Note:  Folks on this list were so encouraging in their feedback on
"The First Fatal Spark" and so persuasive in their sequel requests,
that I've developed a trilogy of short stories set in the universe
started by "Fatal Spark."  I'm debuting this second story here. 
Thanks for the warm welcome to your list. -- Izzy

* * *

IGNITION II: DYING OF ENVY

Author: Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe (izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com)
Archive: Anywhere
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters from the "X-Files" are the property of
1013 Productions and the Fox Television Network.  

Note: This story is a sequel to "The First Fatal Spark." That story is
available from the author or the Chronicle X Fanfiction Archive at
http://members.aol.com/danascu11y/chronx.html.

* * *
Avarice, envy, pride,
 Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
   On Fire."
     -Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, The
* * *

Nice panties.  Silk aren't they?  Expensive I bet, but then 
fashionable underwear for the tasteful slut doesn't come cheap.

You've been sleeping with Mulder for what, six months?  By now
you've got drawers full of sheer bras, thong panties, garters and
stockings.  Under all that wool and starch you're his celluloid
fantasy become tangible, a sex doll made for Mulder.  He was
reluctant to even mention it, I'm sure, the first time he asked
you to spread your legs while you answered his phone, unbutton
your shirt so he could see your tits while you filled out his
expense reports, raise your skirt so he could finger you while
you did his filing.  You get your daily reward at noon with
a drive-thru burger and a trip to his apartment for a quick bang
on the couch.

Not very appetizing. Not very healthy.  A McFuck. 

Yeah, I remember those.

You don't have to work that hard for an orgasm, Dana.  That's
just one more thing you'll die without knowing.

You'll never know why Mulder isn't here.  Why he isn't answering
even though you're begging for him.  You'll never understand that
I came here to save your ungrateful ass, or appreciate the risks
I took, or apologize for getting your blood all over my six-
hundred-dollar suit.  You'll never realize that the only thing
holding any blood at all inside your beautiful body is my fist.

That bullet that ripped through your gut might be the best thing
that ever happened to you because it'll kill you while you're 
ignorant.  You'll spend eternity with bite marks on your breasts
and whisker burn on your thighs, and you'll treasure the pain as
proof you were loved on earth.  If I had made it here in time,
convinced you of the truth about Mulder, you might have stayed
alive but those Judas kisses of his would have scorched like Hell
never could.

Do you know how pathetic you are, writhing around in rat shit,
wasting your last breaths on his name?  Mulder will show up
eventually so he can apologize to your corpse.  I'm to be nearby
to comfort him with words or a blow job or whatever my handlers
tell me to provide.  That's the role I was assigned.  

I should walk out of here and let the cockroaches bear your
spirit to the netherworld.  This little improvisation will likely
send me to hell on your heels.  Under Diana Fowley's pretty skin,
I'm the Frankenstein creation of the men who salvaged the useful
parts from the woman Mulder broke. If I malfunction, I'll be
terminated and a more attractive model will take my place.  Who
knows?  If I manage to save your life today, you might be their
next monster.  

Would you be flattered to know that corporations have been
launched with less money and planning than was expended on
arranging your murder?  You and Mulder twirl on a stage for the
entertainment of decrepit old men.  You eat, sleep, work, screw
and die when they wish it.  You tagged along to this clandestine
meeting in an abandoned house, offered to stay and wait while
Mulder followed a second lead, then spun into the path of a
bullet because that's the choreography of the dance.  

Dance with me instead.

Let me see you like this, with your shirt torn open, your pants
pulled down, bucking under my hands, but in pleasure, not pain. 
Beg for me like you beg for him. Live to let me kiss your scars. 

Or die, but say my name once before you go.  I'd settle for
that. I dream big but my expectations are small.  A whispered
word would do. 

I know you've suffered before and, baby, I know you're suffering
now, but I would trade lives with you if I could.  I'd drain
my bank accounts, give you the keys to my car, sign over the deed
to my house.  I'd bear all your burdens, push that bullet into my
own belly, if I could only regain the one thing you haven't yet
lost.  

I had faith once.  Faith like yours.  Stronger maybe.  I prayed
and thought there were divine ears that heard.  I listened to
Mulder's promises and believed them.  

You're just an innocent child, Dana, who still believes in lovely
fairy tales of happily ever after.  I envy you.  Heaven will be
there for the believers, I think.  The rest of us have to live in
the perdition we've made for ourselves.  I should let you go to
your paradise, but I don't know how to love you that much.  I
love you superficially, in that selfish way that demands you
stay, even if you choose to leave.  

I love you the way Mulder loves you.

You're trying to stay alive for his sake, but I'm the one who called
the ambulance you're hearing.  You're in agony instead of a body bag
because my hands are keeping your blood in and death out.  Why can't
you say my name? 

"Bitch."

At least it's an acknowledgment. Actually, it's rather endearing.

Bitch.

Takes one to love one, sweetheart.  

* * *

Coming Soon: Ignition III: Pride Before the Fall

Your feedback would be very appreciated at
izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com.


==
Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe
"Please leave your values at the front desk."
                  -In a Paris Hotel Elevator