STORMTROOPER, OH YEAH!
AN X-FILES AND STAR WARS CROSSOVER
(You realize of course, that in another reality, I myself created both Star Wars and the X-Files. I have to say that I'm damned proud of myself for this little bit of feverish inspiration. Taking that into account, I am sure that you will agree that a disclaimer of any kind would be useless, since I own everything that has to do with both of the aforementioned entertainment entities.)
Stormtrooper, Oh Yeah!
Have you ever had your hands on some nice white armor?
Have you ever had to blast, blast, blast, blast?
Stormtrooper oh yeah!
Storm, Storm, Storm, TROOPER!
Storm, Storm, Storm, Storm, Storm, TROOPER!
Fox Mulder was running for his life. The jungle grabbed at him, seemingly alive, wanting to snag him and drag him into the thick and wet green undergrowth. Weak rays of sunlight struggled down through the dripping canopy, shafts like search beams stabbing into the emerald mist, showing him the way. He ran, his legs pumping and dodging moss covered debris, and his left hand batting away moisture beaded leaves and branches. His right hand gripped the automatic like a lifeline, the dull black weapon gleaming not at all in the pathetic light.
There were men chasing him, armed men that meant to stop him from reaching his goal, and they would kill him if they caught him.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder and he could see them. Even from far off, he knew who, what they were. They were Men in Black. And there were six of them.
Must be pretty important for there to be six of them, Mulder thought, and then he spun and fired six shots, each muzzle burst strobing his exhausted face in the gloom. He spun again and ran even harder, determined to reach Allison and the spacecraft before the Men in Black could stop him.
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The Men in Black stopped, identical in their expensive suits and hats, apparently none the worse for wear after running through the South American jungle for the last six hours. One of them, however, was dead. The remaining five crowded around the corpse curiously.
The leader, Captain Deets, cocked his head and tugged thoughtfully on the brim of his black fedora.
"He shot Davis through the brain," Palmer, second in command, said, "I kind of liked Davis." His tone was flat and emotionless, as were the tones of the others as they spoke.
"A lucky shot," another one ventured.
"Almost certainly," Deets said, "a lucky shot indeed. But the fact remains that Davis is dead. And shot by my gun no less."
"Should we bury him sir?" Palmer asked, "Or set him on fire or something?"
"No time for burial," Deets said, "and as for fire, well, we have no accelerant and no time for a pyre." He took a deep breath and looked at the blank faces of his men, "We will leave him to be devoured by the indigenous wildlife." He then turned and began jogging after the troublesome F.B.I. agent, his men following closely behind.
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Yesterday…
The telephone ripped Mulder from his dreams of Bigfeet and their whispered secrets. He dazedly picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, asking who it was. It was Allison Craig, an old friend and Para-Archeologist/Biologist.
"Allison!" Mulder said, "my god, how are you? It's been forever."
"Mulder, I found something you have to see. I can't talk about it on the phone. I sent the information to Pandora."
She hung up.
That wasn't cryptic, Mulder thought sarcastically. If whatever this was was important enough to use Pandora, he had better check it out. Pandora was Mulder's secret computer, hidden away in the basement of a misplaced F.B.I. safehouse. A safehouse that, through a little inventive paperwork shuffling, Mulder himself had obscured from records. Only his closest and most trusted contacts and friends knew about it. Some of those friends were computer experts that helped him to make Pandora completely untraceable. It was good for secret communication and illegal pornography and its huge hard drive was bloated with both.
Mulder cleaned up and dressed, hurrying out to his car to see what was so important, thinking about Allison all the while. He sped off into the early morning.
She was a friend from those early days of lizard men and secret societies. Allison hungered for the discovery of unknown creatures and rediscovery of animals once thought extinct; not to mention lost cities and strange artifacts, which was where her main emphasis lied. Mulder had had a brief and torrid fling with Allison during their search for Napoleon's Flying Carriage (which turned out to be a rudimentary but functional helicopter), but it ended soon after when she was mauled horribly about the face by a mutated Gerbil the size of a dog. Her disfigurement put her on a path of total commitment to her work and she cut herself off from everyone. That was ten years ago.
Damn that Gerbil! He cursed inwardly as he pulled into the driveway of the forgotten safehouse, musing on about lost love and mutation.
He fumbled his key into the back door lock and quickly typed in the combination on the security system keypad inside. He always winced a little when he had to deal with the security system. It didn't call the cops if the house was broken into; it would simply detonate the entire structure, reducing the dwelling and any intruders to smoking ruin.
He walked down to the basement and turned on Pandora. The Loch Ness background popped up and he connected to his pirate e-mail account. He had one message with many attachments. The message said simply: Meet Pierre at Johnny Moe's. He will bring you to me. Allison.
The attachments were pictures of a small, half-buried spacecraft surrounded by jungle. A couple of the pictures showed the inside, a cockpit, strange cargo, and mummified corpses in gray uniforms. The picture of the cockpit showed that power had been somehow restored to the craft. There was writing superimposed on that picture that said: Accidentally turned something on. Can't turn it off. Seems to be sending some kind of signal. Don't know who might pick it up. Hurry.
Mulder was packed and on a plane within the hour.
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Johnny Moe's was a bar in Brasilia. Mulder and Allison got drunk there thirteen years ago and the place was the same. Brasilia was the same as well. The place was Brazil's attempt to create a city of the future through the eyes of the sixties. Now it was run-down and mostly forgotten for Rio's more exciting nightlife. The wealth of 'modern' architecture was surrounded on all sides by shantytowns populated by one and a half million more people than the area was designed to accommodate. Brasilia was hot and dangerous, parts of the city reeking like Calcutta, with beggars limping through the thick clouds of flies.
He looked around the dark bar. There was no one waiting for him in the sweltering haze. The place was deserted save for a sweaty and rotund bartender lounging behind the bar chewing on a cigar while enjoying a soccer game on a little black and white television with a cracked screen. Mulder sidled up to the bar and asked for a beer. The bartender grudgingly got to his feet and tapped out a draft. He sat it down wordlessly and went back to his previous activities.
Mulder sipped at the warm beer and waited for Pierre. Whoever that was.
"You know," came a voice from behind him, "you really should turn around and go home Agent Mulder."
Fox spun at the voice and found himself face to face with a Man In Black. The Man was dressed, of course, in a black suit with matching shirt and tie, and black shoes and fedora. He also had a black gun equipped with a little silencer. He used said gun on the bartender, a sound like a fist striking a punching bag and the top of the fat man's head sheared away, spraying blood and brain on the wall behind him.
"Son of a bitch!" Mulder said as he pulled his eyes from the convulsing body and turned to the Man, "rotten son of a bitch!" He started to get up but kept his place at the urging of the gun, which was pointed at him now.
The Man In Black smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes, moving towards the bar. He took a seat, keeping two stools between him and Mulder. "Come now Mulder," he began, "no reason to upset yourself over the proprietors unfortunate end." He smiled again and Mulder noticed his strangely featureless face, which later, the F.B.I. agent could not remember clearly.
"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with."
"I don't want to shoot you. I would speak with you for a moment or three," the Man said monotonously, "unless you prefer to be shot."
"It depends on what you'd like to talk about," Mulder said.
"I want to talk about Allison Craig, her spacecraft, and Pierre."
"Forget it pal," Mulder laughed, "you might as well pull the trigger."
The Man In Black sat silently, seeming to contemplate, although with no change in facial expression it was hard to tell.
I'd hate to play poker with this guy, Mulder idly thought.
"We know all about your friend Ms. Craig, the ship she found, and your rendezvous with Pierre, so there's really no reason to shoot you. I'll just wait for Pierre."
"If you know so much," Mulder began sarcastically, "why aren't you already in possession of the ship, flying around all the livelong day?"
"We only know what you know. After Pierre gets here, he will be persuaded to lead my men and I to the ship. When he gets here, you can go home."
"You're going to leave me alive after I've seen your face, and still possessing the information I possess?" Mulder asked incredulously.
"After all the things you've said you've seen and the number of people who believe you, I'll take my chances."
"Ah," Mulder began, "well since I don't matter, tell me, what're you going to do after Pierre leads you to the ship?"
"Pierre and Ms. Craig will be either sanctioned or detained for experimentation, depending on the time demands on our itinerary. The ship, after inspection, will be either salvaged or destroyed."
"And why do I get special treatment?" Mulder asked, "If the other two are expendable, why do I get to live?"
"A game is no fun without worthy adversaries," the Man said simply, "we find you interesting and we will kill you at our leisure. We are not quite ready for you to be dead. But don't push it."
"I feel special," Mulder said, " it's so nice to make new friends, Mr.-?"
"My name is Deets."
"Well Mr. Deets," Mulder said, "Look out behind you."
The Man In Black didn't even flinch at the old trick. He did however, flinch when he was struck in the back of the head with a baseball bat. He flinched all the way into unconsciousness.
PART 2: PIERRE, BASTILLE MY HEART.
Mulder looked up from the unconscious Man In Black and laid eyes on his savior. He stood, loosely holding a wooden baseball bat with the words 'My Wife' carved into the side. He was dressed in a red leather body suit despite the heat, topped off with a leather beret of the same color cocked to one side on top of his head. His delicate features, accentuated by light makeup, were Asian and screamingly homosexual.
"You must be Mulder," his savior smiled, "I'm Pierre." He held out his hand, palm down. "I'm French," he said as Mulder awkwardly glad-handed him.
"Nice to meet you," Mulder said as he bent down to pick up the gun, "thanks for the save."
"All naughty men get the bat someday," Pierre said reverently, as if imparting some long lost tidbit of wisdom, "We better piss off before old boys friends get wise." Pierre then turned on his heel and pranced towards the back door.
"Wait a minute," Mulder said as he followed, "what do you mean 'friends'?"
Pierre glanced back over his shoulder, red leather shining, "Five more Blues Brothers outside Foxy, all decked out like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, if you catch my drift," he said as he peeked out the back door, "Coasts clear honey, let's fuckin' rock"
"Uh, Right," Mulder said, trying to decide if he liked this Pierre or really hated him.
Palmer shook Deets awake and the Captain got to his feet and, after smoothing his dented hat, put it back on his head.
"What happened sir?" Asked Davis.
"I can only guess that Pierre got the drop on me and hit me in the head with something hard," Deets said matter-of-factly.
"And now Mulder has escaped with Pierre and they will reach the spacecraft before us," Palmer said, "meaning the mission is in danger."
"Most definitely." Added Davis.
"No, no," Said Deets, "Mulder made the mistake of stealing my sidearm," He then produced a small beeper-sized device from his jacket pocket, "We will now track him via my weapons transmitter, and then we will complete this mission."
"Ooh," Cooed Palmer, "with extreme prejudice sir?"
"Oh yes Palmer," Said Deets, and he led them away.
TO BE CONTINUED