what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

Of course. The answer surprises her, and for a moment she isn't sure how to reply. It's almost complimentary, a complete turnaround from his attitude thus far.

"Then you should know I'm perfectly well-qualified to help with your work. Our work."

He snorts. Our work. He'll be the judge of that - but he's at least tentatively willing to give her a try. It won't be possible to fob her off on anyone else if it doesn't work out, but he can probably make it miserable enough that she'll ask for a transfer.

And maybe she'll work out. She hasn't been scared off by what she can see of his work; she might be able to hack it.

"Let's test that theory." He reaches for the slides he's been peering at, poking them into a slide projector's carousel. "Hit the lights."

Part of her wants to object to being ordered around, but if it's our work then they're also our light switches, and you catch more flies with honey. (You don't, though. You catch the most flies with shit. Still.)

It's a chance, and that's what she needs, right? Right. And she's curious, genuinely.

So she crosses, heels clicking dully on the worn carpet, and flicks the lights off.

"Okay," he says, letting the slide projector's glow fill the room in lieu of the fluorescent lights. The first slide he clicks to is a photo of a corpse's face. "Case out of Oregon. Victim is female, twenty-one, no established cause of death. Only thing the autopsy turned up were these."

Click. There's her back, and on it, two lumps.

Here's the thing about Dana-- something he knows, but doesn't know he knows-- curiosity is a powerful motivator for her. It's gotten her into trouble more than once. It likely will again. Still, she drifts back across the room, eyeing the projected slide thoughtfully.

"Some kind of bite? Or needle marks-- maybe an attempt to make it look like a bite."

His attention stays on her. These slides aren't new to him, at this point - he's been squinting at them for the last day. What is new is seeing Agent Scully react to them; this is a test of sorts, of her commitment to her new work.

And so far, he has to admit she seems engaged. "The county coroner couldn't tell us. All we have to go on is the substance found in the surrounding tissue."

Click.

"Recognize that molecule?"

For a long moment she studies it.

"Some kind of synthesized protein?" she hazards, unsure. "I don't recognize it. What is it?"

At this point she could care less about whether Fox Mulder is kind of a jerk, or if he remembers her. This still isn't a Hardy Boys book, but these days she absolutely could help solve a murder, or catch a serial killer.

"Search me." It's promising that she doesn't recognize it, though. Scully's clearly bright, but her expertise is decidedly earthbound, from the sound of it. If, as he suspects - hopes - they're looking at something sourced from a little further afield, it's liable to be unrecognizable for them both.

Click. This one's a teenage boy.

"I haven't been able to identify it, and neither has anyone in Sturgis, South Dakota." Click. Another body, unidentifiable so close up. "Or in Shamrock, Texas. We have a nationwide mystery on our hands, Scully. Probably international, but I haven't been able to verify cases outside the country."

She hums thoughtfully, low, considering the images one after another.

"Do you have autopsy reports?" The pictures don't show much detail, especially not with the fuzziness of the projector. And though Fox clearly knows his stuff, she doesn't expect him to have answers for all the questions she might come up with, the nuts and bolts of mysterious deaths.

"What's your theory?" Of course he must have something in mind.

"I do," he says, "and I have a theory."

She's on board - he thinks she is, anyway. Even if all of this is going to end up in the inboxes of a few well-placed suits upstairs, her questions sound genuine so far.

He's been walking around as he talks, in what space there is to pace, and now he comes back to her. "My theory is that we should take this case out of the category of unexplained phenomena and put it somewhere a little more concrete. We're investigators, Scully. Refusing to investigate, consigning this case to history's junk drawer, is a cowardly act."

"I thought that was the point," she answers, watching him move, still not entirely sure where things stand. "Explaining the unexplained."

It's an awkward thing to say, she realizes. But she doesn't sound the least bit sarcastic-- she's fully on board with the notion. His reputation does speak for itself.

"Agent Mulder, what are you suggesting?"

Mulder gives her a wry look. She's playing along - not playing, really - and it's been so long since someone was willing to discuss his work with him. He blossoms under attention, especially now that it's positive.

"Theories the Bureau would prefer we weren't pursuing. Tell me, Scully: Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?" One hand comes up, fingers wiggling - oooh, spooky.

Oh, well. That wasn't what she expected.

Which was probably an intentional move on his part. She blinks it off.

"Not in the way you're suggesting-- it's logically impossible, to imagine that beings would be able to cross the sort of distances necessary-- even that they'd want to."

Well, he thinks. Nobody's perfect.

"Where's the logic in these deaths? Our Oregon female -" and he's turning back to grab the clicker, backing them up to the face of their most recent victim - "isn't the first person from her school to end up this way, Scully. She's the fourth.

"Science has failed her and her classmates. Reason has failed her. And if we can't rely on science and reason -" with a little flourish, like he thinks this is a teaching lecture rather than the start of a criminal investigation - "at some point, we must start to consider more...extreme possibilities."

"That's an argument in favor of it being a local cause-- not extraterrestrial. I don't see how saying aliens did it-- with no evidence to prove or even circumstantially support it-- is any better than throwing up our hands and saying we don't know."

She frowns, glancing back at the screen.

"The fact that science hasn't yet uncovered an answer doesn't mean it's failed her. It means there's still work to be done."

"As long as you ignore South Dakota and Texas," he cuts in, though he doubts it'll score any points with her. It's not going to convince her, but this conversation doesn't have to. If they find what Mulder thinks they'll find, she'll have to concede the point.

In the meanwhile, though, she's right about one thing - that last one. "That's why they put the "I" in F.B.I. Our plane departs for Oregon at eight AM tomorrow."

If they were continuing the argument she'd pick it up there-- certainly Texas and Oregon are closer together than Oregon and Mars, or wherever his little green men come from-- but it doesn't seem like he's inclined to stay on the subject right now. Maybe that means, if this was a test, that she passed it.

She lifts her chin a little with a small, professional smile.

"I'll see you then," she says decisively, and without anything else, turns to head for the door.

But she pauses before stepping out, hesitant. She can't say it was nice to meet you because she already has, but this doesn't feel like the moment to get into their earlier brush with investigating the unexplained. So she settles on:

"I am looking forward to working with you."

Restatement, because he hasn't scared her off, and she doesn't want him to think it's only stubbornness (even if it's largely stubbornness) that will have her at the airport on time tomorrow, packed and only slightly bleary with sleeplessness.

Turns out she's polite, even as she's stubborn and argumentative. If nothing else is true, this first little interview suggests that Dana Scully's going to be interesting to work with. Even if she's here on assassination duty, she's willing to bring her own ideas to the fore - and who knows? Maybe he can convince her.

Even if he can't, he has the feeling the next few days are going to be interesting.

In the morning, he slings his overnight bag over a shoulder and heads out to Dulles, meeting up with his new partner at the gate.

"Morning, Scully." Mulder has the irritatingly chipper manner of someone who woke up at two in the morning and made his peace with exhaustion. (It's a long ride to the other side of the country. Maybe he'll sleep then.) He holds out a sizeable foam cup of coffee to her. There's another in his other hand, already half drunk. "Ready to look at some extremely pedestrian and definitely terrestrial phenomena?"

Coffee is an acceptable peace offering. Although she's punctual to a fault, she isn't a morning person by any means-- it's willpower and duty that gets her out of bed. Though today there's a certain excited restlessness, too-- the anticipation of a new assignment, her first case in the field.

"I have the case history to review on the plane," she answers evenly. Overstuffed file folders full of dead teenagers over airline breakfast-- who wouldn't be excited?

"Did you mention extraterrestrials in your 302, Agent Mulder?" She's half-joking but doesn't sound it.

"You'll have to read it and find out." She's so prim. It's actually kind of charming, the seriousness she's affecting this early in the morning. (He'll be right there with her once they're actually in the field - not this intensely proper, but closer. Until then, though, the rules are a little different.) Waving her over to a pair of open chairs, he adds, "I'd save any reading for the plane itself, though."

Having the little tray table will probably make a difference. In the meanwhile, since they've got another ten minutes or so before anyone's going to let them aboard, he takes a seat. His legs stretch out like he's hoping to be a tripping hazard. "Unless you want to play a solitary game of I Spy, I think we're going to have to talk to each other."

"Does that mean you've decided it's safe to talk to me?" This time the humor is a little more obvious as she sits beside him, setting her bag on the floor. She couldn't take up as much space as him if she wanted to, but she's not exactly shrinking away, either-- though she makes an effort to keep the walkway clear. Fire codes, Mulder.

Fire codes, schmire codes. He's going to be cramped up in coach seat for five and a half hours; until then, he's going to sprawl. "I still fully expect you to report back to your handlers, whoever they might be. But I also recognize that we have some time to kill here."

Well, it could be worse. She immediately wants to protest-- because she is, in fact, not a spy. But to some extent... she is going to write a report on the case, of course, so she can see how he'd take it that way. Granted the only people she's working for are the same people he's working for.

"About your theory," she says, casually. Off the record, if there were one. "I still don't understand why that seems like the most logical explanation to you. There are so many things that haven't been explored yet-- things the local investigation might have missed; environmental hazards; someone with a grudge against the victim... Why jump to..."

Ahe tips her head a bit to the side, as if to say you know what. It still feels too crazy to accuse an FBI agent of wholeheartedly believing in aliens, even if he's already professed it.

"Murderers from beyond the stars," he offers jovially, since she's not willing to say it. They can leave aside the question of the legitimacy of her spying, not to mention the extent of her awareness that she's being used by powers greater than either of theirs. They still have more salient questions at hand.

And this one seems liable to make or break their work together, so he does her the service of a real answer. "Have you heard of cattle mutilations?"

"I don't think I have." She's a little bit apprehensive; it sounds a little... eccentric. That's the polite way to put it. But she needs to know what he's thinking.

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp

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