It's been a long time since I've posted anything, for many different reasons that I won't bore everyone with, but I feel like getting back to it, and so I've dug this story out. I wrote it years ago and it's been revised many times since then because there have been various aspects I haven't been happy with, but I'm hoping that this revision will be a final one. The new episodes of the X Files have been a huge push in getting me back to these stories, and I hope that they've stirred up the same nostalgia for the good old days in you guys that they did with me. I've always been fond of Krycek as a character and was so disappointed when they...you know... But he's doing ok in my world, so that's the main thing! :-P Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and if this does ok, I have a few more up my sleeve ;-)
Ananais
'...And Ananias went his way, and entered into the house; and putting his hands on him said, Brother Saul, the Lord, even Jesus, that appeared unto thee in the way thou camest, hath sent me, that thou mighest receive thy sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost. And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptised.' - Acts 9: 17-18
CHAPTER 1
ABANDONED RAIL WAREHOUSE
NORTH OF MARTINSBURG,
VIRGINIA
Krycek shook another cigarette from the half-empty packet and placed it between his chapped lips with a trembling hand. But he couldn't light it. Not yet.
He never used to smoke. He had never felt the need for any kind of drug. It was a sign of weakness. Frailty. Vulnerability. Everything he despised. But a lot had changed. He had changed. The simple routine of the action, the taste of the tobacco in his mouth was enough to help him to focus as he waited in the dark silence for them to tire of searching for him.
Dark.
Silence.
Those words still whispered around him like ghosts, ever present reminders of those long weeks he had spent sealed inside the missile silo. Deserted. Abandoned to die like a prisoner in an oubliette. Knowing that no-one would ever come for him. No-one would ever miss him. After all he had done for the Syndicate, he was rewarded with the promise of a slow, cruel, painful death, locked inside a freezing stone coffin.
And now they wondered at his desertion of them. Feared the secrets he held. He was meant to be dead. It was a miracle he wasn't. If the salvage team had never happened upon him…
He closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath.
The memory of the dark silence had so scarred his soul that even now he found it hard to sleep. He feared the nightmares most of all. Buried alive. Piercing cold. Suffocating. Darkness. Alone. No-one coming. Abandoned. Dying…
Dying…
He opened his eyes. Shook off the feelings. They would cripple him if he let them.
And one day those bastards would pay for what they had done.
Just not today.
He listened to the stillness. Nothing moved outside except the Potomac River, winding its way slowly towards Chesapeake Bay. He relaxed a little as he leaned back against the cold, damp wall and slumped down onto the concrete floor. His back and neck ached. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, cold and dirty. But these were minor inconveniences compared to what awaited him if he dared to venture outside.
He had evaded them this long. He wasn't going to give in now. He had been trained well. Taught to survive. That had been their biggest mistake.
He allowed himself the luxury of a smile. The Syndicate thought they'd known him. Thought he was predictable. Another mistake.
He remembered the charred, pugilistic remains of them and their dreams. Who, in the end had won? Who was still standing like a phoenix amongst the ashes of their attempts at appeasement?
He still had the device, despite their attempts to retrieve it. He still held Skinner in the palm of his hand. He could still be manipulated. And through him, Mulder and Scully. Oh, how those hunting him would love that. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, did they not realize that?
Fools. All of them. Playing their little games. The only game that mattered was survival. No matter what the cost.
He edged towards the door.
Still dark. A moonless, mercury sky. Sodium vapor lamps marked the outskirts of the railyard, their anemic light glinting on the windows of defunct boxcars and old tracks. Deep shadows hung between the cars. Silence was a presence; thick, ominous; crawling along his spine, making him shiver.
A quick movement caught his eye. A rat disappearing through a narrow crack in the warehouse wall.
He closed his eyes. His breath escaping in staccato bursts.
They had gone.
For now.
He didn't have much time.
He checked his guns were still strapped in their holsters on his shoulder and waist, patted his inside jacket pocket; the device was still there.
He slipped away from the warehouse and melted into the velvet, welcoming shadows.