An Ultra-Quickie at the keyboard story . . .
By Drovar

Alex Krycek was running . . . The sounds of pursuit gaining
quickly. He pulled his precious satchel close, cradling it in
his prosthesis, not daring to spill a single ounce of his
golden burden. Somewhere behind he heard the metallic snap of a
gun and frantically dodged to the right. The bullet slammed
into the warehouse wall just above his left shoulder showering
him with a wave of shattered brick and dust.

Damn, damn, damn.

He was in an alley, suddenly surrounded by boxes, crates and
refuse. A quick dodge and shirk, around the piled trash,
brought him to a chain-link fence blocking the exit. He could
hear the thugs at the front of the alley, entering, moving
closer. No way he could climb the fence in time, not with one
arm and a carefully guarded package. Shit, he was a gonner.

Krycek was nothing, if not a survivalist. He looked around
desperately and spotted a door, half-covered by an old crates
and assorted trash. Locked, of course. Krycek backed up, looked
down the alley toward his pursuers, back at the door, and
kicked. It rattled on its old hinges and held.

"Here, he's back here," he heard the weasely one shout.

"Don't let him get away," he heard the extra-weasely one

A second frustrated kick sprang the door open with a resounding
snap. He tumbled into the room, keeping the satchel upright.
Mustn't spill, mustn't spill. He could hear his assailants
crashing through the rubble, far too close now. They'd be on
him in a hot second. He couldn't, did not dare, let his prize
fall into their hands.

He was up in a flash hurtling back out toward the street. He
saw a square of light in the warehouse's dimness, freedom, and
safety beckoned. He sprinted toward the light. Too late he
spotted the woman, the spitfire, so calm on the outside, so
much iron on the inside. Shit, how could he have forgotten
about her?

He banked left as the woman kicked the door open. If he was
right, and God help him if he wasn't, he'd find a flight of
stairs . . . *there*. Krycek bounded up the stairs two and
three at a time. Thankfully the woman was just a little slower.
Now if only she didn't have a gun. One bullet, then another
flew over his head as he ducked, swiveled, and careened around
a bend in the staircase.

Shit, shit, shit

Flat out fleeing in terror now, Krycek stumbled out onto the
roof of the old warehouse. He looked around, no exits, no fire
escape, he was trapped. Trapped like a Ratboy. The door to the
roof slammed open disgorging his incredibly disgruntled
assailants. The weasely one, the even weaselier one, and the
woman all armed and pissed. This was just not his day.

Well, no choice but to do it. Krycek darted across the roof,
leaving the three startled and frozen in place, as he raced to
the edge, and leaped into empty air. He seemed to hang for a
moment, almost floating, before plummeting toward the ground
with a wild shriek. Two awnings, a flagpole, three clotheslines
and a balcony later he landed on the street in a crumpled
aching heap.

Slowly Krycek staggered to his feet and stumbled away. He
looked up for a moment to see his attackers peering over the
edge of the building, a look of mute suffering shared between

Krycek hefted his satchel, catching a whiff of the wonderful
aroma that Mulder loved so much. He looked back up at the roof
and waved. Screw them, Ritter, Spender and Scully could get
their own damn McNuggets.

(I am *so* sorry for this, really)