The office of Section Chief Blevins was hot and the air stale. The air conditioning must've stopped working. Either that or stress and fear had heated Agent O'Neills body several degrees while he was sitting in front of SC Blevins, Assistant Director Miles and Assistant Director Skinner. Why couldn't they just fire him? From the second he started his report, he knew he was screwed. There was no way anyone would believe him.
A man, who kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl just vanished in thin air and the Agent that cornered him gets all air knocked out of his lungs and is unable to pursue the perpetrator. It didn't help that his partner Davis found him lying on the ground thinking he had an asthma attack. Agent O'Neill didn't have asthma. He had no condition as well, but he definitely had no asthma.
O'Neill was fumbling with his fingers with increasing force, trying almost to pull them off his hand, while SC Blevins did his file study charade. "Agent O'Neill", Blevins said, making him jump in his seat. "It's your first year on the field, isn't it?"
You know that asshole, O'Neill thought. "Yes, Sir", he said with a shy smile. Here come the mind games.
"And you're already working on a major case. The Fox Murderer."
"Kitsune", O'Neill interrupted and wanted to punch himself. Questioning eyes looked at him and spurred him on. "It's Japanese folklore. It's important to the perpetrator. He wears a Kitsune mask and apparently identifies with the mythology. Whether he considers himself a Zenko or a Yako I cannot say since what he does obviously is against the law. But his shift from killing to kidnapping a little girl is not so surprising. He probably considers himself her guardian. She didn't seem to be too scared of him, as you can see in my report." Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! "As a Yokai he-"
"Yokai?", AD Skinner interrupted with an exasperated look on his face.
"The Japanese word for demon, basically, Sir. He probably has some twisted morality and-"
"Do you believe in this Myth, Agent O'Neill?", section chief Blevins asked. Blevins was annoyed. Very annoyed.
"Of course not. It's mythology. But if the perpetrator believes it, we have to give it a lot of attention. And-"
"I've heard enough. You are a very talented young agent. But maybe you were too young for leading your own investigation." Please say you fire me, please say you fire me! "You let a suspect get away, you endangered and failed to rescue a hostage. And from what I read from your partners report, there was no way for the suspect to escape unless you would have let him. It doesn't look good for you", Blevins sighed dramatically. Come on, freedom! "But we should give the youth a second chance. Do you know Agent Mulder?"
"I read some papers of him. About behavioural science and profiling. Why?"
"Agent Mulder works on a little side project called the X-Files. At the moment, however, he is unable to work. From now on you will answer to Assistant Director Skinner and work with Agent Scully at the X-Files for as long as we deem fit. Please go to Assistant Director Skinner for further questions. Agent dismissed."
Agent O'Neill suddenly had a hard time breathing. His father had to be behind this. There was no other way. O'Neill was a bad Agent. He was terrible in interrogation and could hardly hit the targets in the shooting ring. He barely passed his classes at Quantico. It was a wonder that he wasn't sitting in an overfilled office doing background checks. Which he wouldn't be good in either since he is terrified of using a telephone.
His father was the driving force in getting him the Kitsune Assignment. Using his influence and some bullshit about O'Neill's suitable knowledge. Being Deputy Director, his father could do something like that easily. And now he had his hand in not getting him fired. As long as his son stays an FBI agent, Casey O'Neill was contempt.
The X-Files. O'Neill had heard rumours about that. The basement office, where spooky cases where investigated by Spooky Mulder. Agent Davies kept him up to date with the office gossip. When Davies had caught him with one of Agent Mulder's psychology papers, he told him everything he thought he knew about Agent Mulder. About how he lost a promising career to search for little green men (even though they would be grey, but O'Neill had kept his mouth shut) and how his investigative methods where totally spooky. Hence the nickname.
For O'Neill it seemed that the X-Files was the polite way of saying, you fucked up, we don't want you but want to fire you even less, so we stick you in the basement hoping you quit on your own accord. Why was he so bummed to be put down in the basement? He never even wanted to join the FBI. A useless assignment with some weirdos won't be that bad.
"Agent O'Neill? You are dismissed." Blevins got him out of his thoughts. O'Neill was still sitting in the chair across Blevins Desk. He was on the brink of hyperventilation, he realised suddenly. "And compose yourself."
"Agent O'Neill", AD Skinner said. His calm but strong voice like a touchstone. "Let's step outside."
Hastily O'Neill grabbed his Eastpack bag and stumbled outside. "Sir", he said once they were outside. AD Skinner didn't stop walking, guiding him directly to the elevator. "Sir, may I ask why the reassignment?"
"You may not." AD Skinner pressed the button for the basement looking stubbornly ahead. "How old are you?"
"27 Sir. My Birthday was last week."
"That is young", his new boss murmured. "Agent Scully should be in her office. You go introduce yourself to her. And compose yourself! Posture boy, ever heard of it?" O'Neill straightened his back, each of his vertebra cracking in the unusual new posture. "Shoulders." He pushed his shoulders back and his chest out, instantly feeling uncomfortable. "Good, now you look like an Agent and not a sad nerd that gets beaten up."
But I am a sad nerd that gets beaten up, O'Neill thought, trying to hold his pose. It was impossible. He felt too uncomfortable and crumbled into himself again as soon as he exhaled. The elevator reached its destination, AD Skinner showed him the office door between all the shelves, boxes and container being stored in the Basement and then he was alone.
Well, when you have no other options, just go along with whatever you can do. O'Neill took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Fox Mulder, Special Agent it said on the sign. It was nice wood… Concentrate!
"Come in!" A female voice came through the door. Slowly he opened it, peeking inside. One of the first things he saw was a poster. Right behind an untidy desk full of papers, wrappings, pencils and whatnots, was a poster of a UFO with the subtitle "I want to believe". The whole office wasn't really tidy. It wasn't chaotic either, but it had this sense of chaotic genius. Agent Scully leaned against the desk, reading a file. She was a small woman or maybe Agent O'Neill was just huge with his almost 1,90 meters. She was wearing a pair of round glasses, her hair put behind her ears so that it wouldn't bother her while reading. She was wearing a pantsuit and made him feel as inadequately dressed as all the other agents. At least he started wearing dress shirts and ties under his now only black jumpers. Hoodies apparently were a no go.
When she looked at him, he must've stressed so visibly that she pitied him. Normally it would be his part initiating introduction since he came into the office with the intention. However, Agent Scully was now coming towards him, smiling a polite, professional smile. Her heels were loud on the floor, giving him yet another impulse to run. Or maybe it was just his hatred for the sound that heels made.
"Special Agent Dana Scully", she said. She was cute and nice. For a second O'Neill completely forgot procedure.
"Ehm… Special Agent Keiran O'Neill. I was assigned to this unit right now. So, ehm… What's going on?" Agent Scully was looking at him, no she was analysing him. As if she couldn't place him. There was something hostile in her eyes. "Where's Agent Mulder?" Apparently, that was the wrong question. Because if he felt a little chill from Scully, now she was completely cold towards him. A cold professionalism that scared him, because he knew it from his father way too much.
"He is recovering in a hospital and may be on sick leave for some more weeks", she said shortly and went to the desk, searching for something. Judging from the nameplate on it, this was Mulder's desk. So…
"Where is your desk?", he asked, looking around. For some reason, Agent Scully looked taken off guard. She regained her composure within seconds, however.
"I don't have one", was her short reply before she handed him a file. "We have an assignment. A serial killing in Seattle. The details are all in there. We meet at eight at the airport. I have to be somewhere, excuse me." And with that, she was out of the door, leaving him alone in the basement with the file, three hours of work time left and his thoughts.
Well, if there was only one desk, they might be sharing it? And if that's the case Agent Mulder won't mind if he sat down at his desk. He had to read the file and didn't want to do it standing up. Nobody would know. O'Neill sighed and flopped down on the office chair. He opened the file and immediately closed it. Pictures of mutilated corpses weren't his strong point. He couldn't even see an infected toenail (even though they were completely disgusting) without wanting to puke.
Skipping the pictures and going straight to the autopsy report the first body died from falling from a high building or some sorts. As did the next. And the following six. Maybe group suicide, O'Neill thought but ignored that directly after reading that the victims had nothing in common. No same friends, no colleagues, they didn't even live in the same area of the city. They went to different churches, had different believes, were different in gender, age and everything. No connection.
No victim was suicidal in any sort. One had a history of depression, but there still was no indication for a suicide. Relatives stated no changes in behaviour or any indication towards self-destructive intentions. Not more than usual anyway. One had a severe alcohol problem, one was adipose, one was a chain smoker. This lack of connection worried O'Neill. He didn't know a lot about psychology or profiles, but it seemed to him that it didn't matter who the victim was. A high earning banker or a booze drinking street dealer, anyone could be a victim.
Local PD turned to the FBI after the fifth unexplained suicide in a month. The assigned FBI Agents came to no new conclusions and marked the cases as unexplained mental breakdowns. In the following month, three new suicides got linked to the first five. Many more might possibly be connected as well. However local PD thinks the MO to be someone luring people on the roof of a high building and then pushing them off. It is clear to them, that it has to be a serial killing and not a suicide.
"So this is where they put you. Serves you right."
Agent O'Neill almost jumped off the chair. He hadn't heard anyone coming, being too concentrated on reading and understanding the case file. Standing in the hallway with a judging, disapproving face was his father. Not in a million years O'Neill would have thought that his father would be able to overcome his pride to even look at the basement button in the elevator. But coming down here? This must be bad. O'Neill kept quiet, hoping this storm would be over soon.
"How could you fuck this up? It was nearly impossible! I laid it all out for you. You should have just put the guy I framed for you in prison."
"He was innocent", O'Neill mumbled, glad that his father threw a tantrum and didn't hear anything else than his loud, raspy voice.
"But no! You go on and on about another suspect. And when you finally found him, after ruining your credibility because at this point everyone already thought of you as a second Spooky Mulder, you let him go! Just like that! Why can't you just once do anything right? You could've been Assistant Director in five years. Now you'll rot away in the basement. Do you have any idea what strings I had to pull so they wouldn't throw you out?" And now came the disgusted mustering. This always was the worst part. After the words subsided, words O'Neill could easily drown out, there was this heavy silence in which his Father just looked at him and shook his head, telling him how disgusted and disappointed he was as a father and how much he wished his first son would be more like his other son. The military officer.
The next part would be the punching. But they were still at work and there was a big desk between them. Maybe this time he would be happy just slamming the door shut. He must've seen the poster hanging behind O'Neill because suddenly his father was looking around in the office, a little vein on his temple pulsing angrily. Suddenly there was an impulse in him and he stomped towards the desk, grabbing O'Neill at his jumper and pulling him half across his safety barrier.
"You listen to me boy", his voice was calm but intense and little drops of spit landed on O'Neill's face. "I will not allow for you to become a failure, do you hear? No son of mine will be a worthless piece of shit. But right now, you're on the path to becoming one. You sort this out, you hear that? You hear that?"
"Yes… yes, Sir." With a lot of force, O'Neill got pushed away and fell over his chair, hitting his head against the cabinet behind him. Screwing his eyes shut he kept sitting on the floor, his long legs pushing against the desk to distract him from the pain in his head. In a distance, he heard his father mutter something and slam the door shut. Only then O'Neill pushed his hand against his skull, trying to hold it together in a mental effort to prevent the pain from spreading. A pained breath escaped him and all of a sudden, he felt pathetic. Great. Did the panic attacks start again? He managed six months without them.
The telephone was his saviour. Before his breathing got out of control and his mind took the jump down into the dark pit, it rang, making him jump up like a Pavlovian dog.
"Yes", he hissed, his head still hurting. "O'Neill."
"It's Scully. You're still in the office?"
"Obviously", he murmured and sat down. O'Neill couldn't decide whether he was feeling sick or not.
"Yes… I forgot to tell you before, could you take the file with you and bring it to the airport? And lock up, please. There is a spare key under the mat on the desk."
"Found it", he mumbled holding the key.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah, just… stumbled and bumped the knee against the desk. Bit clumsy, me."
"I see. 8 am at the airport tomorrow. I got your ticket."
"Got it, boss."