RATales Archive


by Kate Dyer

Category: V
Rating: PG
Summary: Krycek reminisces on how his past has brought him where he is today.
Spoiler Warning: None
Keywords: Krycek
Disclaimer: The usual.
Archive: Yes, though please inform me of any archiving - all my fanfic is now available on my webpage though (http://katedyer.freeservers.com )
Feedback: Must I beg?
Written: September 19, 1999
Posted: September 20, 1999

Growing up with Cold War immigrants as parents was tough. Every sentence they uttered ended in the same five words: because now we're in America. 'Why do I have to sweep the floor?' 'Sweep the floor?! Back in Russia we had no floor, it was dirt under our feet! Thank God you have a floor to sweep! You'll sweep because now we're in America.' 'Why do I have to go to school?' 'Back in Russia there was no school! Only work, day in, day out! We had no fancy school system. You'll go to school because now we're in America!' Like it was some big deal. We heard the story of their 'salvation' over and over; how they escaped the ferocious bear and came to the land of opportunity, or prosperity. My old man worked his tail off for this 'great' nation, did anything prosperous come of that? We lived in a ghetto on the outskirts of New York City. The bad part of town. My pop went to work before dawn, cranking up the old Ford (it figures) and heading to the construction site. And yet there were no complaints, for this was his dream, this was America. And of course all us kids had good old American names - no Russian names for us! Alex, John, Sue, Michael. How cliché. We were all raised an army of perfect American soldiers. Hell, we were more American than the Americans themselves! Oh, and when November rolled around we'd all dress in our Sunday bests and ride down to the voting booths together, one big family event. And so by the time high school graduation rolled around, I was your all-around model American boy. I knew the Pledge of Allegiance backwards and inside out. I had a letter jacket, captain of the wrestling team, straight A student. And then, to my father's delight (and pressuring, I might add), I was accepted into the FBI Academy. What other way to show my appreciation to this great nation?

Fox Mulder was my idol. He was so steadfast, a man with a cause; vowing to find his sister by whatever means necessary. Perhaps I romanticized his life. I had heard all the 'Spooky' talk, but didn't care. He was brilliant, a genius among fools. And then came the day that would change my life - the day I was assigned to work with him. I was so exuberant back then. So naïve. I soon realized that Mulder tended to be moody, self-absorbed, and distracted. He treated me like his damn secretary. 'I sugar, no cream, Alex.' Or was it two creams, no sugar? Hell if I know. My idol was just as human as I. I began to grow disillusioned with my view of the world.

And then I discovered the truth. Or rather, he found me. I was approached by a man that I would soon learn to hate. He said just what I had needed to hear. And over time I learned that it was all pointless. Fake. This 'Democracy' was merely a façade for an all-powerful few. An aristocracy that held the world in their balances. America was left in the hands of this consortium, and had been for decades. And that was the day I gave up all hope, and gave in to the forces that still today I can't control. America was no better than Mother Russia, its citizens just as evil as those from the next dictatorship. From then on I don't know what happened. It's all been one giant hangover. From an all-American kid to a hired gun, for sale to the highest bidder, breaking as many laws as imaginable. I think I've spent at least one night in every slum from here to San Francisco. They're all the same - all the same people, all the same sounds. And I believe I've spent at least one night with every hooker from here to San Francisco, too. I don't care about life anymore. What is the point? And while Mulder may stand for all the hope and naivete in the world, I stand for all the despair and lost causes. Somewhere along the way I began spying for Russia too. Or against them. Or both. I can't remember anymore. Now I truly have no place to call home, no one to call family, no one to call friend. I consider Mulder the closest thing to a friend that I have, and I despise Mulder for all he has that I don't.

When I was seven I wanted to be an astronaut. When I was eight I wanted to be JFK. They shot him. And now I stand here washing my hands of blood once again, and wonder why? Because now we're in America.