How did Krycek come to be involved with the Syndicate? Why does he do the things he does? This is my take on his history and motivations…as told to Scully.
She clenches her eyes tightly shut and shakes her head in frustration, or maybe disbelief, then raises her voice again, “Enough, Krycek. If you want the disk for yourself, if you’ve decided you don’t want to share the information, then just take it and go. I don’t know why you have to play mind games. Just get the hell out of here.”
I intentionally soften my voice in order to contrast as much as possible with hers, “I’m very, very good at mind games, but I’m not playing them now. I WANT to share the information with you, Scully, I’m…eager to.”
Another question mark face.
“I’m tired. I’m so tired of working solo. It’s exhausting. I need…I need to trust someone. I need a mind like yours to help me…” I wave my hand toward my discarded laptop, “…unravel all this…all this…shit. I need another perspective. Someone else to help me sort it all out. There’s too much at stake, Scully. It’s too much for me alone. It’s too much for anyone alone. I need you.”
Her mouth is a rigid, straight line as she considers and processes my words. “You don’t know what you need, Krycek. You’re all over the map. I think maybe what you DO need right now is sleep. You’ll be able to think more clearly after you’ve gotten some rest.”
“I’m being perfectly cogent.”
I take a small step towards her. “I want to trust you, Scully. More than that, I want to prove to you that any trust you give me will not be misplaced. Or taken for granted. I want to decode these files, I want to face their contents, any revelations they might provide, with you. I want to see how that amazing mind of yours processes it, what it determines to be the best next step. And I want to be able to take those steps forward with you at my side.”
“You’re looking for a partner in crime.”
“If you define ‘crime’ as doing whatever it takes to save the human race.”
She shakes her head at me. “You’re a liar, Krycek. And a murderer. And a double crosser and an all-around snake in the grass. The only human being you want to save is yourself.”
Her words sting me now as they never have before. I’m guilty of a lot of horrible shit, and I live with regret on a daily basis, but I’ve done the best I’ve known how to do. Somehow I’ve got to convince her of that. So I do something I’ve never done before. I pull my wallet out and open it, find the photo I carry with me at all times, and place it in her hand.
“These are my sisters.”
She examines the three children standing in front of a huge tree trunk, squinting in the sun, the two youngest smiling widely at the camera. A 10 year old Alex holds the hand of a 6 year old girl with long, dark hair and a taller, teenage girl with much lighter brown hair stands on the other side of the little one, looking much less excited about being in the picture. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her expression is so typical of teen angst and rebellion.
“Everything I’ve ever done, however heinous, however abhorrent you may think it was, was done for them. To protect them, and to protect their children. I AM a liar. And a murderer. And every life truncated, every twisted plan hatched, was for them.”
She seems almost moved for a moment, then hands the picture back. “So my sister’s life was sacrificed in place of your sister’s.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact that, I assume, is a necessary step in her coming to terms with it.
“In a way, yes…of course it wasn’t supposed to be your sister who died.”
She hangs her head suddenly.
“I regret that she died, and that you had to suffer the inevitable guilt from knowing you were the target. But I don’t regret the mistake. I’ll never regret that you were spared.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears when she looks up at me. She has suffered so much, and I have been directly and indirectly responsible for so much of it. Maybe I can help soften her pain by explaining my work, my life, my motives to her. Maybe she will actually listen, and by playing the roll of my confessor, she’ll help ease some of my pain, too. The story begins to tumble from my lips before I can reconsider how wise it is to reveal everything to the FBI. I’m weak and tired and I want human contact. Real connection. I know she is noble. I know she will give me a fighting chance.
“There was a member of the Syndicate who knew my father. He was a drunk and a gambler. The photo I showed you was taken one year before my mother died, two years before my father turned me over to them in order to absolve his debts. I was clever and attractive, the two qualities they value most, so I was potentially very useful to them. In only six weeks I proved myself to be smart and responsive enough to warrant their investment and at that point I officially disappeared. I was taken to New York and never saw my family again.”
Her gasp of shock, coupled with her wet eyes unnerves me for a moment. I didn’t mean to cause this reaction.
“I’m not looking for sympathy, Scully. I was treated well and received the best education money could buy. I traveled the world and was given an important purpose. I gained a life of opportunity not afforded to many. I just need to tell you these things because it’s important to me that you understand that I come from a completely different world, with a completely different perspective, but my motivations and goals are not far from your own.”
I pause and sit down, prompting her to sit as well.
“I was given private tutors and military training. I spent my summers on submarines, doing research in the archives of the British Museum, learning to fly small airplanes and helicopters, deep sea diving. I speak 11 languages – 6 or 7 of them fluently – and I can pretty accurately read 3 dead ones. I can read two alien languages. I’ve met with Syndicate leaders on every continent, I’ve seen their secret facilities, learned about their research, their tests, their struggles and successes. I’ve met with aliens, worked with clones and hybrids. I’ve helped shape policies and strategies. In short, I’ve been groomed to become one of them. One of the next generation.”
Scully is leaning forward, hanging on my every word.
“By about 15 or 16 I learned more and more about what all these things I’d seen really meant. They slowly explained the connections to me and I came to understand the weight and import of my position. I was one of the elite. Mulder has met one of the other elites, Marita Covarrubias.”
“But my training and knowledge are a liability for them now. As are Marita’s. We came to disagree with the decisions made over 40 years ago and the subsequent actions taken. Our generation has seen the rebel alien race rise and gain strength. We see hope in resistance but the first generation, Mulder’s father’s generation, or what’s left of them, is too afraid to even consider it. Mulder thinks I murdered his father, but he’s wrong. I learned of their plan to kill him and went there to try to protect him. Bill Mulder was the one, single dissenting voice. The only one willing to point towards resistance as an option. And he was there from the beginning. His perspective and knowledge were respected and we wanted to learn from him and count him as an ally. But I got there 10 seconds too late. I watched him go down and I knew the shot was fatal, so I fled in fear that if they saw me there they’d kill me, too.”
My story unfolds and she listens intently. I go on for hours, long into the night and the early morning hours. I recall all the questions she asked me on our drive down here, all the ones I avoided or answered in only the briefest of sentences, and finally give her the full answers she wanted. She asks for clarification from time to time, but overall she remains silent and just listens. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she absorbs it all and the dots slowly get connected.
There is a long silence that lingers after my concluding words. There is a frustration inherent in it, born of overstimulated neurons, a sense of urgency and desperation to step up to the plate and DO something to mitigate the problem, coupled with empty stomachs and lack of sleep. Our brains want to continue but our muscles and bones demand quiet and rest, and nourishment.
I don’t know how she manages to walk, but Scully gets up and goes to the kitchen. My eyes close as I slump back on the couch, but I am awakened by the noise of plastic wrappers. She is opening a package of crackers, places a slice of cheese on top, and shoves it greedily into her mouth. I reach for the can of tuna, use my fingers to scoop the meat out and onto a cracker, and begin to gorge myself as she is doing. There are no fresh foods here, we didn’t bring anything with us. But there are bags of dried fruit, peanut butter, all manor of snacks. It seems an appropriate spread given the level of desperation we’re feeling. We eat quickly, perfunctorally, and we fall asleep in place without any attempt to clean up after our feast.
Read the whole shebang here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291284?view_full_work=true
