Date sent: Tue, 03 Feb 1998 21:33:01 -0800 From: "Mary E. Hickling" Subject: Story Submission Title: The Game Author: Enigma E-mail: hickling@earthlink.net Rating: PG Category: Story, humor Spoilers: none Keywords: none Summary: A young fanfic author finds herself in Scully's shoes for a day. 'Kay, people. This is my first try at netfic, so I'm hoping somebody out there likes it. Anyway, it's from an assignment in one of my classes where we had to pretend like we were somebody else for a day, so I chose...guess who? Oh, yeah. This story takes place in either an alternate universe or pre-Quagmire, because in this story, Quequeeg lives. Also, you might recognize little bits of this and that from other fanfic. If you do, I guess it's just part of the joke. Whatever. Also, you may or may not recognize Angie, but if you do, cool! If you don't, oh, well. I own Scully, Mulder, Quequeeg, and...NOOO! It's the truth police!!! I confess I don't own Quequeeg. There, happy? All right, all right. I don't own any of them, except me, that is. Angie owns Angie, and everybody else is owned by CC,DD,GA, 1013, and whoever plays Quequeeg, respectively. Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda. You got that? Good. Now here it goes... *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-* The Game Thinking about it now, I guess I should never have played the game with Angela. I guess it was good for the time, but I didn't realize what it could be like, for the people playing it, and everybody else. I don't even exactly know what happens, but it works. See, I am Kristen Calloway. I live in Southern California, and I am fifteen. I have a little two year old brother, and I watch the X-Files. It's my favorite show, and I often write fanfic about it. For me, this was my reality. At least, it was on Sunday night. On Monday, however, there was entirely different story. It all began at about 5:30 in the morning. I was dead asleep and not planning on getting up, when I heard a beeping noise, like an alarm clock. I don't have an alarm clock. Then, I looked down and noticed that I was wearing a pair of silk pajamas. I don't have any silk PJ's. Right about then, even through my early morning haze, I noticed that something was wrong. *Really* wrong. And then there was that matter of the alarm clock. I looked foggily around, and I noticed it on a small table next to the bed. I hastily turned it off, then looked at some of the other objects on the table, figuring that if I was going to be this person, I might as well know who she was. I looked at the objects and felt them with my hand. My small, pale little hand, which wasn't really mine. I looked first at the tiny, gold cross, which hung from a gold chain laid out carefully on the table. Then at the large folder lying at an odd angle off the table. I picked it up, looking at it. It said: To: Federal Bureau of Investigaion, X-Files division, Special Agent Dana Scully From: Assistant director Walter Skinner. Subject: The Schlotter case I stared at the folder, awestruck. I blinked, and stared at it again. It still read the same. I pinched myself. Nothing happened. Having seen enough episodes of my favorite show, I knew my way around Scully's apartment pretty well, even when all I could think was (Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God.> When I found my way to the bathroom, I looked hazily at the mirror (the sleep hadn't quite worn off yet, and had to pinch myself yet again. It was, without a doubt, Dana Scully staring right back at me. At about the same time, a new wave of thoughts assulted my head. I thought about the last thought a little bit more, savoring it. Then I realized how horrible Dana looked in the morning. I would have to do something. Fist of all, there was rhe matter of makeup. I had never put it on in my life, whereas Scully put it on every day of her life, or at least every day for the past five years, anyway. I thought, Surveying the counter, I found the makeup bag and poked around. I found lipstick, lipliner, powder, foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, more lipstick, concealer, and a few bottles that were unnamed. I thought, but I deceided that I had to work with it anyway. I thought as I dumped the contents of the bag onto the counter. I thought, I picked up the lipliner, and began to outline mine, or Scully's lips ina red-brown color, when I was startled by a loud bark. Glancing every which way, I finally spotted ythe disturbance, which was bounding up to me and wagging his tail ike he wanted it to fall off. I picked up the little Pomeranian fuzzball, gently stroking it and ooing, "hi Quequeeg, how are you?" In response, the little dog, who seemed to notice something was up, growled as low as he could, kicked a little, and made his way out of my arms. With that, I turned to face the mirror once more, but the damage was already done. The lipliner went off in an arrow up my cheek,, showing exactly where I was when the little dog had scared half the wits out of me. < I guess this is what you use concealer for,> I thought. The rest of it went fine, or at least it did once I locked Quequeeg out of the bathroom, so I went back into her room to look at clothes. After a little while, I deceided that I would be doing the best thing for 'shippers everywhere if I did the very thing that the reall Scully hadn't gotten the courage u to do yet: flirt. I found the shortest dress she had, which didn't prove to be especially shor at all, and the lowest-cut top I could find, and covered it from the stinging rain with her trenchcoat. After slipping onsome pumps, then trying to walk in them with her feet, I went into the kitchen to get sme breakfast. I went to look for something to eat, settling on a bagel, but just so happened to look at the clock when I was taking my first bite and noticing that it was 7:15, and if I didn't leavesoon, I would be late for work. I ran out, looking for the stuff Scully would take to work with her. Fist I found the briefcase, then I went into her room and took the case folder from off her bedside table. I stuffed it in her briefcase, then ran out the door, tripping in the heeled shoes as I went. I hopped into the driver's seat, when it hit me. I had never driven before in my life. I thought, Another force inside me told me, I guess exctment took over, and I began driving, slowly at first, mcuh to the dislike of the drivers around me. As I grew more confident, I sped up, but I still got to the office late. Upon entering the J. Edgar Hoover building, I noticed stares from the people who recognized me. In passing, I heard Tom Colton mutter, "Scully? Late? Thought that was Spooky's job." I gave him a "look" as he walked away, which I found came quite easily in this face. I almost tripped him , but I figured that it would be unscullylike of me. Entering the office, I set the breifcase down, and wlaked over to Mulder. "Hey," I began, "what's up?" He seemed startled, and put whatever he was reading in the bottom drawer. "Umm, nothing, really. So, the case which came in yesterday- the Schlotter case, right? Were you able to look that one over? "Yeah," I lied. In reality, I didnt know what he was talking about. "So, what's you're thoughts on it?" With that, I glanced down, then over at him, saying, "Is it me, or is it hot in here?" Mulder got a look on his face like I think he would the day he meets his sister again, which was equal elements of shock, horror, and joy when he saw what Scully was wearing. "Um..nice dress," he muttered. I figured that he would be more interested than he was, watching his normally more-than-professional partner in a miniskirt that went up to midthigh and a blouse that was fairly low-cut. "Thank you,"I replied, grinning ear-to-ear, and not even understanding why. "glad you like it." Mulder held his breath and continued, "So what do you think about the case?" "I don't think it's real," I told him, mentally biting my lip as I waited ofr his response. "Fine," he replied "I guess we'll have to do a little site visit." We got int the car, and while he was driving, I took my breifcase out and began to ook over the case. It had to do with a boy, Ted Schlotter, who was supposedly capable of writing stories which could come true, and was using this gift to kill off people in seemingly preposterous ways. "What's your thoughts on the case, Mulder?" I asked. "I don't know yet. We'll have to see," he replied. Right about then, all the pieces fit together. I knew exactly what had to be done, and I knew exactly how it had to be done, but it would require some *very* unscullylike behaviour. I thought, then finally deceided that it would work. "Angie!!!" I sceamed at the top of my lungs, "Get me out f this universe now, and I mean it!!!" Mulder stared at me like he had just seen a ghost, or maybe jsut his normally insanely sane partner going crazy, then all of a sudden Mulder began to blur, like wartcolors on glass. The image swirled around and around, then... "I looked up panting from my screaming outburst, and Anglea, who was sitting in front of me, typing away on the computer, stared laughing. "Angie, I am so not amused," I began, fuming at her while she continued laughing. "I'm sorry, but it was worth it for the look on your face when you realized what was up!" "It wasn't for me! Look, Angie, if you're not careful about you're writing, I think I'll have to write you into a story where..." "Hey, will you stop it?" replied Angela, who was beginning to calm down, "I was just messing with your head." "That lipliner thing was *definitely* not the way to do it! I'm never going to let you near a computer when we're on a sleepover ever again. That was cruel." "I thought it was kinda funny. Besides, it was better than the one where you put me as Skinner," Angie countered. "Yeah, but that was to get you back for the one where you put me as the unblonde.. That was sooo brutal," I replied, "Know what?" "Nope," she replied. "Let's quit abusing this little gift, 'kay? Let's so something else," I said. "What'cha got in mind? Truth or dare?" Angie asked, rolling her eyes at the thought. "No, I guess you're right. Let's make one, and write what's-her-face in it, you know, the one who hated your stuff?" "Mrs. Newcomb? Oh, yeah, this should be cool. Who should we write her in as?" Angie asked, grinning widely. "Hm. I don't know. How about...Angie, help me out here," I said. "Frohike!" Angie replied, giggling a little bit. "No, from what you tell me he's almost too good for her. What about the RatBoy?" "Maybe..." Angie answered, a lost in thought over the possibilites. "Quequeeg?" I asked. "That's so evil!" Angela replied, with a shocked look on her face that was obviously fake. "I thirve on it." "Me too," Angela replied as she sat down at the computer and began to type. *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Yes, I know how bad it sucked. You don't have to tell me, so keep your torches in the garage, 'cause I alredy know. However, if you want to praise me and grovel before me and beg and plead with me to write another story, or even if you just want to give me some ideas to make this crpa better, I will be *very* happy to get them. Thanks!!! Oh, yeah. I still have to give you my addy, don't I? Well, just send all that good stuff to hickling@earthlink.net . No flames, please, since Im still new at this, and I don't want my butt burned, okay?