#bronshweig

He pictures the chaos happening just outside this room, how everyone around him had sprung into action, and for a brief moment he’s reminded of what it was like back in the war, when everyone had each other’s backs and were all working towards a common goal. 

He’s surrounded by people who all want to stop this bomb from exploding. To save lives. And here he is, under strict orders to keep that from happening.

Two minutes.

He clasps his hands in front of him, partly because he doesn’t know what else to do with them but mostly because, if he doesn’t, he worries he might just start defusing this thing. The survival instinct is strong, and he knows that as much as anyone.  

One minute.

He hasn’t thought about ‘Nam in a while, but he is now. Viscerally. He smells the rain, hears the explosions, and feels the squelch of mud that crept all the way up his calves. He thinks of his battle buddies, Mike and John, and how neither of them had accepted the deal he’d taken in order to get out. How neither of them had jumped at the opportunity to taste freedom once again, only to pay for that opportunity in sacrifice and loyalty; by subjection to experimentation and tests and uncertainties.

He’s never felt like a coward before. The responsibilities he’s been given and the knowledge that he’s been helping the mission succeed have been enough to avoid feeling regret. 

But he feels it now.

Forty seconds.

He’d known when he accepted this assignment that a lot of innocent people would die. He’d been prepared for the inevitable eventuality. Never in a million years had he expected he’d die not knowing the reason why.

Now, at least, a lot of them will be saved , he thinks.

I’m taking their place , he thinks.

Fourteen seconds.

He wonders what happened to Mike. Did John ever get out of the jungle? He’ll never know.

What will his son think of him after he’s gone?

He leans forward, his head in his hands. He thinks of the kids he’d passed in the hallway minutes prior, how he’d been party to their death sentence, and now he’s going to save them.

Michaud closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch this happen. 

He is the fucking hero. Even if he’s the only one who knows it.

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

(@fridaysat9)

Kyle was from a military family. His father was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marines. His mother was Military Police. He’d spent his childhood on bases all across the country, playing with his siblings and the other military brats whose lives were just as transient as his. 

Medical school was expensive. Money had always been tight, and Kyle had two older sisters who went to college and put the family in debt without a second thought. He couldn’t do that to his parents, so he enlisted. Uncle Sam would make him a doctor; all he had to do was report and serve… even if that meant spending his nights on an empty hospital floor guarding halls in the middle of the night. 

He’d traveled across the country from California to stand here. It had been six months, and he’d done nothing more than go to classes and basic training, and check identification. Admitting clerk was a very long way from doctor in the field , helping soldiers on the front line. 

Kyle was trying to keep himself alert by running through the log book in front of him when he saw a man and a small woman walking down the hall. He didn’t recognize them, but lots of different people came through this section of the hospital. At least it was something to do. 

“ID and floor you're visiting, please.”

The man flashed his FBI badge and told him they were going to the morgue while his partner revealed her own badge. There weren’t typically a lot of special orders for the night shift, but there was one tonight– and it was about exactly the location that these two agents planned to visit. 

“That area is currently off limits to anyone other than authorized medical personnel,” Kyle said, repeating the official message they’d all been given. 

“On whose orders?” the agent asked as he reached for the logbook. 

“General McAddie.” Kyle had been told of the General's order not once, not twice, but three times at the start of his shift. 

“General McAddie is who requested our coming down here,” the agent said as he scribbled something illegible on the pad. “We were awakened at 3am and told to get down here immediately.”

Shit. Kyle felt his composure slip as he tried to remember if there had been any mention of the FBI. 

He didn’t. “I don't know anything about that.”

“Well, call General McAddie,” the agent said, already starting to walk past, his partner falling into step at his side. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

“I don't have the number,” Kyle admitted. 

“Well, then call the switchboard,” the agent said, turning to face him. “They'll patch you through.”

Kyle studied the man in front of him, trying to assess the situation, but all that did was make him feel more like an idiot. Did he have a switchboard number? He’d never called it before. He rummaged through the papers in front of him, wondering if it was here somewhere and no one had told him. 

“Jesus, you don't know the switchboard number?” the agent asked, and Kyle decided he needed to get help before he got into more trouble. 

“I'm calling my C.O.” He picked the phone up off its base, but the agent stopped him from making the call.

“Listen, son, we don't have time to dick around while you demonstrate your ignorance of the chain of command.” Kyle was frozen, holding the phone a few inches from his ear. He glanced at the female agent who offered him nothing as her partner continued his tirade. “The order came directly from General McAddie, you call him. We'll conduct our business while you confirm authorization.”

The agents started down the hall. Kyle didn’t know who these people were, but the last thing he wanted was to prevent them from doing whatever General McAddie had asked them to do in the morgue. 

“Why don't you head on down,” Kyle called out as he hung up the phone, “and I'll confirm authorization.”

“Thank you.”

Kyle watched until they reached the end of the hall before picking up the receiver. He looked at the phone list in front of him. He felt inadequate, like he couldn’t do even the simplest task without waking someone up in the middle of the night to ask a question. He decided to start by calling the clerk on the floor above him, but no one there had heard of any FBI involvement on the premises. He called the morgue next, but the phone went unanswered. He was starting to get a sinking feeling in his gut. Something didn’t feel right, and as he made more calls, saving his C.O., he knew he had fucked up. 

It was nearly 4:30am when Kyle ran out of options and finally dialed his C.O.’s home number. 

“This had better be good,” the senior medical officer said as he answered. 

“Sir, it’s Lieutenant Murray,” he said, keeping his tone firm even though his body was filling with dread. “I am calling to get authorization for two FBI agents visiting the morgue.” 

“That area is off limits, Lieutenant.” His C.O. said it like a reprimand and all at once, Kyle knew he had been played. 

“They said,” he started, feeling like a child. He cleared his throat and tried again. “They said they were here under General McAddie’s orders.” 

Kyle heard rustling and an angry grumble across the phone line. “Jesus Christ. Call the MPs and get them down there immediately, and Lieutenant? Do not leave your post until I get there. Is that clear?”

Yep, Kyle had fucked up royally. At this point, all he could hope was that it wouldn’t cost him his M.D. 

“Yes, sir.” 

NORTH TEXAS 

(BLACKWOOD)

(@monikafilefan)

He stares wide-eyed at the gaping hole in the fireman’s abdomen.

No… no, no, no!

“It's left the body!” Bronschweig yells as he sprints back to the ladder leading up to the open hatch in the ceiling. This is bad. This is really fucking bad. “I think it's gestated!”

He freezes as a figure darts through the shadows. 

“What's the matter?” his assistant Micah asks. 

“Wait... I can see it.” And it is huge. Its long limbs and bulbous head glistens as it inhales the warm Texan air. The freezing temperature it’s been carefully confined in is now meaningless. It has evolved. “Oh Jesus… Lord…”

The black void of its oil-slicked eyes is endless. Evil lives there.

”Ya see it?”

“Yeah, so much for little green men,” Bronschweig mutters, awed. His hands shake as he pulls out a vial and syringe from his bio-hazard suit. If he weren’t shitting his pants right now he’d laugh at the naïvety that a thin plastic suit could protect him from this monster. “I need you down here!”

While he waits for Micah to get off his ass and help, he fills the syringe with the vaccine’s dark liquid. Sheer dread washes over him when he realizes the bone and tissue that the creature has been ingesting during development is exactly what it intends to consume again. This newborn is hungry.

A noise echoing around the chamber douses Bronschweig’s veins with an icy dose of adrenaline. He twists his head from side to side, trying to spot the creature who’s simply vanished.

Goosebumps prickle his skin. As a scientist, he knows what this is: a predator stalking its prey.

Behind him, a loud, animalistic screech pierces the air. Bronschweig startles, shouting in fear when a massive body slams into his chest, brutally knocking him to his back as needle-like nails swipe across his face.

Bronschweig gasps under the searing pain of scalpel-sharp claws slicing ribbons of his flesh from sternum to stomach. This thing will rip him to shreds. Fighting for his life, he clutches the syringe in his fist and stabs it through the slick, olive-colored torso of the entity pinning him down. A battle cry rips through Bronschweig’s lips as he empties the vaccine into the creature’s veins. It shrieks, lurching away.

Pain. Blood. Shock.

“Oh, God…”

Rolling to his knees, Bronschweig looks down at a gnarled wound on his abdomen weeping dark blood into a crimson pool within his palms. Evisceration. Flayed wide open; like being autopsied alive.

Fuck!

His body throbs to the bone as he lunges for the ladder.

“Help!” His chest is so tight he can barely breathe. “I need help!”

He blinks away tears and catches a glimpse of his colleagues closing the airtight lid attached to his only way out. Piles of dirt cover the bulletproof glass, ominously turning day to night. 

Panicking, Bronschweig starts climbing the metal rungs. 

“What are you doing?” he cries. The deep cut across his face pulls his mouth into a sneer.

Bastards! All of them, selfish fucking bastards. 

He gags as metallic-tasting foam bubbles up his throat and slowly seeps into his mouth and nose. A punctured lung. Christ, suffocating on your own bodily fluids is almost as horrific as being torn apart. 

He stares up in darkness at the dirt-covered ceiling, resigned. The project’s motto runs through his head: progress requires sacrifice. He’d just never imagined it was his life he’d be sacrificing. 

A clawed hand juts out from behind, covering Bronschweig’s entire face in a visceral death grip, yanking him backwards with incredible force and smashing his skull onto the metal floor. 

Bronschweig screams. The creature strikes.

And this is the beginning of the end…

LONDON, ENGLAND

(@gaycrouton)

“Then you must take away what he holds most valuable. That with which he can’t live without,” he stated. This group had been dancing around the inevitable for long enough.

“I presume you mean to say whom ,” the British Bastard countered with a weary sigh.

“Dana Scully,” Spender supplemented, punctuating the name with an exhalation of smoke.

“I know you have a fondness for the girl, but we never intended her involvement to last this long,” Strughold replied. “She should have died in that train car. That cancer should’ve killed her, as intended. Yet, somehow , none of our plans have come to fruition.”

A few of the men in the room averted their gaze. Too feeble to look him in the eye and acknowledge they had become weak. 

However, Spender, the worst offender of them all, stood tall.

“It wasn’t the time,” the Fat Man replied.

Gesturing towards the monitor, now displaying black and white footage of Dana Scully conspiring with Fox Mulder. “When do you think the right time is? When she finally succeeds in helping Mulder destroy a plan that’s been decades in the making?”

“Killing her would be worse than eliminating Mulder,” the British Bastard seethed. “Never mind a crusade, he would become relentless. Who knows how many of their allies would crawl out of the woodwork to avenge her alongside him.”

“She was a disposable little girl and your cowardice has allowed her to become Mulder’s very own Mary Magdalene,” Strughold seethed to the room.

When Conrad Strughold started this organization, he chose these men because they were ruthless. These were the men who kissed their children on the foreheads before sending them to their deaths and would shake each other’s hands to celebrate a job well done afterward. 

Back then, they would sacrifice anything when they had everything to lose, and now, in their old age, they couldn’t handle the responsibilities that came with playing God.

It was pathetic.

Quickly trying to compensate for their inadequacies, the men in the room all began offering lame contributions while Strughold sat back and listened with contempt.

“The man nearly put a bullet in his brain when he found out we gave her cancer because of him, maybe he’d be too far gone for revenge.”

“But I thought we only mentioned the idea of killing Agent Scully to avoid killing Mulder? What’s the point if the result remains the same?”

“Two birds with one stone.”

“Killing them both will raise the concern of that pesky assistant director.”

“He’s far more susceptible to threats than those two. Let me take care of him when the time comes,” Spender shrugged.

“What if, instead of killing her, we merely… put her out of reach, so to speak,” Strughold suggested.

The British one had the audacity to look disgusted. “You can’t mean—”

“He’d want to believe she was alive so badly that his focus would shift to trying to find her.”

“It would be Samantha all over again.”

“Worse.”

Strughold nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good.”

“I’m sure Marita Covarrubias would appreciate having someone else take the brunt of the vaccination experimentations.” The reminder of the blonde’s plight elicited a few chuckles throughout the room.

“No, it’s too close for comfort,” Strughold dissented. “Besides, don’t many scientists dream of going to Antarctica? Let’s allow her to partake in our exciting research experiments there.”

“Are you so naïve as to think Fox Mulder wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth for that woman? He’s besotted with her, for God’s sake,” the Brit proclaimed.

“On the contrary, his fervent loyalty and affection for Miss Scully is what I’m counting on. Pretty euphemisms aside, it would surely take him a long time to find her. Besides, looking at his track record with his sister, we can assume he will dedicate the second half of his life to yet another fruitless endeavor.”

“What does Einstein say about insanity?”

Through a plume of smoke trailing from his lips, Spender spoke up. “Plus, with Scully out of the way, maybe you could ask your colleague to come back and give Mulder some comfort in his time of need.”

Strughold nodded appreciatively, “I believe Diana would be amenable to that. She’s proven valuable to me with our work in Tunisia. It would be useful to have her keep an eye on him.”

“This is ludicrous!” the Brit declared. “I will dispose of Kurtzweil, but I can not stand by and condone this half-cocked plan.” 

The room was silent as he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. It wasn’t until they heard the sound of an engine starting that Strughold spoke up. “I presume everyone in this room understands that he only offered to exterminate Kurtzweil to make warning Mulder less conspicuous.”

“Yes, we know,” Spender agreed.

“He’s been working against the interests of the group for a while now.”

“He had to have known we had eyes on Bill Mulder’s funeral, yet he flippantly disparaged the group to earn Dana Scully’s favor.”

“Well, if he wants to be a friend of the family so badly, then I suppose he can follow in Bill Mulder’s footsteps,” Strughold shrugged.

A finality settled over the room as the absent man’s fate was decided. It served as a reminder that length of tenure meant nothing without loyalty.

“We can allow him to be useful one final time,” Strughold mused, staring out the window at the departing vehicle. “Then let his good intentions blow up in his face.”

2630 HEGAL PLACE 

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

(@monikafilefan)

“Oh, Trish. It’s my fault,” Theo cries. “I should’ve worked harder to get you the best treatment sooner.”

“Theo,” Trish tsks weakly against his cheek. Tears burn twisted lines down his face that soak the bleachy hospice-grade sheets of her pillow. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for one damn thing. Promise me, my love.” 

“I promise.”

Something soft as feathers tickles Theo’s face, waking him from his dream. 

“Cuddles…” As much as his late wife Trish loved this damn cat when she was still by his side, that’s how much Cuddles is attached to Theo now. Shoving down lingering sadness, Theo scratches the cat’s back. “Whaddya want, furball?”

Cuddles bats the TV remote with his orange paw and the theme song to Theo’s favorite show pops on. 

“Bad boys, bad boys

Whatcha gonna do?

Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” 

“ COPS ! Good boy.” The cat nuzzles his head against Theo’s hand. “Well Cuddles, who do ya think they’re gonna bust tonight?”

“…But you saved me! As difficult and as frustrating as it's been sometimes, your goddamned strict rationalism and science have saved me a thousand times over!” a man yells, his strained voice echoing off the hollow walls of the hallway. Cuddles jumps. Theo rolls his eyes. Nothing new ‘round here. “You've kept me honest! You've made me a whole person…”

Theo ignores the noise until he hears someone running down the hall a few minutes later. 

“Damn neighbors causin’ a ruckus.” Theo slowly rises from his recliner as the cops on screen sprint down an alleyway after a perp. “Makin’ me miss the best part.”

Theo looks through the peephole — it’s Fox Mulder from number 42. Of course it is. He’s the only neighbor with a revolving door of domestic disturbances. When Theo flings open his door to remind Mulder that Hegal Place isn’t a gymnasium, he sees the FBI agent’s petite partner, Dana, laying still on the floor, her eyes closed. 

Shocked, Theo stumbles over to her, instinctively pressing two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. The act reminds him too much of Trish in her final days. But the contrast of Theo’s dark-skinned hand against Dana’s bone-white throat tells him this is not about Trish right now. 

“Then hurry, Goddammit!” Mulder screams before sprinting back into the hall. “Theo?”

“You call 911?” Theo asks.

“Yeah,” Mulder nods. “My partner… she’s hurt.”

“What happened? I heard shouting…”

Mulder gapes. “I’d never hurt her. A bee stung her. I—” He runs his hands through his hair. “ Fuck! ”

“Okay, all right, she’s breathing. Pulse is good.” Theo stares as the stunned agent paces back and forth like a caged lion. Pure panic, Theo recognizes. Suddenly he feels a sympathetic wave of fear so painfully familiar it nearly knocks him out of his house shoes. “Look—”

Dana’s breath hitches and Mulder instantly falls to his knees, carefully lifting her upper body over his thighs, wrapping a protective arm around her.

Mulder’s usual tan face is white as snow while his unblinking eyes refuse to leave the woman laying limply across his lap. He’s silent as his trembling fingers gently sweep red strands of hair behind Dana’s ear. 

“Scully…” Mulder’s voice cracks, and Theo fears his heart might just do the same.

He approaches slowly, reaching out to place a calming hand to Mulder’s rigid back. “Help’s comin’. I can hear the sirens already.” 

Which is weird , Theo thinks. Never in his 68 years has he counted on an ambulance showing up so fast. Not that he’s complaining. Theo only first met Dana face-to-face two years ago and he’d instantly liked her. Pretty little thing. They’d ridden the elevator together, introduced themselves, and she was sweet enough to offer to hold Cuddles’ heavy bag of litter. Theo pretended to fiddle with his keys to watch Mulder welcome Dana into his place with a dopey-lookin’ grin and a hand to her lower back. 

Trish would’ve loved to see Mulder cherish Dana the way Theo cherished her. 

“My fault, Scully... shouldn’t have dragged you out there… so sorry…” 

Mulder’s pleas pull Theo back to the present. 

“No, no. Now don’t do that. Placin’ blame isn’t helpin’ anybody. It’ll be okay.” Saying that to someone cradling their sick loved one is a big risk, but Theo knows from experience that simple words of ease can keep the world spinning a little longer. “Ya think Dana would want you blamin’ yourself for one damn thing?”

Mulder tosses him a sad look. “No, Theo. She’d probably shoot me first.”

Then the elevator dings open and a team of paramedics rush through its doors. The medics transfer Dana from Mulder’s lap and onto the gurney in one swoop. 

“Help her!” Mulder orders. “Please…”

Theo feels his back hit the wall as he moves to the corner, his gut churning.

“Can you hear me? Can you say your name?” one medic asks Dana.

Another straps an oxygen mask over her face. “She's got constriction in the throat and larynx.”

“Passages are open! Let's get her in the van right away,” the tall medic shouts when Mulder reaches for Dana’s hand. “Coming through! Watch your back!” 

“You’ve never held me back,” Mulder whispers to an unconscious Dana. “Never been in my way, Scully. You’ve helped me find it.”

Mulder stands frozen as the elevator doors close. Theo slaps a hand to the young man’s back and swallows down his own heartbreak to offer Mulder support he wished he’d received years ago. “Now go show her that.”

Mulder returns an appreciative slap to Theo’s arm before racing down the stairs to meet the ambulance. 

“ Meooow! ”

“Nosy cat, get back in the house.” Theo grabs Cuddles, holds the furball over his heart as he sends up a silent prayer that Dana will be back in Mulder’s arms soon enough. “C’mon Cuddles, let’s go finish COPS .” 

WILKES ISLAND

ANTARCTICA

(@admiralty-xfd)

The weeks drag by at the bottom of the earth. 

They’ve been on the ice for nine weeks now, nine weeks away from home. Delilah knew it would be tough but the perpetual sunlight has been messing with her circadian rhythms for so long she doesn’t know which way is up.

The penguins, predictable as ever, do their thing. Emperors remain inland in tight family groups, struggling to keep warm against the unforgiving chill in the air. Her crew is only here to observe and document their activities, although around week three she began to realize it was just as tedious for them as it is for the birds. They’ve been stationed at this particular rookery since the beginning of mating season, and she’s ready to get the fuck out of here. Why couldn’t I have gotten the gig in Galapagos? she wonders. It’s warmer there and those penguins mate for life.

Delilah decides to call it a day. She turns to her camera operator. “Shut it down, Will.”

Will, confused, raises a brow. “We still have thirty minutes out here.”

“I’m putting on my producer hat,” Delilah replies. “We’re done. Let’s go get some coffee, preferably with some booze in it.”

With a You don’t have to ask me twice shrug, Will slaps the lens cap onto the camera and stands, wiping the snow from his pants.

And that’s when everything happens at once.

First, the penguins begin to scatter. They haven’t done anything like this before, and like any good camera operator would, Will heaves the machine back onto his shoulder and points it at the birds. But Delilah senses something else is up… is it an earthquake? Some kind of tectonic activity? 

There’s an enormous thrumming sound coming from behind her, and when she whips around, she sees something she will never forget for the rest of her life. 

It's a spaceship. An honest-to-god fucking spaceship, straight out of Star Trek or something, gliding over the tundra as smoothly as a hawk.

Delilah’s throat goes dry. She can’t even speak, much less turn her eyes away to see if Will has seen it, too. 

“W… Will ,” she croaks. What the fuck are words?

“Are you seeing this?” Will says, still riveted by the frenzy of birds.

“Do you see that ?” Delilah spits. It’s the only time in her documentary career that she’s known without a doubt she is looking at the more interesting subject. But before Will even has the chance to spin around, the craft —or whatever it was— is gone.

“See what?”

Delilah doesn’t know what else to do. She tears off towards where the retreating shape went, running as hard and fast as her legs can carry her. “Come on! ” she shouts at Will, and her partner follows. “Bring the camera!” She appreciates his obedience in a time when explanations are less than convenient.

They run, as far as they’re able. Will lags behind, struggling with the heavy camera, and it feels like miles but can certainly only have been a few hundred meters when Delilah spots something ahead, what appears to be a dark figure, a clear contrast to the stark white of the snow. Is it some of the Emperors, separated from the huddle?

Will sees them too, and they both slow. Delilah’s insides are burning and she doubles over.

“We ran all this way for a couple rogue penguins?” Will gripes. 

“No,” Delilah pants. He’s never going to believe me. “It was… did you see…”

“Wait,” Will suddenly says. “Those aren’t penguins.”

And as Delilah squints to see, her partner is right. It’s a person, a human person… no, it’s two people huddled together. “Who are they? How the hell did they get here?” And no sooner do the words escape her mouth does Delilah think… what if …?

No. That would be ridiculous.

They creep closer to the pair, their shoes crunching across the snow. It’s a woman clinging to a man, keeping him warm. 

“H-hello?” Delilah calls. “Do you need help?”

The woman turns her head, catches Delilah’s eye. Her face appears frostbitten, her auburn hair wet and windswept. “He needs to get warm,” she says, her teeth chattering. “Please.”

“Scully,” comes a second voice. The man, whom Delilah had presumed was passed out, is actually awake. “Don’t be a hero. You’re the one who needs to get warm.”

Will sets the camera down and pulls out one of the trusty emergency blankets he keeps on him at all times, rushing over to the duo and covering the woman, its metallic crinkly surface reflecting the sun. He goes for a second blanket, but the woman declines.

“No,” she says. “I’ve got him.” She wraps herself together with him, not letting him go. “I’ve got you, Mulder,” she whispers.

“How the hell did the two of you get all the way out here?” Delilah asks the woman incredulously, her inquisitive nature failing to waver.

But the redhead doesn’t answer. She doesn’t seem to care that there are others here, that rescue is imminent. She doesn’t seem to care about anything other than the immediate warmth of her companion.

Delilah can tell it’s taking everything inside Will not to pick the camera and point it at these two, at this demonstration of human resilience and connection far more interesting than a flock of birds. It’s not like they would even notice, much less care. But he doesn’t. So they watch instead, what they’ve come here to do. 

It’s even better than Galapagos. 

OFFICE OF PROFESSIONAL REVIEW

WASHINGTON, DC

(@fridaysat9)

“... the other events you’ve laid down here are too incredible on their own, and quite frankly implausible in their connections.”

Agent Scully sat in front of the table of senior staff, looking worse for the wear after her recent escapades. Jana took in her appearance– the dry skin, chapped lips, little to no makeup– and noticed that the agent’s poise hadn’t faltered in the slightest since their last meeting. Even though, since that time, she had gone back to Texas (and apparently taken a trip to Antarctica). She and her partner, the ever-discussed Agent Mulder, had spent thousands of dollars at the FBI’s expense. Jana had no doubt all of this could have been prevented had it not been for the incredibly rash and irresponsible choices she and her partner had made. 

“What is it you find incredible?” Agent Scully asked, as if it weren’t obvious. 

There was a disregard for the authority of OPR in the agent’s voice, which would have given Jana pause, had Agent Scully’s reputation not preceded her. Jana was aware that she was tough, calculated, and professional nearly to a fault, and while she had been assigned to the X-Files to disprove the validity of the department, she had become a staunch defender of her partner’s work. Loyalty and dedication were things that were usually respected at the bureau. So long as that loyalty wasn’t their downfall. 

They all had their roles at the FBI. Agent Scully’s, though she seemed incapable of accomplishing it, was to provide a scientific eye in her department and stop the hemorrhaging of funds that was coming from the pursuit of cases of an “unexplained” nature. Jana’s job, which was one she took very seriously, was to evaluate the agents in her division, corralling any lost sheep. Her job was to reign in those who had taken advantage of their badge, traveling around the world in the pursuit of answers to questions that went beyond the bureau’s scope or interest. 

“Well, where would you like me to start?” Jana asked, matching Agent Scully’s nonplussed tone that barely covered the disdain she felt for this meeting. “So many of the events described in your report defy belief. Antarctica is a long way from Dallas, Agent Scully. I can't very well submit a report to the Attorney General that alleges the links you've made here. Bees and corn crops do not quite fall under the rubric of domestic terrorism.”

“No, they don't.”

“Most of what I find in here is lacking a coherent picture of any organization with an attributable motive,” Jana continued. She’d waded through Agent Scully’s report– the first person account, the “findings,” and frankly, lack of reputable proof. It read more like a science fiction novel than a government-sanctioned operation. “I realize the ordeal you've endured has clearly affected you. But the holes in your account leave this panel with little choice but to delete these references to our final report to the Justice Department, until which time hard evidence becomes available that would give us cause to pursue such an investigation.”

There was a moment of silence before Agent Scully stood from her seat and walked around the table. She was slight, but walked with purpose, approaching the bench as if she were the one who had called this meeting to order. 

At first, Jana was unsure of her purpose, until she removed a small vial from her pocket and presented it to her. 

A bee. 

Agent Scully stood before her, unyielding and unaffected by what had been said about her report. Jana tilted the vial, wondering if the insect between her fingers could really be proof of the things she’d read or if it was in fact, nothing more than a garden variety honey bee, plucked from the flower beds out front of the Hoover building. 

Agent Scully spoke, then, with conviction that matched her demeanor. “I don't believe the FBI currently has an investigative unit qualified to pursue the evidence in hand.”

All at once, Jana realized that she had lost. As Agent Scully left the room, leaving the men at the table talking amongst themselves while Jana held the bee in her hand, she could see the outcome as clear as day. This bee would have to be investigated. Agent Scully’s claims would have to be investigated. 

And Agent Scully was correct: there was only one department capable of doing so.

She adjourned, and tucking the bee into her pocket. She had other meetings today, more important meetings, and she had spent enough time on this already. Jana gathered her things, slipping out of the room without further discussion. 

A bee. Thousands of dollars and a plethora of outlandish claims came down to a single bee. As she waited for the elevator, Jana removed the vial from her pocket and held it up for a closer look. She hadn’t heard any footsteps, but the strong smell of cigarette smoke caught her attention as a man came to stand at her side. 

“Miss Cassidy,” he said with a sense of authority she wasn’t sure he deserved. Jana didn’t know what his role was in the bureau, but she did know he had tight connections with her bosses. “What do you have there?”

A prickly feeling crawled across her skin as she realized he would get the answer whether it came from her or from someone higher up. What she didn’t know is what he would do with the information. 

“It’s from Agent Scully,” she said calmly. “A bee. From Texas.” 

The man whose name she had never gotten pursed his lips and held out his palm in front of her. “Allow me to take that off your hands.”

He didn’t say why, or what he would do with the small insect, but Jana was aware there was no room for discussion. She placed it in his hand as the elevator arrived. She stepped inside, but he remained still, watching her as the doors slid shut.