Date sent: Fri, 14 Nov 1997
From: Rebecca Rusnak rrusnak@avana.net

Just One Message
by Rebecca Rusnak

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me, which is
probably just as well, for their sake.

SPOILERS: None

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: VA

SUMMARY: What if your fate was determined through an e-mail?

FEEDBACK: Is highly desired. rrusnak@avana.net

******

Somewhere behind him a generator started with a solid thump.

Smooth voices, muffled by surgical masks, droned on to his left.

Short beeps and clicks spoke a mechanical language on his right.

Above him, the lights snapped on.

Powerless, he trembled, closed his eyes. Waited for the pain to begin.

****

"No, sir, I refuse to believe that," she said in clipped tones.

"Agent Scully." The Assistant Director sounded fatigued. For a moment the
years of struggling colored his voice.

"You saw what I saw," she said. Rose to her feet, but did not move.
Standing behind the desk gave her a feeling of security. "You know this was
not voluntary."

"Agent Scully." Skinner seemed incapable of saying more than that. His
gaze traveled to the ceiling of the office, traced the pipes there.

His weariness rendered her speechless, all her arguments fluttering away.
"Sir--"

"Take a look at it, have it analyzed if you wish." He laid the folded paper
down on the desk. "I'm just delivering the message." He turned, left the
room in measured strides.

She didn't want to touch it, didn't want to read the words there, but they
sprang up at her, invaded her consciousness.

"Sir,

I've had a promising opportunity arise, one that involves my sister
Samantha. For personal reasons, I'm requesting time off from the Bureau to
explore this matter.

If you could, please tell Scully I will contact her when I can.

Mulder."

The handwriting was his, of that she had no doubt. Even the language, the
prose was his.

But the motivation?

Not for one moment did she believe he had written this note of his own free
will.

*****

Crisp sheets beneath his back, a soft pillow under his head.

Where was she?

Cool oxygen traced into his nostrils, amber fluid burned in his veins.

Why didn't she come?

Thought was difficult; speech was impossible; memory was slurry and vague.
Had he told her?

He wished he could remember.

****

The apartment was cold, the November chill cutting through the miserable
amount of heat put out by the furnace.

Three days now.

The bone-deep weariness that had settled over her when she'd realized he was
gone was drearily familiar, almost comfortingly so. In her mingled despair
and anger she had found old friends.

Entering this room yesterday had dispelled her lassitude, goaded her to action.

For a few hours, Apartment 42, 2360 Hegal Place had bustled with controlled
chaos. Forensics teams, Alexandria police, and FBI agents had swarmed
through the apartment.

Mulder's gun, found on the floor, dusted for prints and bagged as evidence.

The blood on the coffee table scraped and taken to a lab.

The scuff marks on the floor measured.

Neighbors interviewed, business cards handed out.

Now, alone for the first time, Scully stood in the doorway and wondered
where to start.

****

Gloved fingers peeled back an eyelid.

Cultured voices spoke in his earcanyouhearme?

Padded leather slid around his wrists.

She was not coming.

He knew that now.

****

At first she thought it was a joke.

It had to be a joke.

>From the Lone Gunmen, maybe. Frohike's idea of a good knee-slapper.

Trustno1--still the same password, and she had gotten in easily, checked the
hard drive for recently downloaded files. Expecting a dark warning about
Samantha, about a UFO sighting, about herself, even.

And then, his e-mail, pulling up the messages saved.

Finding this.

"Mr. Fox Mulder,

Congratulations! You have been selected from our available gene
pool to participate in a highly classified, elite project.

Participation in this project will help guarantee a safe future
for humankind, and we are sure you will not want to waste this
opportunity to help your fellow man.

Acceptance of this project is mandatory. Refusal is unacceptable.

We will send an umarked van for you tomorrow at midnight. We suggest you
use the time remaining to you to wrap up your affairs and say goodbye to
your loved ones."

It was unsigned.

*******

The motors hummed briskly.

The lights hummed brightly.

One of the men hummed tunelessly.

He arched against the restraints, against the pain, against the onslaught on
his very being.

Behind closed eyes, memory flared, briefly illuminating.

>From deep within he found the strength to call out, to cry her name.

Memory flickered, stuttered, winked out.

****

In her own apartment now. Numb.

She waited for the computer to boot up, held the paper, eyes read over and
again words already committed to memory.

Surely the return e-mail address was false. But she had to try.

Her apartment was quiet, dark, waiting. The blue, hazy glow of the monitor
was the only light she permitted herself.

She held her breath as the modem screeched, connected her to the world.
Later she would take this print-out to others, to friends, seek help. But
she had to do this alone.

Just one mail message, no subject.

Trembling with held breath, she clicked on it, raised damp eyes to the screen.

"Ms. Dana Scully,

Congratulations! You have been selected...."

******

FINIS

Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a recent discussion with a
friend about the Internet, and particularly e-mail. They are both amazing
wonders of technology, and have the capability of bringing people together
in ways unimaginable just ten years ago.

And yet, we read nearly every week a new horror story of murder due to the
Internet, of innocent people who got involved with the wrong person, and who
paid for it with their lives. The Internet, it seems, can bring us more
than just e-mail.

This is just a what-if scenario, X-Files version. Please feel free to write
me with any comments.

******

"Never underestimate the power of human stupidity"
--Robert Heinlein