SUMMARY: Some Krycek-angst at the hands of the Russians from 'Tunguska'
Very short, very spur-of-the-moment, and, I'm afraid, my Russian is veryelementary, so, you might not want to read this if do *do* speak Russian,because I probably butchered it. If, you *don't*, don't worry, it's translated.
Mulder and Krycek are property of ten-thirteen productions / TwentiethCentury Fox TV, and used without permission, but also without intent ofmalice, misuse, or copyright infringement.
The cell door is slammed shut behind me, and I want to remind the guard,as I am dragged down the hall, that Mulder claims to speak no Russian. Unfortunately,the opportunity does not present itself, and I begin to see the futilityin such an action.
He may be the only man here with an ounce of sympathy and humanity, andtherein will be his downfall.
Better if he doesn't know what is lying in wait for him.
The guard, oblivious to my ponderings, shoves me along. I mumble at himin two languages, but am given little more than a hurried "Tyda, cpeeshee!"in response to my questions, as if it would be dangerous to inform me.
We crash to a stop, a door is flung open, and I am thrust into a room,darker than both the hall and the cell I was caged it. "Vot chelovyek,s kotorom vee hchotyelee govoreetch," comes the voice from behind me,and the door closes. I have been introduced.
I blink several times, getting re-acquainted with the dark, as I havebecome accustomed again, in the past few weeks, to the Russian of my childhood.The darkness recedes and reveals the outline of one man, another guard.I peer deeper into the shadows, looking for the second man, at least, addressedby the guards that dragged me here. "Kto zdyess?" I address theshadows, who's here, and am rewarded by a shifting in the blackness.
"Kto tee? Eelee kto vee?"
There could be more that one, so I cover all the bases, but there areno answers from those cloaked in the darkness. The guard, the one personI can see, pushes me forward, away from the door. I go quietly, with anuncommon docility. Mulder claimed that I screamed while asleep in the cells,sleep which I do not remember sleeping, but screams which he could not understand.
Any language I speak, whatever state of wakefulness I am in, whateverwords I choose, I suspect these men will understand it.
The guard gives me a final shove, and I fall forward, landing in a pileof legs and arms on the cold, grimy floor. "Prosteetye," I grumbleby way of apology, seeing, for the first time, the three men by who I havebeen summoned. I begin untangling myself, but freeze as one of them rises.
"Aleksander Krycek?" he asks, pure loathing on his face.
I nod. "Da."
One of his colleagues speaks, hesitantly but irreverently. "Malenkeekrisha."
The first man silences him with a quick glance, and pulls me to my feetroughly. "Tee eemyel koshmar?" he asks, did you have a nightmare?
The guards must have told him of my screaming, I rationalize, then look,for lack of a better place to look, at the gray cement walls that surroundme. They are slightly damp, though with what, I don't even want to guess."Zdyess koshmar," I grumble, earning myself a punch in the gut,but I gasp it out again. "Zdyess koshmar." It's a nightmare here.
Then I pause.
"Nyet," I say, shaking my head no. "Etto ne pravda. Moyzheezn koshmar."
My life is a nightmare.
. . . sneakers . . . _____________
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