Wax Jism Rushes In Where MarySues Fear To Tread (excerpt)
By Wax Jism
Wax meets a one-armed piece of rough trade in an alley
* * *
All she remembered was that there had been some pretty darn impressive pyrotechnics. Lightning had flashed rapid-fire, like cameras at the Oscars, thunder had walked the earth like ... anyway - pyrotechnics. With sound effects. Other than that, though, it was all a big old blank.
Now it wasn't so much blank anymore as just black. As in dark. As in, maybe it would be a good idea to open your fool eyes, girl? Yeah, okay.
She wasn't in Kansas anymore, that much was clear. Although, on second thought, who was to say she wasn't actually in Kansas? Seeing as she'd never been there before, this might be what Kansas looked like. What it wasn't was home. Alleys in Finland just didn't have this deliberately run-down, smoky, butt-end of a movie set ambience to them. There weren't, usually, scantily-clad women standing by overflowing dumpsters. That just wasn't the done thing at home. Not even in the capital, which wasn't half as disreputable as its inhabitants liked to brag.
And she hadn't been in Helsinki when ... whatever had happened, happened, anyway. She'd been out in the archipelago, and there weren't alleys of any sort at all there. Just apple trees and sea gulls and rocks and the occasional cow.
All of this thinking, this deducing, only brought her back to the same question, and the question was, "Huh?"
* * *
She was interrupted when someone walked into the alley, walked into it like he owned it and thought it was a pretty cool place to hang out in.
The new arrival was a man, a tall man, and he was so ridiculously well-known to the girl calling herself Wax Jism that she, at first, only stared at him with her mouth open in an unattractively slack-jawed way.
Then he turned to her and she closed it with a snap. The man's green eyes narrowed. "Get out of here," he said, and his voice was just the way she remembered it. Wow. Of all people to meet in a dark alley--
She could feel her mouth opening again, about to spout something fannishly inane, like, 'Could I have an autograph,' when it registered in her abused brain that a) he wasn't really acting like a film star could be expected to, and b) he had a really big gun in his hand. In the hand that wasn't covered in a ... in a black glove. In the hand that wasn't hanging uselessly by his side.
She said it out loud to make sure she was still alive: "Shit."
She was still alive. Krycek - for that was who it was, wasn't it? Not Nic Lea (who everyone said was such a nice person), but Krycek, and the evil, canon version of Krycek, not the Krycek you would hope for in a situation like this, the Krycek you got in, say, curtainfic, or schmoopy little PWPs that featured Mulder in an apron and possibly an eggbeater or two - was ignoring her in favour of the streetwalker now.
"Dammit," Wax Jism whispered to herself (she never could stop herself from vocalising her apprehensions; she was a talker and that was that). "I get thrown through a vortex, or a rip in the fabric of space, or down the wrong trouser of time or whatever, and who do I meet? Not Oz, who might have some pot. Not Blair Sandburg, who might think this was interesting. Not Mulder, who might also see the interest, and who might actually believe and give a shit. Not Fraser, who'd help no matter what, not Ray Kowalski, who'd (heh heh) get Fraser, not-" She clamped down just as she was about to say '-anyone, who's not a fucking sociopath,' because it might be inadvisable to expound on someone's mental problems in front of that very someone, especially if that someone in particular was carrying a large-caliber handgun. Wax Jism's mother (Mrs. Jism, of course) hadn't raised any complete idiots. Just this one half-wit.
Half-wit or not, she thought it prudent to switch language, at least. She went on swearing blithely in Swedish, and then, once her vocabulary proved insufficient, in Finnish.
Meanwhile, Krycek had managed to get the hooker to give up her spot, and was now standing there himself, leaning against the dumpster, staring at Wax Jism with an insufferably smug look on his handsome face. He seemed to be finding her rather entertaining, so far.
She stood in the alley, still spouting sotto voce profanities, and had a thought. She could feel the thought building itself from a harmless, little thought-bunny, into a real, big-ass thought-elephant.
The thought went as follows: this is a dream.
Okay, so not exactly an elephant, then. A bunny, but a golden bunny, in any case. Tiny, but heavier than it looked, and pretty valuable. And easier to carry than an elephant.
This is a dream explained quite a lot. It put the universe back exactly where Wax Jism - who had quite an imagination, but preferred to keep it apart from reality - wanted it.
Okay, she thought, okay, I can hack this. I can deal. Just, you know, wake up.
She pinched her arm. Apart from hurting, it had no effect. She was still in the alley; Krycek was still glaring at her from behind the Dumpster. What a boring dream. Usually, when I dream about Krycek, it's less real and more fantasy, if you know what I mean?
How do you escape a dream you don't like? Weren't you supposed to wake up once you clued in to being in a dream?
You die, that part of her that usually came up with the really bad ideas piped in. You die, and then you wake up in your own bed. Easy as pie.
"Yeah, sure," she muttered to herself (or to that part - she wasn't entirely sure it was a part of her; surely no part of her was ever that dumb?). "Or not. What if it isn't a dream?"
Oh, so this is real to you? Stupid bitch. That part was also frequently rude to the rest of her. She didn't like it much.
"Well, whatever. So, if I - hypothetically - wanted to kill myself, what do you suggest, O voice of my inner jerk? I'm not going to start slicing my wrists with broken glass, I don't think so."
Hey, you got a guy with a gun just over there. Just ... annoy him.