A buzzing sound. It was a dragonfly, Scully felt, hovering in my hotel room, over my head. It was hungry. Best to swat it away. Scully twitched awake in a hospital room flooded with sunlight. She looked down her body. No missing limbs. The buzzing sound was a fluorescent tube dying in a wall sconce just over her head. Her chest was heavy as she inhaled deeply. She coughed. A spike of red hot pain stabbed her brain. Dr. Dana Scully began the arduous task of self-diagnosing: contusions on the chest, possible fractured sternum, and mild concussion. She wiggled her toes. This was taking too much effort, Scully concluded. She tapped the help button.

The trip back to Washington, D.C. was difficult. After she learned about Mulder's abduction, Scully had convinced the medical staff at the New Haven General Hospital that her injuries were not as severe as they had documented. Scully's body felt like glass. The persistent headache was deep and menacing. Hunched against the wheel, she drove along the wind swept country roads that snaked through Connecticut's arboreal paradise. The race was on.

She had phoned ahead to notify Assistant Director Walter Skinner. He was, to put it mildly, agitated at the entire predicament, but reassured her that the country was put on notice. All signs pointed to Billy Newbold as the only suspect. Officer Larry's cruiser was found in a truck stop. Billy had ditched it there and picked up the semi-trailer truck that had obliterated Scully's motel room. The semi was found the next morning abandoned.

Scully had contemplated staying in town, but she had a hunch that other resources were needed. The case had officially derailed to such a degree that it had morphed into a deadly serious affair. Scully may not have Mulder's uncanny powers of deduction, but she did know the first place he'd go for assistance. Scully popped open a bottle of ibuprofen with her thumb and dry-swallowed four pills. Don't try this at home, kids, she thought as the sedan roared down along the highway at eighty-miles an hour.

Somewhere in Washington, DC, Scully leaned against a brick wall early in the morning in a nondescript narrow alleyway. She looked directly into a security camera with her arms crossed. Scully noticed the lens adjust; heard the whir of gears as it presumably focused on her slight frame. A pinched voice spoke through a dented intercom. It said, distorted and scratchy, "State your business, woman." Scully didn't move. "Riddle me this: what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

Scully sighed. "Frohike, if you don't open this door, I'm gonna plaster your social security number all over Georgetown."

The door unlocked with a sharp click. "Hey, Scully," said the scratchy voice.

Scully pushed the fortified door aside and stepped into a dark dwelling. It was a cramped space packed with shelves that sagged heavily with police scanners, computers, high-powered RF receivers, video equipment, televisions, and stacks and stacks of Lone Gunmen newsletters. Frohike, a middle-aged man just tall enough to not be labeled a little person, closed the door behind Scully. He shrugged, in his familiar leather jacket, and said, "Jesus Christmas. I was just joking. Holy Hell, you look like shit."

"Gee, way to make a girl feel special." Scully continued through the shelves. Two shadowy figures stood around a computer in the back. Frohike followed.

"Oh, I'm not saying I wouldn't do you. Did you develop a drug habit or something?" Frohike adjusted his huge glasses.

"Thanks." Scully's persistent headache had tempered to a dull throb.

Byers turned on his heel to greet Scully. A look of concern criss-crossed his bearded face. As per usual, his charcoal grey suit was immaculate and crisp. Byers was a man of indeterminate age. Although he wore a close-cropped beard, there was an unmistakable boyish charm in his pristine blue eyes. The man he was talking too was Byers' antithesis. Langly was Byers inverted: long, unruly blonde hair, dark eyes framed by Buddy Holly glasses, and the ripped Ramones t-shirt. Langly took one look at Scully and smiled. He said, "Hey Scully, wanna be the first Lone Gunmen playmate? Likes include long walks on the beach, puff pastries, and pistol whipping aliens."

Byers reached for one of three metal folding chairs. The cramps in Scully's legs were finally starting to relax. She stood her ground as the story of Mulder's abduction came spewing out. She capped it by popping two more ibuprofen. Now she had to sit. Langly and Byers turned to the computer. Frohike pulled over a chair and sat thinking. The little man crossed his legs on the folding chair and stared off into a middle ground. Langly and Byers were discussing possible sources for identifying Billy Newbold other than the obvious. They had some darknet connections that might be useful. Frohike jumped down from the chair. He turned to Scully, "This guys name was Billy Newbold, you say?" Scully nodded. Frohike shambled off, disappearing into the shelves.

As Langly typed furiously on the computer, Byers asked, "Langly, didn't you and Mulder have a heated exchange about the Voynich Manuscript a while back?"

"Yeah. He swore it was real; some sort of code. I told him it was a load of bullshit. The greatest in history, but still not worth anything. He was all like, 'it adheres to Zipf's law'." Langly snorted, "Please, Mulder's grasp of palaeography is rudimentary at best. I could teach a graduate level course on it. Zipf's law. Amateur."

Scully said, "Funny. Mulder had a similar argument with the librarian at Yale. 'Doctor' Detricht." She couldn't resist the air quotes.

"Perhaps there's some merit to Mulder's argument," said Byers. "Or rather, suppose that this Billy Newbold believes it is a code and, for some reason, Mulder is the key. It seems unusual that the FBI would be interested in such a document. He could see it as justification for his insanity." Scully pointed a finger at Byers as if to say, 'bingo'.

Langly slammed his keyboard. "There's nothing on the darknet."

"Nothing on the darknet, but something in Frohike's extensive rare book collection that Langly recently called, 'antiquated and puerile'." Frohike marched over to Scully and dropped a book into her hands.

Langly swung around, "yeah right. I bet it's less than nothing."

Scully read the title aloud, "The Voynich Roger Bacon Manuscript by William Romaine Newbold." She flipped through the first could pages. "It's dated 1921." Frohike bowed.

"That doesn't prove anything," Langly spat.

Scully handed the book to Byers. He looked it over, chewing on his lip. "Langly, pull up all the information you have on him." He tapped the book.

After just a few minutes, Langly reported, "Okay, Newbold, William Romaine. Born in Wilmington, Delaware in 1865. He was a philosophy professor at the University of Pennsylvania until his death in 1926."

Scully squinted in contemplation. "Did he have any children?"

Byers flipped through the book. "This must be Billy's bible."

After a few fast keystrokes Langly replied, "Yes. He had a son. Also named William. Who appears to have died in 1955. Hold on." He clicked onward. "OK, he had a son named William born in 1925. He passed away in 1985. And there was another William born in 1955. No other records exist beyond that point."

Byers and Scully's gaze met with eyebrows raised. Byers, connecting the dots, said, "So Billy Newbold could be the great grandson of William Romaine Newbold?"

Frohike fist pumped, "print over bytes, baby!"

Scully frowned, "or Billy Newbold is not his real name."

"That's certainly possible," Byers said. "Suppose you and Mulder exacerbated his fantasy that the Voynich Manuscript was in fact a cipher, which is why he abducted him."

Frohike's eyes went wide. "Maybe's he's got a thing for tall, dark, and handsome." Langly shook his head.

Scully sighed, "I complained to Mulder about the triviality of it all. He insisted that he was tipped off by an insider; quite possibly Mr. X."

Byers stroked his beard. "Regardless, it doesn't get us closer to finding their whereabouts."

"Yeah, there's nothing." Langly's fingers moved swiftly over the keys. "Hold on. I'm posting Billy's mugshot on all my forums."

Frohike said, "What if Billy Newbold is actually a descendant of the William Newbold, and he's part of this fanatical group of Voynich Manuscript followers that have cracked the cipher, or at least part of it. And the cipher is the key to future events."

Langly spun around in his chair. "You know what? I'm tired of your nonsensical ramblings, toad-face. We're trying to find our friend, and you're playing stupid games! Why don't you go organize your archaic books, and leave finding Mulder to the adults."

"Toad-face? Listen you four-eyed freak-"

"Guys!" Scully closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Let's focus, please."

"Langly, search the missing vehicles database in Connecticut." Byers massaged the bridge of his nose. Scully realized that it was early. The Lone Gunmen were not early risers. She must have appeared during an all night publishing session. Silence settled in the room as Langly's soft typing filled the space. Frohike pulled himself onto the chair in a cross legged seat. The look of deep thought quickly melted into a tired slouch. Byers leaned against a shelf, resting his head against a complicated mechanical box. He yawned deep and long. The pain that racked through Scully's body earlier had become muted. She felt guilty for wanting to take a bath, and then finding Mulder. Her watch showed it was about five after nine. Langly was the only one that seemed unfazed. There was a general hum from… from some device, Scully couldn't say exactly, that was the ambiance.

Langly stopped typing. "What the," he said. His hands fell to his side.

Scully looked from a now sleeping Frohike to Langly. Byers leaned in to look at the screen.

"Uh, turn on the news right now." Byers nudged Frohike with his foot. "Guys, seriously, switch it on."

"What's going?" Scully asked.

Byers clicked on the nearest television set. Chaos filled the screen: people running in and out of a plume of smoke as the morning sun struggled to filter through the heavy particulates. There was a general commotion. A woman's weeping cut through the din. "Oh my God," Scully breathed. The lower thirds read: "Breaking news: Office building in Oklahoma City Bombed."

The feed switched to a second camera. It was a wider shot of the unfolding horror. There was a massive building that appeared through the swirling dust. It's floors were exposed. And like the backbone of a macerated carcass only the rear section remained standing. Debris hung from the structure like loose strands of weathered skin over a open ribcage. The announcer said, "I repeat. A bomb has exploded in Oklahoma City, completely destroying the building you see here. That's the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. It housed a number of federal departments."

Byers unbuttoned his suit jacket. "The secret service, social security, and the DEA all had offices in that building."

The camera cut to a closer shot of the action. People smeared with dirt and blood floated in and out of the frame.

Scully was perplexed at the site. "Terrorism in the midwest," she breathed.

"Jesus, that's unusual." Langly said. His glasses filled with the reflection of the dusty madness.

"Probably a homegrown militia. They exist all over the midwest and, of course, the south." Byers now had his hands in his pockets.

Frohike jumped down from the chair. He walked up to the television so close his nose was touching the screen. He spun around. "Langly, are you taping this?"

Langly snorted with pshaw, "of course I am. I freaking tape everything, especially the white noise."

"Go back," Frohike was alert now. His eyes wide with revelation. Langly heaved himself from the swivel chair. He clicked on the monitor next to the television. After switching and clicking through a few machines, Langly stood ready. Frohike turned back to the live broadcast. He searched the screen frantically, checked his watch and said, "Go back about a minute." Langly rewound the tape, watching the timecode carefully, as Frohike switched off the audio from the live broadcast. The second monitor awoke with the panicked scene that they had just witnessed. Frohike watched every detail of the scene and yelled, "Stop!" He leaned in. "Click it back about a second. There!" He pointed. A broad smile crept across his face. "Found Mulder."

"What?" Scully took the lead as the rest of the Lone Gunmen leaned in. There he was amongst the chaos. Mulder. Disheveled and a bit confused, but there he was in Oklahoma City amidst the smoke, blood, sweat and tears. "Oh my God. Mulder."