Title: Reinventing Alex
Author: Mare ( MareZX@aol.com )
Rating: PG
Category: V
Spoilers: The End
Summary: A one-armed man contemplates the events of The End
Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, etc. No copyright infringement intended.
Acknowledgments: Huge thanks to Jen & Ashley -- couldn't've done this without you!

REINVENTING ALEX
By Mare
5/20/98 - 5/29/98

Looks like my life's about to change yet again.

That seems to happen on a regular basis. This time, though, I think I have a long-term plan that might actually work; probably the first time that's ever happened. It's just that setting that plan in motion could be a bit... tricky.

Through the small window in the door, I watch the kid watching TV. I remember being that young. Feels like that was a very, very long time ago; another lifetime. I was a lot like that kid when I was his age. Life was never simple for us; neither of us ever had much of a childhood. In my case, it was because of what my father did; his work for the Russian counterpart of the Consortium. Not so with this kid. It's because of what he is.

The missing link, they say. Link to what? The old man won't tell me that yet. Is this kid a clone? Nah, then they would've gone after him with one of those ice-pick things, not a high-powered rifle. A hybrid? Same problem. Unless... he's a different type of hybrid. What if Bill Mulder's gray program actually worked?

Now, wouldn't that be interesting? If that's the case, that would mean our boy Mulder fell asleep at the switch. I mean, how could he miss this? How could I have missed it? That's what I get for spending all that time in Russia -- on my own, outside the influence of the all-knowing group -- monitoring the other situation. Another one (or was that two?) of the old man's lessons driven home.

I have to admit, my deal with my British friend isn't working out at all the way I thought it would. When I handed over the vaccine, I thought it meant he and I would be partners. I mean, we wanted the same thing, right? Imagine my surprise when I found out I was to be his chauffeur and general errand boy. I thought I was beyond all that, now that he knows who I am.

Wait, scratch that. Now that he has some inkling of who I was over there. He knows nothing for sure, and besides, I'm not that person anymore. Not sure I ever really was. I think I'm still learning who I am... or maybe the old man's teaching me. Creating me. See, he knew I wasn't happy with my new "assignment." (How could he not know?) So he immediately gave me another one.

They used some of the vaccine I gave them to cure that double-crossing bitch Marita, and then broke down and analyzed the rest. They tried to recreate it, but their version didn't work. Didn't take long for the old man to figure out that there was a secret ingredient; one that didn't show in the analysis and I'd failed to tell him about. He never asked me what it was. Never tried to beat it out of me (or kill me for holding it back), like my former employer might have done. No, he put me in charge of the vaccine production program.

Trust. What a concept.

After that, he started to explain the chauffeur assignment to me. Our little vaccine adventure apparently showed him that I'm a player -- something he never knew before. (Must remember to thank the Morley Man for that glowing employment evaluation.) The old man says I just need experience now. Stick close to me, he said. Watch and learn, he said. Someday this could all be yours, he said.

He sure knows what buttons to push.

But that's why he's the (more or less) leader of the Consortium. And probably the only reason he's been able to keep that position, now that everyone's stance on the alien war issue is known. Watching him now, I get the feeling I'm learning more than I could ever want to know about the fine art of diplomacy. So, of course, I have to ask myself... why am I getting these lessons? What does he have planned for me? Obviously he's got something up his sleeve. Some sort of long-term plan for me. It almost feels like... he's grooming me to replace him or something.

Not quite sure how I feel about that. On one hand, power is a nice thing to have. Addictive, too. Once you've tasted it, as I have, you just want more. Looking at it that way, this replacement thing sounds pretty good. On the other hand, though... I have to wonder whether or not there'll even be a Consortium left to run by the time the old man's gone. If there is, chances are the current members will be gone too. What will the next generation be like? Will there even be a next generation? Do each of them have some young guy like me following them around, learning? If they do, how are they training them? Will I even be able to control them? I don't see why not; I've probably had some unique training the fat one and the rest can't provide for their heirs. Still... this could be dangerous. The next generation won't be the same as this bunch, and will, I'm sure, be trained differently than I am. Different rules. Different methods. If I'm reading this right (and that's a pretty big if), my Limey pal is showing his hand by letting them know I'm working with him, but he's also showing them that there'll be continuity if I take over. If one of theirs does, the old ways will be gone. Maybe they want that. Maybe that's why there's so much tension between them and the old man already...

That must be why he has me sticking so close to him. First, to learn. Second, to keep me away from the rest of the Consortium. They don't trust me; never did. They don't trust him anymore either, or he them. All the more reason for them to kill me if they don't find me useful. Or just for the fact that I'm working with the old man. Great, now I have to watch my back against yet another threat. I swear, if it didn't mean going to the federal pen for the rest of my life (however long or short that might be), I might seriously think about turning myself in to Mulder and his Fibbie friends. Living under the constant shadow of death threats gets kind of old, y'know?

Sometimes I really do think about it. Not often; mostly during weak moments, like when the pain in my shoulder gets so bad that the only thing that takes the edge off it is half a bottle of painkillers (oh, okay, aspirin; I'm not *that* self-destructive) and half a bottle of vodka. Sometimes the thought of having a real doctor look at it, having it taken care of properly, maybe even getting a prosthetic that fits right, is almost too appealing. That could probably only happen if I turned myself in. I'd ask the Consortium doctors to do something with it, but I've been told that would be counterproductive. Another one of the old man's lessons -- never let them see your weaknesses.

That's what usually brings me back to my senses when those thoughts start creeping into my head. Call me crazy, call it some stupid macho thing, call it whatever you want, but I'm not about to let anybody think that having only one arm is a weakness. Why should I let a little thing like pain... constant, sometimes severe, sometimes debilitating pain... stand in the way of what I want? I've had to prove to all of them -- maybe myself too -- that it doesn't matter. Which probably explains how I found myself parachuting into the mountains of Quebec. Great. One more part I never thought I'd play. First I'm a freedom fighter, now I'm a role model. Poster boy for the disabled. Wonderful.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, parachuting. Bringing about the Return of the Morley Man. I guess it didn't take long for them to figure out that their assassination attempt failed. When the invasion date was pushed up, I knew he was still alive -- his little act of revenge. They must've figured out the same thing, but how they knew where he was, I have no idea. Guess I haven't been introduced to their intelligence system yet.

Coming face to face with the man who twice tried to kill me was very weird. Before it happened, I thought about it. A lot. Fantasized about it, even, usually during those aspirin-and-vodka hazes. Thought about what I'd do, how I'd kill him. It would have to be slow and painful, of course. It would help if there were an abandoned missile silo handy to lock him in. Nothing wrong with a painful, messy gut shot, either...

He gave me the chance, too. Stopped when I commanded him to, turned and just stood there. "Go ahead. Take your shot, Alex," he said. What was he doing using my first name? He never had before, ever. In fact, he's not one to use names much at all. So why now?

It was probably a good thing he did, though. Hearing that jarred me just enough that I was able to get my impulses under control and *not* do as he asked. Got my mind back on my mission. I was sent to bring him back, so that's what I did.

That was where yet another of the old man's lessons -- probably the most important one, to hear him tell it -- came into play. I've always kind of thought of myself as a planner (I hardly ever do anything without thinking about it first... at least, that's how I've always looked at it), but he thinks I'm rash. Impulsive. According to him, I may think, but I don't think things through. (And maybe he's right, too -- how many of my plans have ever worked?) He thinks I need to learn to plan more carefully and control those impulses; to channel them into something more constructive.

To that end, he's kept me on a pretty tight leash since we made our deal. He wouldn't allow me payback with Mulder, but that's mostly okay since I know we need him. He wouldn't let me kill Marita either, which is a little tougher to figure out. She screwed us both over; why save her? But he never said anything about not teaching her a lesson, and boy, do I have one in mind for her... See? The lesson learned -- I'm planning carefully.

He won't let me kill the Morley Man, either. He knows I want to; even agrees with me that it's probably justified. But he still won't let me do it. That made the flight back to D.C. unbelievably tense. That black-lunged SOB knows too. He kept talking to me during the flight, trying to goad me into something. I guess I took the old man's lessons in restraint to heart, because I don't think I said a single word to the guy the whole time. Did nothing to him. I don't think I would've been faulted if I'd happened to give him the odd "accidental" whack upside the head with that damn fake arm, but I didn't even do that. I think the smoker sees that as weakness, cowardice. Too bad for him. I see it as a victory.

Have my priorities changed, or what?

If I thought the flight back was tense, the meeting with the Consortium was even worse. He knows they were the ones who had him shot. Thing is, I don't think the old man had anything to do with it. Don't think he even agreed with it. It was the fat one, the one who's challenging the old man's leadership. He's one all of us have to watch. I don't think anybody's safe from that one. Or from the Morley Man either. He said all was forgiven, but does anybody believe him? I sure don't.

Ol' Smokey seems to find it amusing that the Consortium still needs him. I find it amusing that he's the one now getting the assignments I used to get. Guess there are a few perks to moving up the Consortium food chain, even as little as I did. With any luck, I won't be the hit man anymore. Good thing, too. I've never really had the stomach for that... unless it's personal.

So they sent the Morley Man to kill the chess match shooter. What the fat one and the rest didn't know was that the old man tacked on another assignment -- bring back the kid. The rest of the group want the kid dead. Not sure why, unless he really is a successful gray hybrid or something. Apparently the old man's got other ideas -- again.

I think the old man's gotten himself (and me, by extension) in the middle of a three-way power struggle this time. The smoker used to at least pretend to recognize his authority, and that of the rest of the Consortium. Not anymore. Now there's nothing but contempt in his face when the two of them speak. (I know that expression well...) I can understand the old man's problem with him; those methods of his are a bit... harsh. (Sounds pretty funny coming from me, doesn't it?) Let's face it; a man of his talents could've easily snatched the kid without killing a federal marshal and almost killing an FBI agent. (An, um... friend... of Mulder's, I understand. Wonder what'll happen when he finds out who shot her...)

I've seen a lot of stuff in my time, but I have to say I've never seen anything spookier than that kid in there. After the old man put him in the car, I watched him in the rearview mirror, and he was looking at me. More like looking *through* me, really. You know how sometimes someone looks at you and you get the feeling that they're almost reading your mind? It's really creepy when you *know* they're reading your mind. He's got this really intense stare, and it's just... creepy. He never said anything, not like he did to the old man. (I think that unnerved him a bit, being called a liar to his face. Wonder what he was thinking that made the kid say that?) I knew he knew what I had in mind, though... and I kind of got the feeling that he didn't disapprove. Must've read the smoker's mind, too.

Once the old man got back in the car, I figured our business with the Morley Man was over. I watched him walk away, confident in the old man's cowardice (never discretion, not to him). And mine. That made me hate him even more than I already did. "I got a nice straight shot," I said, mentally taking aim.

"No," the old man told me. "He's useful. And you may need him in the future."

That made me stop and think. *I* might need him? For what? He'd only say that if he really did mean for me to take his place in the Consortium. Or carry out his work in some other way...

I glanced into the rearview and met the kid's eyes again. What did the old man have in mind? He knew... but it didn't look like he was going to let me in on it. He just turned his head slightly and watched the Morley Man walk away. Maybe I wasn't allowed to kill him, but nobody ever said I couldn't scare the bastard a bit. So I buzzed him with the car on the way out of the lot.

Too bad I couldn't get closer. A lot closer.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I might need him, plan carefully, curb the impulses, etc., etc. The old man can teach me all he wants, but sometimes there's just no substitute for revenge.

I guess in this case it'll have to be very carefully planned revenge.

I look through the small window again. The kid's still watching TV. With the amount of TV he's watched lately, shouldn't he be going blind or something?

The fact that that particular thought came to mind should surprise me, maybe even scare me, but it doesn't. In the short time he's been with us -- a day or so -- I've grown very protective of him. Don't know why, really. Maybe just because everybody seems to want something from him, and that's... not fair. (*That* thought coming to mind does sort of scare me... when was the last time I cared whether or not something was fair?) I mean, human or not, genius or not, psychic or not, he's still just a *kid*, y'know? And kids shouldn't have to face all that stuff. They should be allowed to be kids. I wasn't, and look where I ended up.

Maybe that's why I kind of appointed myself his protector. He really does remind me a lot of myself at that age. I guess I just... feel the need to offer him the guidance (or as close to it as somebody like me can get) that I didn't get at that age. And maybe... I'm sort of trying to make up for the kid in the gulag. That was something I really didn't want to do, but... In any case, I guess I just don't want this kid to end up like me.

I slip into the room and sit down. I don't think he notices me, because for a while he continues to stare at the TV screen. Then, quietly, "You're not going to kill me."

His words startle me a bit, maybe because killing him is the furthest thing from my mind. "No, I'm not going to kill you."

"You won't, no matter what they tell you. You're not a killer."

I'm not? Seems I've done my share of killing, especially over the last couple years.

"You only did what you had to do," the kid says, still concentrating on the screen.

Is that what I'm thinking, or is that some sort of judgment about my moral center? Hell, it can't be what I'm thinking. I've killed people, not all of whom deserved it. I've killed because I was told to, and killed to save my own ass. How can he say I'm not a killer? Just because I don't plan to do that anymore (with a few notable exceptions...) doesn't mean I can erase my past. I try to speak, and find my throat very dry all of a sudden. "How do you know that?" I finally ask.

He shrugs and says nothing.

Amazing how all it takes is a few well-placed words to send your mind reeling. I've thought about the things I've done, tried to rationalize them, been fairly successful at it... but I've never been able to make myself fully believe that simple statement the kid just made. They say he reads minds, but... that didn't come from my mind. So where did it come from? What else does he know? Who... or what... the hell is this kid?

I glance at the door and see the old man hovering outside. He knows I feel protective of the kid, and he wonders why. I think seeing me in here bothers him a little. What does he know about our guest that he hasn't told me?

"You called the old man a liar," I say to the kid. "Does that mean you think he wants to kill you?"

"No, but the other ones do." He finally turns from the TV. "The one who shot the FBI lady, and the rest of them."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "They're afraid of me." He shuts the TV off and turns his full attention to me. "You're afraid of me too."

I rub my left shoulder, trying to massage out the ache that's starting to intensify. Great time for it to flare up. Just perfect. "You're telling me things I didn't think; things I don't believe. Shouldn't I be afraid of you?"

He studies me, reassessing. "You're not," he decides. "You want..."

I fish the aspirin tin out of my pocket -- never leave home without that anymore -- and dry-swallow four pills. A year and a half since the arm was hacked off, and it still hurts like it happened yesterday. Maybe if I get this under control quickly enough, I won't have to resort to the vodka. "I want...?" I prompt him.

We stare at each other for what feels like a long time before he finally speaks. "You want your arm to stop hurting," he says. "And you don't want me to end up like you."

Sounds like this kid's been taking the old man's diplomacy lessons, too. Sometimes what people don't say is more important than what they do say.

"The old man wants to test me some more," the kid continues, "but he wants to protect me too, like you do. He wants to talk to you about it now."

I glance over at the door just in time to see the old man tap on the glass and motion me outside. He speaks even before the door closes fully. "There's been an incident."

It's two incidents, really. He tells me that the fat guy and the rest know we have the kid. And then he tells me that Mulder's office burned. Maybe the kid's rubbing off on me -- I know exactly at whose feet to lay blame for both incidents.

"We can't protect the boy anymore," the old man tells me.

No, we can't. And we have other obligations to honor, too. Which is why, later that night, I find myself, complete with throbbing shoulder and stoic child, ringing Dana Scully's doorbell.

The kid was happy to find out he'd be going back to Scully. He likes and trusts her; probably feels more comfortable with her than with anybody else he's been in contact with lately. I think I'm more comfortable seeing her than Mulder, too. I know she'll take care of the kid, and... well, she's slightly less likely than Mulder to shoot me on sight. I think.

I don't know which one of us she's more shocked to see. She ushers us both in and fusses over the kid for a while -- making sure he's comfortable, getting him something to eat, settling him in front of the TV -- before turning her attention to me. "What the hell is going on here, Krycek?" she demands.

"We can't protect him anymore."

"Who is 'we'?"

I ignore her question and sink into a chair. The pain in my shoulder is starting to wear me down. It's too soon, but I need more pills. Or stronger pills. Or a couple shots of vodka...

"Krycek?" There's a warning tone in Scully's voice. She has all the patience in the world with the kid, but absolutely none with me.

I take a deep breath and try to concentrate on what I'm saying. "Study him," I tell her. "Learn from him. Start over with him."

She frowns at me. "Start over?"

"I know what happened." I know, and I just can't believe that somebody as paranoid as Mulder doesn't have backup files somewhere, but if he does, it looks like she doesn't know about them. "I know who did it. Mulder does too."

Her face changes. She's interested now, and moving toward the phone. "Can you prove it?"

"Not yet, but I think Mulder can, eventually." I rise, trying my best to ignore the pain, but it isn't working. "Start over, Scully," I tell her. "Don't let him win. The truth is still out there, and you're closer to it than ever. That's why he burned your files, you know. You're getting too close. Don't give up now."

I move toward the door, but her hand on my arm stops me. "That's it?" she asks.

"Yeah, that's it. You expected something else?"

She steps back and looks speculatively at me. "You never give up something unless you think you can get something in return. What do you want, Krycek?"

Ask the kid what I want. He knows. "Nothing."

Now the standard skeptical Scully-look is back. "Nothing? You're just helping us out of the goodness of your heart?"

I suppose she's right to be skeptical -- don't think I've ever given up something without at least trying to make some sort of deal -- but the words she chooses and the sarcasm with which they're said still piss me off. "I did your work for you. You should be thanking me. And you're not in any position to go questioning people's motives, are you? I'd think you and Mulder would be grateful for any help you get at this point, no matter where it comes from."

I have to stifle a gasp as the pain in my shoulder cranks up another notch. By now I can tell this is going to be a really bad spell, probably the worst in recent memory. I need to get out of here fast, go somewhere and numb myself against it. "There is something you can do," I tell her, and hand her the envelope I pull out of my jacket pocket. "Give that to Mulder. Maybe you don't understand, but he will."

He'll understand, all right. He'll remember the little chat we had in his apartment. He'll remember what I said to him when I left. He'll remember that we're on the same side, that we want the same thing. The old man and I helped him twice already. What's in the envelope will tell him how he can return the favor.

She accepts it without taking her eyes off mine. "I'll see that he gets it."

"Good."

I want to move, to get the hell out of here, but another stab of white-hot pain hits and freezes me. This time even Scully sees it.

"Krycek? Is there something else?"

Can I ask her? The idea is almost too tempting... "Yeah, something else," I say through gritted teeth. "Safe passage out of here?"

She considers this for a second. "Agreed."

This is much easier than it's ever been with Mulder. Well, Dana Scully is nothing if not fair-minded.

I still haven't moved. My continued presence in her apartment is starting to annoy her, I can tell, but for the most part she covers it well. "What now?"

We stare at each other for another long moment, until the continued pain finally breaks down my resolve and I sink back down into a chair. "Do you think you could... offer your medical opinion about something?" My voice is soft, and I can't look her in the eye as I ask.

Another first. Alex Krycek, actually asking for help.

She carefully studies what remains of my left arm. She's surprisingly gentle, both with the injury and the questions she asks about how it happened. She never says I deserved it, though I bet she's thinking that. One thing I do know she's thinking -- that it easily could be Mulder's shoulder she's looking at, not mine. I manage to avoid mentioning that it should've been him, not me.

She can't do much to help, although she does offer me stronger painkillers -- narcotics, which I usually try to avoid (I prefer my own methods of reaching oblivion). It doesn't matter anymore -- I take the pills and pocket the extras she gives me. She says whoever did the job butchered it (no kidding) and I'll need further surgery to fix the mess in preparation for a prosthetic that fits properly. She recommends someone. I take the card, fully intending to go... someday. Probably not until another weak moment like this one hits, but I think I will go.

I leave Scully's apartment feeling like everything's different. Relationships are changing. My priorities are changing. The direction of my life is changing. I don't know exactly where it's going, but I think I have a plan.

I know it won't be easy, but y'know what? For the first time in my life, I think things are looking up.

-Fin-

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