"Heavenly Creatures" 

by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)
____

SUMMARY: How do you commit murder when you're dead? Sometimes, 
being in heaven can be such a bore....
RATING: PG 
CLASSIFICATION: SH
SPOILERS: Lots of things, up to and including season 5
____

DISCLAIMER: These people aren't mine. They belong to CC and 1013 
and Fox, and I use them without permission and with no profit.

NOTES: Most of the characters in this story are fairly well-known 
X-Files figures. You might not recognise Sheriff Arens, though. He 
is the masked axeman in "Our Town", who nearly chopped Scully's 
head off to eat her.

This story also mentions the rumour that a future episode will see 
the return of Robert Modell, of "Pusher" fame.
____

As a murder weapon, a harp, to be brutally honest, sucks, but it's 
a damn sight better than a halo.

And that's all the choice we were given. Harp, or halo. Harp - or 
- halo....

"We could strangle him with the strings?" Pendrell's heart wasn't 
in it, we could all tell. He wasn't really part of our crowd, 
except when Mulder got depressed. When Mulder got depressed, 
_everyone_ was in our crowd. "Mom always taught me to make the 
best of a bad situation," he continued. The clothes suited him, 
and that says all you need to know about the sort of person _he_ 
was. Not our type. Definitely not our type.

"Hit him on the head with it, that's what I say." That was John 
Barnett. He ran his.... do salamanders have fingers? Anyway, he 
ran his.... things along the edge of the harp. "Solid gold. A soft 
metal, but harder than his head." His face twisted in bitterness. 
"I tried to clever game-playing approach last time. Now I just 
want brute force."

One of Them laughed appreciatively. They refused to tell us their 
names, always, but could be identified by their habit of wearing 
their halos low over their eyes and pointing their harps like 
guns, their legs braced against the recoil of the gently strumming 
E flat. Men in Black, they sometimes call themselves. Men in 
Black! Men in Frilly White Frocks, more like. They have no sense 
of the absurd, these guys - none at all.

It's the thing about Heaven, you see. When you were little you 
were probably taught all about fluffy clouds and bouncing lambs 
and flowers and happy singing that would put even a sixties folk 
festival to shame. This was for the good guys, right? The bad guys 
- murderers, monsters and children who didn't go to bed when they 
were told - got Hell, which was all fire and screams and 
barbecues. 

Don't you believe it.

It's all the same place, you see. All the same place. Everyone 
goes to Heaven. The important thing is - not everyone likes it.

Listen carefully. This is an important point and I need to get it 
straight. I know you've been listening to Mulder and you all want 
to understand a criminal's motivation - to get into his head, as 
it were. Well, I'm sure there are many who would be quick to judge 
us here for disliking our situation. Harps, clouds, endless 
background music.... What more could we want?

Well, that's where you're wrong. Just put yourself in the place of 
a killer such as.... say, Eugene Tooms. It took him a hundred 
years to perfect that glowy-eye trick, and the dead pan delivery. 
Killers have to accessorise, you see. Monsters practice their 
roars for years. They have an image to keep up, after all, and it 
is one they guard jealously.

So - and this is where I need you to do that profiling stuff and 
try to understand - to really understand - this. So how do you 
think someone like Tooms feels up here when one of his victims 
sees him wearing a frilly white night-gown and playing a harp? 

Ah, now you're catching on.

Cecil L'Ively has gone down in legend. He was before my time, of 
course, but people still speak with awe of his valiant attempt to 
defy the Management and recreate a tiny bit of real old-fashioned 
fire-and-brimstone Hell. COS, who can remember such things 
perfectly, told me once that it was a pitiful affair, really, as 
clouds are not very flammable, but it was at least something.

We have nothing now. Nothing. Just an eternity of boredom. 

Sometimes, we get visits from the Philosophical Dead Guys Poetry 
Collective, who live in a hogan on the next cloud. They come with 
their little note books, and read to us.

Like I said - nothing. Boredom.

So can you wonder at the fact that we all wanted revenge? Can you 
honestly blame us? Of course not. He - the hated _he_ - had killed 
us - sentenced us to this existence of everlasting bliss. Is it 
any wonder that we lived, in a metaphorical manner, for revenge?

So, there we were. Harps or haloes - that dazzling wonderful 
choice. Harps or.... Most of us chose harps, of course. We grabbed 
our harps and waited.

And waited....

And waited....

And that's when the doubts began.

"She said it. I'm sure she said it." Luther Lee Boggs was sticking 
to his story. He was always good at eavesdropping. "She sat there 
in front of the whole committee and said so. 'Agent Mulder was 
found dead last night, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in the 
head', she said. Something like that. He _is_ dead. He'll be here 
soon."

"That's what you said after that box car incident," muttered 
Sheriff Arens, licking his lips. "You promised me first go, then, 
as it was so soon after the mess he made of our town. You said 
there was no way he could have survived that fire."

Cecil L'Ively started to cry. He clicked his fingers convulsively, 
but nothing happened.

"That's not fair." Boggs frowned, his eyes dangerous. "We would 
have had him then, but those Philosophical Guys got there first. 
Is it any wonder he decided to choose life? Who wouldn't, knowing 
_that_ was what awaited them over here?"

Arens subsided. Boggs was a dangerous man to cross - embittered by 
what had happened to him. It had hit him hard, coming here and 
finding that his tattoos now read "love" and "heart".  "I'm sorry 
I knocked that cold dark place," he had shouted, grovelling. 
"Please. Please. _Please_ let me go there instead...."

No-one spoke of that now. We don't talk much about our feelings - 
just about how we'd died, and who had killed us.... and how to get 
our revenge.

Of course, it wouldn't have been murder, what we were planning to 
do, seeing as he would already have been dead, but it would have 
been fun. Gratuitously hurting Mulder is always fun - we learnt 
that from Roche.

Not that we'd know, of course. Hours waiting in line with our 
harps, we were, and all for a false alarm. Mulder was not dead - 
but, then, you know that, don't you. 

"_How_ many times?" It was one of the Samantha clones - I forget 
which. "I've lost count of the number of times that guy dies, yet 
somehow doesn't." She turned to.... um.... herself. "You did check 
his blood, didn't you, dear?" Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe we should 
get someone to try him in the back of his neck next time."

Next time? As we all sadly settled our harps into the crooks of 
our arms and plucked out a rather necessary miserere, we all knew 
that next time could not come too soon.

Next time....

We didn't know, then, why Robert Modell was smiling.

******

"He's what?" 

Boggs was bellowing loud enough to wake the.... Oh, never mind. 
They don't even let us sleep here, all the better to enjoy the 
wonderful unceasing musical entertainment. 

"He's what? How did he do that?"

I do hope you caught the incisive irony back there. I was always 
accounted something a wit in my family - a cut above the rest, and 
quite inspired. Of course, our occupation tended to inspire coarse 
humour of the scatological variety, if you get my drift.

"Maybe he put the whammy on God," suggested Roche. "Or maybe not. 
_You_ choose."

Boggs paused, considering. "It's not fair," he said, at last, his 
voice calmer now. "Modell was dead, and now they say he's getting 
a second shot at him. It's not fair. You know what I think? I 
think this means war. Why should we wait until Mulder dies to get 
our revenge? If Modell can do it, we can."

We strummed a desultory chord of appreciation on our harps. 

"And you know what?" Boggs smiled. "This is going to be fun."

******

"A conference for Retired Lady Psychics? A conference for Retired 
Lady Psychics?" Scully muttered the words under her breath, in 
rising tones of exasperation. "What next?"

Mulder's hearing was as sharp as his.... er.... fingernails. 
"Actually, Scully. It's very interesting. Lots of strange events 
have been reported here in the last few days. Strange, but 
interesting. Very interesting and.... strange."

Scully halted in her tracks, folding her arms abruptly. "Like 
what?" she demanded, coolly. 

Mulder frowned, his mind racing. "Like.... like interesting," he 
murmured, defensively. "Things, Scully. You know - Things. Not 
just things. Things a bit like all the other things we've seen 
over the last few years, but a bit different, just for 
originality. You know."

"Safe things, I hope." Scully gestured towards his bandaged 
shoulder. "After that team-building conference that wasn't...." 
She smiled. "I'm not singing to you again."

"No." Mulder stepped back in alarm, fear and dread beating inside 
him like black wings. "Not singing. Please. Not angelic voices, 
and harps. Please. No...."

Luckily just then a psychic old lady grabbed his arm and opened 
her mouth and said....

******

You know, I'm beginning to regret this. Of course, as soon as the 
story got out, there were a lot of writers who wanted to ghost 
write it for me, but I declined. I read a little bit of their past 
work and it was all, you know.... too much blood here, too much 
fluff there, too much smut there. It wasn't honest. It wasn't me.

So here I am, telling my own story. Easy, you might thing. Easy.

Sigh....

My editor advised that my side of the story had something missing, 
somehow. It needed balance, he said. It needed Mulder and Scully's 
side of things. It needed.... Oh, this is so difficult. I wasn't 
there, of course, so I'm using some creative licence with what 
they said, and I'm not quite sure if I'm getting into their heads 
properly. Almost, I think, but not quite.

Oh well....

So, where was I? Oh yes....

******

Just then a psychic old lady grabbed his arm and opened her mouth 
and said, "Die, Fox, Die."

Mulder smiled. "Isn't that what you used to use to clean your dog, 
Scully?"

Scully frowned. She was quite angry with him. "I know you like to 
use humour in difficult situations, Mulder, but this is 
ridiculous."

The old lady bared her teeth, ferally. "Die, Fox. Die. I'll eat 
your brain." Then she started fumbling in her knitted bag, a 
worried look appearing on her face. "Die?" she said, a little more 
doubtfully, then, "Die!" It was strong now, and more confident, 
and her hand emerged from the bag wielding a pen.

Mulder blinked, confused. The pen raised high into the air, then 
plunged down, cruelly failing to pierce the white material of his 
shirt. Again, and again, and gouts of blood didn't flow. A little 
red ink did, though. Just a little.

"Mulder." Scully rolled her eyes. Quick as thought, she reached 
out and wrestled the old lady to the floor, handcuffing her to a 
chair leg. The old lady twitched feebly.

"Scully!" Mulder raised his hands his outrage. "That was a woman! 
You can't do that."

Scully frowned, her fists tensing. "That's sexist, Mulder....." 
Then the tension washed out of her as if she had been..... washed. 
"You mean to say that you would never ever fight back, whatever a 
woman did to you?"

Mulder nodded.

Scully smiled, a strange half-smile, and nodded slowly. Gently, 
she stroked her gun, remembering, then let her hands fall to her 
sides again. 

******

"Pathetic." We sang it in chorus. "Pathetic."

Sheriff Arens raised his head defiantly. "I didn't choose the 
location. A conference of psychics, that's what Boggs said. 
Perfect for us to be channelled, and to take over their bodies and 
kill Mulder." He laughed mirthlessly. "Just choose a psychic 
person with a gun next time, or...." He licked his lips. "Or an 
axe and a cooking pot and sharp pointy teeth."

Sheriff Arens was seriously strange, I can tell you, even before 
the cult came. At least someone like Tooms was upfront about it, 
but Arens looked so normal - forgettable, even. He used to pluck 
feathers from his wings, muttering strangely. We thought it was 
some form of obsessive-compulsive behaviour, but it turned out he 
was making a mask. 

And then he was always the first one to complain about the manna. 
He only seemed really happy when that cult showed up a while back. 
They refused to talk to us, saying they were only passing through 
and that they'd be gone before we knew it. Arens invited them to 
lodge in his cloud, just for a while. Tooms and the Flukeman 
joined them, and much merriment was had by all, I'm sure.

We never did find out what happened to that cult. Perhaps they 
were right after all. No-one ever saw them again. All we did know 
is that Arens was never quite right in the head after that. "Must 
have been something he ate," Tooms smiled, as he ripped up some 
clouds to make a nest. 

Something he ate? Manna? I don't think so.

Anyway.... 

As you can probably tell, digression is my forte. I could never 
settle on anything - always flying off the point. Ha! See? My dry 
humour at work again. Oh, you're going to love it when I tell you 
who I am - really love it.

Anyway....

Oh. I Nearly forgot. I must apologise for the rather lame prose at 
the start of the previous scene. "Mulder smiled", "Scully frowned" 
and all that.... Sorry. The start of that scene was dealing with 
something rather close to home, as it were, and I found it rather 
difficult to concentrate.

Anyway.....

"Okay," said Boggs, heaving a melodramatic sigh. "I'll go next - 
show you how it's done."

Always one for the melodrama is Boggs, if you ask me. Somewhat 
overacting, usually, but the crowds seem to like it. He's 
something of a star round here, you know. Those insipid good guys 
like to take a look at us bad guys. I think the Management 
encourages it, actually. "Pour encourager les autres", or 
something like that. So there they are, hovering in their clouds, 
looking all beatific, and Boggs puts on a wonderful show, all 
groaning and weeping and wailing and gnashing of harp strings. How 
they shriek, but you can tell they love it, really. Makes them 
feel smug and contented with their lot, and God knows they need 
it.

And He probably does, too. Bastard.

Why, oh why, doesn't He strike me down for saying things like 
that? He's so damn tolerant and forgiving. Not a peep. Not even 
the tiniest little spark of hellfire and damnation. Not even the 
faintest aroma of midden.

Damn. Please....?

******

The editor is tutting and fiddling with his pen. Uh-oh! Better get 
on with it. One more try at writing Mulder and Scully - a new 
style, this time, as I didn't like the old one - and, if this 
doesn't work, I think I might hand over to one of those ghost 
writers after all, just for their scenes. I've heard that there 
are some out there who have quite a track record in what they call 
"Muldertorture." Wa-hay!

******

"Are you sensing anything?"

Mulder knelt before an old lady - a different old lady. She had 
grey hair too, but she was a different one, okay? Her eyes were 
half closed, and she looked as if she was heading into an 
interesting and dramatic trance.

"What's happening?"  Scully whispered, in her best impending-
audience-orientation-prompting voice. "What's she doing?"

"Channelling." Mulder's eyes were wide with awe. "She's seeking 
her spirit guide - someone from over there who will speak through 
her voice and act as her intermediary as she talks to other 
spirits."

"Yes. Yes...." The old lady's head lolled on one side, and her 
tongue fell out limply. Her voice was, not surprisingly, when you 
come to think of it, indistinct. "Someone's there. Will you speak 
through me, dear?"

More groans as she listened for the answer. Scully rolled her eyes 
disbelievingly. "Sounds like one of your videos, Mulder," she 
muttered.

"Sh!" Mulder hushed her sharply. "It's starting."

And then the old lady gave a great jerk, and her eyes opened, wide 
and staring. "Hello." She smiled, impishly, and ran a hand through 
her hair. "My name ith Alithe. I'm thix. Hello, Mr Nithe Man. The 
lady'th pretty. Ith that your girlfriend?"

******

"Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!"

As you may expect, the Management draws the line somewhere. Boggs' 
words were not _quite_ that. Damned censorship.

"What's wrong?" Arens was enjoying himself. "Didn't work, did it?"

If it hadn't been so sad, I would have had to laugh at what 
happened to Boggs. He had been leaning forward, shouting, as if he 
was trying to speak through a phone in a howling gale.

"I'm Luther Lee Boggs, you stupid woman! Tell him! Tell him that! 
Tell him I'm going to kill him for writing my profile and putting 
me away. Tell him!"

I couldn't see what was happening, of course, but I can guess. 
Though how the woman could fail to hear him, I don't know. He 
shouted so loud that one of the Philosophical Dead Poets came out 
of their hogan and floated nearby with interest. "Lutherly bogs," 
he murmured, consideringly. "When mired down in the lutherly bogs. 
Hmm... Nice adjective. Poetic.... A metaphor for a life of 
despair? Yes...." And then he scribbled something down in his 
notebook. Deep Throat, I think it was. Deep? Hah! Just because no-
one can understand a word he says. "How deep," they say, nodding 
sagely. "How deep."

Anyway, the woman heard him not, and Boggs waxed lyrical in his 
despair. You see? Who needs poetry when they can have me? 
Deliberately archaic turn of phrase, and all that.... Clever, huh?

"Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! The bleeping woman's a fraud!" Boggs stamped 
hard with both feet. Not wise, on a cloud. "Claims to be a 
psychic, but she's no more psychic than m.... than Mulder thought 
I was." The voice was at ground level, and strained, as Barnett 
and Roche tried to pull him back.

"Me, now," said Roche, smiling, I think. It was rather a long way 
up, seeing his face. "My turn."

******

"That was it!" Mulder's eyes were agleam with excitement. "That 
was the best example I've seen in my life. That woman's authentic, 
absolutely, definitely. The way she talked as Alice....."

Scully clenched her fists, her eyes downcast. Dark thoughts beat 
inside her head like something very dark indeed - really quite 
dark. "Oh, Mulder," she thought. "What has become of your once 
noble and intelligent mind, if you're believing such an obvious 
fake as that? I can accept it no longer. For your own protection, 
I will have to have you committed. I promise I will come as visit 
you as they tie you to the bed with interesting five-point 
restraints and make you writhe with agony when they do electric 
shock treatment utterly gratuitously...."

Just then....

******

No rest for the wicked, is there? That was my first ghost writer. 
"Angst and Muldertorture a speciality," she said, brightly. "No 
situation is ever bright enough that a little angst can not be 
wrung from it somehow. Try me."

Well, you saw the result.

So, what conversation ensued between your heroes after that little 
incident of Boggs and the fraud? God knows. And, you know, I think 
He.... Oh. I've done that joke before.

******

"I need silence." Roche stared at us piercingly from his great 
height. "Silence. To concentrate. I will not fail...."

Silence.....

Silence.....

You know, perhaps I would miss the singing, if it wasn't here. The 
singing, and the harps. We all stopped, of course. Roche is a 
dangerous man to cross. The silence was scary, somehow. There was 
only the sound of one hand, clapping.

Poor thing. I know we're all supposed to be heartless killers, but 
I don't think there's a person amongst us that doesn't feel a 
little bit sorry for that left arm. It tries so manfully to play 
the harp, but, without another hand to hold it, the harp keeps 
slipping away though the clouds. Not that it can hear our 
sympathy, of course, or see it. It was wearing its halo round its 
thumb at that point, if I remember rightly. I think we'll all be 
rather relieved when Krycek finally manages to get here and 
reclaim it. 

Flukeman tried to give it lessons in growing another body once, 
but it fell flat. Literally, I mean. I think, though, that 
Flukeman was just desperate for a friend. Everyone else thinks its 
rather unfair, what he was allowed to do. Mulder split him in  
half, for God's sake. Enough to kill anyone, you'd think, but not 
him - no. Half regenerated down there, and half up here, so he's 
now alive here, and there, if you see what I mean. It really 
shouldn't be allowed. Think what would have happened if Eugene 
Tooms had done that. Ninety nine pieces and counting, when they 
scraped him out of the grooves in the escalator, so I hear.

Last thing I heard, Flukeman and Leonard Betts had set up cloud 
together, and they seem to get along very well without us, thank 
you very much. 

So, silence it was, as Roche shut his eyes, and concentrated. His 
lips moved, open and shut, and his words were just about 
intelligible.

"Move to that table.... Yes. That's right. The table. Pick up that 
knife. Good. Now, see that man who's eating a little cake with 
pink icing? Yes. Well, I want you to plunge the knife into his 
chest. Like that. Good...."

Good? You  mean, he's done it? Killed him? Just like that? 
Whispers like that raced through the crowd, and several of the 
newer members, not yet accustomed to Mulder's sly-fox habit of 
cheating death, rushed to the stairway with their harps at the 
ready. 

Actually, I always had my doubts about Roche. Mental cruelty was 
more his line, he admitted, and he had doubts about killing 
Mulder. Appearing as a ghost would be more fun, he thought. 
Sticking his tongue out and chanting, "I know where your sister is 
and you're not going to kno-ow! Nyah, nyah-nyah, nyah, nyah!" Hard 
work, though. I tried it, once, without the sister bit. Nearly 
killed me, as it were.  Anyway, we persuaded him that he could 
have more games with Mulder if Mulder was dead, first. Imagine, a 
pet Mulder to torment for all eternity. Heaven!

But I didn't put it past him to have deceived us. "Did you believe 
that?" he would say, turning round, smiling. "See if you can hit 
Bill Mulder's head with your halo, and maybe I'll tell you what 
really happened."

Halo basketball, though really you had to put it on its side and 
spin it, with a little twist of the wrist like so. Now, that was 
one of Roche inventions. Not all bad, that guy. Not all bad.

But this time, it was no joke. He really seemed to believe it. He 
really did. Strange....

******

"Left a bit. Left a bit. Now, throw...."

Mulder's mouth hung open, his pink cake half way to his mouth. The 
old lady next to him was jumping up and down, her hair flapping 
with her excitement, strange words issuing from her mouth. 

"Yes! Let's have some cheer-leading, guys. Look, you can use that 
red Pomeranian as a pom-pom. More leg, please, Duane."

Red Pomeranian? Scully's face crumpled. She looked like a broken 
china doll, and Mulder rushed to comfort her, kissing her face.

"Will someone get that woman out of here! Ruining our game. Get 
her.... No, miss. Duane isn't one of your group. He's one of us. 
Killed by _him_ and wanting revenge, like we all were. Anyone who 
says otherwise is just lying."

But Mulder and Scully were barely listening. The old lady's face 
was twisted with anger, and, behind it all, a little bewilderment.

"Now you come to mention it, Miss, aren't you one of our group 
sometimes as well? Killed by Them, you say. Oh, that's not what I 
heard."

"Oh, come on, Scully. Let's go to bed. There's nothing here."

******

Confused now, aren't you? Now, that's what I like to hear. 

_That_ writer, though a little too romantic for my taste, at least 
had the wisdom to keep a little suspense. Keep you on the edge of 
your seat, wondering, a little, about what's happening. Good.

You see, Roche screwed up again. Wrong house back then. Wrong lady 
now. He only went and chose the lady who had more psychic ability 
than all the others put together. Clairvoyant, telepathic, 
precognitary.... You name it.... Though the precognition was the 
trouble here. She only went and heard what Roche was saying next 
week, didn't she? Yeah, really useful there, John. 

That Melissa Scully, though. She was getting to be a real 
nuisance, coming more and more frequently to our parts. I think 
she liked the poetry next door,  to be honest. Back at the time of 
the suicide false alarm, when Mulder seemed to be blaming himself 
for the deaths of everyone he had ever heard of, she reluctantly 
came to live with us - her, and just about the whole population of 
heaven. I'm sure I spotted JFK stroking one of those killer kitty 
cats, and JR Ewing seemed most taken with the Jersey Devil.

All of which is by the by.... Melissa Scully, as I said, had 
become a real nuisance, always trying to persuade people to leave 
our group and join hers. "People Killed by Them," hers is called. 
Pendrell joined her real fast, though, as I've said, he came back 
occasionally when Mulder was depressed. There were big fights over 
those pilots in the Jose Chung book, and about several Men in.... 
ahem....Black.

"Just because one of Them pulled the trigger," Boggs explained 
patiently. Like I said, he was our best orator. "Just because They 
physically killed someone, doesn't mean that Mulder doesn't bear 
the chief blame for getting them involved in the first place. 
That's why Duane belongs here, and Pendrell. And," he said, wryly. 
"You." This said with disgust.  None of us really wanted her, of 
course, though she was hot.

Recently she'd taken to picketing Roche's basket-halo league and 
trying to poach his players. Pitiful, if you ask me. Unpatriotic, 
too. 

Anyway....

*******

And so it went on, one after another, trying. 

Barnett started well, but ran into trouble with some lady's 
bifocals. "Die," he made her say, only to move her head sharply, 
get confused, and jab the knife into the curtains. I think also, 
to be honest, he found manipulating a human hand rather tricky.

L'Ively.... Oh dear, L'Ively. Old habits die hard. Some old dear 
was celebrating her hundredth birthday and they had a cake with 
candles and.... Well, you can guess the rest. 

The Red-Haired Man at least made contact, and promising it was, 
too. "I'm going to kill you, Mulder. Locking me in there with a 
bomb. Talk about stupid." Oh, it was quite terrifying, I can tell 
you. It really was. But....

"What? What?" The old lady fiddled with her hearing aid. "You're 
going to Corfu? You've lost your comb? Yes, dear. It _is_ stupid."

And so on. A catalogue of disasters....

*******

And then it was my turn. My turn. My heart swelled with pride. 
Although I am the cleverest there, I have to admit that they 
seldom notice me. Even in Heaven, people are prejudiced. They 
judge by appearance, and find me wanting.

But I was so sure I could do it. After all, didn't I have the best 
reason to hate Mulder of anyone there? Purely gratuitous, his 
killing of me. Sheer spite, it was. Horrible!

Girlie scream? I'll give him girlie scream....

It was suprisingly easy to do it, in the end. Focus, that's what 
Boggs told me. Focus, and let it flow. Let it flow.....

I'm sorry, but I must warn you that we're getting to the serious 
part now. No more jokes, I'm afraid. I am trying to recreate the 
air of solemnity that there was in my mind, at that point. 

Not in Heaven, though.

The others had wandered off, not noticing, not caring. You know 
how it is. It is always so, in movies, and fairy stories. All the 
big, strong ones try the task.... Nothing. And then, right at the 
end, the small overlooked one comes forward. "Can I try?" he asks, 
and everyone laughs. "You? _You_?" "Oh, let him try," says one 
bystander, laughing. "It can do no harm." And so....But you know 
the rest. It is King Arthur getting the sword in the stone. It 
is.... lots of other analogies that I forget. Too emotional, you 
see, for literary references. Ask a Philosophical Dead Guy if you 
want more.

Ah, but this is what it was like, in my mind. This is what it 
would be. Hubert saves the day and kills where no other could 
kill.... For that's my name, of course. Hubert. An old family 
name, and one I bore with pride. Oh, how I would have loved 
showing my family my wonderful new shiny coat that night Mulder 
killed me.

And so I started..... And suddenly I was there, in her mind, 
and.... Oh, the joy of it!

*******

"Mulder."

Scully nudged Mulder's arm, her voice low with warning.

"Mulder. That lady over there? See?" She gestured towards an old 
lady, sitting in her chair and humming. Her hands were out at her 
shoulder height, flapping gently. "I think she's sick. Best call 
an ambulance."

Mulder stared at her, as if mesmerised. "Humming.... Humming....." 
He shuddered, suddenly. "My God, Scully. It's.... it's horrible. 
I've heard that humming before. It's.... No, no! It can't be...."

"It isn't, Mulder." Scully's voice was firm. "I've had enough of 
this for today. All day my mind's been in such a muddle - never 
knowing what I'm about to think. I want to go to sleep, and I 
think you need to as well. This place is crazy."

"Humming.... Scully, it's buzzing. He was right, Scully! 
Remember... That waste recycler who thought I was a cockroach? He 
was right. That woman is.... My God, Scully. She's _the_ 
cockroach. I know it. It's the one who came to get me when I was 
writing on my computer. It's the one I squashed. It's...."

"There, there, Mulder." Scully stroked his arm, and a tear 
trickled down her face as she reached for her phone. She had left 
it too long. Time to call those nice men in white coats at last. 
"There's no way she can be a cockroach, Mulder. Count her legs. 
One, two.... Can you see any more, Mulder? No.... No...."

"She is, I tell you. I must.... Scully, I've got to scream, and 
it's a scream of departing sanity and not a girlie one. I want you 
to make sure everyone knows that."

And Mulder broke from her grip and hurtled in terror towards the 
window. 

Which was shut.

Which was on the twelfth floor.

******

And that's where it ended. Really. The end of one chapter in our 
deaths and the start of another. 

So, shall I tell you what happened next? 

You know, I once heard a folk song that ended, "if you want any 
more you can sing it yourself."

I always rather liked that ending. Not that I can sing, though. 
Harp playing..... Now, that's another story entirely. The things I 
can do with six legs.....

*******

END

*******

MORE NOTES: This story was inspired by a recent discussion about 
which X-Files villains should be allowed to return, and how. And 
then, when I heard that Modell's return was rumoured, it struck me 
that the other baddies would probably want another shot at Mulder 
as well.

Needless to say, this is very very different from anything I've 
done before. I was strong. I slapped myself on the wrist, hard, 
whenever poetic prose and angst started issuing from my fingers, 
and here you are.....

Please send feedback. Please....?