Summary: The Gunmen and Yves strive to attenuate some extraordinary stolen property. Rated PG.

Title: 'Domo Arigato,' Mr. Roboto
Author: Sue
E-Mail: susieqla@yahoo.com
Website: None
Category: General/Het
Rating: PG
Summary: The Gunmen and Yves strive to attenuate some
extraordinary stolen property.
Disclaimer: All the X-Files characters and
references are property of C. Carter,
10-13 Productions and FOX.


'Domo Arigato,' Mr. Roboto

His threadbare covers were knotted around his long,
bone-white legs. As Yves continued to take in the
less than exhilerating sight, she wondered if he
was wearing anything underneath that ratty blanket.
God, she hoped so.

Taking her cue from her bandana-sporting companion,
whose eyes were festively sizing her up and down,
she smiled. Quietly, she ventured closer to the
blond's sad dishevelment he laughably called his
bed.

"Why's he hugging his pillow like that? Found true
love at last?" The questions had been decoratively
arched, and sounded droll.

"Normal. For him." Gamely, Frohike returned the
sleek, raven-haired woman's mocking smile. His he
reinforced with a wry twist to his lips. "His
current squeeze doesn't want to rush things."

Sounding surprised, Yves commented, "Smart girl,
whoever the brave soul is." She stopped twirling
a silky wisp of her hair. "If I wake him, will his
first impulse be to strike?"

"I know you're anxious, but better let me rouse
sleeping beauty. He's a far cry from sociable
first thing in the morning."

"And this is news because?" Yves bandied her
right hand, gesturing widely at Langly. "Have at
him, then. Far be it from me to ruin my chances in
my bid for his help." Under her breath, she
muttered, "Wonder if a 'grande' spot of Starbuck's
magic would've greased the wheel better?"

"Nope. He hates their swill. He only drinks what
he brews...oh, and my stuff too when he's desperate
enough."

"Blast," Yves mouthed. Frohike winked at her saucily.

"He'll agree, safe enough to say. If you haven't
begun to notice, pretty lady, he's a sucker for good
causes..."

"Not to mention for all sorts of things I fail to
understand what the big fascination is." Yves held
herself stiffly. Frohike's eyes warmed as he
leisurely ambled over to his friend's bed.

Yves' sigh filled the small cluttered bedroom.
Her airy strains whispered of goal-attainment yet
realized. "Not only is the cause good, but could
prove very lucrative if handled just right."

The comatose body entangled in the blanket shifted
with an abrupt gulp of a snore. Langly's mouth
opened and closed nosily. A fish wanting some
company would have found it. What looked like
the beginnings of a hesitant yawn was in the
making.

"Brings him around every time," Frohike touted,
offering Yves some very knowing, soulful eyes.

"What does?" Yves humored.

"Money talk. Strikes a cord deep within his
subconscious. Dates back to when he raised
chickens and sold eggs on his family's farm.
You'd never know he has a head for business by
looking at him..."

Yves gave Frohike a 'hold that thought' look
that could have reasonably passed for a sneer.

Through a wheezy breath they heard, "Tha..at's
ri..right, Scully... Li..like w..way cool.
Wh..who's y..your daddy?"

Frohike's eyes bugged. His lips twisted in on
themselves to hug his teeth.

"Apparently you aren't the only git who's torrid
for the titian-haired temptress in government
guise." Yves' face was animation in the making.
"The formidable 'femme fatale...'"

"Wake up," Frohike spoke gruffly, "hippie!"

The disheveled blond's plastered-shut eyes
remained closed. Following a soft, low moan of
a couple of seconds' duration and a shiver of
jittery movement, Yves and Frohike stared into a
pair of crispy blue, groggy eyes. They appeared
somewhat crossed.

"What's the big idea, huh? You and Scully?"
Wringing his scrawny neck was too good for him
Frohike judged.

Having a hard time focusing, and through a wide
yawn, Langly accused, "What the hell's the big
idea? Bustin' in here like this?" Warning
Frohike was a waste of time. Stronger measures
would have to be taken. But, later for that.
He was still too sleepy. The bleary blond yanked
the pillow he had wrestled into an affectionate
embrace and wedged his head beneath it.

"And a bright cheery good morning to you too,
luv." The nervous habit Yves had of tapping her
foot against anything handy was alive and well.
In this instance, Langly's Star Wars garbage
pail, the one with Chewie's furry face on its
front and back, as opposed to the one in the
far corner crawling with X-wings, fit the bill.

"Go away," Langly barked. The rasp sounded like
it was buried under several layers of material
perfect for muffling.

"Rise and shine, dear boy," Frohike instigated
further. Where was a pointy cattle prod when it
could have been put to excellent use? He dipped
closer to the bed, tempting fate.

"Go the hell away--leave me alone! I'm whipped."

"What a whine on him," Yves highlighted.

Langly sank his teeth into the pillow. "I told
you I was gonna sleep-in. Like what part of that
didn't you understand when I said so last night
before turnin' in? Now scram--both of you!" One
early morning tirade softened by his pillow. He
stuck his head out from under it, wishing to drive
home his point with a vengeance. "Try TKU
downloading over blue-code?" He shot them evil
looks. "Now get!" He pasted the pillow more
securely to his head.

"Remember our conversation of two days ago?"

They heard him 'humpff,' and turn over so his
narrow back was facing them.

Yves would not be deterred. "What if I told you
that the two laptops reported missing from Central
Strategic Command in Tampa are in my possession?"
It had been said as candidly as if she had just
announced she was switching careers and jetting
off to Vegas to become a showgirl. A data nugget
which wouldn't have surprised Frohike all that
much. She certainly had the legs and everything
else that went with them, for it, he would surely
have said.

"I'd say you swiped 'em. Which is what I told
Byers when you finally left. You spider, but we
do it better." Langly forsook the pillow. Taking
sloppy aim, he chucked it at the shapely young
woman. Never volunteering to be a target, she
easily sidestepped out of his lumpy missle's way.

"And you'd be quite wrong," Yves needled with a
burnished smirk of complacency. "Quite."

"You borrowed 'em?" Frohike nimbly cast into the
pot. Content to lead her on with his perfected
sense of timing, he grinned. Yves wasn't fooled
by his understanding brown eyes showcasing his
chamelion charm.

"No, Melvin," she verbally stroked in kind. With
a mellowing of her innocent-looking eyes, she
forded on, "I came into their possession by
duplicitous accident.

"Yeah," Frohike squeezed through a laugh soaked
in brine," right."

"Who'd you bump off this time?" Langly riddled
with his versatile brand of sarcasm.

"It wasn't I," Yves afforded, looking around the
room as though she was just discovering its
non-existent appeal for the first time. She
wouldn't let Blinky, her sweet calico of two
years, eat in here.

"Then, who?" Langly anted, absentmindedly rubbing
his left hand over the kneecap of his right leg.
The ice hadn't helped one bit, despite Kallie's
insistence that it would. The next time he got
into a softball game with her clan of jocks, he'd
let her know up front that sliding into homeplate
with her two-hundred pound of pure muscle cousin
covering it wasn't the best idea.

Showing off for his girl...what a lame excuse.
A joke, he'd played on himself. There were
easier ways to commit suicide. This much pain
and suffering was never worth it; not even for
love...if that's what Kallie and he really had.

It was too early to tell.

"A former colleague tipped me off. I was told
where to go--"

"I have one place in particular where you'd
have lots of company," Langly zinged.

Still desiring his help, she decided to let that
snide crack slide. "*And*," she emphasized,
packing more power into her tone, "with whom I
should meet. I followed directions to perfection.
No sooner had the contact shoved the prizes into
my waiting hands, and streaked away for the
helicopter waiting for him not more than twenty
meters away, he was gunned down. The Hummer was
black, complete with tinted windows. There were
no plates."

Frohike and Langly, having yanked himself from
semi-unconsciousness, exchanged calculating looks.
They barely edged out Harlow's intense scrutiny.

"Something tells me you're no ways finished,"
Frohike second-guessed.

"Correct. It's not the half," she said when she
judged sufficent time had passed for her to
continue.

With a little grunt of acknowledgement, Langly
allowed his bane in tight-fitting clothes to gently
maneuver his glasses onto his face, wondering what
had gotten into her. Acts of consideration towards
him weren't her speed. The suspicion grew that she
wanted something from him. He slipped a leg at a
time off the bed, wanting to stand. He knew that
when he did the soreness in his lower quadrant
would hurt like there was no tomorrow.

Mashing down on his lower lip with the upper, he
lifted up in stages. And was promptly rewarded
with not as much agony as he had anticipated.

"What does your grisly little tale do for an
encore?" Frohike nudged Langly with sparkly eyes
that he needed to rearranged his shorts.

Yves inhaled a breath of relief. He wore boxes,
the point being he was wearing something. "Ever
hear of a recently-privatized firm by the name of
Nitsugami Technologies?"

Downstairs, from the kitchen, they heard Byers
shout, "I can only keep these omlets warm for so
long, you know..."

"Sounds as though your chum's knickers are
decidedly in a twist," Yves insinuated.

"Nah," Frohike parried with a glint newly-ignited
in his playful eyes. "He's in his jammies, goin'
commando at the moment."

"Ooh," Yves interjected with a look of distaste
on her face, "sorry I ventured that opinion."
Sounding a shade more irritated than he was,
Langly said, "So what about this outfit?"

"I'm surprised you haven't a clue," Yves fanned.

"Just cut the dilly-dally crap and lay it out,"
Langly sniped, fixing Yves with dagger eyes;
not exactly what she had hoped for at this stage.

Frohike was already closing in on the door. The
sudden acrid smell of what was burning had put an
end to the watering of his mouth. It was a given
though that no matter what state of singe breakfast
was in, Langly would chow down, no complaints.

"They're co-developers of the world's most
powerful supercomputers, as part of a contract
with the United States Department of Energy. I
have the twin prototypes and their robotic
counterpart."

"Well I hope you people are satisifed," Byers
shouted again. Whenever he hollered like that,
it sounded as though his voice was stretching.
"Remind me never to volunteer for preparing
something special, any time soon! This is the
thanks I get." There was a brief pause, and
then a booming, "NONE--"

"I'm goin' down," Frohike plugged, revamping his
hasty retreat. Byers with a real temper wasn't
a pretty sight. "See you at the table."

Langly folded his arms across his bare chest
and glared at his uninvited guest. "So..." He
was enjoying this immensely. He let the full
force of the assessing look in her eyes sink in.
"And like, I come in where?"

Nodding, Yves said with an uncharacteristic note
of placative irony standing in her voice, "Would
you help me on this?"

"Me? Not Kimmy?"

"Kimmy who? When I need overblown delusions of
microscopic grandeur, I won't ask for it."

After lapping that up, Langly stipulated, "For a
price though." It had rolled off his tongue like
melted butter.

"Name it." Her arms were crossed over her well-
endowed chest now too.

"Me, you. Shockwave Tetris--my config. No rules.
Winner takes all." He pulled his lips into a wry
grin. "Game?"

Laughing, she settled her hands on her hips, clearly
squaring off. "You're on, soon to be trounced one."
Yves, her eyes flashing dire intent and expertise,
returned his hardboiled smirk measure for measure.

On a dime, she turned on her heel and pranced off
to the door. Langly shuffled into worn slippers
that looked as though they'd been chewed on. He
snapped up his ratty bathrobe lying on the floor
next to the bed. Hurriedly, he loped right behind
her, following her out of his room.

Feeling him at her heels, she thought on second
thought that sweats and the linty T-shirt he always
wore were not bad things. In his gangly case, they
had it all over nudity. Beating him at his own game
likewise held a rarified charm.

"So, like...what exactly do I gotta do?"

"You'll see," she baited with a beguiling smile.


==========

TBC