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Title: The Outsider Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Additionally, the Tamarack Lack Motor Lodge and all characters depicted in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Saegertown, PA Shelley giggled breathlessly as her husband of four months pulled her a little deeper into the woods. "Slow down, Joe," she panted, her eyes alight. "You're giving me an Indian rope burn, you're holding my wrist so tight." He turned his head and smiled at her wolfishly from beneath the lank curtain of his bangs. "Just a little further." Behind them, he could plainly hear the sounds from the track meet. His pulse raced. The cheering parents: so close, and yet still unable to see them.... She giggled again. "We're supposed to be a respectable married couple now, Joe. Respectable married men don't sneak out of work early and drag their own wives into the woods for a quickie." She squeezed his hand, her cheeks flushed with excitement, just to show him her objections were not serious. "I told you," he said, "I haven't been able to think about anything but getting you alone all day." She grinned. "But to show up right here at the high school, and drag me off in front of Momma and my brother and everyone! What will they think?" He did not answer. "They'll think we're still on our honeymoon, that's what," she laughed in answer to her own question. "And they'll think, that lucky Shelley....That lucky Shelley and that crazy Joe...." He pushed her up against a tree, so that her back was against its rough grey bark. The autumn leaves crunched under their feet. "Shelley," he said in a husky voice, "be quiet." She laughed. "Too much talking and not enough action, huh? Well, come on, then." She closed her eyes, threw her arms around his neck, and tilted her face up for his kiss. There were cheers in the distance. The track meet...the crowd. The possibility of discovery. He felt the excitement flooding through him. Oh, yes, this was going to be good...Very, very good. Shelley giggled yet again, her eyes still closed, her lips pouted expectantly. "Open your eyes," he ordered tersely, looking down into her trusting face. "I like it better that way." "Well, okay...if you want to take all the mystery out of things," she teased, eyes still pressed shut. "Open them," he growled. She did. And then began to scream.... FBI Headquarters "Hey yourself." She could see that Mulder had already been in the office for a good while. He was sitting in a chair in front of the microfilm reader, munching on sunflower seeds. At least they were the shelled kind, she thought, hanging up her raincoat and going to pour herself a cup of coffee. Last week a second-floor secretary had given him a bag of the other kind. For some unaccountable reason, Scully had felt her blood pressure rise every time she had walked past the wastebasket full of spit-out shells. "Anything new?" she asked. "As a matter of fact...." He let the sentence trail off, looking over his shoulder at her. She stopped in mid-pour. He was holding up a manila folder. She went over to stand beside him, leaning her hip against the cluttered desk. In addition to the microfilm reader, Mulder had apparently been working with the video player, the telephone, and a sloppy pile of maps. "Take a look at this," he flipped the folder open and slid it over the desk toward her. Scully fingered the newspaper clipping which lay atop the typewritten pages. "FOURTH SLAYING SHOCKS COUNTY." Mulder tipped his chair back on two legs and put his big feet up on the desk. "Read it, Scully. The young woman in that clipping was beaten beyond all recognition. In her attempts to defend herself, she suffered compound fractures to both forearms. Her skull was flattened, her rib cage was crushed, and her spinal cord was severed." Scully looked up from the clipping, frowning. "Mulder, this says the police have taken the victim's husband into custody. And as brutal as it may have been, the abduction began in broad daylight at a high school track meet, in front of nearly a hundred witnesses. In fact, the article says the police have suspects for the other three murders as well. Where is the 'X' in this file?" He slid his feet off the desk and reached around her to the video player. "Look at this," he said. He pressed PLAY. Scully turned to watch the grainy black and white video running on the monitor. It showed a scrawny twentysomething in a World Wrestling Federation t-shirt, working behind the counter of a gas-station food mart. He was slouched under a "No Smoking" sign, puffing on a cigarette. Digits in the corner of the screen displayed the time and date. "So? It looks like some kind of store surveillance video." Mulder cracked another sunflower seed with his teeth. "Exactly. There's more than five mind-numbing hours on this tape of uneventful business as usual. The gas-station attendant just loiters behind the counter, on camera the entire time." "Thrilling." "You're telling me. It doesn't get interesting until hour six--when the police burst in to arrest him for the murder he just committed at the track meet, half an hour before." "You mean the skinny little slacker in this video is the murder suspect?" "Yep, Beavis there is our perp. And this surveillance video shows him in the gas station the whole time--before, during, and after the homicide." She shrugged. "So he doctored the tape. Looped it, or whatever." "Scully, the tape's been authenticated. And this guy doesn't strike me as an electronics wizard. According to all accounts, his VCR has been flashing twelve o'clock since the day he bought it." "Then the witnesses at the crime scene were mistaken...." Mulder gave her an incredulous look. "A hundred of them? This is a small town, Scully--one stoplight. Everybody in this place went to school with everybody else. Virtually every single witness had at least a passing acquaintance with the suspect." Scully leaned her hip against the edge of the desk again and regarded him quizzically. "So what are you saying, Mulder? That the murder was actually committed by this man's double? That he's a clone?" "We're talking about a town in which 'shocking crime spree' usually means three teen-agers in a station wagon, drinking beer and knocking over mailboxes with a baseball bat," Mulder answered. "Suddenly this place has had four brutal killings in as many weeks. Each death has been more violent than the last. And in each case, numerous murder witnesses have placed a suspect at the crime scene, while reliable evidence has shown him to be somewhere else." "What kind of reliable evidence?" He took another mouthful sunflower seeds, then held the bag out to her in invitation. She waved it away. "In the first case," he said, chewing, "the suspect was part of a group watching a football game at a friend's house. The friend and eight neighbors swear he was with them the entire evening. In the second case, the suspect is a mother of three who was reportedly also in her chiropractor's office. And in the third case, the police have arrested an Episcopal priest who was apparently leading a Bible Study class at the moment the murder occurred. Bible study--you don't think that's a pretty strong alibi?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I don't know, Mulder. A quartet of clones...?" Mulder tilted his chair back again. "I don't know either," he said. "But I want to know why these four people are suddenly exempt from the physical laws of space, time, and motion." "Great," Scully said dully. "I guess that means we're going to Pennsylvania."
I-79, near Mercer, Pennsylvania 4:00 p.m. Mick Jagger was wailing "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" on the car stereo. Keeping his eyes on the empty road, Mulder leaned over and cranked up the volume. Scully looked up in annoyance from the file she had been studying. "Turn it back down, Mulder," she protested. "It's hard enough trying to read in a moving car, without having the windows rattle." He obligingly lowered the volume again. "What's the matter, Scully?" he asked, grinning sideways at her. "Lyrics hit a little close to home?" She gave him her most quelling look, then turned her attention back to the folder in her lap. He laughed. "You're in an awfully good mood for someone who's about to have his theories shot down," she muttered. "Hey, why shouldn't I be? Northern Pennsylvania in October...autumn leaves, dead deer by the side of the road. This is the 'change of seasons' that lets us feel superior to all those poor saps in Miami and L.A. who have to pass their days tanning on the beaches," he bobbed his head to the rhythm of the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Besides, who says my theories are going to be shot down?" "There's nothing in this file that suggests cloning or government involvement, Mulder. Only the first murder suspect had any connection to government at all, and he was on the School Board." "Scully, you always have to rain on my parade. Whoa, look--! I think that was a groundhog--" Scully frowned. He was enjoying this trip entirely too much. In the Pittsburgh airport he had talked non-stop from the jetway to their rental car, and now he was admiring the roadkill. She looked out the car window. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. "You know, most criminals *do* have alibis, Mulder," she said. "Does that mean that most ninety-eight pound housewives also fatally beat their linebacker husbands into jelly? That most small-town priests brutally murder little old ladies without provocation?" He shook his head. "I don't think so, Scully." "I suppose the priest does bother me a little," she admitted. "I mean, the other three were domestic crimes. Husband kills wife, wife murders husband--that's the typical small-town horror story. But in the third case, the priest has been ministering to this community for twenty years. The murder victim was a frail seventy-year-old parishioner. Why would he suddenly decide to beat her to death?" "You tell me. Maybe she really pissed him off. You know, stole his parking space or something." Scully ignored him. She hated these rustic cases. Regional quirks, out-dated investigative techniques, and isolated locations might suit Mulder's off-beat sensibilities, but she was scientist. She preferred the city and modern technology. All her favorite cases involved cutting-edge equipment and the faint, reassuring buzz of fluorescent lighting. Besides, she knew there were a number of troglodytes at the Bureau who were convinced that she and Mulder must be sleeping together. No doubt they assumed that these backwoods road trips were one long, uninhibited boink-fest. Whereas nothing, she thought with a resentful glance at Mulder, could have been farther from the truth... They were driving out of range of the radio station. Mulder fiddled with the knob, trying to find something besides static. "So you don't believe ol' Father Mike's alibi?" he asked. "You think the eight members of this guy's Bible Study class are all lying?" "He was not only seen entering the victim's home, Mulder, but his fingerprints were all over the crime scene." "So why are you so sure we're not dealing with clones?" "In Crawford County, Pennsylvania?" "Why not? The wildlife sure seems to like it," he squinted myopically through the windshield. "I wonder if that dead animal up ahead is a big rabbit or a small raccoon?" The sheriff was eager to help. The idea of working with two FBI agents--two agents direct from Washington, DC, no less--had him nearly beside himself with excitement. He had even pressed them into trying the police station coffee and cider and something called Amish Friendship Bread. Mulder chewed happily on a piece of bread, but Scully was impatient to get down to work. "Sheriff McCall--" "Call me Ray." "Okay, Ray, then. The suspects are all out on bail?" "That's right. We couldn't make a case for keeping them locked up, Agent Scully, with no prior records and all that. But you can pretty well count on finding them at home. None of them would feel right about venturing out after what's been going on." "You don't sound very concerned about the possibility of flight," Mulder said. "You're not convinced they're guilty?" The sheriff scratched his head. "I don't really know what to think. I've known Joe Price's family all my life. Know Shelley's, too. Joe's always been an okay guy. No brain trust, but basically harmless. They seemed like a good couple. But so many people saw him at the track meet, you know, with Shelley..." "She was beaten in some kind of domestic dispute?" "Yeah, that's what they tell me. Not at first--I mean, there didn't seem to be any argument going on between them or anything. She just seemed surprised to see him when he was supposed to be minding the gas station. But Joe didn't really say anything to any of the other folks there. He just led Shelley away for some reason, and then the folks in the bleachers say she started screaming." The sheriff's face turned pale. "We searched the woods, but we found him back at the gas station. And then there's that damned videotape--" "And the others?" Scully asked, cutting him off. "You mean the first three killings?" Sheriff McCall asked. "Well, I'd guess you'd call the Rubio and Littmer cases domestic disputes, too. But it beats the hell out of me. Nobody can believe it, about Mike and Debbie. They were as close as could be--married fourteen years. And I still can't understand how little Sheila Littmer could have overpowered a big fellow like Bob. She's no bigger than you, Agent Scully." "But reliable witnesses place the suspects at the murder scenes?" "Oh, yeah, sure. Almost twenty people at the Bi-Lo store saw Mike in the parking lot with Debbie. 'Course, he was also supposed to have been watching the Steelers' game at the Heyers' house," he frowned. "Anyway, Sheila Littmer's own kids say she came home unexpectedly when she was supposed to be at the chiropractor's office--where, I might add, the doc and three people say she was," he shook his head in perplexity. "It's almost like everybody suddenly has an evil twin or something." Mulder shot a glance at his partner. "You getting this, Scully?" "Were there any signs of discord in the Littmer's marriage?" Scully continued, pretending he had not spoken. "No, no, nothing like that," the sheriff assured her. "Sheila and Bob got along real well. They were even talking about having another kid, last I'd heard." "What about Father Collins?" "Father Mike? Oh, God, everybody likes him. I'm Presbyterian, myself, but I've never heard anything bad about Father Mike. He's married, you know; those Episcopal priests get married. Nothing odd there." "Except that he appears to have savagely murdered a seventy-year-old parishioner," Mulder pointed out innocently. "Well, yeah," said the sheriff, turning and blinking at him. "The Amish boys who were shingling Mrs. Grover's roof saw him go in the house, anyway. And we did find fresh prints on the doorbell and the doorknob and the woodwork and all that," he shook his head. "But I just can't believe it about Father Mike. Not when he was supposed to have been teaching Bible Study." Scully sighed. "Well, it's getting late. I'd like to see the fourth victim's body." "And we'll need a motel room," Mulder said. "Two rooms," Scully corrected. The sheriff fished a ring of keys from a file cabinet. "Oh, sure. We've got motel rooms in Meadville. That's right up the road, here. It's the county seat." "Sounds lovely," said Scully dryly. "Yup," the sheriff agreed. "Well, come on, the coroner uses the office down the hall. It has a sink and all that." Scully turned to follow the sheriff out. Mulder trailed after her. "Wow! A real sink?" "Be quiet, Mulder," Scully hissed under her breath. God, but she hated these rural cases. Mulder loved rural cases. It wasn't only that these quiet northern towns reminded him powerfully of Chilmark and of the happier part of his childhood, though of course that was part of it. And it wasn't even that it was October in the country, a time of bright sunshine and crisp air, of woods whose colors took your breath away, of rustling leaves and just-pressed cider and kids excited about Halloween. The country was beautiful, but that was only part of it. No, mostly it was Scully. In a rural case like this one, he had her pretty much to himself. There were no rumpled laboratory types asking her to squint through microscopes, no white-coated city coroners droning on about enzymes and incisions. Instead there was just the two of them: bickering in rental cars, comparing notes in diners, arguing theories in tiny little motels. He could look forward to days of enforced companionship. He doubted that the prospect thrilled her as much as it did him. Hell, he was not even sure quite *why* it thrilled him, when they were nothing more than friends, and when they were apt to spend their time together obsessing over the minutiae of serial killings. He only knew that he felt all energetic and alive, starting a case like this one. It was one of those rare aspects of his existence that he did not care to analyze. Sometimes a person could analyze a thing to death.** END PART 1 -- Please read on, it heats up in the next one!
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 00:18:16 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 2/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. ** Scully prided herself on her medical detachment, but even she couldn't help gasping when Sheriff McCall peeled back the flap of the body bag to reveal what was left of Shelley Price. "Yikes," said Mulder under his breath. "Uh-huh," agreed the sheriff. The cadaver was barely recognizable as human. The victim's skull had been squashed like an overripe grape. Shards of rib protruded through the crushed torso. The facial features--or what Mulder assumed to be the facial features--were flattened and indistinct, the misshapen mouth gaping open in a permanent "O" of surprise. "I'll do a complete examination tomorrow," Scully said, her voice a little unsteady. "But the blunt-force trauma is obvious." "He worked her over pretty good," Sheriff McCall agreed. "Odd, though. I never would have guessed a boy the size of Joe Price could do that much damage. Not to mention, he and Shelley were still newlyweds. Just goes to show you, I guess." "How long did it take the witnesses at the track meet to get to her, after they heard her scream?" asked Mulder. "That's another weird thing. Only a minute or two. She wasn't that deep in the woods, and everybody came running as soon as they heard her." "So all this trauma was inflicted in just a couple of minutes?" asked Scully incredulously. "Looks that way. We figure he used a tree branch or something." Scully moved the plastic back up to cover the terrible mockery of a face. "I find that a little hard to believe." "Me, too, but all of them were like that," said Sheriff McCall. "Debbie Rubio, Bob Littmer, poor Ginny Glover....Maybe not quite this bad, but they still looked more like something out of an industrial accident than a crime scene." "And there were no other likely explanations for the trauma? No heavy machinery nearby, no tire tracks?" "No, ma'am. Bob Littmer and Mrs. Glover were both in their own bedrooms. Debbie Rubio was the only one who might remotely have been struck by anything big; she was in the dark end of the Bi-Lo parking lot. But nobody witnessed any cars peeling out of there or anything." "Did anything unusual happen around here just before the first killing?" asked Mulder. "Anybody see any bright lights, any unexpected losses of time, anything like that?" "No," said the sheriff, looking puzzled. "Nothing I can think of." "And none of the suspects had a history of disappearance or abduction?" "Uh....no." Sheriff McCall was regarding him a little oddly. He wondered if he dared ask anything about toxic green bodily fluids. Probably not. Scully was beginning to look impatient. As if to confirm this impression, she checked her watch and sighed. "Come on, Mulder," she said wearily. "It's nearly seven. I say we call it a day and go grab some dinner." Mulder smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Body bags always make me hungry, too, Scully." Mulder found the motel with no trouble. That was one of the best things about traveling with Mulder, Scully thought: he never got lost. Well, that, and that his bladder was apparently the size of an oil drum. He could drink iced tea for miles and miles and still never need to make a pit stop. The motel was a typical 'fifties-era roadside inn, with a squat, colorless line of doors that could all be seen from the road. As if the proprietor had purposely set out to make the ugliest motel possible, there was even a lounge attached: an unappealing-looking brick tavern with neon lettering which proclaimed "DRINKS TV BILLIARDS." The motel was not far from the interstate, as the crow flies, but high hills surrounded it on three sides. Scully had figured they'd be eating at a greasy spoon, but to her surprise there turned out to be a newly-constructed family restaurant across the street from the motel. It was one of those brightly-lit places, where kids ate free and the menu featured breakfast twenty four hours a day. After checking into their rooms and dropping off their bags, she met Mulder outside for the short walk over. "How's your room?" he asked. "Not too bad. No chocolates on the pillow or anything, and I probably wouldn't have chosen that oil painting of a dying deer for my own place, but clean. They have basic cable." "Oh, goodie." In the restaurant they sat by the window, where they had a perfect view of the ugly motel and the lofty, wooded hills that engulfed it. The motel spoiled the scenery and that bothered Mulder. He preferred to survey the other customers: two harassed families who had apparently stopped on their way to Pittsburgh or Erie, a few blue-collar types sipping coffee, a cop, a table of grey-haired old ladies. Typical small-town faces. The waitress came and took their order. Scully asked for a chef salad and a Diet Coke. Mulder ordered the waffle special and a milkshake. They sat and waited for the food. Scully slipped her shoes off under the table, wishing she'd worn something more practical for walking back and forth across gravelled highways. She rested her chin thoughtfully in her palm. "You know what gets me about this case?" she asked. "You mean besides the total lack of motive, the almost unbelievable level of trauma to the victims, and the fact that every one of the suspects has an air-tight alibi?" "What gets me," Scully persisted, "is that all of the suspects were supposed to be somewhere else when the killings happened. I don't just mean their alibis were good. I mean the victims KNEW they were supposed to be somewhere else. Ray mentioned that every one of the victims was surprised at seeing his or her attacker." "I'll bet they were pretty surprised to be bludgeoned to death, too." "You think you're being a wise-ass, Mulder, but that's exactly my point," Scully said. "They can't have put up much of a fight. Shelley Price went off willingly with her husband. So did Deborah Rubio. Mrs. Glover invited Father Mike into her house without hesitation, and the police report stated that the Littmer victim was thrilled to see his wife return early from her chiropractor's office. Why such horrific, overpowering violence? None of the victims even argued with the killers." "Yeah," said Mulder, toying with the salt shaker. "They even cooperated. Almost like they were killed by the person they trusted most...." The waitress appeared, carrying their dinners. She asked if they needed ketchup. Scully looked down at her salad and Mulder's waffles, and shook her head no. The waitress moved on. "I don't know, Scully," said Mulder flatly. "Everything I've seen so far points to the clone explanation." "There's no evidence of conspiracy or abduction. And where are these clones now? No one has reported seeing any mysterious twins in the aftermath of the murders, Mulder. I'm thinking mass psychosis." "Psychosis? I might go for psychotic killers. But do you honestly think all of the witnesses would be psychotic, too?" Scully frowned. "Maybe there's something in the water...." Mulder leaned back. "I would bet my left testicle--and I'm pretty fond of it, Scully--that people around here have well-water. If there's something in their water, then it must be deep down in the water table. And if that's the case, then *everyone* here should be psychotic." "Well, not the water, then. But maybe in the television transmissions, like before...." "The witnesses at the third victim's home were Amish. They don't watch TV, Scully." "Maybe the Amish witnesses' accounts are accurate. The fingerprint evidence does link the priest to the scene, after all. Maybe it's only his Bible Study class that's psychotic." "A psychotic Bible Study class," marvelled Mulder, grinning. "That would be something to see." Scully was growing annoyed. "Well, I still don't think we're dealing with clones. These murders are the biggest news to hit this area in ages. Someone would have noticed if there was a colony of evil twins walking around. This is a one-high-school town, remember?" She turned her attention to the food. Scully was surprised to find that her salad wasn't bad. No exotic ingredients, but at least it was fresh and the kitchen hadn't drowned it in salad dressing. Even Mulder's waffles looked good. Mulder sipped his milkshake. "Did you like high school, Scully?" he asked out of the blue. "What? Oh, yeah....I guess so." "I didn't," he confided. "I could never get a date. Apparently cheerleaders don't find an eidetic memory and the mystique of alien abduction attractive....I had a real thing for cheerleaders." He looked across at her. "You weren't a cheerleader, were you, Scully?" She shook her head. "No, Mulder." He sighed. "I knew that would be too much to ask." He went back to working on his waffles. After a time, Scully asked, "So, were you really a geek in high school?" "I didn't say I was a geek. I did play baseball," Mulder replied. "I just said I couldn't score. For some reason the girls I liked all thought I was creepy." "You *are* creepy, Mulder." He ignored her, and looked off into the distance with a goofy smile. "All except Heather Langford....Technically I never really made it with her, either, but she did have certain oral talents she was willing to share...." Scully pretended to be examining her lettuce, hoping he had not noticed her smile. "I thought gentlemen weren't supposed to kiss and tell." "Hey, I wasn't talking about kissing." The waitress brought the check, and soon they had finished and were walking back together to the motel. The sun had long since set behind the Allegheny foothills, and the porch lights of the motel blazed like beacons. Chirping crickets created a cacophony in the surrounding woods. Scully sighed. "I hope this case isn't going to take long." Mulder looked over at her. "You don't think it's pretty around here?" "Yeah, pretty dull." "I don't know. I bet the high school has a terrific football team. A lot of the really great quarterbacks have come from western Pennsylvania." "Maybe if you're lucky somebody will get murdered at the next game and we'll have to check it out," she said acidly. Mulder didn't know whether to be irked or amused. "What's wrong, Scully?" "Nothing's wrong. I just don't like these country towns and these roadside motels. I never sleep right in a place like this." "Roadside motels are supposed to give you the willies," he said lightly. "You know--strangers on the other side of the wall, Norman Bates shower curtains, 'Jeopardy' coming on at 7:00 instead of 7:30...." Scully took out her key and unlocked the door to her room. "Get some sleep, Mulder." "Yeah, I will," he said, though he made no move to go. "Something tells me the motel cable doesn't get any interesting movies. You know, the 'Dana Does Dallas' kind." She closed her door in his face. Mulder was stretched out on the bed, still dressed in T-shirt, pants, and socks, but beginning to nod off. There was nothing decent on TV. Or, rather, everything on TV was completely decent. He was bored. Maybe Scully was right about small towns. A knock on the door woke him from his pleasant drowse. He got up and moved the heavy motel black-out curtain aside, to check who it was. Then he opened the door. "Scully," he said, "what's up? You forget something?" She was looking at him strangely. "Not exactly." He leaned one shoulder against the door jamb. "Something wrong?" "Aren't you going to ask me in?" He almost stepped aside without thinking, to let her by. But there was something in her eyes. He could not quite put his finger on it...an almost wolfish glint. He wondered for a moment if she had been drinking. The thought surprised him. "Maybe you'd better tell me what this is about first," he said evenly. "We can talk about it in your room." He hesitated. "No," he decided. "Let's go to the motel lounge and talk. We can always come back here later, right?" She gazed at him steadily. "But you're not wearing any shoes." "I'll get them." He was going to leave the door ajar, just to duck in and collect his shoes, but something made him close it before he went any further into his room. Retaliation for the way she'd shut her door in his face earlier? Maybe that's all it was. But he wasn't sure. Something didn't feel right. He put his shoes on and joined her outside in the chill October night. "Come on," he said, starting in the direction of the lounge. "I'll pay for the beers." She moved along soundlessly beside him. It was unusual for her to seek him out after they had turned in for the evening. He felt a little thrill of excitement, though he didn't know what was making him so jumpy. She looked like the same old Scully: little and pretty and business-like. Except for her eyes--they still had that funny glint. The lounge was small, dark, and practically empty. He was going to take the first table he saw, but Scully kept walking and went to a booth in the dimly-lit corner. He bought two beers from the bartender, and carried them over to where she was sitting. "Here," he said, setting a beer on the table in front of her. "Bottle okay? I can get you a glass to pour it in if you want." She tilted her head up and looked at him. He felt a frisson of fear scuttle up his spine. What was with her eyes? But the feeling was gone as suddenly as it had come. "The bottle is fine." "Good," he sat down across from her. "Now," he said, leaning forward, voice low, "what did you want to talk about?" She took a swig of the beer. Her eyes never left his face. "I wanted to talk about us." There it was again--that unwavering gaze. It unnerved him. "What, are you mad at me?" he asked. "Did I say something out of line? Whatever it was, I'm sorry, Scully." "Mmmmm. You didn't do anything wrong, Mulder." He was shocked at the note in her voice: deep, seductive. He was even more shocked when he felt her hand on his thigh. He looked across at her, startled. "Scully, what are you doing?" "Let's go back to your room, Mulder." What? Was she on something? And, Jesus, what was with her eyes? "I think we need to talk a little first," he managed. "I mean, I'm not saying this is a bad thing, you understand, but it's a little sudden..." Her hand slid up his leg. "I want to go back to your room." "Yeah, I can tell. Let's take it a little slower though, okay, Scully?" He laughed nervously. "Give me some time to adjust." Under the table, her hand moved even higher, closing around him. "I think you're adjusting just fine," she growled. He looked around the lounge wildly, his heart beating faster. There was a man sitting at the bar and a couple of businessmen in a booth across the room, but apparently no one could hear them. He didn't know whether to be grateful for the isolation or panicked by it. What was he supposed to do? "Come on," she urged throatily. "Let's go back to your room." He squirmed, and hoped he wasn't looking as embarrassed as he felt. He would never have brought up that high school crap with her at dinner if he'd known she would do this. He was interested, yes. She could obviously feel just how interested he was. But this was Scully.... Besides, he was no idiot. This was bizarre. What if her psychosis theory was right? What if there really was something in the water? "Come on," she urged again, her hand blessedly moving back to his thigh so that he could breathe again. "This is a one-time-only offer, Mulder." "Scully, are you whacked-out on something? Are you okay?" She laughed. "I'm fine, Mulder." "Because you're acting really weird..." She levelled that unnerving gaze on him again. "Mmmm...Mulder, please," she urged in voice that he had never actually heard outside an X-rated movie. "I want us to go...." His palms were sweating. Jesus, what a sorry chicken-shit he was turning out to be. "Why are you in such a hurry?" "Why are you dragging your feet?" "I asked you first." She took another swig of her beer, again with her eyes still locked on his. He felt another chill. "Why," he repeated. She put the beer down and smiled strangely at him. "Because," she said, "I want you"--and there was almost a violence in the words. ** END PART 2
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 00:20:13 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 3/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones really be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. Tamarack Lake Motor Lodge, Meadville, Pennsylvania 10/10/96 10:42 P.M. Mulder could feel the rapid thud, thud, thud of his heart. He wasn't sure whether to attribute his galloping pulse to desire or apprehension. He had never seen Scully--cool, rational, nice-Catholic-girl Scully--act like this before. "Let's go back to your room, Mulder," she whispered, leaning over the table so that he could see down the neck of her blouse. Her eyes bored into his. "I want to go there with you now." "Scully, there's something weird going on here. Maybe we should discuss this a little." "I'm not in the mood for discussion." "I can see what kind of mood you're in," he said awkwardly, tracing a finger through the ring of condensation that his beer bottle had left on the table. "But luckily one of us is still thinking with the appropriate part of our anatomy." "Don't joke." Her hand slid back up his thigh. "Scully, someone's going to see you doing that." "Let them." He squirmed again. Her fingers, hot and shameless and insistent, closed around the length of him. He could feel the heat of her hand through his pants. Hell, she could probably feel a lot more than just heat. "Come on, Mulder," she growled seductively. "It would be so....good...." He swallowed. "Scully, don't take this the wrong way, but--you're scaring me." "A little attention frightens you?" "Not a little attention, no. But when I envisioned this--and believe me, Scully, the thought has crossed my mind before--I never pictured you groping me under the table in a cut-rate motor lodge." She pulled her hand away and stared at him in silence, her eyes glinting. Mulder fidgeted. "I mean, I thought if this was ever going to happen, you would work up to it gradually. You know, like, 'Nice tie, Mulder.'" "Don't joke," she said again, this time with vicious intensity. Another frisson scuttled up Mulder's spine. He looked around the lounge again. The two businessmen had left. Now it was just the two of them, the bartender, and one other customer. A TV mounted behind the bar was playing CNN, throwing flickering light out into the gloom. The place looked like every other small-town bar he had ever been inside. And a woman--the only woman outside his family that he really felt close to--was actually begging him to take her back to his room. Why did this feel so creepy? He turned his face reluctantly back to her unblinking gaze. "Don't get me wrong, Scully. I'd have to be brain-dead not to be tempted," he said. "But this is a little unexpected." "Do you want to go back to your room," she asked in that throaty voice, "or not?" He looked away, flushing. "Not now," he said. "Look, let's just finish our beer. I want to talk to you a while." "I'm not going to eat you." A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. "Though something similar could be arranged...." "Damn it, Scully, knock it off," he said. She picked up her beer and chugged the half that was left in one huge gulp. "There." She slammed the empty bottle down with a force that made him jump. "Now are we going or not?" He shook his head incredulously. "What's with you, Scully?" "Are we going to your room or not?" she demanded. The customer at the bar had turned his head to look at them. "Not, then," said Mulder, growing annoyed. "We're not going, okay?" She glared at him in sudden fury, then slid out of the booth and stormed toward the door. "Scully, wait!" he called. She did not look back. He jumped out of the booth to hurry after her. He dug frantically in his pants pocket for some change, threw some coins on the table, and then raced out of the lounge. But by the time he made it out the door, Scully had vanished. Scully was in bed with the lights on, watching an old Outer Limits rerun, when she heard a pounding on the door of her room. "Scully, open up," Mulder called. "It's me." She sighed and threw back the covers to go to the door. She opened it to find Mulder standing in the porch lights with his trench coat on. He was wearing a grim expression. "I'm really worried about you, Scully," he said decisively. "I think I should take you to the hospital." She gaped at him. "Mulder, what is this about?" He remained in the doorway, uneasily looking past her into the room. "The bartender gave me directions to the closest emergency room. Come on, get your coat. I think you should get checked out." She raised a small hand and pressed her palm to his forehead. "Mulder, are you running a fever or something? You're not making any sense." He drew back from her hand. "Scully, don't jerk me around anymore. I'm not kidding. Get your coat." She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Mulder, in case it's escaped your attention, it's after eleven o'clock and I'm in my pajamas. What is this about going to the hospital?" "I think it's important for you to go." "Why?" she asked, brows drawn together. "Has there been another murder?" "No, damn it. You know very well why. You're sick or something," he shifted his weight from foot to foot in agitation. She watched him in puzzlement. "Maybe you should calm down and explain what you just said." "I'm not coming in there." "Well, I'm not coming outside in my pajamas." "You need to be checked out." "And you need to be certified. Mulder, what is going on?" "I told you, I'm taking you to the hospital." He looked at his watch. "Go ahead. I'll give you three minutes to get dressed." She glared at him. "No, Mulder. I'm not going with you. Not unless you do some pretty smooth talking first." He sighed, frowned in frustration, and then tossed his hands in the air. "Alright, then. I give up. Suit yourself," he said. He turned on his heel. She stuck her head out the door, looking after him. "Where are you going?" "Back to my room." "Mulder, wait. Are you sure you're okay?" "I'm okay," he said, halting outside his door and fumbling with his key. "I may not get any sleep tonight, but I'm okay." Scully watched him ram the key into the lock, yank the door open, and then slam it after him. What was *that* all about, she wondered, staring in perplexity at his closed door. Pain. Rage. The windigo heaved itself upright and lumbered down the hill, slipping a little on the autumn leaves which were already thick on the forest floor. Its head still throbbed dizzily. Though it was pitch-black here in the depths of the woods, pain made blinding flashes of yellow and red float before its eyes. When it reached the safety of its den, it sank to its knees, groaning in its deep guttural way. It laid its huge misshapen brow on the cool, matted floor of the shelter. Never before had it had to maintain a guise so long. Never before had it failed. It rolled its head from side to side against the cool earth, its lipless mouth slack. Pain. Terrible pain. The effort of the last hour had been tremendous. Sitting with the puny buzzing ones, everything too loud and too confused, imitating what they said, what they did. And in the end, futility. The lure had not worked. The blood lust had not been satisfied. It rolled over onto its side, still groaning. In the normal way of things, it thought through the red haze of its agony, it would never have chosen such a one as its victim. This one had been wary; this one had sensed something. Usually the prey was not so cautious. Usually--the lipless mouth curved in a scarlet smile--the prey was weak. The windigo grimaced. The pain... Someone must die soon. Scully was on Mulder's doorstep at 7:30 the next morning. She expected to find him wasting time, sitting on the edge of the bed in his shirtsleeves and watching the sports update on ESPN. Instead he answered the door, fully dressed and ready to go, the instant she knocked. He looked like hell. "Hey, somebody got up on the wrong side of bed," she joked. His brows drew together furiously. "Scully, don't dick around with me today." Her eyes widened in surprise. She might have felt hurt, except that he immediately looked away and...blushed? It was raining. They walked in silence through the thin autumn drizzle to the restaurant where they had eaten the night before. He stalked along moodily at her side. She was not sure what to make of his stiff gait and grim expression. Mulder was mercurial, sure, but usually she had some inkling as to the reason why. In the restaurant the hostess seated them by the window again and left them to examine the menu. Mulder stared out at the rain-slick highway. The weather outside seemed to match his mood: thoroughly dismal. "Were the waffles good yesterday, Mulder? They looked good." He didn't answer, but only made some sort of grunt. "I think I might get the waffles, but I'm not sure I want the special. Fried potatoes and bacon seem a little much considering I'll be spending my morning autopsying what's left of Shelley Price." He glanced glumly at her from beneath the dark hair which fell across his forehead. The waitress came and poured coffee, then took their order and bustled away to the kitchen. Mulder tore open a paper packet and dumped the contents into his cup, realizing even as he did so that the packet contained salt instead of sweetener. He thrust the coffee away in frustration, muttering violently, "Fucking poison cup of shit..." Scully gave up on the idea of coaxing him out of his black mood. She leaned across the table and asked in exasperation, "You want to tell me what last night was all about, Mulder?" "Huh!" he grunted, glaring. "You go first." "I don't have the vaguest idea." "And I do?" Suddenly his anger changed to plain unhappiness, and he raked a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Scully, I hardly slept at all. I don't even know if I'm supposed to be able to look you in the eyes today or not." "Because I refused to go for a car ride with you in my pajamas?" "No! Because of all that other crap. I keep wondering what's going on inside your head. Did you even know what you were doing? And if you did, did I insult you, are you pissed at me--or was it all some sick practical joke?" He leaned toward her impulsively. "For God's sake, Scully, can't you see I'm worried about you? I still don't believe you would act that way unless you were sick. You should have come with me last night." "Mulder, what are you raving about?" "The scene in the lounge last night. This psychosis thing. Don't you trust me enough to believe I know when you need a doctor?" "What happened in the lounge?" He stared at her. She stared back, her eyes two calm blue pools. "You really don't know what I'm talking about, do you, Scully?" he asked slowly. She shook her head. "No." "You really don't remember anything about last night?" "I remember you pounding on my door at eleven o'clock and ordering me around like a lunatic." His eyes narrowed. "But before that...?" "Before that? Before that I was watching TV, Mulder. The Outer Limits." He thought for a moment, considering. "What were you watching from ten to eleven?" "Let me see...'E.R.'" "What happened on it?" "Um....Green thought about going to Hawaii with Lewis, Carter's apartment burned down, and Kerry Weaver guessed that Jeannie is HIV-positive." "You saw the whole show?" "Except for the five minutes or so when I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed." Mulder closed his eyes. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "Shit..." This time, Scully thought with growing interest, the word was definitely more shaken than angry. ** END PART 3
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 00:22:32 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 4/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones really be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. Crawford County, Pennsylvania 8:10 a.m. Mulder steered the rental car along the winding two-lane road that led from the motel to the sheriff's department. The grey sedan sped through a rolling landscape of vivid foliage, spotted cows, and the occasional weathered red barn. "That's just not possible, Mulder," Scully said for the third time. "It has to be possible. I'm telling you, I was with you--or, rather, someone or something that looked exactly like you--in the motel lounge last night." "A shapeshifting alien," Scully supplied with patent skepticism. "I didn't say it had to be an alien, Scully. In fact, as much as I hate to admit, it could be a regular home-grown shapeshifter from the good old U. S. of A. But I know one thing: it was certainly intent on getting me alone." "And you think this thing killed the four murder victims...." "It makes sense, doesn't it? I mean in some bizarre, paranormal kind of way." "Mulder...explain." "Okay, this thing can change its shape," said Mulder reasonably. "But it's not Dracula or the Wolfman. Those imaginary monsters were only vulnerable to certain kinds of weapons--nutty things like a stake through the heart, or a silver bullet. Who carries silver bullets on them? I know I don't," Mulder said. "But this thing is real. It doesn't want to take the chance that some NRA member with a deer rifle might blow its brains out. So it appears to its victims as the person they trust most." "But why victims? Why kill at all?" "You want me to posit some it-hunts-to-live theory, don't you, Scully? You want me to say that this thing feeds off something, like livers or pituitary glands or fat. But I think it's more complicated than that. I think its a serial killer, as unusual for its kind as such killers are for ours. Aberrant not only its form, but in its psyche. And it's a damned smart serial killer, too." "Why are you so sure it's smart?" said Scully, frowning at him. "Just because it fooled you?" "Think of the way it chose its disguises," he said, unruffled. "You said it yourself: the suspects were not only somewhere else, but everyone *knew* they were somewhere else--including this creature. Whether they were working or with friends or at the chiropractor's or even teaching Bible Study, the prototypes were out of the way. Chances were slim that they were going to turn up in the same place as this creature. Get it, Scully? It didn't want its cover blown." Scully shook her head. "Mulder, there are so many holes in this theory that I can't begin to enumerate them." "Such as?" "Such as, you say this hypothetical creature didn't want its cover blown. Then why would it go to a crowded track-meet to abduct Shelley Price?" "Like I said, it's a serial killer. Sick. Twisted. I think it gets some kind of thrill, Scully, from killing right under everyone's noses. Like people who are turned on by the thought of doing the wild thing in a semi-public place. They don't really want to get caught--but the possibility adds to the excitement." "But what are the odds that this killer would pick you out as its victim on your very first night in the area? Even in a quiet spot like this, Mulder, you have to admit that's a pretty amazing coincidence." "That's just it, Scully. Did you see the headline in the paper on the sheriff's desk yesterday? 'FEDS TO JOIN PRICE MURDER PROBE.' This thing is smart. It *knows*. We're here to track it down, and it doesn't want that to happen." She glanced sidelong at him. "You've really gone off the deep end on this one, Mulder." "Have I? Think about it, Scully," he said. "In some ways, last night doesn't quite fit the pattern of the other attacks. It appeared to me as you; but how did it know that you wouldn't wander into the lounge while it was with me? You didn't have any definite reason to stay out of the way. But it took the chance. It's running scared." "If it's so scared, why didn't it just kill you as soon as you opened your door?" "The restaurant, Scully. The twenty-four-hour, cops-swilling-coffee, overlooks-the-motel restaurant. You can see every door perfectly from the restaurant window. Much too risky. That's why it was so intent on getting inside my room." Scully bit her lip. "But if this thing is real--and I'm not saying it is, Mulder, I'm just speaking hypothetically--then how could it be caught? I mean, it could pose as anyone. You. Me. J. Edgar Hoover." "Actually, I was kind of hoping for Sharon Stone." She darted an impatient look at him. "Mulder, be serious." "You catch it the same way you catch any other quarry, Scully. You track it. If there's one thing this area's got to have lots of, it's hunting dogs. Find a fresh set of tracks and, bingo, off you go." Scully looked out the car window at the gray October sky. "Too bad it's raining," she said. "We might have used the tracks near your motel room." "You mean--hypothetically?" "Yes, Mulder," she answered. "Of course that's what I meant." First District Elementary School Meadville, Pennsylvania 12:35 P.M. "I haven't gotten a child support check from him in three months," Carol Boorstin complained to the other women in the teacher's lounge. "He says he hasn't got the money. Of course, he's got the money for a new Chevy Blazer, and he's got the money to take his new girlfriend to Las Vegas in July. But he hasn't got the money for his own kids." "He's a lying piece of crap, Carol," said Mrs. Bartlett, the kindergarten teacher. "You're way better off without him." Mrs. Pool, school psychologist for the district, patted Carol's hand. "The kids are better off, too," she said soothingly. "Yeah, I know..." Carol sighed. "It's just so infuriating sometimes, you know?" "I know, honey," said Mrs. Pool. "But 'what goes around comes around.' Just remember that." There was a tap at the door. They all looked up. "Come in," Mrs. Pool called out. The door creaked open. "Carol?" asked a reedy voice. Carol Boorstin pushed her chair back and stood up uncertainly. "Mom? Is that you?" A tiny, white-haired lady stepped into the teacher's lounge. She was clad in a pink pantsuit, a pink that matched her round cheeks almost perfectly. Her wrinkled face was kind and motherly. She smiled warmly at the two women present, before holding out her arms to an astonished Carol. "They told me you were probably in here." Carol nearly tripped over the legs of Mrs. Bartlett's chair in her rush to reach the tiny woman. "Mom! What are you doing here?" she exclaimed, enfolding her mother in a hug. "You're supposed to be at the Care Center. You don't even have your walker!" "Surprised to see me?" "Of course I am! I didn't even know you were up and around." The diminutive gray head tilted so that the old woman could smile up at her daughter. "My hip is much better." "It must be! You seemed so down when we talked on the lawn on Sunday. You mean you don't even have a cane?" "No, no cane. My hip isn't bothering me at all." Carol turned a beaming face back to her friends. "This is my mom. Remember I told you how she had surgery last week? Well, look at her now." She squeezed the older woman's waist, grinning down at her affectionately. "Gosh, Mom, why didn't you tell me you were coming? And in the rain, too! We could have had lunch together." The old lady pursed her lips, and looked sadly down at her feet. "Actually, Carol, I have something I need to discuss with you." Carol's face fell. "What is it?" she asked seriously. "There's nothing wrong with Dad, is there?" The old woman glanced to Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Pool. "Maybe we'd better discuss it outside." Mrs. Pool shuffled her feet. "Actually, I was just about to leave." She made an ostentatious show of clearing up the tupperware containers which had contained her lunch. Mrs. Bartlett leaned down and picked up her purse. "Me, too. I have to be getting back to my classroom anyway." She got up and crossed to the door. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs.--?" Carol waited for her mother to supply her name and finish the sentence, but the older woman appeared not to have heard. She was merely smiling vacantly at Judy Bartlett, her eyes fixed in a rather disquieting stare. "It's Mrs. Yoder," Carol supplied for her mother. Judy Bartlett smiled. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Yoder." She slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and left with Mrs. Pool. Carol waited for the door to close behind them before turning worriedly to her mother. "Now, Mom, exactly what is going on?" she asked. "Is something wrong with Dad? Did he stop taking his medicine again?" "No, Carol. Come over to the window with me, will you?" There must be something really wrong, Carol thought. Her mother's voice had sounded different: scratchy, almost a rasp. She frowned, and walked over to the second story window to stand beside her mother. The window overlooked the school playground. Despite the wet weather there were children outside, swinging on the swings and jumping energetically around the monkey-bars. Carol peered out. "What is it, Mom? Did you see something bad going on out there?" "Look closely." Carol looked deliberately from child to child, then at the trees and at the parking lot beyond them. "I don't know what you mean. I don't see anything." "Look harder." Carol turned her head sharply at the guttural sound of her mother's voice. But--it!--was not her mother at all, she thought for one horrified instant, before her strangled scream was cut short. ** END PART 4
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 00:24:23 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 5/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones really be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. While Scully autopsied Shelley Price, Mulder logged mile after mile driving over unmarked country roads, contacting witnesses. It was an exercise in futility, he was certain. None of the accused killers was guilty. Even his interviews with the four suspects turned up nothing new. To enliven an otherwise dull day, he replayed the scene from the lounge in his head. Now that he and Scully were back on their safe, familiar footing, he could recall the encounter with chagrined amusement and--he was glad Scully was not in the car to see his libidinous grin--no small measure of enjoyment. Though the realization that he was getting turned on by a proposition from a savage shapeshifting serial killer was a little weird, even for him. He hadn't told Scully the exact nature of the encounter last night. He'd been careful to describe the visit to the lounge without mentioning precisely how her double had attempted to get him alone. He sensed she had guessed at some of it--he had found it difficult to keep a poker face--but fervently hoped that she had not. He didn't know why he was being such a baby about telling her that part. Maybe he just didn't want to embarrass her. But then, he wondered, why should she be embarrassed, when he was the one who'd been fondled by an amorphous gender-bender? His cell phone trilled. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me," Scully said unnecessarily. "Don't bother coming back to the sheriff's department. I'm not there. We're at the elementary school off....um, Main Street?" He heard voices in the background. "Yeah, Main Street. There's been another killing." "I'm on my way." He arrived at the scene to find chaos: drizzling rain, an EMS wagon, the flashing lights of three police cruisers, cops, weeping teachers, panicked children, equally panicked parents. He pushed through the jostling crowd, flashing his identification at the policeman who would have stopped him. The body was lying twisted on a strip of grass between the red brick school building and a partially-fenced playground. Despite the nearby crowd it not been covered yet with a sheet or even outlined in chalk. Mulder could see from the broken glass which had rained down around the body and the shattered window above that the dead woman had been thrown from a room on the second story. He spotted Scully near the EMS wagon, writing on a clipboard. She was wearing a yellow rain slicker with the words "Crawford County" stenciled in black letters across the back, her red hair tucked imperfectly inside the upraised hood. He went to stand beside her. "Whose evil twin was it this time?" he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. She looked up and frowned. "Apparently the victim's mother." "Let me guess. Little. White-haired. Kindly. And she was supposed to be somewhere else." "You forgot to add crippled, using a walker, and under constant supervision in a nursing care facility," said Scully dryly. "Now I suppose you're going to tell me that the victim suffered all that trauma in a fifteen-foot fall." Scully raised one eyebrow. "I suppose you're going to tell me that she didn't?" Mulder made an impatient face. "Scully, I've seen the body. That woman's skull wasn't just fractured, it was flattened. Think of the power this thing has. We've got to stop it. It doesn't just assume some random guise. It singles out a victim and becomes the person he trusts most." "Mulder, that has got to be the most extreme example of your rampant paranoia that I've ever heard." She bent back over her clipboard to signal that the discussion was at an end. He pulled the clipboard out of her hands, holding it out of reach until she looked at him again. "Paranoia? I spent all morning interviewing witnesses who linked four perfectly harmless people to four perfectly horrific crime scenes. Now bones are sticking out of an elementary school teacher in at least six different places. When are you going to give up and admit that I'm right?" "Right about what? That some kind of super-intelligent wookie is attacking these people just to get his jollies? Mulder, that is all just conjecture. Wild conjecture, too, I might add. There's no evidence whatsoever that such a creature exists." "There are plenty of examples in folklore. The Greeks had Proteus, the 'Old Man of the Sea' who could change his shape when captured. Even the mother of Achilles was said to have had shape-shifting abilities. Germanic tradition tells of the doppelganger, the double. And in India, they have stories about a shape-shifting creature called the rimshaska--which just happens to appear to its victims as the person they trust most." She held out a hand imperiously, waiting for him to give her clipboard back. "Those are legends and fairy stories, Mulder," she said sternly. "We're talking about a real animal. How could a creature like the one you've described survive without any scientific evidence of its existence?" "The mountain gorilla wasn't recognized by science until 1902," he said, refusing to relinquish the clipboard. "The coelacanth was presumed extinct until 1938. And there are still quite a few creatures on which the scientific jury is still out, like the Loch Ness monster and the yeti." "We're not talking about some evolutionary misfit hiding peacefully in an inaccessible corner of the world. This is a serial killer, Mulder, a predator that seeks out and exploits human contact." "I still think the bloodthirsty nature of this individual is unusual for its kind," he insisted. "What if there's a whole race of these shapeshifters waiting to be discovered, Scully, powerful but reclusive creatures like Bigfoot? Hell, maybe it *is* Bigfoot." Scully rolled her eyes. "Great. Now you're telling me you spent half an hour in a bar last night with Bigfoot, and couldn't tell it wasn't me." Relenting, he handed the clipboard back to her. "Well, Scully," he said, "it *did* know not to call me 'Fox'." The windigo strained to listen. But there was too much buzzing, too many milling strangers in the distance, and the rain was drumming relentlessly on the fallen leaves. It could see them, though, from its perch in the nearby woods: the dark-haired man and the much punier red-haired woman. The woman was wrapped in a yellow coat whose color hurt the windigo's eyes. They were arguing about something. The dark-haired man was gesturing angrily. The windigo caught only scattered words: bones, Proteus, unusual. It watched the two of them, buzzing at one another like stirred-up insects. It did not like them. It did not think many other people liked them, either. Besides, they were getting close. Something must be done. They ate a late dinner that night. The demands of a rainy crime scene, of interviewing witnesses and documenting everything from the victim's injuries to the names of the children who had been playing outside when the crime occurred, kept them both busy until well after dark. Mulder knew that Scully had still not accepted his theory. Her disciplined, rational mind required proof, and proof was the one thing he did not have. As she had pointed out, most criminals had alibis. Even his expurgated account of the scene in the lounge last night had failed to sway her. But at least she was willing to speak in hypotheticals. They argued about the case as they sat hunched over a table in the restaurant across from their motel, sharing a plate of nachos. "The tox screen on all the victims has turned up negative, so there's no evidence of PCP or any other stimulant," said Scully. "But I still say there's got to be some kind of psychosis explanation. That would account for what you experienced last night, Mulder. Or, rather, for what you thought you experienced." "Uh-huh. And the bartender conveniently shared the exact same psychotic delusion." She suppressed a smile. "Well, at least it's not as far-fetched as your explanation," she said. "You said this thing knew what to call you. How did it know that? Are you trying to tell me it's telepathic, too?" "It eaves-drops. Whatever that thing was in the bar last night, it never mentioned anything that it couldn't have learned just by listening to our conversation on the walk back from the restaurant," Mulder pointed out. "Remember how Sheriff McCall said that Joe Price didn't talk to the neighbors he met at the track meet? It's careful to stick to what it knows," he picked up a nacho, and grinned at her. "Telepathic? Sheesh, Scully, how do you come up with these wild theories, anyway?" Her brows knit together. "But if it eaves-drops, then it has to get close to its victims..." "And they have to be outdoors. I checked on Patricia Yoder, our geriatric suspect with the bad hip. The last time she saw her daughter, they talked on the lawn of the nursing home." Scully lifted a nacho from the plate, careful to pick one with lots of cheese. "And it looks for victims who seem to have a trusting relationship." "Maybe it makes the impersonation easier--the victim is less likely to question the actions of a trusted friend or loved one, even if the creature slips up a little. Less likely to resist going off alone with it, too. Or maybe it's none of the above, and the trust factor just gives the serial killer that extra little bit of twisted amusement." "Sounds pretty wild to me, Mulder." She bit into her nacho. "Mmm-hmm. Just make sure you don't open your door too readily if the person you trust most comes knocking in the middle of the night." "Mulder, it stands to reason that I'd be pretty suspicious if my mother showed up unexpectedly at a lonely motel in Crawford County, Pennsylvania." She was careful to put just the slightest emphasis on the word 'mother.' He did not answer. Scully smiled to herself. There, Mulder, she thought with satisfaction, I finally got you back. Scully was sitting at the formica desk in the corner of her hotel room, making an entry in her field journal. David Letterman was playing on TV, soothing background noise as she rapidly jotted down her notes. She reached for the Diet Coke that was growing warm beneath the glow of the desk lamp. There was a knock on the door. "Just a sec," she called. She finished the sentence she had been writing, got up, and looked out the window at her doorstep. Mulder was standing outside, the porch light throwing his tall outline into sharp relief. She slid the chain lock aside, and opened the door. "What's up?" "I just got the call. There's been another killing." She stared at him in disbelief. "So soon?" He nodded. "Yeah. At a convenience store this time, not far from the elementary school." She sighed. "Okay. Let me get my notebook and my coat." She left the door standing open, and went back to the desk where she had been working. Behind her, Mulder stepped inside. "I have to remember to buy a new cartridge for this thing," she said absently, picking up her pen and rolling it thoughtfully in her fingers. "It's got to be nearly out of ink." Mulder closed the door behind him. She walked briskly across to the other side of the room, and reached up to remove her coat from its wire hanger. "At least I hadn't gotten ready for bed. That's about the only advantage of doing paperwork I know." "You and your clipboards, Scully," said Mulder expressionlessly, taking a step closer. His eyes glittered strangely. She slipped her coat on. "You should try it sometime, Mulder--keeping ahead of the paperwork, instead of drowning it when we get back to the office." Mulder drew closer. "Yeah. Maybe I will. Why don't you call the motel desk, Scully, and tell them we won't need a wake-up call after all?" "You didn't call?" "No." She turned to the phone, on the nightstand behind her. With her back to Mulder, she picked up the receiver. "I dial zero?" she asked uncertainly. "Yes," he said, moving closer. "It's ringing," she muttered into the phone. "Good," he said. "Very good." And then he attacked. END PART 5
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 00:26:33 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 6/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones really be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. Crawford County, Pennsylvania Highway 19 12:20 a.m. Sheriff Ray McCall was not drunk. He had only had one beer, and he was no light-weight. But his brother Ken, also in law enforcement, had been terribly shaken by the Boorstin crime scene today. Ken was pretty much three sheets to the wind now, and Ray was once again forced to drive his brother home before he could make his own weary way to bed. Not that he really minded. He and Ken had always been close. And they were having a good time gossiping about those odd-ball FBI agents, the imperturbable little redhead and the spacey tall guy with the funny name. "I think she's cute," slurred Ken, returning to the topic of the agent who interested him most. "She reminds me of that girl in the Saturn commercial." Ray shook his head reprovingly. "No way, Ken. She's way out of your league." Ken snorted. "Bullshit." "Yeah, right," said Ray. "A federal agent and a doctor to boot--she's just dreaming of marrying some guy who gets drunk on three Heinekens." "Four Heinekens." Ray laughed. "Forget it, Ken. She's a cool customer. You should have seen the way she sliced into that--" "Hey!" Ken screamed as Ray slammed on the brakes. Tires squealing, the truck skidded to a screeching halt. Ahead, the road was alive with a gigantic, moving mass. It shifted and separated into five murky outlines, towering indistinguishable shadows come to life. The hulking shapes merged and parted, split and re-massed, shambling soundlessly across the road. Then the shadows disappeared into the woods, slipping back into the blackness as silently as they had come. "Christ!" breathed his brother after an extended silence. "Did you see that?" Ray threw the truck back into first gear. "Yeah." In the darkened cab, the answer came out sounding very small. "What were they? Deer?" whispered Ken, heart hammering. "I've never seen a herd of deer move like that," said Ray. "God! I've never seen deer anywhere near that size, either." "So what was it? Moose? Bear?" The engine was racing, still in first gear. Ray dragged his scattered wits back to his driving, and shifted from first to second with an unsteady hand. "They were nothing," he said with more conviction than he felt. "Just shadows." "But I saw--" "Forget it, Ken," said Ray, his jaw clenching. "Anyhow, we both know you're drunk." The windigo pounced in the same instant that Scully spun around, gun in hand. For a split second it seemed to freeze in mid-leap, towering over her, its human shape unfolding and distorting into something both awesome and monstrous. One moment she was looking at Mulder's familiar and reassuring form; the next, she had a terrifying impression of tremendous bulk and dark, malignant hatred. She fired--once, twice, three times. An inhuman cry of rage mingled with the deafening reverberation of the shots. Later, Scully would often find herself wishing that she had had a stopwatch handy in the moments which followed. Then she could have been sure that it really was a mere five seconds before her motel door crashed inward to reveal a wild-eyed Mulder. He was bare-chested, his pants still unbuttoned over blue boxers, his SIG Sauer P226 hefted threateningly in one hand. Five seconds? She wondered if it was even that long. Mulder looked at Scully, glanced down at the hulking form which lay crumpled in a heap between them, and then gazed at his partner again. Dark blood was already pooling beneath the shaggy body on the floor. "Sheesh, Scully," he said, his breathlessness belying his bland tone, "if you're going to invite these strapping country boys into your motel room you've got to learn to handle it better when they jump to the wrong conclusion." "Mulder," she warned, turning a jaundiced eye his way, "I've already shot one of you tonight." They were both excited. Even Scully--cool, collected, rational Scully--was almost giddy with triumph. Mulder had been right. There was such a beast. And now the world had incontrovertible proof of its existence: a fresh specimen, dead but undeniably concrete. Science had all it might require for tissue analysis, DNA typing, taxonomy. Mulder disappeared to his room just long enough to pull on a shirt, while Scully called the authorities. Mulder came back and squatted beside the hulking body. He did not touch it, but looked with fascination at the enormous bulk. Scully finished her call. Mulder stood up and smiled at her. They both burst into dizzy laughter. "God, Scully," he exclaimed, wanting to hug her. "You bagged a Bigfoot! I'm too impressed even to say 'I told you so.'" She grinned back at him. "I almost didn't open the door when I saw it outside. I was going to go to the phone and dial your room first, just to make sure you were there. But I didn't want it to get away. Then when it told me to call the motel desk, I almost dialed your room again, just to be sure." "Why didn't you?" "Too many digits. I figured it was watching." She giggled. "Do you know what this means?" "Uh-huh. I was right all along." She punched him in the shoulder. "No, Mulder. We have an actual specimen of a shapeshifting animal! We can examine it, determine how shapeshifting is possible on a molecular level, possibly even isolate the causal agent. We can dissect it. We can map its chromosomes. The repercussions in the scientific world are going to be enormous. There may even be implications for pharmacogenetics." "Ooooh, Scully, you're getting me turned on..." She punched him again. There was a knock on the open door. They both turned, still grinning, to see a knot of emergency personnel standing in the doorway: two EMS technicians and three policemen. "You have some sort of wild animal in here?" asked the tech in front. "Yeah, and she shot something, too," joked Mulder, his loopy grin growing even wider. "You guys got here fast. Come on in and join the party." The five men--all tall, all broad-shouldered, all with impressively chiseled faces--filed inside. The EMS techs bent over the lifeless body. The first policeman turned to Mulder. "Thank you, sir. We can take it from here," he said. "Hey, not so fast," protested Scully in her most authoritative tones. "This isn't just some rabid skunk that wiggled in through the window screen. I want this specimen taken to the closest medical center and preserved in cold storage until I can have it properly transferred to a research facility." The policeman who had spoken turned and laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. He gazed down at her with unusual eyes--eyes that shone with a calm, reassuring light. "It's alright, ma'am," he said in a low, comforting voice. "We know how to handle this." Scully blinked up at him, and felt the giddy triumph of a moment before replaced by an even stronger feeling: a sense of peace, of absolute rightness and tranquility. Safety and security seemed to flow from the policeman's hand into her body. She gazed into his eyes, all the tension of the hunt and the capture ebbing away. "Listen to the doctor, guys," Mulder was saying from what seemed to Scully to be a very great distance. "She knows a rabid skunk when she sees one." The second policeman turned to Mulder. He, too, stretched out a steadying hand. "Don't worry, sir. All of this is going to be fine." Mulder opened his mouth to answer, but lost his train of thought. His eyes met the officer's. He was dazzled, losing himself momentarily in fathomless depths. He felt a fleeting stir of alarm. Then something much more powerful flooded through him: an epiphany--a wash of peace and contentment, as cleansing and shattering as anything he had ever experienced. "Yes," said the officer approvingly. "You understand." Mulder sank down, gasping, onto his knees. The two EMS technicians and the third policeman lifted the massive body effortlessly, the three of them sharing the burden more for appearance's sake than out of any necessity. They carried the slack form out, disappearing with it beyond the yellow glow of the porch lights. "They're not taking it to the medical center, are they?" asked Scully in a daze. The first policeman smiled his seraphic smile. "They are taking him where he belongs." "Where is that?" "Another place, Dana Scully...." soothed the policeman. "Back into the shadows." She sighed, as her eyelids began to feel heavy. They would take care of it. "Yes," said the policeman in his lulling voice. "He was exiled once, but we will take him home. All is well again." She smiled, her eyelids fluttering closed. All was well. There was no reason for her to worry. Not now; no, nor ever again. She had done well.... She heard Mulder's shuddering sigh and wondered fleetingly what it meant, but her drifting thoughts were too pleasant to abandon.
FBI Headquarters 8:20 a.m. 10/14/96 "How was your birthday, Mulder?" asked Scully brightly. He looked up from the report he was writing. "Okay, I guess, once I got home. Of course, it kind of took the shine off the celebration, knowing that once I got back to the office Skinner was going to have my ass for lunch..." "A typical birthday, then," she laughed. "Yeah," he said, smiling too. "I guess so." He went back to typing his report, and she sat down at her desk to transcribe her autopsy notes. He was probably right about Skinner, she thought; law enforcement personnel in Crawford County were no doubt doing their best to convince the AD that she and Mulder were mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Not that she really blamed them. Not after the babbling way in which she and Mulder had skipped town. It struck her that it wasn't as quiet as usual, there in the basement. She cocked her head, listening. Mulder was humming. It was kind of odd, Scully thought; he wasn't a hummer by nature. She leaned back in her office chair. "Mulder?" "Yes?" "Tell me something...." He looked up. "What, Scully?" "I'm curious..." "Yes?" "What did that shapeshifter say, that night, to get you to go back to your room?" He turned his head away and started typing again, the keys clacking rapidly under his fingers. "Maybe one of these days, I'll tell you." But she had seen the deep flush on his hastily-averted cheeks. She smiled. "Maybe one of these days, Mulder," she said, "I'll guess it on my own." THE END Author's note: This was my first-ever fanfic. I know some readers like to envision Mulder as more of a studly he-man than I have depicted him in the lounge scene, but mea culpa. Any feedback will be much appreciated and eventually answered. E-mail me at <zzzdoc@toolcity.net>. Please, please, please.
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Tue Nov 05 21:20:21 1996 The Outsider by Alyssa Fernandez 6/6 Spoilers: no spoilers Rating: Rated R, for graphic violence, mild sexual situations, and some swear words RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: None. A straight X-files. A strong dose of UST, but no real MSR. Summary: Four brutal murders in a rural Pennsylvania county are linked by one common thread: in each case, the suspect was demonstrably elsewhere when the murder occurred. Could clones really be responsible--or are the killings the work of something even more sinister? The search for answers leads Mulder to an unsettling encounter. Disclaimer: See Part 1. Crawford County, Pennsylvania Highway 19 12:20 a.m. Sheriff Ray McCall was not drunk. He had only had one beer, and he was no light-weight. But his brother Ken, also in law enforcement, had been terribly shaken by the Boorstin crime scene today. Ken was pretty much three sheets to the wind now, and Ray was once again forced to drive his brother home before he could make his own weary way to bed. Not that he really minded. He and Ken had always been close. And they were having a good time gossiping about those odd-ball FBI agents, the imperturbable little redhead and the spacey tall guy with the funny name. "I think she's cute," slurred Ken, returning to the topic of the agent who interested him most. "She reminds me of that girl in the Saturn commercial." Ray shook his head reprovingly. "No way, Ken. She's way out of your league." Ken snorted. "Bullshit." "Yeah, right," said Ray. "A federal agent and a doctor to boot--she's just dreaming of marrying some guy who gets drunk on three Heinekens." "Four Heinekens." Ray laughed. "Forget it, Ken. She's a cool customer. You should have seen the way she sliced into that--" "Hey!" Ken screamed as Ray slammed on the brakes. Tires squealing, the truck skidded to a screeching halt. Ahead, the road was alive with a gigantic, moving mass. It shifted and separated into five murky outlines, towering indistinguishable shadows come to life. The hulking shapes merged and parted, split and re-massed, shambling soundlessly across the road. Then the shadows disappeared into the woods, slipping back into the blackness as silently as they had come. "Christ!" breathed his brother after an extended silence. "Did you see that?" Ray threw the truck back into first gear. "Yeah." In the darkened cab, the answer came out sounding very small. "What were they? Deer?" whispered Ken, heart hammering. "I've never seen a herd of deer move like that," said Ray. "God! I've never seen deer anywhere near that size, either." "So what was it? Moose? Bear?" The engine was racing, still in first gear. Ray dragged his scattered wits back to his driving, and shifted from first to second with an unsteady hand. "They were nothing," he said with more conviction than he felt. "Just shadows." "But I saw--" "Forget it, Ken," said Ray, his jaw clenching. "Anyhow, we both know you're drunk." The windigo pounced in the same instant that Scully spun around, gun in hand. For a split second it seemed to freeze in mid-leap, towering over her, its human shape unfolding and distorting into something both awesome and monstrous. One moment she was looking at Mulder's familiar and reassuring form; the next, she had a terrifying impression of tremendous bulk and dark, malignant hatred. She fired--once, twice, three times. An inhuman cry of rage mingled with the deafening reverberation of the shots. Later, Scully would often find herself wishing that she had had a stopwatch handy in the moments which followed. Then she could have been sure that it really was a mere five seconds before her motel door crashed inward to reveal a wild-eyed Mulder. He was bare-chested, his pants still unbuttoned over blue boxers, his SIG Sauer P226 hefted threateningly in one hand. Five seconds? She wondered if it was even that long. Mulder looked at Scully, glanced down at the hulking form which lay crumpled in a heap between them, and then gazed at his partner again. Dark blood was already pooling beneath the shaggy body on the floor. "Sheesh, Scully," he said, his breathlessness belying his bland tone, "if you're going to invite these strapping country boys into your motel room you've got to learn to handle it better when they jump to the wrong conclusion." "Mulder," she warned, turning a jaundiced eye his way, "I've already shot one of you tonight." They were both excited. Even Scully--cool, collected, rational Scully--was almost giddy with triumph. Mulder had been right. There was such a beast. And now the world had incontrovertible proof of its existence: a fresh specimen, dead but undeniably concrete. Science had all it might require for tissue analysis, DNA typing, taxonomy. Mulder disappeared to his room just long enough to pull on a shirt, while Scully called the authorities. Mulder came back and squatted beside the hulking body. He did not touch it, but looked with fascination at the enormous bulk. Scully finished her call. Mulder stood up and smiled at her. They both burst into dizzy laughter. "God, Scully," he exclaimed, wanting to hug her. "You bagged a Bigfoot! I'm too impressed even to say 'I told you so.'" She grinned back at him. "I almost didn't open the door when I saw it outside. I was going to go to the phone and dial your room first, just to make sure you were there. But I didn't want it to get away. Then when it told me to call the motel desk, I almost dialed your room again, just to be sure." "Why didn't you?" "Too many digits. I figured it was watching." She giggled. "Do you know what this means?" "Uh-huh. I was right all along." She punched him in the shoulder. "No, Mulder. We have an actual specimen of a shapeshifting animal! We can examine it, determine how shapeshifting is possible on a molecular level, possibly even isolate the causal agent. We can dissect it. We can map its chromosomes. The repercussions in the scientific world are going to be enormous. There may even be implications for pharmacogenetics." "Ooooh, Scully, you're getting me turned on..." She punched him again. There was a knock on the open door. They both turned, still grinning, to see a knot of emergency personnel standing in the doorway: two EMS technicians and three policemen. "You have some sort of wild animal in here?" asked the tech in front. "Yeah, and she shot something, too," joked Mulder, his loopy grin growing even wider. "You guys got here fast. Come on in and join the party." The five men--all tall, all broad-shouldered, all with impressively chiseled faces--filed inside. The EMS techs bent over the lifeless body. The first policeman turned to Mulder. "Thank you, sir. We can take it from here," he said. "Hey, not so fast," protested Scully in her most authoritative tones. "This isn't just some rabid skunk that wiggled in through the window screen. I want this specimen taken to the closest medical center and preserved in cold storage until I can have it properly transferred to a research facility." The policeman who had spoken turned and laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. He gazed down at her with unusual eyes--eyes that shone with a calm, reassuring light. "It's alright, ma'am," he said in a low, comforting voice. "We know how to handle this." Scully blinked up at him, and felt the giddy triumph of a moment before replaced by an even stronger feeling: a sense of peace, of absolute rightness and tranquility. Safety and security seemed to flow from the policeman's hand into her body. She gazed into his eyes, all the tension of the hunt and the capture ebbing away. "Listen to the doctor, guys," Mulder was saying from what seemed to Scully to be a very great distance. "She knows a rabid skunk when she sees one." The second policeman turned to Mulder. He, too, stretched out a steadying hand. "Don't worry, sir. All of this is going to be fine." Mulder opened his mouth to answer, but lost his train of thought. His eyes met the officer's. He was dazzled, losing himself momentarily in fathomless depths. He felt a fleeting stir of alarm. Then something much more powerful flooded through him: an epiphany--a wash of peace and contentment, as cleansing and shattering as anything he had ever experienced. "Yes," said the officer approvingly. "You understand." Mulder sank down, gasping, onto his knees. The two EMS technicians and the third policeman lifted the massive body effortlessly, the three of them sharing the burden more for appearance's sake than out of any necessity. They carried the slack form out, disappearing with it beyond the yellow glow of the porch lights. "They're not taking it to the medical center, are they?" asked Scully in a daze. The first policeman smiled his seraphic smile. "They are taking him where he belongs." "Where is that?" "Another place, Dana Scully...." soothed the policeman. "Back into the shadows." She sighed, as her eyelids began to feel heavy. They would take care of it. "Yes," said the policeman in his lulling voice. "He was exiled once, but we will take him home. All is well again." She smiled, her eyelids fluttering closed. All was well. There was no reason for her to worry. Not now; no, nor ever again. She had done well.... She heard Mulder's shuddering sigh and wondered fleetingly what it meant, but her drifting thoughts were too pleasant to abandon.
FBI Headquarters 10/14/96 8:20 a.m. "How was your birthday, Mulder?" asked Scully brightly. He looked up from the report he was writing. "Okay, I guess, once I got home. Of course, it kind of took the shine off the celebration, knowing that once I got back to the office Skinner was going to have my ass for lunch..." "A typical birthday, then," she laughed. "Yeah," he said, smiling too. "I guess so." He went back to typing his report, and she sat down at her desk to transcribe her autopsy notes. He was probably right about Skinner, she thought; law enforcement personnel in Crawford County were no doubt doing their best to convince the AD that she and Mulder were mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Not that she really blamed them. Not after the babbling way in which she and Mulder had skipped town. It struck her that it wasn't as quiet as usual, there in the basement. She cocked her head, listening. Mulder was humming. It was kind of odd, Scully thought; he wasn't a hummer by nature. She leaned back in her office chair. "Mulder?" "Yes?" "Tell me something...." He looked up. "What, Scully?" "I'm curious..." "Yes?" "What did that shapeshifter say, that night, to get you to go back to your room?" He turned his head away and started typing again, the keys clacking rapidly under his fingers. "Maybe one of these days, I'll tell you." But she had seen the deep flush on his hastily-averted cheeks. She smiled. "Maybe one of these days, Mulder," she said, "I'll figure it out on my own." THE END Author's note: This was my first-ever fanfic. I know some readers like to envision Mulder as more of a studly he-man than I have depicted him in the lounge scene, but mea culpa. Any feedback will be much appreciated and eventually answered. |