Guises

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money or profit made, save only snickers of appreciation, which don't (so far) seem to be taxable. Half of these belong to 1013; the other half to Mutant Enemy. Yes, I do realize how wrong that sounds.
Setting: The Consortium went up in flames when the Hellmouth went down in dust, appropriate as that may be. Call this a year or so later, when people on all sides have caught their breath and realized that 'You break it; you bought it,' extends on out to 'and you clean it up, too.'
Rated: PG. No onscreen violence, barely any profanity, and no sex. Sorry. Written for the Beginnings X-Files Lyric Wheel. Thanks to Satina for the lyrics, listed below.

Guises

The Consortium always ran to grandiose actions. Overblown, theatrical passwords and tinted-window tanks masquerading as limos. Bodyguards in sunglasses and muscle poses. The old men went for visible power. They liked to meet in smoke-filled, wood-paneled rooms in New York with the kind of square footage that announced 'We have money and our snipers have clear lines of fire.' A peacock in heat was less noticeable.

(Yes, that did make my job easier. That kind of attitude encouraged people to notice them, remember them, and complain about them. It made it easier for people like me to go unnoticed, and to find my prey. It never crossed their minds that one day they might be the prey.)

Their installations were just more of the same. Overblown, overdone, and overly visible. Genetically modified cornfields as far as the eye could see in Tunisia or spacecraft the size of major league baseball stadiums in Antarctica.

So I have to wonder who set this place up. Until last night, it was subtle.

They were running a containment facility at one end of a mall. Which, to give them their due, was a perfect place to bring someone. If the prisoner was hyped, the guards just claimed they were bringing him in for a drink and some time to unwind. If she was drugged and being dragged, they could put an arm around her and claim she was just tired and there for coffee and some time away from the kids. Nasty. Efficient. Simple. Easy to explain people coming and going. Plenty of service entrances to duck in and out of. Putting the facility at one end cut down on the number of mall workers trying to cut through passageways they thought they were entitled to use.

Very subtle, and not really the Consortium's style. Their installations usually screamed 'Government' or at least 'Top Secret' and 'Stay Away!' The Brit might have thought of this, if he'd been more familiar with America. One of his other protégés may have come up with it. Not me. One of the others, thanks. It doesn't matter anymore whose idea it was. This place is torn apart.

That means I don't have to take it apart, but it also means there may be another player in the game. I need to know who, and what they want, and what they're aiming at. Friend, neutral, another enemy for the list...?

Emergency services are swarming it like an upset wasp nest. Police and firemen, EMTs and it looks like they called in the ATF. No surprise, really. This was a thorough job. There's rubble everywhere: concrete, steel pipes, exposed wiring, and bodies still being found. From what I'm catching on the police band, they're only finding our guys. None of the prisoners are still there.

From the looks of it, someone tried to trigger the site's self-destruction program, and it only partially worked. If it had worked properly, the debris would be in much smaller pieces. So would the bodies.

But there are no witnesses to any of it. There were security guards all over the mall; none of them were conscious when the place went up. Word across the police band is that they all say they were taken out by a young girl asking directions... and that none of the descriptions match. The cops are frustrated as hell. Politically, they can't afford to ask every attractive female between twelve and twenty-five where she was last night.

Of course, they also think the guards are lying. They don't know, and will probably never learn, that the trick to working around the Consortium is to combine Ockham's Razor with Holmes' Law: Go for the simplest answer that fits the facts, no matter how fucking weird. Mulder has that down to an art.

So, either there's a group of women, between fourteen and twenty years old, who dress like current teenagers/prime distractions and work together like a Consortium strike team... or it got very strange here last night. These girls were knocking out grown men and tucking them into safe corners. Some of these grown men were former commandos, too, and two hundred pounds of muscle.

(Girls. Huh. Has someone been using modern anime to cover some very selective training programs?)

But that was going on outside. Someone or something inside that facility was killing. Ripped limbs, torn-out throats, necks snapped like a terrier would shake a rat, and with appropriately sized teeth marks left on the bodies. The younger cops keep staggering back out to be sick where it won't get on the evidence.

It's pretty ugly, from the sounds of it. Impressively so. There's something I've always known and the Consortium has always ignored: Man will survive the harshest conditions and stay alive through difficult decisions. Even decisions like 'them or me' that contradict years of conditioning about 'Thou shalt not kill.' Rules like that sound much more impressive thundering down from the mount with a bearded guy in a tunic holding up stone tablets. They fade to nothing the first time you get a chance at some bastard who was holding a gun on you, or applying electrodes to sensitive spots.

It sounds like they caught someone or something that just waited for his moment. Or its.

There's a crowd of people watching, of course. This is a suburb. The damage here, and what really happened, is going to be the major topic of gossip for a few days at least. The American revulsion for damaged goods has been useful. People have been giving me some space while I watch with the rest of the gossips and rubberneckers. That's a relief, really. Too many of the people watching are young women -- girls some of them. I can't decide if they're cutting school... or evaluating their work.

At the edge of my vision, there's a patch of black that never goes near any of the police. I shift to watch it when an ambulance's arrival gives me an excuse to look over. The security guards may have been telling the truth. The woman in black is maybe twenty, twenty-two, wearing beat-up denim and scratched-up leather, and she's lethal. Balanced, watching everything, stronger than she looks, and quick. A tiny blonde comes over to talk to her, moving through the crowd as if they'll make room for her, and it works. Every bit as bad, expensive clothes and shoes or not.

I turn up the collar of my own black leather coat, and get photos of them both. The two men they're moving towards shape their own stillpoint in the turbulent crowd, and I'd already gotten pictures of them for future reference. I snap one of all four together, just in case. A tall black man, shaven-head and sharp eyes, standing next to a very lost or very stubborn Brit. The tweed jacket's old but expensive once and well maintained. His eyes are sharp, too, and I fade away into the crowd, waving to no one in particular behind me as I go, until the back of my neck stops prickling from his stare.

I've seen as much as I need to, for the moment. I came here to destroy that installation, and someone's handled that. I'm going to have to find out who those four are, and how many girls work with them, and how they did what they did. All of which will tell me the important parts: Friends, enemies, or allies? But it can still wait. Patience has its place, and right now, my instincts say that place is here.

The coffee shop down the street from the mall is doing a booming business today. Not a franchise, clearly, not with the mismatched chairs and old diner booths scattered around. The cookies and buns are from a local bakery, and the croissants smell like they came out of an oven maybe an hour before. I buy two and a café au lait and wander out to the sidewalk tables to go back to watching the mall.

It's still too brisk for most of the customers -- let the sun stay out for thirty minutes straight and that will change -- so it's just me and a guy with a guitar. I pull out a paperback I've probably read twenty times on as many different buses, trains, or planes and watch him while I 'read.' He and the guitar he's holding don't fit together.

It's new. Just out of the case, new. Not a nick, scratch, or mismatched string. He's got the calluses for it, though, and nails kept very short. Newly applied nail polish: dark blue. There's a line in one fingernail that matches the smudge of polish against the top edge of the case. He's wearing gleaming black Nikes and black jeans that still have creases along the legs, and neither of those fits with his sweater. It's old, hand-knitted, much worn, and a shade of cream that only comes from white wool fading over the years. It's also huge on him. The hem hits him at mid-thigh and the sleeves are rolled up at least twice just to stay at his wrists.

He's short and wiry, one of the ones who can carry their own weight on a forced march but look like they'd blow over in a stiff breeze. He's also had a bad time very recently, and I have to wonder if he was in a cell in the mall last night.

His hair is maybe three inches long, including the inch of copper roots. Above that, the hair's Goth black with cobalt and crimson streaks at the temples. The eyes are hazel, with dark circles underneath that moved in and brought friends. He looks tired, and worn at the edges, like his sweater, and he's watching me watch him with eyes that are twice as old as the rest of him. Except maybe that sweater.

I nod to him, since he's noticed. He nods and takes a sip of his own drink. Chai and milk from the smell and the color. Crumbs on a plate in front of him. All over the plate, and it looks like scone and croissant remains, and chocolate frosting as well. He was starving.

"Oz."

I raise an eyebrow, but he's just watching me while his fingers walk the strings of the guitar. Not playing. Just familiarizing himself with it. Learning the exact width between strings and distance between frets, listening to an occasional soft note and adjusting a peg. Comforting himself with it.

"Alex." I nod to him, consider the sweater and the empty plate. "Sorry to stare."

He shrugs, with a very slight smile. "Sucks, yeah." His tone says it's okay, though. "You get it much?" and his gaze flicks over my left hand, then back up to my eyes.

"Too much." I shrug, too, but like him, it's all right. "Still hungry?"

Oz raises an eyebrow, smiles slowly, and it's more expressive than an hour's gossip. Amused that I asked when most people wouldn't have; interested that I put it all together; wondering what I'm doing here; not inclined to ask anything in return. Yet. "Always, lately."

Five minutes later, I've got a plate with a hefty sandwich (turkey, roast beef, and Swiss) and another chai latte. When I set them in front of him, he looks up from my book and smiles. His guitar is cradled in his lap like a favorite child or a teddy bear. "Worth rereading," and he means me, definitely. Maybe himself as well.

Oz picks up the sandwich and eats it slowly, washing each bite down with the remains of his first drink. He sighs, finally, and says, "Thanks." He picks up the fresh chai, lacing his hand around it for the warmth, and sips at it, tilting his head back to get the heat on the back of his throat.

Good. He looks like a native Californian, but he needed something more solid than the morning pastries. He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask what I'm thinking.

"Just glad you're not a vegetarian."

He smiles at me, that same slow amusement, and shrugs. "Free lunch."

"Exactly." I lean back and soak in the sun that's come out.

He does the same at his table, his arms loosely wrapped around his guitar. The food's hitting, I'd say, or the warmth. Maybe both. He hadn't looked tense; now, however, he looks relaxed. His eyes twitch under the eyelids, fingers curving and tensing on the guitar. He starts as I reach toward him, eyes sharp and focused on me as he opens them. Awake again, or never asleep to begin with. I just nod to him and retrieve my book.

He's watching me, though, frowning. He sniffs the air, nostrils flaring. One eyebrow goes up. "Huh." Skeptical, surprised, oddly reassured.

I'd like to resist the temptation, but I can't. "What?"

He just shakes his head, smiling again. "You don't match either."

"Huh." I look him over, somehow surprised by that. "Why not?"

"Gun oil, but no one else's fear. Human, but something else in that. Spicy, but not anything on this planet."

"And you've smelled everything on this planet?"

He just smiles at my skepticism. "Spice market in Jakarta. If it's not there...."

I open my hand, conceding that point. "Ever considered a career in perfume?"

Oz smiles, shakes his head. "Why confuse unsuspecting victims?" He's watching me, though, and I can't tell what he's thinking.

He's not worried by my gun; oddly, I'm not worried that he knows I have one. He doesn't want any trouble, and I'm not here to put prisoners back in that place. Although I'm wondering what they thought they captured, and whether he needed the chai to get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

"Made up your mind?"

"About what?"

"Whether you're going to try to kill me."

He's not worried I'll manage; he just doesn't want to burn off lunch stopping me. I like him. I need to know there are people who know something about what I am and aren't afraid of me. Maybe I am getting old. What the fuck, though? The war's over; I won. Screw it. "The sweater's an antique."

Oz raises an eyebrow, then smiles. This time it lights his entire face. "Yeah. I don't believe Giles loaned it to me. It's almost a member of his family, I think." He nods. "You know about that place?" The slightest flick of his chin indicates the rubble down the street rather than say anything.

I have a fraction of a second to make the decision. "I was going to serve the eviction notice."

He nods again, slower and unsurprised, and smiles a little. "Wondered. You're late."

"Yeah, I noticed. Friends going to take care of you?"

"Yeah." He watches me, then smiles slowly. "Got many more to close?"

I look Oz over. "You're not offering to help."

He shrugs. "Not my favorite thing to do. But if you wanted to leave me some addresses, I know some people who think that sort of thing's fun."

I consider him. "I have some addresses that might need cleaning, but I'm having to check them out. Their backers fell apart last year."

He raises an eyebrow. "Literally?"

I know I kept that smile off my mouth. Apparently it made it into my eyes because he's just shaking his head. "Damn. Enthusiastic, Alex."

Now the grin escapes. " 'God, I love my work.' " I shrug. "Not always, really, but it was a fun movie."

"New take on Porthos and Richelieu, and a waste of Rebecca De Mornay. But fun," he agrees. He leans back, watching me. "Disney movies and Chinese fantasy? What about cheesy vampire movies?"

"They call for popcorn."

He nods slowly. "Huh. I don't really like getting in on the whole cleaning part. But I don't mind doing discreet scouting if I can make music gigs while you're handling the rest."

I look at the circles under his eyes, at the clipped, cleaned nails, the trace of stubble already showing despite a recent shower... and it was a full moon last night. "How do you feel about silver?"

He shrugs. "US currency doesn't include any."

I finish my own mocha, nod to him. "Need another sandwich before I go?"

"I'm good. Thanks, though." He turns back to his guitar, as if the offer to help clean out Consortium bases is inconsequential.

"Is there some way I can get in touch with you if I need to borrow your nose?"

He grins at me. "The rest of me might need a plane ticket."

"Can you imagine the news stories that would get out if I just carried your nose around?" I'm grinning too.

"Nah. Weekly World News has a yeti fetish. Your secret's safe. Email me at Eminor9th@yahoo.com. I'll get it." He writes it out on my napkin and hands it over. "Don't expect replies before noon, okay?"

"I won't." I stand up, hands sliding into my jacket to check the way it, and my gun, are hanging. "Tell your friends I said nice work."

He just grins at me sideways. "That may annoy them. I'll tell them." He shrugs at my raised eyebrow. "Annoyance has its values. Makes them think sometimes." Oz tilts his head, studying me, then says mildly, "Tougher than I look. Email if you need to shut down another place like that, Alex."

"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship." I touch two fingers to an imaginary fedora and head off, still grinning. Oz has to be the most relaxing company I've had in weeks.

I can't see his grin, although I'm pretty sure there is one, but Oz starts playing his guitar before I get out of earshot. 'As Time Goes By.' A werewolf who likes film noir. Why does that just figure?

I may even email him sometime.

~~~finis~~~

Comments, commentary, & miscellanea:

The one quote is from the Disney Three Musketeers; the other is from Casablanca, as is the song. No, I have no idea where this came from, other than a need to write a story about beginnings, and a recollection that Judas was a redhead.

Lines used marked with *.

"Judas,"
Depeche Mode

Is simplicity the best
Or simply the easiest
The narrowest path
Is always the holiest
So walk on barefoot for me
Suffer some misery
If you want my love
If you want my love

Man will survive *
The harshest conditions *
And stay alive *
Through difficult decisions
So make up your mind for me
Walk the line for me
If you want my love
If you want my love

Idle talk
And hollow promises
Cheating judases
Doubting thomases
Don't just stand there and shout it
Do something about it

You can fulfill
Your wildest ambitions
And I'm sure you will
Lose your inhibitions
So open yourself for me
Risk your health for me
If you want my love
If you want my love
If you want my love
If you want my love

Gorgeous graphics courtesy of