(no subject)
((Anna wrote this, actually. About the C she's playing. But she thought it didn't make sense to post it as an omake start, or anything from him, so she asked me if I thought, as she had, that it would make an appropriate Mulder post.
I decided it would, so here it is.))
Sweet lies. Smooth lies. For Krycek lying is as easy as breathing, and as necessary.
He likes what the lies do, the lives he has ruined, the histories he has rewritten. People live and die by the power of the lies Krycek tells.
Every time he goes before the Syndicate, the Smoking Man, the folk from Umbrella, Wolfram & Hart or any of the dozens of other behind the scenes powers he pretends loyalty to, he makes another lie, another story, another non explanation. Thousands of alternatives, none of them real, but seeded in just enough truth that his mark believes them so they become true, for just long enough that damage will be done by those lies of his.
He doesn't believe his own lies. He's not that desperate.
The writer William Burroughs once said that the one real danger any undercover agent faces is the temptation to believe his own cover story. That just for a minute he will become tired of his work and wish he could be that person he's pretending to be.
I suspect Krycek is immune to this kind of danger. He has never once been anything he says he is, never been completely trusted or loved by anyone, has never lived in anything but lies.
His lies suit him. He carries them inside him like masks, each mask a face he is as comfortable about slipping on and wearing as his own, if even he has an own left to wear at all.
You wonder why I am so outraged this man is here at all. Insofar as any of you know he hasn't made a move, bothered anyone, spoken to any of you.
But I know Krycek. I know what he's capable of. Even if you never see him, never hear him, never have to bear a single moment in his stinking presence, the very fact he's here means something is wrong.
Krycek is a tragedy waiting to happen. He carries despair and death around him like a cloak.
I ask you to shun this man. If you find him dying, let him die. If you have the chance, shoot him on sight.
I don't call him Ratboy idly. And, like the presence of rats, I know if Krycek is here then plague isn't too far behind him.
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I decided it would, so here it is.))
Sweet lies. Smooth lies. For Krycek lying is as easy as breathing, and as necessary.
He likes what the lies do, the lives he has ruined, the histories he has rewritten. People live and die by the power of the lies Krycek tells.
Every time he goes before the Syndicate, the Smoking Man, the folk from Umbrella, Wolfram & Hart or any of the dozens of other behind the scenes powers he pretends loyalty to, he makes another lie, another story, another non explanation. Thousands of alternatives, none of them real, but seeded in just enough truth that his mark believes them so they become true, for just long enough that damage will be done by those lies of his.
He doesn't believe his own lies. He's not that desperate.
The writer William Burroughs once said that the one real danger any undercover agent faces is the temptation to believe his own cover story. That just for a minute he will become tired of his work and wish he could be that person he's pretending to be.
I suspect Krycek is immune to this kind of danger. He has never once been anything he says he is, never been completely trusted or loved by anyone, has never lived in anything but lies.
His lies suit him. He carries them inside him like masks, each mask a face he is as comfortable about slipping on and wearing as his own, if even he has an own left to wear at all.
You wonder why I am so outraged this man is here at all. Insofar as any of you know he hasn't made a move, bothered anyone, spoken to any of you.
But I know Krycek. I know what he's capable of. Even if you never see him, never hear him, never have to bear a single moment in his stinking presence, the very fact he's here means something is wrong.
Krycek is a tragedy waiting to happen. He carries despair and death around him like a cloak.
I ask you to shun this man. If you find him dying, let him die. If you have the chance, shoot him on sight.
I don't call him Ratboy idly. And, like the presence of rats, I know if Krycek is here then plague isn't too far behind him.
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