Note: I wrote this way back in high school and I found it yesterday in one of the numerous online archives (it had been wiped from my hard disk when I had it reformatted after an unfortunate spyware incidence). I like this story – because I feel that although it's the least wordy of my stories, it still manages (I hope) to get its point across. I seem to have a harder and harder time making myself understood with few words (observe the length of this note!) I've made the summary for this intentionally vague. I can't give you any hints, but I think you will recognize the story's main situation.

ON WITH THE SHOW!

I have a feeling something will happen today.

I'm not sure if it'll be a good something or a bad something, but something, definitely.

I unlock the door to my basement office. Then, on a whim, kick it open with a bang. The sound is earth-shattering, but I doubt anyone heard it or even if they did, whether they cared.

I suppose somewhere in my mind I was expecting someone to be hiding in my little hole of a workspace. Of course, the only things that greet me are my "I Want to Believe" poster and the bulletin board to which I've tacked articles on various uneplained phenomena. My specialty.

I jerk the door back - just to make sure - and am met with more of my clutter. I nod to myself, then take my coat off and toss it on top of a filing cabinet. On my desk are spread the papers from the latest case file I had been scanning yesterday. There is a packet of slides lying close by which I have yet to examine.

I take a step back and look at the scene spread out before me. As a profiler, I've developed a knack for spotting what had been missed - or what was missing. There is definitely something missing from this room. I remember Callie, a classmate back at Oxford, who swore up and down that plants were an essential part of every room. Is that what's missing?

I look around. I don't think I'd like to bring plants down here. It'd be pure torture for them, what with no fresh air or light. Nothing could survive down here for long.

I sigh, unable to pinpoint the source of my discomfort. My glasses are in my coat pocket and I take them out and put them on. I glance briefly at my poster, then sit down to work.

I read through the case file, which is utterly baffling, as X-files seem to go. Then, rubbing the bridge of my nose, I switch to the slides. Completely absorbed in my work, I'm slightly thrown by the hard, confident knock on my door.

Since people are always wandering down here by mistake, I have no cause to think this person is any different. I don't bother to even look up as I call out, "No one in here but the FBI's most unwanted." I continue perusing the slides, but then realize the person hasn't gone away. In fact, she's entered the room.

I look up and the softest, gentlest smile I've ever seen in my whole life greets me. "Agent Mulder?" she inquires. She walks towards me, beautiful and confident, her elegant hand out. "I'm Agent Scully. I've been assigned to work with you."

This looks like a good something.