Socks

by Abree, CiCi Lean, Trillian, Odie and Shan Krug

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Four: Horsewhips And Workboots
by CiCi Lean
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Brii-aaa-nnnnn."

Alex Krycek grimaced at the grating sound of Martine's voice wafting through the camp and rolled his eyes as Brian Pendrell came running out from the camp kitchen, wearing not much more than an apron and a tired expression.

"Sweetie," whimpered Martine to Brian, who was trying to catch his breath. "I need another one of those deeeliicious Papaya Surprises that you've been making for me all day. It's just *so* hot on this island, and I get *so* thirsty," she mewled petulantly, batting her eyes prettily at him.

"Uh...well, that'll take me a while and I, uh, was sort of hoping to relax for a few minutes," said Brian, glancing longingly at Alex who sat stiffly against a palm tree, his arm crossed angrily across his chest and a scowl on his face.

Martine sighed and wiggled a soft, suggestive, moccasin-clad toe at Brian, who immediately crumbled at the sight.

"Oh. OK," he said, as if in a daze. He ran back into the kitchen hut and soon the sound of two blenders, a Cuisinart and an ice crusher were echoing through the jungle once again.

It's those damn shoes, Krycek thought angrily. Those are probably some heinous government invention made to turn the minds of normal, sock-loving men into mush.

Krycek shook his head. Will their evil *never* end?

Martine glanced at Krycek as Brian came running over with yet another bright blue Papaya Surprise. She smiled sweetly at him as she took it, but when he stumbled back to the hut in exhaustion, she stuck her tongue out at Krycek and blew him a loud raspberry.

"Ttbbbbbhhhttttt!!"

That's it, thought Krycek, rising, his hand clenching into a single fist of rage.

The bitch must die.

"No way, Stumpy," snarled Martine, as Krycek stomped toward her. "Have you forgotten? I'm the new and improved brand of clone. I can read minds, bend steel, even hem pleated skirts. Don't even *think* about messing with me!"

"You leave Brian alone, you...you...WOMAN!" said Krycek, menacingly shaking his fist at her.

"Never! He's mine now! Mine forever!" she howled with evil glee. She rose from her lawn chair with a flounce and skipped off to the lady clones' room laughing diabolically.

Krycek stumbled back in horror. Good lord, this moccasin-clad temptress *was* a product of a corrupt, military industrial complex bent on ruling the world by way of a swarm of small-pox infected bees to thin out the population and make way for the colonization of alien life forms to ensure the enslavement of the human race.

God, why hadn't that been obvious from the start?

Well, I'm not taking this, thought Krycek, as he stormed off to find Brian. He found him in the kitchen, blending more papayas and triple sec, a benumbed expression on his face. Krycek grabbed his elbow and dragged him from the camp.

"I can't right now, Alex," said Brian tiredly, as they came onto the beach. "Martine is thirsty..."

"Forget about Martine," growled Krycek. "She's no good for you."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Alex, I think that she's..." he replied weakly.

Krycek grabbed Brian by the shoulder and shook him roughly. "Look Brian. What about us?"

"What about us?" Brian gulped, suddenly nervous, but not exactly frightened.

"Oh, sure, now you forget. Those long hours in the closet, the time we spent chained together on the boat, all that sweet talk about knee-hi's and 100% cotton. Well, I'm gonna let you know that I haven't forgotten. And I think it's about time I jogged your memory..."

Krycek hooked a leg behind Pendrell's knee and shoved him none too gently down into the sand. Brian plopped back with an *omph* and Krycek fell on top of him, pinning him to the ground. He roughly grabbed Brian's chin and stared directly into his eyes.

"Close your eyes and think of Hanes," whispered Krycek, as he leaned in toward him.

Brian gasped, but Krycek never heard it. Because there was a noise much louder suddenly surrounding them, a familiar sound drowning out everything around them.

It was the sound of a plane landing. Right on the beach.

And it was heading straight for them.

"AGGGHHH!!!" screamed Krycek, leaping up and hauling Brian with him. Together, they ran to the protection of a nearby shrub and crouched down, as the plane came to a shuddering stop right over the spot where they'd been laying seconds before.

"We have to work on this timing thing," whispered Brian to Krycek, who nodded in agreement. They watched in horror as the door of the plane opened and out stepped...

A bald man with a silly monocle.

"Say, doesn't he look familiar?" said Brian blinking in surprise. He turned to Krycek. "Hey Alex, maybe we should go back to the camp, before these guys..."

But it was too late. The bald man had already spotted them and, screamed out in Russian to the soldiers that exited the plane behind him. Immediately, Alex and Brian were surrounded, and dragged toward the plane.

"Well, Alexander Krycek," said the bald man with an evil smile. "At last, we meet again."

"Pardon me. But didn't we meet you already?" asked Brian, trying to yank his way out of a soldier's grip.

"Nyet. You've met my poor, late brother, Boris," replied the bald man with an angry glare. "I am not Boris. I am Doris."

Krycek and Pendrell glanced at each other, and simultaneously bit their lips. Soon, both their shoulders began to shake with laughter. The harder they tried to stifle it, the louder it became, until both were in hysterics.

"Sorry, Doris," said Pendrell, sniffling and wiping a tear of glee from his cheek.

"Silence!" snarled the bald man, motioning for the guards to start moving the prisoners into the plane.

"Whatever you say, DORIS!" howled Krycek, the tears running freely from his eyes.

The bald man glared at them both with a malevolent expression. "Come along, Mr. Krycek. I think you and your little friend here can laugh all you want when you both become our test subjects at The Chicken Kiev."

Krycek stopped laughing and suddenly paled. "The Chicken Kiev? Oh, no. No...not there. Oh, no, please."

Brian looked at them both with a puzzled expression. "We're being sent to a Russian fast food restaurant?"

It was the bald man's turn to laugh. "Nyet, you foolish Americanski. A kiev is like a gulag, but much, much worse."

"Isn't a gulag a type of stew?" asked Pendrell curiously, as he and Krycek were roughly hauled onto the plane.

The bald man shook his head. "No, no. That's *goulash*. Hungarian, lots of paprika, and the secret is that you have to use the cheaper cuts of beef and tenderize them with the spices beforehand."

"Really?" replied Brian, nodding at the bald man, as the soldiers shoved them into their plane seats and strapped them tightly in. He turned to Krycek, with a surprised look. "Did you hear that, Alex? You have to do it *beforehand*..."

"Are you done, Martha Stewart?" snarled Krycek at Pendrell, as they were being prepared for take-off.

"But I don't know," replied Pendrell, shaking his head. "I could have sworn that my mother always called it *gulag*."

****

The cell door in the kiev shut with a slam.

Alex Krycek groaned and started to bang his head against the damp, filthy walls of the kiev, but stopped when he hit the bump he'd received during the shipwreck.

"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing his forehead. "Damn..."

Krycek sat down with a resigned expression and contemplated his and Brian's latest disaster. Oh, the plane ride went well enough, with Brian and Doris exchanging ethnic recipes and discovering that they each owned the exact same antique pressure cooker. The landing was uneventful and the ride over to the kiev, with him and Brian slung over the saddles of some pretty hot Cossack riders, horses galloping and whips cracking, had actually been rather stimulating than otherwise.

But when the black and gloomy towers of their prison came into view, Krycek's heart sank. He knew what lay inside that castle of terror. No food, bad water, loud Barry Manilow music and endless showings of the OJ trial tapes, awaited them in the back rooms of that horrible, that terrifying, that badly named torture palace called...

The Chicken Kiev

Krycek groaned again...loudly, and the sound echoed off the slimy cell walls. "This is the *worst* thing that's happened to us yet," he moaned. "The absolute *worst*."

Brian edged a little closer. "You know, Alex, while this does royally suck, there are some advantages to this set-up."

"What advantages could there possibly be?" asked Krycek with a miserable grimace.

Brian stared at Alex and licked his lips. "Well, for one thing...we are completely, utterly and absolutely alone."

Krycek's eyes widened. Oh, yeah. He looked at Brian and slid over beside him with a bright gleam in his eyes. He pulled Brian toward him with a grin.

Brian smiled back and snuggled in closer. "So, do you want to *finally* finish our conversation?"

"No, actually, I don't want to do any more talking," whispered Krycek against Brian's cheek.

Brian groaned slightly and turned his mouth towards Alex's. "Good, because neither do..."

["Yo, Alexander!"]

Both their heads snapped toward the intruding voice. Neither one had heard their cell door open or the entrance of a huge, blond prison guard. Alex and Brian scooted away from each other, and Krycek stared at the guard. There was something familiar about this guy...

["Alex! How's it going? Haven't seen you since spy school!"] bellowed the guard in Russian.

Krycek looked at him in amazement.

["Peter? Peter Petkrov?"] he replied in Russian.

["No! It's Trotsky! Of course, it's me, your old pal, Pete! How are you? Say, what happened to the arm there, comrade?"] asked Petkrov, pointing at Krycek's stump.

["The arm? Oh, well, you know the old saying...no arm, no test."] replied Krycek self-consciously trying to shove his hanging sleeve into his pocket.

["Hey man, I hear you!"] said the guard, good-naturedly pulling out his own empty left sleeve and waving it at Krycek. ["It's the latest craze around here. What a wacky country, huh? Well, it's a shame I have to take you to the torture rooms now, old buddy...but you know how it goes."]

The guard hauled Krycek to his feet, in front of a confused and frightened Pendrell. Alex looked closely at Petkrov. Maybe I can get us out of this, Krycek thought desperately.

He turned toward Brian. "Um, Brian? Pete here and I are old pals. He might be able to get us some water and food and...stuff. I'm going to head out with him. I'll be back in a bit, OK?"

Brian sighed disappointedly. "OK, but come back soon. Oh, and see if you can get a TV or something. It looks really boring in here."

"Will do," said Krycek softly, running a hand through Brian's hair. "See you in a bit."

Krycek turned back to Petkrov with a seductive glance. ["Look, old pal. Before you take me to the torture rooms, how about you and I do some talking...some *sock* talking."]

The burly guard laughed loudly as he pulled him out the cell door. ["Alex Krycek, some things never change."]

****

"Americanski..."

The whisper came through the tiny grate in the cell wall. Brian's eyes opened wide as he heard a weak voice beckon to him from the other side of his prison wall.

"Americanski..."

"Yes?" replied Brian, his eyes huge.

"Americanski..."

"Yeah?" he repeated, becoming slightly exasperated.

"Americanski..."

"WHAT?!" he yelled, jumping up and peering angrily through the grate. "Are you trying to drive me nuts?"

A pair of bloodshot eyes stared back at Brian. "Oh, no. I just like the way the word sounds. It rolls right off the tongue. Try it. Ammmerrrriiiicannnnskkki."

With a sigh, Brian plopped down onto his cement bench, and leaned back miserably against the damp walls. Oh, this is terrible, he thought. Four days ago, I was a simple, happy lab tech, eating Spaghetti-o's for dinner, watching old tapes of "Mr. Belvedere" for entertainment and doing pretty much nothing else.

//Until Alex Krycek came into your life.//

Brian sighed again. Yes, Alex Krycek, with his fake arm, charming smile...and black socks. He shut his eyes tightly and tried not to think too hard about those socks, or those long conversations, and how they were never quite completed. Oh, would he and Alex *ever* get out of this place, escape their enemies and live long enough to find at least *one* cheap motel, somewhere where they could *finally*...

His thoughts were interrupted by the prisoner in the next cell. "Hey, Americanski. That man who was with you, do you know him?"

"Sure," Brian said. "Why?"

The bloodshot eyeballs peered at him through the grate. "Because that man is not your friend."

"Of course he is," replied Brian, somewhat miffed. "Why do you say that?"

"Did you hear him speak to the guard? Do you know what he said?"

"Well, let's see, he was going to get us some food, water, clean clothes and maybe a movie along with a VCR," replied Brian, checking off each item on his fingers.

"No. That is not what he said. He said quite clearly, 'I want to dump this goober I'm with, make pals with you, and get the hell out of here right away, preferably on a non-stop flight out of St. Petersburg. Those stopovers are hell and..."

"He said all that?" Pendrell interrupted, with shock in his voice.

"No, he also said one more thing. He also said he wanted to check out the guard's *socks*."

Brian's eyes opened in horror. Oh, no. Why...why..that couldn't be true! Alex would never betray him like that, all for a cheap pair of Russian workboots and the socks of a man he barely knew, just to escape from the cold and miserable bowels of The Chicken Kiev.

Or would he?

Brian Pendrell collapsed on the bench and began to wail. "Oh why, Alex?" he cried, his yowls echoing down the cold kiev hallways.

"WHY????"

****

Alex Krycek laced up his new workboots with a satisfied grin.

Ha, take *that* you stupid Martine, he thought with a huff. Brian will love these. And not only that, but I, Alex Krycek, will be getting us the heck out of here. He smiled at the unconscious form of Peter Petkrov and patted him on the head with a condescending gesture.

"Yep, he will just *love* these boots," said Krycek aloud, searching Petkrov's pockets and fishing out his key chain. And Brian sure will be grateful when I come and rescue him, he thought with a warm grin.

How grateful?

Oh, very grateful, thought Krycek, enjoying the shiver that ran down his spine as he jogged out the door and toward Brian's cell.

*Very* grateful indeed.

****

Brian Pendrell crashed through the Russian forests, the caterwauls of rabid beavers echoing mockingly in his ears.

An hour earlier, he'd been taken out to work on the chain gang outside the kiev to assist in digging yet another hole to America. Once there, he'd whipped out the sharpened pencil his fellow prisoner had so thoughtfully slid through the grate to him, and used it for his escape.

And escape he did.

Waving the pencil, yelling in Pig Latin, he'd frightened off even the biggest goon in the kiev, and ran away, to the sounds of mis-firing shotguns and the useless crack of horsewhips hitting empty air. Brian soon reached the forest and continued to run, until finally, he was no longer able...or willing to continue.

He collapsed to the leaf-strewn ground, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself in a miserable hug of despair.

"Oh why, Alex?" he moaned, as the howls of the beavers grew louder...closer.

"Why?"

****

"Pssst, Brian, it's me. Check out my shoes!"

Alex Krycek happily entered the cell that he and Brian were sharing just hours before and looked around with confusion when he heard no response.

Why...it was empty.

Krycek was stumped as to where Brian could have possibly gone. The Barry Manilow torture sessions never came before the Different Strokes re-runs, and those weren't coming on until *after* the one-hour, non-stop playback of "The Theme From The Love Boat" or, if you were *particularly* unlucky, the "Pia Zadora Power Hour."

"Pssst, Americanski..."

Krycek turned toward the voice from beyond the wall, and saw a familiar pair of bloodshot eyes. "Say, don't I remember you from somewhere?" he asked suspiciously.

The eyes shook frantically. Damn, this pathological lying routine *does* catch up to you after a while, he thought. "Nyet, Americanski. But you...you are looking for your friend, no?"

"Yeah," said Krycek warily. "Where is he?"

"I do not know. But I think I heard him scratching upon the wall. Perhaps he left you a note," said the voice, gleefully. Boy, who said that you can't have some fun in the old kiev? You can mess with people's heads *anywhere*...

"A message on the wall?" repeated Krycek, turning around and suddenly seeing the large, handwritten letters scratched onto the wall behind him.

He gasped when he read it.

//"Alex. Goodbye forever. Love, Brian"//

For a long moment, Krycek's eyes were wide with horror and then shut tightly in despair.

"Oh why, Brian?" he whispered, stumbling out the cell door, his grief-stricken voice raising in volume to a howl of misery.

"WHY??!!"

****