I didn't make it and I don't own it. I just play with it.

By the beginning of April we've gotten into something of a routine. Even though she may not be evil in the strictest possible sense of that term, I'm not sure she's not going to rat me out for spending my days throwing pencils at the ceiling either, so I've made an effort to appear very very productive. I read the newspapers diligently, looking for unexplained phenomena, until ten-thirty every day. And then I scan through old X-files from ten-forty five to one (that's a fifteen minute coffee break) and then I eat lunch. After lunch, I read up on the occult for the rest of the afternoon until it's time to go home.

Not that that's particularly dull, but I miss my pencils. Also, I have no idea what Scully's getting up to during that time, despite the fact that she's sitting four and a half feet away from me. Sometimes she reads old files, saying she's trying to get a handle on what it is she's going to be working with. Sometimes she reads medical journals. All of the time I'm bored.

Today is different though. I actually found something in the paper this morning relating to the Budahas case, and I've spent the entire day looking into it. Okay, all morning and my lunch break.

It was just a little human interest piece about a woman on an air force base who is trying to find out where her husband is. Something about how the military took him captive and they won't tell her where he is.

The base is in Idaho, and I got more of the story from local papers and the FBI file I've been keeping tabs on for a month now. Robert Budahas was taken from his home in questionable medical condition four months ago. His wife has heard nothing from him since. Budahas is some kind of test pilot, and the last time he was seen, he was under military arrest. That's all there is.

It's freaking weird.

After I get done reading up on all that in front of a microfiche machine (side note: those things make me queasy and I lost my breakfast reading up on this) I decide maybe a working lunch is in order, so I call Scully for lunch. Then I call and remind her. Then I call and realize I never picked a place to actually eat lunch, and have her meet me at that bar down the street, the name of which I can never remember.

Casey's. That's it – Casey's.

She's sitting at the bar already, reading a file, when I get there. Somehow she senses my approach and looks up before I can say anything.

"Hi. I got your message."

I could at least apologize for forgetting to tell her where to meet me. Twice. "Sorry for the runaround. Can I buy you a drink?"

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon, Agent Mulder."

The place is packed. "It's not stopping the rest of these people." She doesn't dignify that with an answer, which is probably good since we're on duty. "I got something to show you."

"Something you couldn't show me at work."

That basement's crowded. Why would we meet there? I don't even know where we'd put another desk, so thank God she hasn't asked for one. "Let's get a table." We sit down across the room and I hand her the brand-spanking-new Budahas file. She flips it open to the first page, which is the picture. "That's Colonel Robert Budahas. That photo was taken last year when he was a test pilot for the military, stationed at Ellens Air Base in Southwest Idaho. Four months ago, Colonel Budahas experienced a psychotic episode and barricaded himself in his home. Military police were called in. Budahas was removed and apparently hospitalized with treatment of his condition."

"Which was what, exactly?"

Yeah, the file's a little sparse, isn't it? "The military will not comment on the cause, nature or status. In fact, the military will not comment on Colonel Budahas at all."

Got her attention now. "What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Budahas has neither seen nor heard from her husband in over four months. Her inquiries to the military have gone unanswered. Last month, she contacted the FBI and reported it as a kidnapping." I don't like kidnappings. I just don't.

"What reason would the military have to kidnap one of their own pilots?"

I knew she was gonna ask that. "That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, Scully." I hand her everything else I've dug up on the history of the base. "Since 1963, six pilots have been listed as missing in action, from Ellens Air Base. The military will say only that these pilots accepted the risks of flying experimental aircraft."

"Yeah, there were rumors those pilots were shot down at high altitudes, while they were routinely penetrating Russian airspace."

Navy brat. I guess she knows these things. "There were other rumors too." She glances up at me, and I can practically see the wheels turning. "I've been tracking this case since it came through the Boise regional office last month. Last week, for reasons I can't figure out, it was deprioritized. They shelved this case without an investigation, Scully."

"So?"

What's there to 'so' about? "So, you and I, are going to the spud state to investigate a little kidnapping."

"I don't get it Mulder. Does this have something to do with an X-File? I thought you only liked those, er, paranormal type cases. Am I missing something here?"

It's weird, that's what. And I need to take a piss. "Let's just say, this case has a, distinct smell to it, a certain... paranormal bouquet. Excuse me." I'm not running away, but if I told her about the UFOs out there, she'd have me committed.

In the bathroom, there is an old man standing behind me. I can see him reflected in the mirror, staring at me.

Something about him seems familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"Leave this case alone Agent Mulder."

Disbelief. Pure disbelief. "What?"

"The military will not tolerate an FBI investigation."

I don't care. "Who are you?"

"I, uh... can be of help to you. I've had a certain interest in your work."

Someone knocks on the door, and I realize he's bolted it shut. "How do you know about my work?"

"Well, let's just say that I'm in a position to know quite a lot of things-" he switches to a whisper- "things about our government."

A spy? I have my own spy? "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"It's unimportant, I came here to give you some valuable advice. You are exposing yourself and Agent Scully to unnecessary risk, I advise you to drop the case."

It would be just like having my very own Deep Throat. "I can't do that."

"You have much work to do Agent Mulder," he says, unlocking the door. "Don't jeopardize the future of your own efforts." And then he walks out the door.

I try to chase him, but someone gets in my way, and when I make it out into the bar, he's already gone.

Scully sees me and crosses the room. I probably look like a mental patient the way I'm staring around. "You okay, Mulder?"

Maybe. "Yeah, I'm fine," I tell Scully, and we both return to work.

While I'm fixing my canned chili that night, I get a phone call. This is a fairly unusual occurrence. Other than the Gunmen, I don't seem to have tons of friends. And they're not, you know, sociable.

Like I said, weird. "Hello."

"Mulder?"

I'm in deep shit. She's read the file already. "Yeah."

"I checked on that file you gave me."

Already? Does she actually do anything else? "Uh-huh."

"You failed to tell me a few things." Something in the phone clicks, but when I look at the headset, everything looks totally normal. Clicking is a symptom of a wiretap, and suddenly I'm not having so much fun imagining Scully reading files while she cooks dinner, takes a bath, and goes to bed. "Are you there Mulder?"

I'm here, but if they're listening, they must be close by too. "Yeah." I walk over to the window and peek out. Sure enough, there's a van across the street. Do they think I'm dumb?

"Did you hear what I said, because the bureau has it out for us already and it would make us appear pretty stupid if my field report read like some tabloid story."

We need to get off this line. "Er, listen, I don't want to talk about it on this line. I'll, I'll talk to you about it on the flight out, OK?" Jerk that I am, I hang up on her.

It's not until I'm checking the bottom of the phone for tampering that I realize that she said the Bureau has it out for us.

Upon arrival in Idaho, we drop our bags off at the local motel (Free HBO! - nonfunctional TVs) and then drive out to the base to the Budahas' house. Airplanes keep flying over us all the time we're on the base, and one flies right over our heads while we're waiting for the door, which is why we don't even notice when she opens it. I don't know how people get used to this.

"Hello?"

She's a small, curly-haired woman in a housedress. "Mrs. Budahas?"

"Yes."

I pull out my ID. "We're from the FBI."

"Oh, yes, please, come in."

She ushers us down the hall to the living room and Scully jumps straight into the questions.

"Mrs. Budahas, when was the first time you realized something odd was happening?"

"I started noticing it about two years ago, Bob developed this rash under his arms. We'd been doing some renovations on the house, so that, we thought it was a reaction to the paint stripper. But then everything just, went crazy."

"How do you mean?"

I am content to let Scully ask the questions for now, while I examine the photos of Mr. Budahas himself.

"Bob's whole personality, it was so unpredictable. He started, doing things."

That's when I know I need to jump in. Too vague. "What kinds of things?"

"It was kind of embarrassing at first, we were having this dinner party once, and, erm, he sprinkled Tetrameal D all other his food." Scully shoots her a confused look, even though I know what she means, and she expands on what she's said. "That's fish food flakes."

"Did you ever talk to him about this?"

"I tried, it was extremely difficult, Bob would get so angry, he'd, yell at the kids for no reason, and, and then, and then he would shake, like he was having a-a seizure."

Huh. Something was affecting him physically. "Did he ever talk about his work?"

"It was never discussed, even before the problems. Oh, I knew that he worked on top secret projects, word gets around, but, Bob was always a patriot first. He took, loyalty to his country as an oath, and, and now they treat us like strangers." She sobs, looks down, gathers herself, and continues, "I just want my husband back."

"You know that the government is not above the law," says Scully. "They cannot withhold information."

"Then I think, what if he's..." She lets out a little sob. "How would I support the family?"

If they're doing something secret here, he can't be the only one. "You said word gets around, I'm sorry... have you ever heard of this, happening to anyone else?"

"Yeah. Veria McLennen's husband, he went kinda crazy, but it's not like he didn't get to come home."

Scully glances my way, and I know what she's going to say before she says it. "Mrs. Budahas, do you think we could meet Veria McLennen's husband?"

She blinks, surprised. "I suppose so. Excuse me." She slips away into the kitchen and dials the phone. I can hear her end of the conversation, arranging for her kids to go to a neighbor's house, and then another one to arrange to drop by the McLennens' with some "people looking for Robert."

I glance through the living room, looking at photos and certificates. Budahas's Presidential Commendation is hanging on the wall, portraits of the family, and the kids' school pictures. Why is it, I wonder, that some families can be torn apart and yet still remain? My father didn't take a single picture of Samantha when he moved out. Mom hid them all in the basement, except the last school picture. Neither had any pictures of each other – it was just pictures of me on Mom's mantel.

And none on my dad's.

"It's just a few blocks," Mrs. Budahas interrupts my thinking. "Do you mind walking?"

Veria McLennen is a blonde housewife with a Southern accent and a rather superior air about her. She shows us a screened – in porch where her husband is sitting, working on "his hobby". When I see Veria McLennen's husband, I kind of hope the Robert Budahas is dead. The man is pulling out his own sparse hair to make fish flies.

Gross.

Scully is talking to Mrs. McLennen. "How long has he been..."

"Almost two years, the flyfishing idea was his brother Hank's. I was upset at first, but when you're the wife of a test pilot, you thank God just to have him home alive."

And no explanation. "Mrs. McLennen, has anyone ever offered to explain what caused this?"

"Stress, I guess. You have to understand, the military deals with things in a certain way. They've given him plenty of therapy, and treatment, and I'm thankful for that. They've taken good care of us. And you know they do volunteer for their jobs." She walks over to Mrs. Budahas and mutters. "Really Anita, bringing the FBI to my house."

Mr. McLennen never even notices that we're there.

When we return to Mrs. Budahas's house, she hands Scully a piece of paper. "Here, I've, erm, I've called all the numbers about a thousand times, please, let me know what you find out."

"We'll be staying at the Beech Grove Motel if you anything, okay?"

"Thanks." She calls her kids inside and goes to do some military wife-y thing like baking cookies or reading the Bible.

Time to get some scientific insight. "So what did you make of Uncle Fester down the block?"

"It's called steritopy, it's a syndrome produced by extreme stress. POWs have been known to suffer from it, they've studied it in zoo animals."

"Yeah, but these guys aren't zoo animals, they're test pilots. They're not supposed to fold under pressure, they're supposed to thrive on it."

We arrive at our rental car. Scully frowns. "Ever hear of something called The Aurora Project?"

I think I have -yeah. "Yeah, that's the, er, unacknowledged codename for some new kind of defense department surveillance project."

"The Pentagon has all but admitted, they've been testing a secret class of sub-orbital spy craft over the western US. Maybe, these guys are flying those planes. Maybe these guys are the washouts."

That's bull. "You saw the photos on the wall in there. This guy Budahas received a presidential commendation, he's never washed out of anything in his life."

We both climb in the car to drive back to the motel and start making calls.

Scully takes the phone list and I take the official channels. I get put on hold and she gets hung up on for almost an hour before I see her hang up with something resembling a satisfied look. I sit down on the bed in her room and tell her, "I've been on hold with the base director of communications for fourty-five minutes, how about you?"

"Yeah, somebody named Colonel Kissel will meet with us, a week from Friday."

They'll cancel that and she knows it. "Yeah, right." Gives us a name, though. I pull out the phone book. "Did you say Kissel?"

He lives on base, about two blocks from the Budahas home. No one's home when we arrive, so we sit outside the house and wait, since we have nothing better to do until a week from Friday. He finally arrives after thirty minutes of boredom and we jump out of the car. "Colonel Kissel?" I call, and he turns around warily.

"Yes."

Not promising. "Can I talk with you? Special Agent Mulder, FBI."

"I've got nothing to say. Please, this is an invasion of my privacy."

What if I just wanted a jump? "Why don't you talk to us about Colonel Budahas?"

"Why don't you get the hell out of my yard."

I don't think we're gonna get any help from him. He runs inside and slams his door.

"Good thing we still kept that appointment," Scully says. I'm inclined to agree.

We turn at the sound of footsteps behind us, and there's a guy in his thirties or forties stanging there with a notepad. "Hi. Are you the FBI agents? I'm Paul Mossinger, I, er, work for the local paper. We live a few houses down from Veria McLennen, she said you guys are out here looking into this Budahas thing."

I hate reporters. "We're just looking around." We try to head back to our car, but -

"Aah, gotcha, right. Lot of people around here just looking around, UFO nuts mostly, but it's not everyday we get FBI." We hear an airplane, and look up, but we can't see it. "By the time you hear them, they're already gone. So this Budahas thing, are you getting anywhere?"

Still hating reporters. "We're not at liberty to comment."

"Well..."

No more. Besides, maybe he can help me out. "Paul? Right? You've lived in this area a while, you ever seen a UFO?"

"Never, bunch of hooey if you ask me. People see what they wanna see."

Fine. Unimportant. "But, if I wanted to talk to those UFO nuts, that you referred to earlier, where would I go?"

He frowns at me. "There's a place called the Flying Saucer Diner, run by some woman named Zoe. She's one of the nuts, holds meetings and stuff. It's over on the corner of Ash and Morris. Can't miss it, trust me."

The place is, indeed, called the Flying Saucer Diner, and it is, indeed, run by a very nice woman named Zoe. While we're chatting, another airplane flies overhead, this one rattling the glasses on the shelves.

"F-15 Eagle pulling about four g's. Those boys think they are such hotshots. Get a few
drinks in em, you'd think it was them up there flapping their wings."

I like her. I point to the UFO photos on the back wall. "Who's the photographer?"

"Various and sundry. I took the one on the end there."

Reealy? Cool. "You're kidding, where?"

"Out on the back porch, taking out the garbage, and there it was, just hovering." She pulls it down and hands it to me. Shows no obvious signs of being a fake. "Quiet like a hummingbird." I glance at Scully, but she closes her eyes in pain. "For a minute there, I thought it was gonna land in the parking lot and I was gonna have to serve em lunch." Scully takes the photo away from me and studies it. "I'm selling limited edition prints, twenty dollars. Down to my last five, if you're interested."

Twenty bucks? Cool. "Put it on my tab."

I try to ignore Scully, I really do, as she leans over and whispers "Sucker."

Instead I continue talking to Zoe. "What would the chances be of someone like me, seeing a UFO?"

"Catch ya outside." Scully leaves.

Zoe doesn't even notice her departure. "Depends on where you go. Out by the base, there's this field. It's on Highway 27 – that way." She points east.

That easy? "And there's UFOs there?"

"Just about every night. Here, I'll draw you up a map."

Outside, Scully is studying the map of Idaho we got for the trip.

"Wanna see something weird, Mulder? Ellens Air Base isn't even on my US GS quadrant map."

Didn't she look before she left? "I know. Let's go."

"You know. Where are we going?"

I can't help grinning. "We got our own map, sucker." I hand her the paper Zoe gave me and try to ignore the look she shoots in my direction.

Warning: This Area is a Restricted Military Installation to the West.

Not a great beginning. They don't even allow cameras. I pull up the road a little way – not to the west – and park next to a fence. My binoculars – always in the trunk on every trip I take – are all I'll need for this. And for the record, they're not attached to a camera of any kind.

"What do you honestly hope to see?"

She's tenacious, isn't she? "I don't know, maybe nothing."

"Is this why we came out here, Mulder? To look for UFOs." That last part isn't a question. I know, I'm being a jerk. Can't help it. Besides, this should make for a fun day for the person who has to read her field report.

Three hours and I've seen nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then there they are. Turns out I won't need binoculars. Two lights, flying in the sky. Not like planes, either. Bright lights, dancing around each other. Like fireflies, only too high and too bright. Like hummingbirds, only they don't hover in quite the same way. Searchlights with no beam. I don't even know what they could be.

Scully should see this.

As I'm charging down the hill, I notice the sound of glass breaking, but she seems unhurt when I get to her. In fact, I think she was asleep. "Scully, wake up. You've gotta see this." I pull her out of the car and drag her up the hill.

"What are they?"

How the hell should I know? "I don't know, just keep watching it's unbelievable."

"That's unreal. I've never seen anything like it."

I check my watch. It's been a while. "They've been going at it like that for almost half an hour."

"Well, it can't be aircraft. Aircraft can't maneuver like that."

I'm waiting. This should be good. "What else could they be?"

"I don't know, lasers maybe. Being shot from the ground, reflecting up off the clouds." The lights fly upward and vanish into the clouds. Lasers my ass. I look over at her, waiting for an explanation for that, but all I get is "Oh my God."

Another light appears in the distance. Perfect – it's headed our way. "Here comes another one."

"That's not a plane, that's a helicopter."

But she doesn't have to warn me, because that's when I hear it too. Down the hill, someone else hears it because they push their way through the fence and the bushes around it and go running off through a field. "Hey," I call after them – like that'll help.

"Let's get outta here," one of them yells, and they run faster, into the field next to the base, and I pull my gun. The boy – they're just kids – looks back and I think he sees it because they both stop and raise their hands in the air. "Okay, don't shoot."

Despite the fact that they're like, seventeen, I feel compelled to say "Stay right there."

"We didn't do anything," the girl protests.

And that's when the helicopter flies overhead. None of us should be found here. "Come on." We all run under a tree – not easily visible to a helicopter.

"He, he, That was extreme." The odor of marijuana is just barely detectable on the boy, and definitely would explain his attitude toward being chased by a helicopter.

Still, a witness is a witness. "Let's go, you're coming with us."

"What?"

Their names, I discover, are Emil and Ladonna. They go to the local high school and Emil is in a garage band. It doesn't take much prodding to learn all about his little teenagery life. We pick up his moped from down the road and stick it in the back of our car and then drive back to Zoe's.

I guess Zoe has to sleep sometime, because the place is closed.

Scully is questioning the kids about the base by the time we find another seedy diner in the middle of the next block. Emil is explaining the different types of aircraft he's seen in the very vague language of a very stoned teen.

We drag them inside and order a couple of burgers. While we wait for the food, Ladonna tells us about her plans join the army – interesting profession for someone spying on the government for fun while stoned. The food arrives, and Scully cuts to the meat of the matter.

"So, what exactly were you guys doing in there?"

Emil answers. "We were, erm, were..."

They laugh.

"We kinda have this spot," adds Ladonna.

"You know, we go, we kinda, kick back and listen to some tunes and, er, watch the air show."

Watch the air show? A "spot"? Kids today, man. "Were you ever chased out before?"

"No, first time right. Our friend showed us a hole in the fence about a year ago."

"Oh, one time they dropped these bombs, whoa!"

"Yeah, it was kinda heavy." He giggles. "Oh, er, there's this place, er, called the Yellow Base, right, where they're supposed to store all this stuff. And my friend said that, there's land mines all around it and junk like that."

Land mines and junk. Great. "What kind of things have you seen?" I ask them.

Emil picks up his hamburger and uses it to illustrate the craft he's seen. "Sometimes they come in real low, and just put on the scares right, it's like eeoou-ra and then they just hang there, and hover without making a sound. And you just think, you know, who turned down the volume, right."

Huh. "What do you think they are?"

"Okay, everybody thinks that they're like, UFOs, but I think it's some kinda, star wars cyber-tech new fangled hardware right, they probably roll it out for, Desert Storm II or something like that. Cruise right over Saddam's house, you know, it'll be like, what."

Despite the stoner talk, he's probably right. I pull out Zoe's photo. "Do they look anything like this?"

"No," says Emil.

Damn.

"They look exactly like that."

Oh.

After dinner we get in the car to take them home, and Ladonna says,"hey, your backseat's full of glass."

"Crap," Scully whispers, "I forgot!"

I turn to look at her. "Huh?"

"The window shattered."

"What?"

"It just broke. Right before you game to get me."

Not particularly normal. Lucky for me there's a place to vacuum that up right across the street.

When we get to the house (finally) and I unload Emil and Ladonna and their motorcycle moped thingy. Not very masculine. It fits in my trunk. Things you drive shouldn't fit in trunks.

"Thanks," says Emil. He hands me a tape from his pocket with a grin.

I kind of like this kid. "Later Dude!

Emil and Ladonna laugh as they walk up the driveway.

"What's that?" asks Scully when I get back in the car.

I put on my best quirky grin. "Evidence." I pop it in the tape player. Heavy metal. "Kids today, huh."

"You believe it all, don't you?"

Here we go. "Why wouldn't I?"

She grins, and I almost hear her laugh. "Mulder, did you see their eyes? If I were that stoned I..."

If she were that stoned? "Ho-hoo. If you were that stoned, what?"

"Mulder, you could have shown that kid a picture of a flying hamburger and he would have told you that's exactly what he saw."

Yeah, but he's not the only one. "Alright, I wanna show you something." I pull out the photos I brought to compare UFOs pictures with in the ones people have taken over the years. I pull out the Roswell photo and hand it to Scully. "This is a photo, of a UFO that reportedly crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947." She gives me a Look, but I don't want to debate Roswell right now. "Now I know, you don't believe that story but just hear me out. Now, Ellens Air Base, the same base that we're at right now, the same base, that for some strange reason, doesn't appear on your US government map, is supposedly one of the six sites where parts from the wreckage were shipped."

"Mulder, are you suggesting that the military is flying UFOs."

Please! "No, planes built, using UFO technology."

She almost appears to consider it. For about a second. "Mulder, come on. You've got two blurry photos, one of them taken almost fifty years ago, and another one, you purchased today in a roadside diner. You're going out on a pretty big limb."

They look a lot alike. "Tell me, there isn't a remarkable resemblance."

"Tell me, one good reason why either of these photos is authentic."

How about lights in the sky? Doing impossible things? "You saw exactly what I saw in the sky tonight. What do you think they were?"

"Just because I can't explain it, doesn't mean I'm gonna believe they were UFOs," she says in the Voice of Unshakable Conviction. Or as close as she can get to it considering she's being an idiot.

Has she forgotten the definition of UFO? "Unidentified. Flying. Objects. I think that fits the description pretty well. Tell me I'm crazy."

"Mulder, you're crazy," she says without any malice at all. I like her. "And it still doesn't explain to me what happened to Colonel Budahas."

True.

When we get back to the motel, Scully goes to check the messages. I don't really pay it any mind until she comes running to my door. "You didn't come to raid my mini-bar, did you?" I ask when I jump up to let her in.

She smiles, and actually laughs a little. "You ready for this?"

What now? "What?"

"We got a message from Mrs. Budahas, her husband came home last night."

Wow.

After a shower and some coffee, we drive over to the Budahas' house to meet the man we came to find, which might put a kink in our missing persons case.

Mrs. Budahas opens the door as unhappily as she was last time. I don't have time to ponder this before we have to say something.

Scully speaks first. "We got your message."

Which is when I realize she's crying, which would actually make her more upset than last time. "Mrs. Budahas, are you okay?"

"Come inside." She leads us into the living room.

"What is it?" Scully asks.

What's going on? "What? What's wrong?"

She leads us into the house, to the same room where we talked before. Her husband is there, painting a model airplane.

"That... is not my husband."

The resemblance is striking. Colonel Budahas looks up. "Honey, who are these people?"

I look over at the picture on the wall. Looks just like him.

"That is not him. That is not my husband. They've done something to him."

"What are you talking about?" Colonel Budahas asks, throwing down his model.

Time to try to defuse this. "It's okay, it's okay, just relax," they don't seem to be killing each other, so I continue, "well, I'm Special Agent Mulder, from the FBI. We're out here investigating your disappearance, Colonel Budahas." No reaction. "Wondering if you have any explanation of your whereabouts over the past four months."

He seems to think for a second. "I was in the hospital."

What hospital? "Here, on base?"

Another second. "I think so." He's having too much trouble with these.

Okay, memory test. Start simple. "Colonel Budahas, do you mind if I ask you your birth date?"

He sighs. "November 21st, 1948." No pause there.

I glance over at his wife, and she nods. "And the names of your kids?"

"Josh and Lesley, they're right there." Again, no pause. I glance back at the kids. They're staring at us.

I hear Mrs. Budahas whisper "Yeah."

His sweatshirt says Green Bay. Let's try something not in the records. "Green Bay fan."

"Yes sir."

Okay, Football. I can do football... I think. "Bet you remember the Super Bowl of" please let me get the year right "68, huh? Don Shandler."

He's angry now. Is that a symptom or is he just sick of this? "Kicked four field goals, Lombardy's last game. Why do I have to answer these questions?"

"It's not him." Thank you Mrs. Budahas. Scully blinks at me, which I have no way of possibly interpreting into English.

Okay, work. We'll try work. "Colonel, Colonel Budahas, you're a, a pilot, isn't that right?"

"Yes sir."

What was it that Danny called it? An Immelman? "Bet you've flown just about everything with two wings. I got this hotshot pilot friend, who said that he could do Immelman at a sustained eight G's, huh, is that possible?"

He freezes. "I, I don't... I can't... Anita, I can't remember." He stands up and goes to his wife, but she backs away, crying, which is too bad because he looks completely panicked. Well, I guess I was right. Something is wrong here. Go me.

Mrs. Budahas keeps backing away. "No!" she yells, then starts sobbing.

Well, our work here is done, and I don't know what to do. He's not dangerous, I don't think. He's not himself, either. "Excuse me," I say, very clearly and calmly, before I book it out the door.

"Mulder, would you explain to me what's going on?" Scully chases me out the door and she is not amused.

Isn't it obvious? There's only one thing that could have happened here. "I think they re-wired that man's brain. Some kind of selective memory drain."

"The brain doesn't work like that, Mulder. You can't just go in and erase certain files." She's grumpy now.

Fine. "Then you explain it to me."

"There are types of amnesia th.."

This isn't amnesia and she knows it. "This is not amnesia, I think it's something far more deliberate and insidious."

"All I'm saying, is that the science or medical technology to do what you are suggesting, does not exist."

But she's not sticking with the amnesia theory, so we'll call it a step in the right direction. "And neither does the technology to fly the aircraft we saw last night. Listen to me Scully, they can do this. That man, he should have known the answer to the question, it just wasn't in his head anymore." And so I get into the car and she gets in the other side and we're back to the motel, I guess, although God only knows what I'll do from there.

On our way back to the motel – and then what? I notice that there is a car behind me.

"Even if they could, why would they do such a thing?" Scully asks.

So he can't tell. "To control information. I think that after his psychotic episode, Colonel Budahas became a security risk."

"It couldn't just be that he had a nervous breakdown with a concommitive memory lapse."

That doesn't make a lot of sense. Not in someone like the Colonel. He's never washed out of anything "No, I think that men like Colonel Budahas are physiologically incapable of dealing with the stress of flying the aircraft we saw. Or doing those maneuvers, at those speeds. I mean we're talking about a technology that is so sensitive and advanced, that it's taken almost fifty years to make it work. UFO technology, Scully."

She chuckles. The car behind me is gone but two cars approach from the front. They pull up to us, blocking us from going either direction.

"What the hell is th-" Scully begins.

I'm gonna have to stop quick. "Hold on." I slam the brakes and pull to the side of the road. We don't have to wait long. They use their cars to block us and swarm our car. It's the Men in Black – seriously. Black suits, black ties. Nondescript. No identifying features, nothing to make them stand out in a crowd. One of them starts knocking on my window. "Please," he calls in a fairly unpleasant voice, "step out of the car."

I turn to Scully. "You think if maybe we ignore him, he'll go away?" He knocks again, louder. I guess not.

"Please, step out of the car."

It isn't worth a try. "Guess not." I hop out and go to pull my badge. "Special Agent Mulder, FBI."

I don't think they have a lot of respect for the Feds, because they push me up against the car before I have time to reach for my ID, all while I'm yelling, "Mulder, FBI," just on the off chance that'll help. Of course, they already knew who I was. They know everything. Except for what's in my pocket, I guess, because they're doing a pretty thorough search. Scully gets out of her side and gets the same treatment.

They open the car and start rummaging through it. Even our weapons are taken. The trunk opens and then I can see the man standing in front of it carefully exposing all the film in my camera. They go through Scully's briefcase and my folders, including taking the Roswell photo which any idiot could get from a book in about a thousand bookstores across America. I've ticked someone off. "You wanna tell me what this is about?" Someone punches me in the kidney. Nice.

"National security." Of course. "Now get in your car. You'll be escorted back to your motel. You will pack and leave town immediately, or assume the consequences of intense indiscretion."

And then they drive away.

So we go back to the motel and change and pack, and then I go over to Scully's room while she calls on the plates. She's on hold with someone named Gayle, so I stretch out and wait.

They're not giving me a lot of choice here, but I'm gonna humor Scully anyway. So I wait patiently while she checks the plates on the cars (no match). Once the pacing and waiting is over, she turns to me where I'm sprawled out on the bed. "So who were those guys?"

I've been giving that some thought. Emil and Ladonna have been breaking into the base for over a year and no one's cared. "I don't think it was those kids they were chasing away from the base last night, I think it was us. They knew we were coming before we ever arrived. And they returned Colonel Budahas as a decoy." We were never going to be allowed to investigate this. They even tried to warn me, I realize. Oh, she's gonna kill me. I sit up and look her in the eyes. "There's something I didn't tell you, Scully."

"Something else?"

Point taken. Moving on. "I was approached by a man in D.C. who warned me to stay away from this case, he didn't give me his name, and my phone was being tapped." I really should have at least told her that last bit.

"What!"

The pieces are finally starting to come together. There's nothing better for discrediting your witnesses than letting them see pieces. No one's going to believe two stoned kids, but two FBI agents? We can be believed and that's why we cannot be allowed to investigate this in an official capacity. It all makes sense now. "Why would they go to all this trouble? Out of a need for security." But what could they be hiding? There's only one way to know, but there's a reason most UFO photos look similar – they're of the same thing. Only mabye not an alien thing. "Security of what? I find myself pacing the room now. This is it. I'll have proof. I think there's a huge conspiracy here Scully. They've got a UFO here, I'm sure of it." Our UFO. "And they'll do anything to keep it a secret, including sacrificing lives and minds of those pilots, because what if that secret got out?" And I wait.

"If, if that were true, it would be a national scandal."

But where would we get the technology? "No no, you're not thinking big enough, if it were true, it would be confirmation of the existence of extra terrestrial life."

She is on her feet now too. "Did you ever stop to think that what we saw was simply an experimental plane. Like the stealth bomber or, this Aurora Project. Doesn't the government have a right and a responsibility to protect it's secrets?"

The basic military debate, but it ends here and now. Reasonable secrets yes. Secrets that could save lives, not destroy them. "Yes, but at what cost, when does the human cost become too high for the building of a better machine?"

"Look, these are questions we have no business asking." If not us, who? But I keep my mouth shut. "Our kidnap victim is no longer outstanding. Let's get out of here Mulder, while you still have a job." For a second there I thought she was gonna cry.

She's right, of course. I pick up Zoe's photo – ironically, the one the Men in Black didn't steal – and wave it in front of her. "Aren't you even curious?" She takes it from me and sits down on the bed. But she says nothing, which is what I thought she'd say. Better that way – for her to say nothing. And best if I leave her out of it. "I'm gonna shower, I'll pack and then, we'll get out of here." But I don't need a shower, and I'm packed enough.

The car keys are in my pocket and I remember exactly how to get to Emil's house. From there, they show me how to get onto the base, where the proof is. My career might end right there, but Scully will be in the clear and I'll have proven that some of my work is real. Maybe she'll be able to carry on like that.

I jump in the car and start the engine. What I didn't expect is Scully to come running. "Mulder, where are you going?"

I ignore her, despite the yelling coming from beside the car as I pull out of the parking lot and drive away.

Emil answers the door at his house, making me wonder if he even has parents.

"Dude, wicked! You're back!"

Not the brightest of the bunch, is he? "Yeah, Emil, I was wondering if you could give me a hand?"

"Like, you need me to hook you up?"

Does he even realize he just offered to get a FBI agent high? "No, I just need you to show me where to get onto the base."

Ladonna wanders by at this moment. "Yeah," she says, "we can show you. No problem."

I drive them back to the base with me and we all get out. Emil runs over and lifts up a corner of the fence that has lost it's attachment, hidden by weeds. "Right here."

I crawl through, but they don't follow. "Hey, aren't you guys coming?"

"No, we're, you know, we've only gone in at night."

"Okay, this spot you told me about where you watch the air show, how far is it?" I can see kind of a rough path they must have made by walking over and over. Subtle.

"Forty-five minutes," Emil volunteers.

Why that one spot? "Will I be able to find it?"

"Just stay on the path," says Ladonna. They probably squashed all the grass away.

Okay, but that's not what I really need. "And what about this other place you told me about, Yellow Base, where they hangar them."

The reaction is immediate. Both kids flinch. "Don't, don't even, it's like ten miles, nobody's ever, nobody's ever been that far."

I guess I better start. As I walk away, Ladonna calls "Hey, don't go past the edge of the tall weeds."

I hear some muttering behind me and then both kids call "HEY!" Sigh. I turn back.

"Did I tell you about the land mines and junk?" Emil seems perplexed.

Groan. "Yeah, Emil, you told me."

"Cool. Hey, good luck."

Good luck to you too kid. "Thanks, Emil."

He walks up the hill to where we parked his moped and for some reason I'm extremely proud to know him.

A ten-mile walk should take roughly three and a half hours. It's fairly smooth terrain, and not a very warm day, so it isn't too terrible physically, but always my thoughts return to Samantha, as they do with any tedious task.

Maybe that's why I hate my office so much lately. I have to be occupied all the time, and I don't have time anymore to dwell on the fact that I've lost my only sister. That she's gone and that I'm alone. I don't think about her as much. I miss her more now than I did when I worked alone because now she's not as much a part of my thoughts because I spend all my time doing other things. Productive things.

But now that I'm here, alone, I can remember that night – or what there is of it – over and over and over.

What I didn't tell Scully is that it was all my fault.

People don't see the burden I carry, but it really was all me. We were playing Stratego in the living room that night – November 27, 1973. It was almost nine o'clock. The Watergate hearings were on the TV, but we weren't really watching. Mostly we were waiting for The Magician. Or at least I was.

That's what the fight was about. The Magician versus some lame movie she wanted to watch that I never did learn the name of. Mom and Dad were next door, and Samantha had gotten their permission, but I was the older brother and I was in charge and I wanted to watch The Magician.

She got up and changed the channel to some lame Western. I stood up too, towering over her. "Hey!" I yelled, "Get out of my life!"

You know how sometimes you say something and then you just know? Right then, I just knew. But I shook it off. It was stupid to think she would actually get out of my life. Not like she ever did anything I asked her. I changed the channel and she screamed in my ear.

I was undaunted. "I'm watching 'The Magician'."

And that's when the power went out. My twelve-year-old self turned on her immediately. "Now look, the fuse is blown."

And then the rattling started. After my hypnosis, I remembered disjointed images, bright light, trying to get Dad's gun but being unable to load it. And Samantha, screaming. Not like the scream she'd directed at me a minute before but the scream of terror pleading for me to help her.

But I couldn't. I couldn't even move.

I don't know if that was paralysis from fear or mind control.

Scully would probably say fear, but in the end it doesn't matter. She would probably say, also, that it's understandable, that I was just a child, and that I'm not blamable. But Samantha floated straight out the window into a blinding light and then she was gone and her screams faded and so did the light and that's when I could move again.

And if I had moved two seconds earlier I could have pulled her away, and saved her.

I can't help thinking that.

And now I'm at the edge of the tall weeds. It probably wasn't ten miles. I decide to wait here for dark before trespassing. I'm not stupid.

Dark is only an hour or two away, and I use the time to focus on the base itself. I can see a tarmac some kind, and buildings in the distance. There are people moving around but no sign, not even one, that anyone knows I'm here.

Once it's completely dark, I stand up. My legs are numb, and it takes a minute not to stagger, but as soon as I can walk, I walk onto the tarmac and head for the buildings in the distance. There's no cover. None at all. So I wait for someone to look out a window and spot me.

I guess they have motion sensors, because it doesn't even take that long before I see the light in the distance. It's a triangle – an aircraft.

A UFO.

It hovers over me, and the lights on it's underside flicker on, right over my head. It's so bright that I have to cover my eyes, and then it simply flies away.

Before I get the chance to congratulate myself on my good luck, something sounds behind me. It's not an aircraft...I turn around...

Cars.

Two or more.

Full of soldiers all bent on capturing me. I don't even have time to run very far, and then they're on top of me. My first clear memory is being pinned to a stretcher and strapped on. Great.

Someone injects me with something over my objections, and the world fades away.

I come to in a hangar of some kind. There are men in white overalls everywhere, and a triangle under plastic on the other side of the room. And then I hear a voice.

"He's conscious. Give him some more."

And the world fades away again.

Someone shines a light in my eyes and then drops something into them. And it burns like a motherfucker.

I don't even notice losing consciousness this time.

I come to sitting in the back of a jeep full of soldiers with no clue how I got there. In fact, no clue where I am. In fact, no clue how I got to this place where I have no clue how I got here. Whatever I've been doing, it was probably a really stupid thing to do.

We reach some kind of gate in the middle of nowhere and drive through. I wonder why I'm not asking questions, and then I realize that I can't seem to speak. The world whirs when I move my head and I realize I'm still a little woozy. Maybe I fell off of something. But then I should be in an ambulance.

"Get out," says the soldier next to me, and somehow I manage to do that. I look around and realize Scully is standing next to a car facing us, holding a gun in her hand, so I head for her. She probably won't shoot me, I think, although I can't tell you exactly why that's so funny.

"Get in the car Mulder. Get in the car." Scully sounds tired, so I do what she says. I have to pass a man who seems familiar. I met him earlier – Paul. Paul Mossinger.

"I just wanna say, everything you've seen here is equal to the protection we give it. It's you who have acted inappropriately."

What did I do?

I climb in the car and Scully gets behind the wheel and drives away. "You okay, Mulder?"

I wiggle my fingers. All my parts seem to be working. I just hope she can tell me why I need to be worrying about that. "I think so. Scully I..."

"What?"

Put aside your pride, Mulder. "How did I get here?"

"Mulder, what do you remember?" said with the Voice of Dawning Fear.

This is what they did to Budahas, isn't it? "I need to see Colonel Budahas."

"Mulder, no. You should rest, you should-"

Uh uh. "Scully, I have to know."

When Mrs. Budahas opens her door, I know it's over. She won't even open it all the way, just a crack.

"We came by to see how your husband was doing," I tell her when she neglects to say anything.

"Oooh, he's fine, he's getting much better now."

I know what the answer's going to be before I ask. "Do you think, maybe, we could see him."

"Well, well he's resting now."

A male voice calls from the house. "Who is it now?"

She looks embarrassed, at least. "Thank you for your concern," she says, before slamming the door in our faces.

That's that, I guess. There's got to be something that we can do to help her. "They got to her Scully. They were here, they must have threatened her and Budahas..." Probably the threatened the kids. They're cute, they'd make a good threat.

"That's enough Mulder! We don't know anything. Anything more than when we got here, and that's what I gonna write in my field report. Let's get outta here Mulder, as fast as we can."

She's right, I know.

The flight back is uncomfortable, to say the least. Scully tries to distract herself by reading a book and I keep concentrating on my lost memories. About halfway there, she looks up from her book and says, "Mulder, will you give it up already?"

I'm completely floored. "Why? What else should I be doing? I want to know what I saw, Scully."

"Mulder, if you don't remember, concentrating on it isn't going to help. You're more likely to remember if you just relax and think about something else for a while."

Which just illustrates the differences between us, I guess, because even though she's right I can't help focusing on what I've lost for the rest of the trip home.

A week later, it's still not any better. I can kind of remember whispering voices and a bright light if I really really concentrate. My last memory before the Jeep – which is a little foggy – is driving away from the motel to Emil's house.

During the lost time I probably got a detailed explaination of exactly what the whole conspiracy at Ellens is up to. Sadly, all I remember is a few fading seconds of light – and I can only recall it clearly if I go running or some other activity.

So I've been avoiding the office. Scully, I think, doesn't mind. The Bureau doesn't mind either if I want to spend all my time at their FBI-approved gym, so I spend as much time as I can running, playing basketball, swimming.

Anything to keep my memories.

I'm running on the track when my very own spy comes wandering toward me. I jog across the field to meet him, hoping he can tell me what I've forgotten. That's stupid, I know, but I can't help hoping.

"Your lives may be in danger."

Not a promising beginnining. "Why?" What have I gotten Scully into?

"Mmm, you've seen things that weren't to be seen. Care and discretion are now imperative."

Care and discretion? I don't even know what I saw! "I saw something I..."

"As I said, I can provide you with information, but only so long as it's in my best interest to do so."

What does that mean? "What is your interest?"

"The truth."

I'll give you some truth, you vague son of a - "I did see something, but it's gone, they took it from me, they erased it. You have to tell me what it was."

"A military UFO? Mr. Mulder, why are those like yourself, who believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life on this earth, not dissuaded by all the evidence to the contrary?"

That's an easy one. Just turn it around on him. "Because all the evidence to the contrary is not entirely dissuasive."

He smiles and nods. "Precisely." And then he walks away from me.

Mystery man or no, I want an answer. Just one. "They're here, aren't they?"

He stops dead and turns to face me. "Mister Mulder, they've been here for a long long time."

I return to the office that afternoon to see a finished report on my desk, waiting for my signature.

While not strictly necessary, It's good to have both agents sign off on these things. Scully is paying about as much attention to what I'm doing as she always does, which is to say none.

I flip through the report. There's no "Mulder's a crazy psychopath," or "Unfounded theories." Just a lot of "I don't know." She doesn't know what happened to me. She can't explain it – and she doesn't even try.

In a way, I think, she's sending me a message. It's okay to believe, she's telling me, as long as it's okay for her to not believe. And it's okay for her reports to reflect that – at least okay with the only person whose opinion matters to her – herself.

I sign the report. And then I chuck a pencil at the ceiling.