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

Her skepticism is written plainly on her face.

"There's a big difference between mutilated cattle and murdered teenagers. Besides-- were there accounts of strange lights in Oregon?"

He raises his brows, just as an announcement comes over the intercom, announcing their departure. "There's only one way to find out."

She can't help an answering eyeroll as she grabs her bag, ready to hop up and go. At least once they get there, there'll be-- well-- something, surely. Interviews with witnesses, evidence to examine, something. Until then, she's stuck with this restlessness.

"Part of me wonders if you're hazing me."

He shoulders his bag and sets a hand high on her back, guiding them both toward the line. FBI trips are decidedly economy-oriented - they'll be getting on near the end. "I would have put more effort in if I wanted to haze you."

The palm on her back takes her by surprise. From most people it would seem patronizing, but she isn't getting that vibe from him; she doesn't complain about it. Now that he's in a better mood-- or maybe he's playing his own version of more-flies-with-honey-- his sense of personal space seems to be a bit fuzzy.

"I can believe it," she murmurs, but her tone is obviously amused as they take their place at the end of the shuffling crowd.

"So it's the similarity to the-- cattle phenomena? That drew you to this case?"

"That, and a few other things. Figuring them out should keep you busy on the way to Oregon." He pulls his ticket out of a blazer pocket as they approach the passage out to the plane. "Personally, I'm going to get some sleep."

He hopes so, anyway. If not, it's going to be a long day.

"I guess that's fair-- then we can hit the ground running."

The only flaw in that plan is, she can't use it to casually bring up their previous acquaintance. The longer it goes, the more unfair it feels to withhold it; but the more awkward it feels, too, to blurt it out.

"I'll let you know my thoughts when you wake up."

"I'll be all ears." Before then, though, he's going to be all Zzzzs. To his delight, the plane's nowhere close to full, and once they're at cruising altitude, he gets to stretch out - sort of - across three seats. Compared to the way he's usually crowded into a chair, waiting to lose all sensation in his legs, achieving a horizontal position is nothing short of bliss.

Scully probably reads the case file and scoffs at every last detail, but he wouldn't know. He's too busy listening to college rock and the din of the plane hurtling through the atmosphere.

After the plane lands, they're pushed back into the airport's flow, carrying their scant luggage away to the car rentals, where he gets behind the wheel and gives his map a quick glance before starting them off to the picturesque town of Bellefleur. Scully doesn't look quite as refreshed as he feels; he figures he'll let her start in on the case when she's ready.

He looks comfortable, and she tries not to feel jealous. Though in fairness, the economy seating doesn't bother her nearly as much. And once she starts paging through the reports she stops thinking of creature comforts, absorbed in the details of Karen Swenson's death.

After a while in the rental car, getting her thoughts together, she turns to watch him in profile.

"It wasn't clear why the previous Bureau investigation was called off," she muses.

That's a start. Mulder cuts his eyes over to her for a moment and finds her giving him a sharp, steady gaze. His lip twitches. "It wasn't clear to me, either. A couple of G-men were sent out here after the police couldn't get to the bottom of it - but after a week of absorbing the local color and expensing seafood dinners, the Bureau recalled them."

What else? There's at least one other thing he's hoping she spotted, but he's not about to give her a hint. Instead, he reaches blindly for a few sunflower seeds and pops them in his mouth.

"Hmn."

Not much to go on there-- which is curious. It's possible they just made no headway, but that's an awfully quick investigation to give up on. Which makes her suspect there's some other factor-- the likeliest, and worst option being, someone with influence deciding to bury it.

But here they are for take two. She tries again, light and casual.

"I didn't find much on the obvious suspect."

Which is to say, I suspect somebody. Now he's really intrigued - the last set who came out here didn't leave any particular persons of interest behind. Whatever's going on in her head is pure Scully.

"Who's that?" he asks - but don't answer until he's spit his mouthful of seed shells out the window.

"The medical examiner," she answers, pulling the folder back out of her bag. "A Dr... Nemman, who did the first three autopsies-- which did not mention unidentified substances or marks on the lower back. The last victim was autopsied by someone else."

She glances up at him.

"Which makes me think we may be looking at an all-too-human cover-up," she finishes.

Don't smile too bright. Don't get too excited. She's still a mole, and she still doubts. But he doesn't sound at all upset when he says, "That's pretty good, Scully."

"Almost like I'm an FBI agent." She's in good humors, though. "The reports otherwise seemed competent-- I suppose it's possible he missed it, but I suspect it's an intentional omission."

Which makes him the first, likeliest suspect.

"So-- where are we starting?"

"The grave." Dramatic, a little spooky. Flippant. "I've arranged to have another of the bodies exhumed - you're going to see if you can find anything the medical examiner couldn't. Similar tissue samples, ideally."

Which should be fine, since she's a medical doctor in the FBI. This is the kind of assignment she ought to expect. All the same, he can't help but ask: "You're not squeamish about that kind of thing, are you?"

"Exhumation? It's a first." She doesn't love it-- the dead deserve some peace, and so do their families-- but scientifically it makes a fair amount of sense. "My work is usually done long before the burial."

She halfway wonders if it'll bother him that it doesn't bother her. Some people aren't comfortable with the notion of being comfortable with death; he wouldn't be the first.

It's ideal, really, that she doesn't mind working with material that's a little past its sell-by date. He certainly can't do the job with any accuracy - and this might be a problem they run into again.

If she's still here in a week or two, that is. He's not convinced she will be.

"It's my first, too," he admits, and maybe he'd go on to make an even worse joke, but the radio scrambles. And it scrambles loudly, going across stations and making an awful racket, no matter what dial he turns.

It's unbearable and unfixable - until he pulls onto the shoulder and turns off the car. And it's notable. Time to get out and grab the spray paint.

"What--"

She winces, but doesn't have time to try and fiddle with it or even cover her ears until he's pulling over. She hops out as soon as the car comes to a stop, looking at him over the roof of it as he... goes around to the trunk?

"What was that?" Also what the hell is he doing??

That's where the spray paint is, obviously. One big pink X goes on the pavement, right where they encountered the radio

"Do you want the stubbornly rational answer?" he asks, capping the paint can before tossing it back into the trunk. "Or the more theoretical option?"

"I'm interested in both," she answers, with raised eyebrows and her arms folded across her chest. Theoretical is probably not plausible, with Agent Mulder, but she can't come up with a rational option that makes much sense either.

"Rationally speaking," he says, walking back over to the driver's side door, "it's probably nothing. Sometimes radio waves do weird things - maybe this was the automotive equivalent of picking up signals through your fillings."

And if it's obvious he doesn't believe that...well, it's not his fault that it's an inadequate explanation.

"On the other hand," and he's got them on the road again, "you saw the radio clock go crazy. Temporal distortion is widely reported among abductees."

Agent Scully, shockingly, does not like either of these explanations; she frowns, deep in thought as she climbs back into the car. She doesn't want to point out that nothing happened, because obviously something happened; but nothing that seems indicative of alien abduction. They're still firmly on Earth.

"I understand that you try to stay open to.... extreme possibilities." And she's trying not to hold that against him, though she's polite enough not to say so. "But it seems like there are still a number of more mundane possibilities you're skipping over, here."

"Okay," he says, taking them around a curve. If she has ideas to contribute, he wants to hear them - however mundane, however incomplete. "Lay out some alternatives for the class."

"Assuming Dr. Nemman isn't responsible? Whoever is has enough power to pay him off." She looks out the window, considering it. There are plenty of far-out possibilities, even, without going off the planet. "And maybe friends who can exert pressure on the Bureau to have the previous investigation closed. I wouldn't call it likely, but it seems more plausible than Martians."

[ 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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