Considering Alex Krycek is a compulsive liar and very little is known about his background, this may or may not be canon.

Double Double Toil and Trouble

"For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble." - Shakespeare, MacBeth

He's born to watch the world end, created by some hand of chance or fate to not only watch it burn itself out in one final flare of existence but to fit into the pieces of the giant scheme that will act as the catalyst for it all.

He's known it most of his life, like the fire and ice in his veins, the darkness and light woven together that make him who he is. He's made to watch everything change, to see the plans and dreams of the human race rise and fall like the tide of the ocean, to stand in the center with the others as everything changes.

Or so he thinks.


His first sense, almost before he can see or hear, or reach out and touch the world around him, is fear. It's not a clawing, visceral fear, but rather an oppressive weight, like a heavy load on his back, a feeling that drives him onwards. It stems from his parents in the beginning, passed in vitro through his bloodstream.

His parents are communists, a meaningless word that means only that his mother turns white at every unexpected knock on the door and his father whispers Russian words to strangers who come and go from his home. All it means to him is that Russia is in his heart and soul, and if there's any place where his loyalties are undivided it's to the country his family came from. But he learns, or perhaps has been born knowing, that all loyalties are flexible, that all sides can be played to his advantage.

He's bred to cross all lines, even then.


He's nine when they find him and choose him like they choose all the rest, a little boy with a sharp mind and eyes far too old for his face.

His old name, the one his mother whispered somewhere back in his memory, in the days before he was taken by them, is removed, erased from existence. As far as the world is concerned, the child he was is dead and buried. They name him Alex Krycek, first name selected alphabetically from a list, last name to acquiescent to his Russian heritage.

He's cataloged, blood drawn and examined, vaccinated and educated, and he doesn't care because he was always meant for this. His skin tingles with anticipation as he's taught martial arts at ten, how to handle a gun at eleven, and a knife at twelve. By thirteen he can kill with his bare hands without effort, and he's fluent in Russian and English, aware of the exact words in both to say to obtain everything he wants.

He has everything on his side - strong genes, a handsome face, and an inborn skill at switching sides the way other men change their clothes. He can make anyone like him with a smile and a nod, work his way into their trust, then effortlessly sever all ties when there's nothing more to be gained. He's never truly on their side, never on anyone's side but his own, and he thinks at the time that it gives him a feeling of power, of control over every moment of his life, a freedom few know.

He's only a pawn, even then, like so many others, but he doesn't know it.


He's young, still, or would be if he was like anyone else, but he isn't now and never has been. He has blood on his hands and a gun digging into the flesh of his palm, life like broken glass and tangled, tattered threads, half a man and triple traitor. There's still fire in his veins even if it's weaker now, and for the first time in ages he thinks he might come out on top, scramble to the high points and watch the world fall apart.

He'll die of course, and with him all that Alex Krycek could have been if he'd only figured out which side he belonged on.


The world does end, after all, just as he always knew it would, and he watches it grow dark and crimson before his eyes, the two colors spilling into each other, indecision at choosing a single color even at the last, as his life slips away.

It burns before his eyes more brilliantly than anything he's ever seen or will see again, the moment he was born for, the path set from the start. He was wrong all along, it seems, because it isn't impressive or rewarding, or even beautiful. It's only cold and frightening and hollow.

There's no sound, no bang or even a whimper, as his lips form a final sentence, as he breaks and his eyes close.

The world does end, of course.

But only for him.