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THREE WEEKS BEFORE
Monday morning...Mulder was late. But placing "Mulder", "Monday" and "late" in a
same sentence was not a unique idea because Mulder was late every Monday morning.
When he opened the basement's door, I smiled. We had agreed not to arrive together on
Mondays, because gossip would soon have overwhelmed us in the corridors. Not that there
wasn't any already, but we weren't stupid to the point of giving everybody what they were
waiting for... In fact it was a kind of game: we played with what the other agents were
thinking about us.
Every time we had the occasion, we stole a fragment of a conversation about our "more than
partners kind of" relationship, and when we exchanged what we learned every night in my
apartment or his, we would burst out laughing.
He looked at me, furrowing his brow, and I had to admit that he looked cute with his messy
hair, already rumpled suit, and pouting lips.
I then realized the second reason for our agreement about Monday mornings: we would
BOTH arrive late if we were together, but for a different reason...
I smiled again and Mulder gave me a look that probably said something like "I thought I was
the nut case...".
Anyway, I finally managed to clear my throat and greet him.
"Good Morning."
"Morning..." he answered, still looking at me as if I had just said that I was in love with
Frohicke, or something... I cleared my mind of that strange picture and went back to work on
my computer.
"Are you the one who put this letter on my desk?" he asked, showing me a plain white
envelope, with only his name typed on it.
"Hmm...no. It was there when I arrived."
"Weird... How did it get on my desk?" he sounded surprised, I was not.
"Well, maybe you forgot to lock the door on Friday, or perhaps someone had the keys."
"No. I changed the locks last month..."
"...like you do every six months, you're right, I forgot about that."
Mulder was paranoid to the point of changing the basement's locks regularly, of course it was
the Gunmen idea.
"Anyway..." I said approaching his desk "...what's the letter about?"
"I don't know."
He looked quite puzzled, and was probably wondering what was the best thing to do. Opening
it or giving it to the labs so that it could be analyzed?
He chewed on his lower lip, and after an uneasy silence between us, he said:
"It doesn't look very dangerous to me...it's just a letter."
"You can't be sure of that...it could be anything: Anthrax..." I tried to point out
unsuccessfully.
"Right, but it is more likely to be a kind of joke; don't you think? If you give this to the lab,
and it turns out to be nothing we would look pretty pathetic."
"You mean...it's possible that we could look even MORE pathetic?!" I answered, faking
shock.
"Ha, ha. Oh...the Hell with it."
With that, he opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of white paper inside, with a
single sentence built with letters cut from magazines and newspapers.
"YOUR FATHER WILL BURN IN HELL FOREVER"
We stayed quiet for a few minutes, trying to make sense of it.
"If it's a joke, it's not funny." He finally said blankly.
"Yeah... But are you sure this is a joke?" I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable.
"Come on, Scully...my father is dead. It's been a while, now."
"Well, it doesn't change anything..."
"No, it does. Why did they put WILL? It doesn't make any sense! But for them it does,
and I have to find out why..."
"We should take it to the lab, maybe they could find something..."
"No, Scully. This is a personal business. It has nothing to do with the Bureau..."
"If it is THAT personal...why is it here? Why not in your mailbox at home?"
"I don't know..." He sounded honest, but he kept on chewing on his lower lip, which was not
a very good sign coming from Mulder: it meant he was thinking very hard. And when Agent
Fox Mulder was thinking very hard, you'd better run and hide before he screamed "Eureka!".
I was still standing in front of him when, turning his back to me, he said:
"I have to make a few phone-calls...why don't you, hum, correct that report we have to give
Skinner this afternoon?"
"Okay...no problem." I knew it was pointless trying to ask him what he was going to do
about this letter and who he wanted to call and so I simply went back toward my own desk.
I was startled by Mulder's actions, because he was taking this letter very seriously. I was of
course as puzzled as he was about it, but his worry and uneasiness were scaring me a little.
For me it was just a stupid letter sent by a sick bastard who wanted to make him feel guilty
about his father's death.
Well, if THAT was their aim, they succeeded for sure! But Mulder was not stupid, and I was
surprised that he was sure the letter was not a fake.
Something was going on, something he didn't want to talk about...
TO BE CONTINUED
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Well?? You want more?? No problem... But first, tell me what you think about this story.
THREE WEEKS BEFORE
Monday morning...Mulder was late. But placing "Mulder", "Monday" and "late" in a
same sentence was not a unique idea because Mulder was late every Monday morning.
When he opened the basement's door, I smiled. We had agreed not to arrive together on
Mondays, because gossip would soon have overwhelmed us in the corridors. Not that there
wasn't any already, but we weren't stupid to the point of giving everybody what they were
waiting for... In fact it was a kind of game: we played with what the other agents were
thinking about us.
Every time we had the occasion, we stole a fragment of a conversation about our "more than
partners kind of" relationship, and when we exchanged what we learned every night in my
apartment or his, we would burst out laughing.
He looked at me, furrowing his brow, and I had to admit that he looked cute with his messy
hair, already rumpled suit, and pouting lips.
I then realized the second reason for our agreement about Monday mornings: we would
BOTH arrive late if we were together, but for a different reason...
I smiled again and Mulder gave me a look that probably said something like "I thought I was
the nut case...".
Anyway, I finally managed to clear my throat and greet him.
"Good Morning."
"Morning..." he answered, still looking at me as if I had just said that I was in love with
Frohicke, or something... I cleared my mind of that strange picture and went back to work on
my computer.
"Are you the one who put this letter on my desk?" he asked, showing me a plain white
envelope, with only his name typed on it.
"Hmm...no. It was there when I arrived."
"Weird... How did it get on my desk?" he sounded surprised, I was not.
"Well, maybe you forgot to lock the door on Friday, or perhaps someone had the keys."
"No. I changed the locks last month..."
"...like you do every six months, you're right, I forgot about that."
Mulder was paranoid to the point of changing the basement's locks regularly, of course it was
the Gunmen idea.
"Anyway..." I said approaching his desk "...what's the letter about?"
"I don't know."
He looked quite puzzled, and was probably wondering what was the best thing to do. Opening
it or giving it to the labs so that it could be analyzed?
He chewed on his lower lip, and after an uneasy silence between us, he said:
"It doesn't look very dangerous to me...it's just a letter."
"You can't be sure of that...it could be anything: Anthrax..." I tried to point out
unsuccessfully.
"Right, but it is more likely to be a kind of joke; don't you think? If you give this to the lab,
and it turns out to be nothing we would look pretty pathetic."
"You mean...it's possible that we could look even MORE pathetic?!" I answered, faking
shock.
"Ha, ha. Oh...the Hell with it."
With that, he opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of white paper inside, with a
single sentence built with letters cut from magazines and newspapers.
"YOUR FATHER WILL BURN IN HELL FOREVER"
We stayed quiet for a few minutes, trying to make sense of it.
"If it's a joke, it's not funny." He finally said blankly.
"Yeah... But are you sure this is a joke?" I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable.
"Come on, Scully...my father is dead. It's been a while, now."
"Well, it doesn't change anything..."
"No, it does. Why did they put WILL? It doesn't make any sense! But for them it does,
and I have to find out why..."
"We should take it to the lab, maybe they could find something..."
"No, Scully. This is a personal business. It has nothing to do with the Bureau..."
"If it is THAT personal...why is it here? Why not in your mailbox at home?"
"I don't know..." He sounded honest, but he kept on chewing on his lower lip, which was not
a very good sign coming from Mulder: it meant he was thinking very hard. And when Agent
Fox Mulder was thinking very hard, you'd better run and hide before he screamed "Eureka!".
I was still standing in front of him when, turning his back to me, he said:
"I have to make a few phone-calls...why don't you, hum, correct that report we have to give
Skinner this afternoon?"
"Okay...no problem." I knew it was pointless trying to ask him what he was going to do
about this letter and who he wanted to call and so I simply went back toward my own desk.
I was startled by Mulder's actions, because he was taking this letter very seriously. I was of
course as puzzled as he was about it, but his worry and uneasiness were scaring me a little.
For me it was just a stupid letter sent by a sick bastard who wanted to make him feel guilty
about his father's death.
Well, if THAT was their aim, they succeeded for sure! But Mulder was not stupid, and I was
surprised that he was sure the letter was not a fake.
Something was going on, something he didn't want to talk about...
TO BE CONTINUED
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Well?? You want more?? No problem... But first, tell me what you think about this story.