Title: No Exit
Author: Claire Doyle
Rating: R (language)
Category: KrycekAngst
Summary: A glimpse into a dark angel's innermost thoughts
Disclaimer: Fox owns so much, why do they have to own Krycek too?  I know, I'll pass full
ownership over to Nicholas Lea, the one man who can effectively bring the character to life. 
Fox and 1013 have him under contract, but this still makes me feel better.
Dedication: For all the coffee bean pickers of the world whose labor is exploited. And for people
who can find the good in everybody, or at least the humanity
  
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Forever and forever.  I travel in the darkness, trying to forget my past, my present, and my
inevitable future.  Why don't I give up now, and be done with it all?  It's not because I have too
much to live for.  I have less to live for than someone who's suicidal believes they have.  And
it's not out of some warped sense of honor and glory.  I've been in the dirt too long to have any
delusions of grandeur.  No, it's just habit that keeps me going.  I've run for so long that I don't
know how to stop.

It doesn't help that everyone on this side of hell is trying to kill me.  Natural instinct won't let
me go without a fight, and while my fighting entails running and hiding, it's kept me alive.  And
paranoid.  And people call Mulder paranoid.

Funny that I would think of him at this moment.  We might as well have been twins separated at
birth.  The man and I have so much in common that we would probably be best friends if we
weren't on 'other sides of the law,' so to speak, trying to kick the shit out of each other.  

I have to wonder what would have happened if I hadn't chosen the path that I chose, and I went
the straight and narrow, fighting on the side of righteousness.  I probably would have turned out
like Mulder, obsessed with finding a truth which, frankly, I don't believe exists.   That may not
have been the worst way to go.  Look at Mulder, I mean, at least he got Scully.  I know that they
aren't doing it, but they love each other, and to be able to give that kind of commitment to one
another. . .I'm jealous. Or, I might have become just another Joe Fed, making a living, having a
family, and retiring when I'm supposed to so that I fit the mold that society created.  Just
thinking about turning out like that one makes me sick.  Then I probably would become suicidal,
strictly due to boredom.

But this life?  I don't know if I would trade it in for another model.  It's had its moments; the
thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rushing through my body when I'm the one being pursued, and
I know that it's either him or me.  But I've had no chance to do some things, to experience
feelings like love, which is not found in the arms of a hooker, no matter how good in bed.  I've
tried to prove that fact wrong, many times.  I just got the card that said: 'You will be hunted like
a dog for the rest of your natural life, because you will be little better than scum, and no woman
will love you for who you are, because they will never be able to see beyond what you've done,
you piece of shit.'  In other words, I was dealt the Loser card.

I look at myself in the mirror in my cheap dingy hotel room.  I hate to do this, because
inevitably, I look at the stump where my arm used to be, and I get the urge to smash my hand
into the piece of glass that reveals my fate.  Sometimes I do, and I watch my hand bleed
afterward, glad of the pain, glad that I can at least feel something.

Pain is a small substitute, I know, but what the hell?  Don't I deserve to be punished?  If there's a
God, which I'm beginning to doubt, then I'm going to burn for eternity.  Not like I don't have a
lot of practice being poked in the ass with pitchforks already.  Of course I do get the moments of
self-pity, where just the thought of the blood that's spilled on my hands from dozens of people,
blood that I caused to spill, makes me double over and vomit into the nearest toilet, until there's
nothing left of me but a constant squeezing at my guts and tears streaming down my face.

Why do you think that I'm incapable of crying?  It's all that shit that you've been fed by Mulder,
isn't it?  Isn't it?  He cries, and it shows that he's sensitive, and has the balls to show it.  But
Alex Krycek, son of a bitch, devil for hire, cold blooded murderer, was denied tear ducts at birth. 
Bull.  I spent so much of my early life crying that all of my memories are shrouded in a watery
haze.  My fucking parents. . .well you can imagine what happened when there was a fight in my
house and my mom got a piece of wire in her hands. . .or my dad got out the belt. . .or we were
at the top of stairs, and I would wake up an hour later at the bottom with dried blood on my
body, my flesh burning. . . .  But that counts for nothing, right?  Because I'm evil, and I deserved
whatever the hell I got.  I guess he's right, I guess you're all right, because he's the hero, and
you're the righteous ones.  For you, pain is the path to heroism, and handling it the "correct" way
makes you strong and brave and good.  Mishandling your pain makes you a sad, poor, pathetic
creature that should be put out of its misery as soon as possible.

If that's the law of the land, then I should be long gone, buried in an unmarked grave.  But who
the hell are you to tell me that I'm wrong for acting like this?  At what point in your lives did
you stop and help me?  You just walked by, crying for my blood, hoping that I would end up on
the wrong side of a gun.  Actually, you've envisioned worse, haven't you?  Having my innards
slowly eviscerated because of all of the pain that I've caused to your tall, dark and brooding
Odysseus.  Mulder shoots me, he's a god.  I shoot him, I'm the devil, a rat, a bastard.  I only wish
I could live up to the titles I've been given.

There's not a chance in hell that I'm going to change what I'm doing.  You wouldn't ask Mulder
to, would you?  Alright then, don't expect me to, either.  I'm doing what I feel is right.  My
vision just has more blood attached to it.  Blood, warm and liquid, flowing, bringing life to its
vessel, until it runs out of them in a pool, onto my hands. . .my hands. . .oh, God, my dirty, filthy
hands.

NO!!!  You fucking bastards, leave me alone!  You're not going to do this to me, you're not
going to have me redeem myself in your eyes by begging for forgiveness, and turning myself in,
a sign of honor, so I can rot in a jail cell until I'm strapped to a chair and blasted out of
existence.  I don't give a damn how hard this life is to live.  I've lived it this long, and it's a hell
of a lot better than sitting in a hole waiting for death.  Get out now.  Get out before I decide that
I'm done talking, and add your blood to my memories.  I won't regret it until it's far too late. 
Leave now, leave me to myself.  I can handle anything that comes along.  You'll see.  Someday,
you'll all see that the blood spilled was not in vain.  At least I hope to hell not.

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