trust the women in his life.
Brains definitely did it for him. Phobe,
Diana - they might as well have taken Scully out
and gift-wrapped her. They had, he thought
finally, gotten too impressed with themselves.
They'd wanted the flexibility to hit every red
blooded spinal reflex hot-button the man had.

And it had just turned around and kicked them
in the ass.

Now he had to figure out a way to keep her
alive until he could figure out what to do
about Mulder. A little more time and maybe
they would have an effective vaccine. Just
a bit more time.

Mulder was safe enough where he was for the
moment. His antibodies should be able to
hold off this new virus a few weeks longer.
Long enough for Alex to do what had to be
done about the child.

But maybe he should spare a minute to worry
about himself. Because he didn't have a clue
who the fucking Saracens were anymore. Because
Scully was riding the clarion call to battle
and her army was gathering. Too soon. Damn it.
Too fucking soon.

And the last time the Christians went to
war...

...they lost.

**************************
~the end

Author Notes: Just wanted to confess
that I ...umm...*borrowed* (stealing is
such a harsh word;o) Alex's observation
about the Roman reason for waving the bloody
shirt from David Weber's "Honor Harrington "
series.