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Disclaimer: All X-files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox TV. Ezekiel Stone has been banished to cancellation hell by his short sighted owners (the creeps know who they are). I don't own any of them I'm just making good use of them. Manfred Wharton is my own sick creation.

Captain Manfred Wharton didn't know who was more pathetic: the crowd of humans hustling and bustling in the chaos his phone call had created at the Hoover building or the wraith from hell he had just partnered with.

Both believed themselves more competent than either really was, both were especially vulnerable, blinded by their own wants and ambitions.

That was what had been so hellish about life on earth -- why he had to kill those around him. He hated being surrounded by people crashing around like toddlers unaware of any boundaries, feeling powerful but unaware how powerless in reality they really were. The only escape he found was being at sea. Going ashore had always been hell.

One night as he fingered a bit of scrimshaw, his salvation came to him. Wouldn't earth be so much nicer if every human being were just a decoratively carved souvenir? That night he began to stalk to streets of New Bedford, a man with a mission. He enjoyed the feel of the knife against flesh, the smell of blood flowing around him as he worked. The sound of

Wharton folded his arms remembering the sense of relief he had gotten as each subject -- for that's what they were to him, subjects not victims -- breathed his last. He felt freer as time and time again, their deaths brought him closer to that elusive sense of freedom one only gets from inner peace. When that New Bedford sheriff's bullet pierced his skull, he had no regrets.

"Resquiat in pace" the officer had shouted when he fired and as Wharton fell dead, he imagined what he thought would be the eternal peace of death:the sounds of condemned souls screaming in torment, finally giving him the sense of peace he had sought on earth; the same peace he had found in the screams of his subjects. There would be nothing more peaceful than to be surrounded by unrepentant beings like himself, all screaming in beautiful agonizing harmonious torment. It would give him that deeper sense of peace he had longed for. Smiling he closed his eyes and let death take him, finally happy. But only momentarily at peace because there was no peace in the Hell he found.

He found the place full of cowardly souls in denial about the justice of their fate; cringing cry babies full of woe and regret, begging, pleading for another chance to get it right, to repent, to warn others.

And ruling over it all was the vainest creature he had ever met. Wharton shuddered at the thought of him. Where was the proud, unbowed being of Milton's Paradise Lost or Dante's Inferno? This gaunt -- no, haggard looking worthless scrap of creation, happy to be served by wraiths like this one, thinking they were doing something honorable by doing his dirty work -- This was the ruler of the underworld? Even Wharton himself would be a better overseer for Hell than this lazy being.

Wharton realized almost immediately that the peace he sought was to be found back on earth, stalking, trapping and carving more subjects. He had just begun formulating his own escape plan -- after all, he had eternity to work it out -- when Ashur made it possible for them all to escape. Ash. Now there was the kind of leader Hell deserved. When the break came off, Wharton was the first one through the breach.

He had laid low for quite some time, getting used to a world he no longer recognized; a world almost a hundred years older, a hundred years more crowded and a hundred years worse than when he had last set foot on it. Last week he finally took his first subject. The feel of his subject's blood on his hands, the sound of his screams as Wharton carved him acted just like a sedative. Wharton closed his eyes as he relived the sense of peace that had washed over him.

He had been stalking his next subject when he saw the wraith, hovering over the Hoover building, crying like some disappointed child; dispirited, almost ready to throw in the towel.

"Pathetic," Wharton scoffed as he turned his attention back to his prey. But suddenly the next words the wraith flung into the air stopped Wharton dead in his tracks.

Surprised it could be seen, the wraith swirled around, recognizing a kindred spirit of sorts in Wharton and saw the killer gazing kindly at him.

After careful probing the wraith revealed its whole pitiful story from its beginnings seventeen years ago up to the present day attempts to claim Mulder.

"Too bad," Wharton said, commiserating with the hapless spirit. Listening to it moan about how it had been thwarted by Stone's FBI friend with a pretty pathetic trick, Wharton began to devise a plan to trap Stone. Wharton took stock of the wraith and sized it up pretty quickly.

"It's relatively easy for it to go after unsuspecting little boys like Charlie Holvey and wounded men like Fox Mulder. But it's quite another to come up against quick thinking men like Skinner and Stone, isn't it?"

"Yes, I see why you're despairing. You won't be able to get within breathing distance of that one again. And you can just forget about ever being alone with him. Those two men know you like you know Mulder." Wharton cooed, knowing he was half-way home. "Forewarned is forearmed. And it sounds like Skinner is just as resourceful as Stone -- well, it must be tough having to concede defeat."

The change in the spirit's attitude was dramatic. It swirled around him, getting brighter by the minute as the little seed he had planted took root. He listened as his idea sprung fully formed from the wraith like Athena from the mind of Zeus.

"I don't know," he answered, turning his back so the wraith couldn't see the gleam in his eye. "I've got my orders same as you. Stone's my target. Not Mulder. Nowhere was I told it's okay to hook up and help another demon."

"Where does it say you can't?" the wraith responded. "Don't you see? Helping me get mine helps you get yours. The Master doesn't have to be the wiser while we're doing it and he certainly will be pleased getting two from both of us when he might only have gotten one from either of us."

The wraith had spoken so confidently, so convincingly Wharton would have sworn the idea to become partners had come from the wraith itself with no help from him. What was that old adage? Oh yes: like taking candy from a baby. No wonder evil on earth was so short lived if spirits like this whimpy one were all the devil had on earth to do his bidding. God just wasn't playing fair.

Wharton shifted his weight as he watched the scene before him, waiting for his target to arrive. He smiled as he saw Ezekiel Stone walk through the crowd and into the building. Stone wasn't the standard simpering being Wharton had seen wailing and ass-kissing in Hell. How had the devil gotten anyone so competent, so self-assured to come after them?

He knew Stone was after all the escapees; he didn't delude himself that he alone merited such an adversary. And what an adversary. Already twelve of the escapees had been tracked down and sent back to Hell. Including Ash. Stone had even bested Ash. When he learned of that development, he knew he had to take care of Stone and quick. Wharton wasn't going back and he wasn't going to give Stone a chance to send him back.

His heart beat a little faster as he thought about Stone. Would he get a chance to carve the dead detective before sending him back to Hell in his stead? Nope. Playing with Stone was a luxury he couldn't afford. The guy had almost caught him coming out of that bank on Massachusettes Avenue a week ago.

Having helped himself to his latest subject's bank account, Wharton was too distraacted counting the money to see the dead detective at the corner. He had been so careful to wait until the bank was almost closing. The teller had been a nice young man, overly concerned about the amount of money Wharton was withdrawing.

Wharton remembered smiling as he shook his head no and left. He remembered thinking the young man would have made a nice subject when the sight of Stone's gun raised in his direction, paralyzed him. He froze, his heart in his throat. How had Stone found him so fast? If it hadn't been for the appearance of that FBI agent fom Stone's past, Wharton might be doing all this musing back in Hell. But as fate would have it the guy distracted Stone -- freaked him out if the truth be told; although, Wharton sensed something else as well. Anyway it had given him a reprieve and he was going to make the most of it.

"Let's just say you get me there in twenty and you'll never have to work another day in this life." Wharton fanned a wad of bills in the driver's face that made the man drool.

'You'll wish you had, little man,' Wharton thought, shoving the bills in one pocket while he fingered the knife in his other pocket. 'You'll wish you had.'