"The Best Laid Plans....." part 1 of 2 by Pellinor, with creative .... er .... "help" from Andrew. ********** We think this is a parody. We're not quite sure what it's a parody of, mind you. Anyway, whatever it is, it isn't serious. We hope. SUMMARY: Mulder, on a daring quest for a suitably dramatic denouement to this story, finds his efforts hampered by a trainee Man-in-Black who seems to have strayed in from some heart-warming rags-to-riches saga that probably involves Christmas and Lassie and sickeningly cute kids (though these don't have speaking parts, thank God). However, he has the heroic and ever-obliging narrator on his side, so what can go wrong? Oh, and blame me for anything you like in this. Blame Andrew for anything you don't. And not forgetting the boring bit: These people aren't ours, except for Cyril. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox etc, and we're borrowing them without permission for our own nefarious purposes, which don't involve profit. Come on, Chris - you don't think people would _pay_ us for this? ********** "Mulder?" Scully looked up from the bulging filing cabinet, still coughing a little at the dust which lurked in its cavernous interior. "Yes?" "Where shall I put the file on that Minnesota case we were on last month? Shall I put it under G for gerbils or A for alien abductions?" "Put it under X." Mulder didn't even look up. He was chewing his pen, eyes staring fixedly at a magazine of the type he definitely didn't .... er .... "read." "Mul - der!" Scully rolled her eyes. "We already have 1,121 files under X. There are 25 other drawers, quite empty, just waiting for us to file things in them." She sighed. "Honestly, Mulder, I despair of you sometimes. What you'd do without me to do your paperwork, I can't imagine. I love you. And where shall I put the file about the killer lettuces?" Mulder stopped chewing his pen, shutting the magazine hastily. "What did you say?" Scully bit her lip, playing the conversation back in her mind. "Er .... I don't know .... Oh, sorry! Not lettuces! Radishes. Sorry. I always get them confused. Probably because they're the same colour - or so you tell me." Mulder shook his head impatiently. "No! I mean, what did you say about .... about me?" Was it her imagination, or was he going red? Or was it green? Scully opened a file at random, trying to hide her confusion. Bad move. It was the file about the alien retrovirus, lavishly illustrated with photographs of Mulder naked in his hospital bed. Purely for research purposes, she'd assured the doctors, as she'd spent three hours with a camera, positioning his limbs so as best to show the ..... the .... er ..... "evidence." "I said 'I love you,'" she mumbled at last. Now it was her turn to go green .... er .... red. "No, no, no!" Mulder exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You're not supposed to say it like that!" "Why not? What's wrong .... with .... with how I said it?" Scully was finding it hard to find the words, her mind too distracted by the pictures in front of her. "I just suddenly wanted you .... I mean, " she corrected herself hastily. "I just suddenly wanted to .... to say it." "It's just not right," Mulder explained. "You're supposed to save that sort of declaration for the end of a story, right at the dramatic denouement." He stood up, looking earnestly at her. "It's a shame to waste it. After all, you have been secretly thinking it for years." Scully shut the file. "Have I?" she asked, frowning. "I didn't know." "Oh, you've been keeping it a secret, even from yourself." His voice was casual, as if he was speaking of something blatantly obvious, but then he paused, evidently noticing Scully's bemused expression. "Trust me. I can tell these things. I'm a psychologist." Scully could feel tears starting in her eyes. "But I want to tell you now," she said, plaintively. "I .... I don't want to wait." She blinked fiercely, trying to pull herself together. "What sort of situation is suitably dramatic?" "Well, ideally I should be in hospital. You know." He held up his right hand, finger and thumb held a fraction of an inch apart. "_This_ close to death. In a coma. Doctors despairing. That sort of thing." Scully couldn't suppress a shudder. She knew what he was talking about all too well. "And then you can keep a bedside vigil, not leaving my side even to sleep, and can tell me that you can't live without me, that you don't want me to die, that you love me." He looked up triumphantly. "_That_ sort of dramatic." "Oh." Scully couldn't keep the disappointment from her voice. "But .... well .... you see, I _would_ like to tell you I love you quite soon. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. I .... I don't suppose there's a chance we can forget about all that dramatic stuff, is there?" Mulder shook his head, emphatically. "No way. We've got to do things by the book." There was silence for a while, both of them frowning with concentration, grappling with the situation. "I know!" Scully exclaimed at last, her voice full of hope. She leaned over and put a file on Mulder's desk. "You can get a paper cut." But Mulder wasn't listening. He was leafing through his diary, scoring things out with a pencil. "I've just checked," he said at last. "I'm not doing anything for the next week - nothing that can't be canceled anyway. How about I go off somewhere without telling you for a day or two. You can be really worried, and realise how important I am to you. Then I can show up in hospital somewhere, in a coma, and ..... well, you know what happens from there." Scully was silent for a few seconds, her mind running over the plan. It seemed sensible enough. But .... "Do you _have_ to go without telling me?" she asked suddenly. "I'd rather know where you're going." Mulder shook his head. "No. It's vitally important you don't know I've gone. Then we get the emotional tension as you waver between anger with me at disappearing and worry about what's happening to me. It's not nearly as dramatic otherwise." "Okay." Scully looked at the clock. "So, when shall we start?" "Now seems as good a time as any," Mulder replied, pulling on his coat. "I'll see you at .... er .... what about 11.21 tomorrow night? That gives me a good day and a half to find someone willing to shoot me, or whatever." "Okay," Scully said again. "Bye!" And then the door closed, and she was alone in the room..... And then the door opened, and she wasn't alone in the room..... "Sorry," Mulder explained, sheepishly. "I forgot to leave you an email telling you I've gone somewhere really dramatic where you can't follow me." He sat down at his computer. "No peeping, Scully." "I'm not looking," Scully assured him. "I'm reading a file." Which wasn't quite true. "Reading" wasn't quite the right word for what she was doing to those pictures. "Now," said Mulder, his typing finished. "Don't you go checking your mail for at least .... let's see ...." He paused, doing hasty calculations on his fingers. "Oh, at least 6 hours." "But, Mulder!" Scully complained. "I was hoping to read some Sweet Valley High fan fiction this afternoon." She was suddenly aware of his expression and continued, hastily. "Not that I normally read it! I just need something light to distract myself from worrying about where you've got to." "Use my computer. I trust you with my password." He smiled, suddenly. "Perhaps I should change it to TRUSTNO1EXCEPTSCULLY." And then he was gone. "Mulder!" Scully jumped up and ran to the door, calling down the corridor. "Which hospital?" Mulder stopped. "Oh, any. It doesn't really matter. You choose." "No, _you_ choose. After all, you're the one who's got to be treated in it." "No, _you_ choose. I'll be unconscious. I won't even notice what it's like. Choose one that's got comfortable chairs for when you do your bedside vigil. Though I'd rather have one that does blue hospital gowns. I prefer blue to those green ones - or are they red?" Scully shrugged. "I don't care." She walked across to a book shelf, returning with an atlas. Shutting her eyes, she pointed at a page at random. "The Isle of Wight, England. No, that won't do." She tried again. "The Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. No." Half an hour, Mulder snatched the atlas from her hands, shutting it with a bang. On the front cover, which was a lovely shade of red, she could see the words "Rest of the World Atlas." "Try this one!" he said, stamping quickly into the office and emerging with another book, almost identical except for the green cover and the title and the picture on the front and the contents. Scully opened the new atlas at random. "Icy Cape, Alaska." She shivered. "No!" She tried again. "The desert, New Mexico. No." Quarter of an hour later, she was successful. "South-west Idaho." She consulted a medical directory. "That would be the Dr Moreau hospital. Not far from Ellen's air base." "Where?" Mulder frowned. "Never heard of it." Scully shut the atlas. "Well, I'll see you there, then." She returned slowly to the office. "Mulder!" She wrenched open the door again. "Don't forget to drop your...." Suddenly she tripped on something lying in the middle of the corridor. Something hard and metallic. "Gun," she finished, weakly, as she sat down heavily on the floor. ********* It was night, the sky pitchy dark even though it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. Mulder smiled with satisfaction, pleased that even the elements were co-operating in producing a suitably dramatic denouement. "And now to get myself shot, or exposed to some corrosive red blood, or whatever," he said to himself, as he crept through the undergrowth, confident that his black leather jacket would conceal him from any UFOs that flew overhead. When he reached his destination he stopped, reaching into his pack for his torch. "Damn!" he exclaimed, after five minutes searching revealed that he'd dropped it. "Now what am I supposed to do?" He was crouched in front of a notice at the perimeter of an airbase, and wasn't prepared to break in until he could read it. After all, there were air bases and air bases. He didn't want to go to all the trouble of sneaking into one only to find it was the wrong sort. Suddenly there was a dazzling light in the sky, and the hands on his watch started whirling around backwards. In the distance, way behind him, two grey-skinned creatures with big eyes twirled around, striking poses and smiling cheesy grins while several long-haired men took picture after picture as they floated into the air and disappeared. "Good!" said Mulder. "Light. Now I can read this." "Bottom Secret Air Base," he read. "Please do not enter, if it's not too much trouble. Intruders will be given coffee and cookies and asked politely not to do it again. Thank you for letting us share this with you." Mulder sighed with exasperation, and strolled away. No need even to crawl, not here. After a few hundred yards, he dropped down into the long grass again, and crawled up to another perimeter fence. "Now, where's that light source gone?" he mused, as he tried to read the notice. Just then, there was a dazzling flash of light as ten - or maybe thirteen - tanks raced towards him with head-lights blazing. Warheads arched through the sky towards him, exploding in front of him with an earth-shaking roar. "Thanks!" Mulder shouted, trying to be heard above the noise, grateful to them - that is, Them - for providing him with sufficient light to read the notice. "Top Secret Air Base," he read. "Intruders will be terminated, without hope of recovery." Mulder shook his head. Another one not suitable. Fortunately, he could remember that there were three areas not marked on the map. Somewhere near here was another airbase, and - well, everyone said it was always third time lucky. The third one was only a few hundred yards away, but it too was shrouded in darkness. Mulder peered up at the notice, struggling to read it, but it was no use. "I might as well just risk it," he mused. "After all, the first one was too easy, the second one too hard, so this is bound to be _just_ right." But then there was another dazzling flash of light. Behind him, just a few yards away, a glowing metal disk landed and two creatures got out. One of them rushed over to Mulder, jumping up and down and squeaking. The other one held something that looked rather like a camera, and pointed it at his companion who was standing proudly next to Mulder. Mulder sighed with relief, reading the notice in the sudden and welcome light. "Medium Secret Air Base," he read, as the creature thrust a piece of paper and a pen into his hand, saying something that sounded like "Ee-luv-bleep-the-sh-ow-bloop-I-am- eek-an-ecksphile-bleep". "Intruders might be rather seriously hurt, but not without hope of recovery. Suitable for heroes of television shows," he read, as he absently signed his name on the piece of paper. Tacked underneath the main notice was a temporary notice on a piece of paper. "Training in progress," he read, as two little voices squeaked excitedly. "You may experience some slight delay in getting injured. We apologise for any inconvenience, and thank you in advance for your patience." "Will you kids shut up?" he shouted, at last, without looking round. "I'm trying to reach a dramatic denouement!" When at last all was silent, Mulder crouched down and crawled through the large gap in the fence that was just under the notice. It wasn't far to go - it was only a medium-sized airbase after all. Within half an hour he'd arrived at the centre of the base, and stood looking at the buildings, the runways, the strange triangular shaped planes. "So, this is what a secret airbase looks like," he thought. "I've always wanted to see one from the inside." He took a step forward, then another, until he was in the middle of the runway. There was a sudden flash of light as a plane flew over head. Overcome by the excitement of being inside a secret airbase at last, Mulder waved at it, but was disappointed when no-one waved back. When he was little, he'd been to an airshow and a low-flying plane had dropped candy on the crowd. Samantha had got some, but he hadn't, and he'd never recovered from the resentment. Now, it was happening all over again.... Blinking back the tears, he didn't notice the group of men in black suits who crept up behind him. Lost in recollection, he didn't notice the whispered exchange a few feet away from him. "Shall I do it?" "No, you did the last one. It's my turn." "It's not fair. You've done three already. You're top of the class already. You don't need this." "Well, let Cyril do it then." "Oh, I can't ..... I'm scared. I've never done it before .... not on a real person. Only on a hamster. And that was dead already." "Are you scared?" There was an outburst of sniggering, hastily suppressed. "He's scared. Chicken! Chicken!" "I'm not! I'mnotI'mnotI'mnot!" "Do it then." There was a rushing noise as a gun cut savagely through the air, aimed at Mulder's head. "Er .... not bad," said a voice. "Try hitting him this time." The first Mulder knew of all this was when he was suddenly clubbed on the head with the butt of a gun, and fell to the floor. "Yes!" he thought, just before passing out. "It's all happening according to plan." Silence.... "Er...." Mulder whispered weakly at last from the stretcher he'd been strapped to. "I thought this scene was from _my_ point of view. How can we carry on this story if I'm unconscious?" The Men in Black ("Can I call you "Thems?" asked Mulder. "It's quicker to write.") scratched their heads, looking blank. "I don't suppose we could see it from _your_ point of view?" They shook their heads emphatically. "No way! We're enigmatic and mysterious Thems. You can't see inside _our_ minds." Silence. At last Cyril spoke. "Er.... What about the omniscient narrator? Can she do it?" "That's a great idea!" Mulder said. "Could you ask her? I feel a bit weak." "I knew you were going to ask me," said the omniscient narrator. "What are you doing here?" asked Mulder, suspiciously. "Have you been following me?" "Actually," said the omniscient narrator. "I've written this whole scene already." Mulder looked outraged. "But ..... but ..... I thought this scene was from _my_ point of view!" he gasped, at last. "No. Look." The omniscient narrator handed over a pile of papers, sitting back smugly while Mulder read, his mouth falling open with astonishment. "Aliens? Autographs? I don't remember that! They shouldn't be in the scene, not if it's from _my_ point of view. We should only have things _I_ saw." "Well, I beat you to it, I'm afraid. I grabbed this scene first." She shook her head, pityingly. "You don't think I'd let you write your own scenes, do you? You'd probably drop them." "That's not fair! It's _my_ scene. It's ....." Just then Mulder fell back onto the stretcher, unconscious. The omniscient narrator rubbed her hands in glee, chuckling evilly. The Thems bundled Mulder into a van and drove him into their headquarters, where they ...... "Look," said the omniscient narrator to Andrew. "Can you be the omniscient narrator now, please. I've done it all so far, and the only bit you've suggested is the missiles at the top secret airbase and the 25 empty filing drawers. It's not really fair, not if we're going to share the writing credits on this one." "Okay," sighed the new omniscient narrator. "But I'm going to dictate. You can still do the typing. That way you get driven mad by having to type "omniscient" too many times. Anyway, I suggested the bit about the Scully having the wrong atlas as well." The Thems bundled Mulder into a van and drove him to headquarters, where they ..... "What _did_ they - sorry, I mean They - do?" asked the not-very- omniscient narrator. "How should I know?" asked Pellinor. "I'm not the narrator any more." "But you made up the story," complained Andrew. "How can I be the omniscient narrator if I don't know the plot? Unless you let me make it _very_ silly, of course. Like, inside could be Cancer Man who's really Tim the Enchanter from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail", who sets the Beast of Caer Bannog on Mulder, and then....." Pellinor sighed with exasperation. "Okay, then. I'll be narrator. But I'm not typing that O word ever again. I'm just all-knowing." The Thems bundled Mulder into a van and drove him to headquarters, where they .... they ..... they did all that stuff that happens in "Deep Throat" - you know, that stuff with the close up pictures of eyes and things that I can't write about properly because I've got a thing about eyes and I think that bit's the most frightening bit in any episode I've seen so far, although I've not seen the third season yet, even though I _am_ the O-word, because British television is annoying, although perhaps, come to think of it, that bit in the lift - I mean, elevator - in "Ghost in the Machine" is more frightening because I've got a thing about lifts as well - I mean, elevators - and.... Cyril sighed. "Okay, okay. If you're going to be like that, _I'll_ do this scene then." Cyril bit his lip with worry, looking down at the figure on the table in front if him. Unconscious. Drugged. With no memory of what had happened. Things were going well. Just then three Men in Black - Big Thems - walked into the room. Silently, the stood in a line against the wall and held up signs. "4 point 4," Cyril read. "3 point 7. 4 point 3." His heart sank, and tears stung his eyes An average of barely more than four! He knew the artistic interpretation marks were better, but it would take miracle to pass now. He failed. 6 point 5, his total mark, after the artistic interpretation marks had been taken into account, and the pass mark was seven. "But why?" His disappointment made him bold. "I did it all by the book." "We know." The Big Thems looked sorry for him. "It's not your fault. But he made it so easy for you. No _serious_ intruder would stand in the middle of the runway like that. You know that to pass you have to include some really difficult moves in your routine." "Please! Can I try again?" Cyril asked. The Big Thems whispered together for a while and then nodded. "You may as well use the same intruder," they - sorry, They - said. "It would be a shame to waste him." ************** Scully stumbled into the office, laden down with bags. It was a day since she'd last seen Mulder, and she'd half-considered starting worrying last night, but thought better of it. Better to stay calm until the next day, when he didn't show up at work. Better still, go shopping first thing in the morning and arrive late herself, so she could _deninitely_ worry if Mulder still hadn't shown up. She put the bags down on the desk, sorting through her purchases. It was nearly Christmas and she'd been shopping for her large family. "That's strange!" she muttered, examining a large pink box that fell out of the top of one of her bags. "I'm _sure_ there was a doll in that box when I bought it." She turned the box over, reading the print. "New! Samantha doll," she read. "Gives you a goal in life." But then she smiled when she pulled out the present she'd bought for Mulder. It was new in the shops, and could have been designed specially for him. "Yo-yo gun," it said on the packet. "Bounces back when you drop it." Shame it was only a water pistol, but it was better than nothing. At least he'd have _some_ weapon next time he was outnumbered by hordes of assassins. Mulder! Surely it was okay to worry about him now. It was nearly eleven in the morning and he should certainly be here by now. She'd spent the night in an agony of anxiety, lest she spoil the whole plan by worrying too soon and rescuing him before he'd got himself hurt, but she was suddenly certain that it was okay to start looking for him. But where to start? She supposed she could ask Skinner, or Mr X, but she remembered the last time she'd done that they'd nearly killed each other, and it would be a pity if anyone got hurt unecessarily by Mulder's plan. What else had she done that time? Oh yes - the computer. She reached over and switched it on, skimming quickly through the 23 messages from Frohike until she found what she was looking for. "Scully," she read. "I've gone somewhere very dangerous - somewhere I have to go alone. You can't follow me, because it's more dramatic if I'm by myself. I'll see you at 11.21. I love you. Mulder." "I love you!" she quoted, in disgust. "I love you?" She stood up quickly, knocking the chair over in her haste. "After all he said to me about getting the right dramatic moment, he has to go and do this to me! He as good as promised me I could say it first. It's not fair. He's always first. First to find a case. First to arrive at the denouement at the end, so I come running up just as the exciting things have stopped happening so I can go on not believing them. And now ..... now he's first on this too." She reached for her coat, leaving the bags untouched on the desk. "Well, if he's going to be like that, I'm not going to play by the book either. Why I should spend the day running around looking for Mr X, or people like that? I'm going to Idaho, and I'm checking into a nice hotel, and I'm going to go to the pool, and the bar, and ..... and enjoy myself." She paused for a moment. "Until just before 11.21, of course," she added. ********** Mulder awoke to find himself lying in a puddle next to a hole in a fence. The moon was out so it was easy for him to read the notice and realise he was outside an airbase. "That's lucky!" he thought. "I wonder how I got here. It looks just right - just the sort of place I can get myself hurt so Scully can come and tell me she loves me." Suddenly he was aware that he was clutching a piece of paper in his hand. "That's odd," he thought, grateful for the moon which provided enough light for him to read by. It was strange. He could have sworn it was new moon just yesterday, but now the moon was full. "Convenient," he thought. "Otherwise I'd have to take ages waiting for a passing UFO or something, and it would take ages to write ..... I mean, to wait." "Don't stand on the runway," he read, written in a hasty scrawl on the note. "Hmmm," he thought. "Someone's obviously hiding something that they don't want me to find. I'd better go and stand on the runway and see what it is....." ********** It was only 6 point 2, this time. His disappointment had interfered with his artistic interpretation, and he'd forgotten the synchronized sneer that had to be on his face the whole time. Worse still, he'd taken off his dark glasses for a moment, so he could see which of the intruder's eyes he was supposed to be aiming for when he squirted the memory-draining drug. "We're sorry, Cyril." Cyril winced. It was the ultimate humiliation, the use of his name. Had he passed, he'd have been given a nice new name. Something menacing and Themish. He'd considered Teddy Bear Man, but dismissed it as too frightening. Better something smaller than a bear, he thought, so he could lull enemies into a false sense of security. He quite fancied "Pussy cat Man." He liked cats, and had six at home. "We're sorry," the Big Thems said, again. "You've failed." "Please let me have another go!" Cyril pleaded. "Please! This is really important to me! My aged mother, she sits in her lonely chair, knitting scarves for her only son. She's blind, and deaf. Her one comfort in life in that her son is following in his father's footsteps. He was Red Nail Polish Man, but was killed in the service of Them - I mean, terminated." He cursed under his breath. He had no chance if he couldn't even get the language right. "Please make an dying woman's last days happy." He could hear the distant sound of violins, and childish voices singing Christmas carols. "You know it will make you feel .... good .... and wholesome ..... and ....." "Enough!" cried the Big Thems. "You can have another chance. Just ...... shut up!" ************ Mulder awoke in a puddle outside an airbase. It was daylight, so he had no trouble reading the notice as well as the note that he saw immediately in his hand. "Whatever you do, make sure you stand on the runway," he read. "A-ha!" he exclaimed. "They want to lure me away from the hidden things they've hidden in the dark hidden corners of the airbase." The sun went in and it was suddenly dark. "Just right for sneaking," he thought, supremely grateful to whoever it was who was controlling the situation so that it turned out just right. "He or she must be a very nice person," he thought. "I'd like to meet them and express my gratitude." ********** Eight out of ten! Yes! Cyril - or Fluffy Man, as he was now called, after his favourite cat - danced around in glee. It had worked! He was now fully- fledged Them, with his own name! "Well done, Fluffy Man!" said the Big Thems. "But before you celebrate, you'd better take this intruder outside before he wakes up. The van's broken down, so I'm afraid you'll have to carry him." Half way out, Fluffy Man could take no more. "Wake up!" he hissed, jabbing Mulder in the ribs. "Can't you walk? You're really heavy. And that dog doesn't help." For the fifth time he stumbled over an eager dog that had been dogging his heels. He could read "Lassie" on a disc on his collar, although this name appeared to have been written over another name. Four letters, beginning with BLU... "Where .... where am I?" Mulder cliched. "In a secret airbase that you can't remember," explained Fluffy Man. Mulder reached down and felt himself all over. "I'm not hurt!" he said. "Apart from the back of my head." "Sorry," said Fluffy Man, "That was me." "Oh, I don't mind," Mulder said, sincerely. "Just, can't you hit me harder?" Fluffy Man looked at him warily, and backed away. "Oh, no! I don't mean like that!" Mulder laughed. "It's just that I need to be badly hurt. This being okay business doesn't quite fit in with my plans right now." Fluffy Man bit his lip. "I suppose you could try to run away and I could shoot you," he suggested, slowly. "Okay!" said Mulder, sitting up. "Get off me! Let me go! I .... I'll kill you!" Fluffy Man flinched, looking hurt. "I don't mean it," Mulder hissed. "It's just so you can say I was resisting so it was okay to shoot me." Fluffy Man nodded. There was a lot more to being a Them than he'd realised. Mulder leapt up and ran away. "Stop!" cried Fluffy Man. "Is this okay?" Mulder nodded so he carried on. "Stop! Or I'll shoot! Stop!" He found he was quite enjoying this after all. Mulder didn't stop. Fluffy Man shot. The bullet buried itself in Mulder's left shoulder. "No, no, no!" Mulder cried. "Not the left shoulder. _Everyone_ since Errol Flynn has been shot in the left shoulder. It's so cliched. Even _I_ got shot in the left shoulder. Scully has no imagination, sometimes. It's not nearly dangerous enough - or interesting." Fluffy Man thought. "Well, where shall I shoot you, then? The arm?" "No! I need full use of my arms so I can enfold Scully in them after she says she loves me. It would be so inconvenient being in a cast for weeks after she's made her declaration." "The head?" "Oh, don't be stupid. I need to have a head so I can _hear_ what Scully says." "Er...." "Do you think we could come to a decision about this, please? Although this wound is boring, it _is_ bleeding quite a bit. I don't want to collapse before I've got shot again." "What about if I shoot you somewhere vaguely torso-ish. I'll try not to hit any more than one major organ." Fluffy Man was getting the hang of this. "Okay," said Mulder, "but don't....." The gun went off. "Hey!" said Fluffy Man. "I don't think it's _that_ serious! I think you can probably stagger by yourself to the hole in the fence before collapsing. I don't think it's bad enough for me to have to carry you." There was no reply. Fluffy Man shrugged. "Well, it was worth trying." Picking Mulder up, he staggered to the hole in the fence, and then dumped him in the puddle. Then he frowned. "I shouldn't leave him here," he mused. "I'm only a very _new_ Them. I don't really like killing people yet. I'd better make sure he's getting help. Lassie, go fetch help!" "Woof!" said Lassie, and rolled over, playing dead. Sometime later, Fluffy Man reached a road. Much to his relief, Blu .... er .... Lassie's "Tickle-my-tummy-now" whines were now almost invisible. Putting Mulder down in a layby, he stood in the road, waiting for a car. "Stop! Stop!" he cried, when at last a car approached. "Please, can you take this man to a hospital?" he asked the female driver. She peered at him suspiciously. "How do I know you're not a crazed murderer?" she asked. "Oh, I am," he smiled. "I passed today. Look, I've got my certificate in here....." He turned around, showing her the piece of paper protruding from his back pocket. "Reach in and get it if you like," he said. Understanding dawned in the woman's eyes. "Oh! I get it! You a stripper! I knew the girls wouldn't let my birthday go by without some trick." She looked around. "Girls! Where are you hiding! I know you're here!" She got out of the car, looking carefully at Fluffy Man and Mulder. "Though I'd prefer that other one," she admitted. "Is he a stripper too?" She bent over Mulder. "Playing hard to get, are you?" she murmured. "So I have to seduce you? Sounds like fun!" And she unzipped his black leather jacket. "Aaagh!" she screamed. "Blood!" ********** Scully looked at her watch. 11 o'clock. It was about time to leave for the hospital. She handed in her key as she passed the hotel desk. "I won't be needing it for a few days," she explained. "I'll be keeping a bedside vigil in the hospital, not even returning for clean clothes." As she left the hotel, her phone rang. "Scully," she said. "Agent Scully? This is the Dr Moreau hospital. I'm afraid I've got some bad news. You know you asked to be told if an Agent Mulder was brought in .....?" "He's there already!" Scully exclaimed. "He's early! That wasn't how we planned it. He's .... I'm not ready yet." There was a pause at the other end of the line. "You planned it?" the voice said, at last. "Of course!" Scully said, impatiently. "I just hope the wound is serious enough. Is he likely to die?" "Er..... Are you coming over here, Agent Scully?" "Yes! I'll be there in about five minutes." "We'll be ready for you, Agent Scully." ********** "Where are you taking me?" Scully wrestled vainly against the handcuffs. "I haven't done anything!" "We're arresting you under suspicion of the attempted murder of Agent Mulder," the stern police officer said. "This is serious matter, Agent Scully." "It wasn't me!" Scully cried, but the officer's face was unforgiving. Desperate, she racked her brain for something - anything - that would get her off. "It wasn't me!" she exclaimed, in sudden inspiration. "I was made to do it - forced. I didn't want to." She tried to look her most little and vulnerable, knowing there were few men who could resist that act. Though all that succumbed lived to regret it afterwards..... "Who was it?" the officer asked, his face softening. And Scully told him. ********** Mulder was hovering between life and death in intensive care. "It's not good." A doctor shook his head. "He might make it, but frankly the only people I've seen survive injuries such as this are heroes in the final dramatic denouement of a story, and they need a woman for that. This guy hasn't got one, so he hasn't a hope." There was a clamour of voices from the nurses. "I'll be his woman! I'll be his woman!" The doctor sighed. "Not good enough, I'm afraid. It would take a miracle to save him." But Mulder was unaware of all this. He was hovering in some distant place that was full of pain ...... "Knock, knock" The narrator sighed. "Andrew! Could you answer that!" Andrew was slow moving. It was now after three in the morning and he'd long since stopped contributing any ideas and had gone to bed, complaining that he had to get up at six thirty to go and work on the mainland, leaving the poor put-upon narrator to finish the whole story by herself, even though she had to go and tell pirate stories to sixty children in the library next morning herself. (Actually the pirate stories were _last_ week, but why let the truth ruin a good story?) But Mulder was unaware of this ..... "Does the omniscient narrator live here?" A voice from downstairs, muffled by the distance. But Mulder ..... "According to Agent Scully, she's responsible for the attempted murder of Agent Mulder." "Yes!" said Andrew. "And you should read her other stories, and hear the ones she's already plotting. She's guilty, all right. There's nothing she likes better than to torture the poor guy." Feet on the stairs, getting closer. I must finish my story ..... But Mulder ...... "Get off me! I'm innocent, I tell you!" ********** Andrew rubbed his hands together gleefully. "And now I can play "Worms" as much as I like without anyone kicking me off the computer to write their stories....." And so he settled down to play. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, five minutes later. "John Lennon Worm has just thrown an exploding sheep at Mulder Worm and killed him." "Andrew." It was Skinner Worm. "You are under arrest for involvement in the killing of Agent Mulder Worm with an exploding sheep. Could you come with me, please....." *********** The omniscient narrator, who will never, ever, write that word ever again, chuckled contentedly, as she wrote herself a vital piece of evidence to clear her name. "Don't mess with narrators!" she told everyone, as she proceeded back home in triumph. "Oh, and Andrew," she said, as she passed the prison. "You've got to buy me that video of Nisei and 731 that's coming out next week." "Why?" "Because you bet me that I could never work that line about John Lennon and the exploding sheep into a story, and I did." THE END ********** MORAL: (because all the worst stories have morals) The narrator always gets the last laugh. He, he, he! (Manically.) ********** AFTERWORD Andrew's just pointed out that I really ought to write a sequel now, seeing as Mulder and Scully singularly failed to achieve their suitably dramatic declaration. So, please can I make clear that I am a _serious_ writer. My favourite genre is Shakespearean tragedy. I don't even _like_ comedy. I'm a librarian (note for non-Brits: in England librarians are constitutionally required to be grey-haired ladies possessing no sense of humour at all.) So, Mulder and Scully, if you're listening - the only way you'll get me to do a sequel is to hold me at gun-point - which rather rules you out, Mulder, since your gun's still on page four. But, if you're still tempted, I suggest you think about what it would be like trapped in a story controlled by a narrator who wants you dead. Frightening thought, isn't it? So, to return to my serious writing ..... Aaagh! Now he says I should write the further adventures of Cyril the Trainee Them. Sorry, Cyril - I mean Fluffy Man. No! Get me out of here! ********** EPILOGUE: "Er, seeing as we're not getting a sequel ..... what happened to me?" asked Mulder. "I don't know," said the O-word narrator. "It's nearly four o'clock. I'm going to bed."