Disclaimer: Boy, my first attempt at writing fanfic, and that awful disclaimer that goes with it. Well, the moment you've all been waiting for...Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Cigarette Smoking Man, and all three of the Lone Gunmen are registered trademarks of Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. Although if I owned them, I would have a lot more money than I do now.
Rating: PG for a few bad words.
Author's notes: Well, since this is my first time writing anything besides stuff for school, please send all comments and criticism to SAHHTH@AOL.com. No flames will be accepted, cause I just don't like being yelled at. Feel free to archive this at alt.tv.xfiles, and Gossamer.
I walked into Fox Mulder's apartment after receiving a call from the D.C. Police a few hours earlier. I had to shove my way through a small mob of police to get to the focal point of the riot, Mulder's couch. An officer turned to me and said a few words I didn't hear. He pointed at the ground in front of him. I followed his finger, and saw the cause of all of the commotion.
"Oh my God."
The police officer stared at me quizzically. "Is it him, Miss?"
I nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. The affirmation the officer asked for, and expected, was more of a reflex than an admittance of a ground-shaking, life-altering truth. In fact, it *wasn't* Mulder, but a nameless impostor with a bullet in his temple. I had never seen the man who was lying dead on the floor of Mulder's apartment. I didn't understand why the police hadn't caught this rather large fact earlier. I turned to the officer.
"Have you found his wallet yet?"
"Sure, it's right here, Ms. Scully."
When I opened the wallet, I understood the lengths Mulder had gone to in order to achieve this scenario. The information on Mulder's driver's license was his, but not the picture. The photograph was that of the man lying on the floor. The photo-ID adjustment would only give Mulder a limited amount of time to do whatever he had to do, however. I took one last look at the body, then turned and walked out of his apartment. My chin was dropped to my chest, as a guise for the false tears that were more for the concern of Mulder's whereabouts than for the benefit of the police.
I climbed in my car and started the drive back to my apartment. At a stoplight, I flipped down the visor and opened the mirror. I had dark black lines running from my eyes to my jawline.
"Dammit, Mulder, you sure do a great job of screwing up my day."
I stopped. He *was* messing with my feelings a lot more than usual. I dismissed the thought and pulled into my parking space. I got out of the car and walked up to my apartment door. It was already close to noon. If Skinner hadn't heard about Mulder's "death", it would be my ass on the line. Too tired to go to work, I called Skinner's office.
"Assistant Director Skinner's office, who's calling?"
"Agent Scully."
"Oh, Agent Scully. A.D. Skinner was expecting your call. He said to tell you you could have your personal day." A pause. "He also sends his deepest sympathies."
This both puzzled me and comforted me. Why should Skinner be sympathetic towards *me*? I hoped he hadn't already sent his sympathies to Mrs. Mulder, also. She'd be devastated. "Tell him I said thank you." I hung up.
After changing into my favorite flannel pants and grey T-shirt, I walked over to rest on a particularly beat-up manuscript. Moby Dick. I pulled it from the shelf and opened it. On the inside cover was a blank yellow Post-it, much like the one I stuck on the face of the overturned picture of Samantha in Mulder's apartment a long time ago. Mulder wanted to meet me. I sighed, and walked into my bedroom to change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No rest for the weary.
* * * * *
I stood in front of the door and knocked. I heard muffled footsteps and, a second later, Frohike's voice.
"Ooo...I never would've guessed *you'd* show up on *my* doorstep unannounced."
I held back a smile and walked through the open door. After an hour of driving around, I thought that this was the most logical place Mulder would've gone.
"Over here, Agent Scully."
Byers. My favorite member of the Lone Gunmen. Neat, pragmatic, always dressed in a conservative grey suit; his immaculate haircut and trimmed beard gave away little of the intelligent personality that lurked underneath. I stepped into the room where all three Gunmen had gathered, which was glowing with about a dozen assorted televisions, computer screens, and the latest surveillance equipment. I nodded hello to Langly and Byers in turn. Frohike opened his arms for a hug, but who knows what he'd do if I accepted it? So instead, I just shook my head slightly and said, "I don't think so."
Langly got up from his seat on a table and walked outside. Frohike and Byers did the same, and Byers motioned for me to follow. My confusion deepened when Frohike told me to climb into a large, black van. Langly, who was right behind me, leaned over and whispered, "We'll explain when we get there."
Where?
About two hours and several scenic detours later, we pulled up in front of a Motel-6 off of I-95 in Maryland. It was now 3:30 in the afternoon. The Gunmen climbed out of the van and Frohike held the door expectantly. I mumbled my thanks, and followed Langly and Byers to room 10. They stood at the sides of the doorframe, rather like Secret Service agents, or little elves at Santa's Workshop. I walked through the door, Toting how dark it was in the room for mid-afternoon. Then, in the vicinity of the corner, I heard a voice.
"Ready to do some funky poaching, Scully?"
I almost wept. Almost. But, as I said his name, the recording continued undeterred.
"Cause if you're not, I suggest that you and Frohike go to a K-Mart and pick out something black and slinky. I'm in a bit of a jam. I never wanted to get you involved, Scully, but the Gunmen insisted that this couldn't be pulled off without you. Now, listen carefully. You're here because Cancerman knows about my association with the Gunmen. We think he heard our conversation about the speculation about his past. So from now on, you're on your own. You have two days to find me, and then I need your help to declare my death a fake and put the blame on Cigarette Man and his crew. They will be exposed." *Click*
I turned to the nearest Gunman, which happened to be Langly.
"Alright. What do I do now?"
It was Frohike who spoke. "Put these on, then haul ass to the place that caused Mulder to lose his sanity. That's the last bit of help you'll get from us. Mulder's orders." He handed me a pile of clothing. Black long-sleeved T-shirt, black spandex leggings, and black running shorts.
"What...no black socks or a ski mask? And *spandex*?" I picked up the shorts. "How did you get my clothing sizes?"
Frohike grinned sheepishly. Langly interjected, "Mulder let Frohike use his key to get into your apartment." I fumed silently, then walked into the bathroom to change. When I walked out, Frohike whistled. "Agent Scully, you should wear spandex more often." He then turned over black basketball shoes and a pair of low-cut white socks. Tied to the laces were two keys, one of which was to my apartment. I held up the other. Byers smiled.
"That key is to your brand-new black RAV-4. Langly wanted to get you a Jeep, but I thought the car that I picked suited your personality more."
"You guys went all out, didn't you?" I smiled, which was unusual. For me, anyway.
"Agent Scully, as hard as this is for me to do (and believe me, it is *hard*), I have to kick you out now," Frohike said. I walked out the door and glanced around. Sure enough, in the corner was my car. It had Maryland plates, number 3693262. I got in and started the drive to Mulder's childhood home.
* * * * *
I stood in the front doorway of the Mulder home. The outside temperature had dropped, making me wish Frohike had given me a sweatshirt. I didn't know where to start looking. Samantha's bedroom was too painful a place for Mulder to hide a clue to his whereabouts. The same explanation went for the living room, the last place Mulder saw Samantha during her abduction more than twenty years before. So I turned and walked up the stairs into Mulder's bedroom. Inside was a laptop and a 3.5 inch floppy, piled on top of a black sweatshirt. Attached to it was a note saying, "I thought you might get cold. Mulder" I pulled the sweatshirt over my head and started the computer. When it was up and running, I popped in the disk. There was only one file: Scully.doc. I opened it.
"Scully-
By the time you read the last work on this file, I will be approximately 1/2 hour away from the location of your next clue. Here are your further instructions: Erase this disk. I don't want anybody finding it that's not supposed to. After you've done that, shut down the computer and stick it in my closet. Then go into my mother's room and dial this number: 628-4053. The man who will pick up will ask you some questions and give you a clue to my next clue's whereabouts. Good luck."
I shut down the laptop after erasing the disk and put the computer in the closet like Mulder instructed. This was the weirdest "treasure hunt" I had ever been on. I walked down the hall to Mrs. Mulder's room. I picked up the handset and dialed the number from memory. After a few rings, an elderly-sounding man picked up. "What was your dog's name?"
This wasn't exactly a normal method of answering the phone. "Excuse me?"
"What was your dog's name?"
"Queequeg."
"What is your mother's name?"
"Margaret."
"Alright. Here's your clue." Strains of Alice Cooper's "School's Out For Summer" drifted into my ear. Then I heard a loud click. I sighed, then trudged down the stairs to drive to the Mulder summer home in Quaniquatang.
* * * * *
Everything in the summer home was covered in plastic. There were shards of ceramic and glass on the floor from when Mulder smashed lamps against the fireplace looking for the weapon to kill the bounty hunter. I moved my feet through the fragments looking for a clue. No sign of anything. I stank in the middle of the room, and a sense of despair comes over me. I don't know what to do. All of the sudden, a familiar trilling fills the room. It can't be my cell phone, because I left it with the Gunmen. I look frantically around the room trying to locate the source of the noise before the caller hung up. Buried in the couch cushions is Mulder's cell phone. I answer it. "Scully."
"Congratulations, you found me."
"Mulder, this chase of yours has got me exhausted. Where are you?"
"Where you can't see me. You may be tired, but you finished in half the allotted time. That's a record!"
I could just see his eyes crinkling up with laughter. "So what's the grand prize?"
"How about the Devil incarnate, complete with charred lungs?"
"You have Cancerman?"
"No, but I know where I can find him. All you need to do is find *me*."
"Mulder-" He hung up. I had to start looking before he moved again. I started throwing open closet doors, ransacking what was inside. I had torn apart half the house when Mulder stepped out of the bedroom, his arms outstretched. I ran to him, and jumped into his arms. To my amazement, he started to cry.
"God, I missed you. Scully, do you forgive me?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Because I'll miss you more than I miss Samantha." I took note of what he said.
"Why will you miss me?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
"Because you're a threat to the Project."
As the meaning of what he said sank in, I felt a piercing pain in the back of my neck. Mulder dropped me to the floor. The last thing I heard was Mulder and Cancerman's voice.
"You are as beneficial to the Project as your father was, Mr. Mulder."
"I aim to please, sir."
The end.