From: Isahunter@aol.com
Date: Fri, 2 Jul 1999 18:07:35 EDT
Subject: NEW: "Happy Birthday" by Diadem (1/1)

Title:  Happy Birthday (1/1)

Author:  Diadem

Category:  V, H

Rating:  G

Spoilers:  Nope

Disclaimer:  Skinner is not mine, M&S are not mine.
     They belong to CC, 1013 and Fox.  Michaels and 
     Lawrence are mine, I guess, but I don't really 
     want them.  The little hairball is definitely 
     mine, though!

Feedback:  Yup!  DO NOT HIT REPLY, though - click 
     here instead!  Diadem@cwcom.net

Dedication:  Isa - thanks for keeping me moderately 
     sane and legible!

Summary:  Ah, the horrors of modern technology.

Notes:  Kind of a continuation of Faux Pas, in that 
     I love the idea of technology taking over 
     every day situations.  You don't have to have 
     read it first though.  Maybe this will turn into
     a series - any votes for Diana and a faulty 
     hotbrush???
       Oh yes, very silly and out of character.  Sorry!


Happy Birthday (1/1)  by Diadem

It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was 
shining, the birds were singing, and a 
whole bunch of other cliches were out in 
force as AD Walter Skinner entered the 
Hoover builing.  But what had brightened 
his morning the most was that no one had 
so far stopped him to wish him a happy 
birthday.
     The truth was, he hadn't told anyone.  
Not a single person knew that June twenty 
second had any more meaning for him than 
any other day, and he intended to keep it 
that way.
     Throwing his keys down on to the tray 
he stepped through the metal detector, 
scooped them up again, and headed for the 
elevator.  Not one of the dozens of agents 
in the lobby gave him a second glance.  As 
usual.
     Despite the hour, the elevator carriage 
was empty.  It would be nice, he reflected, 
to share the day with someone, have gifts 
to open, perhaps be taken out for dinner.  
But all things considered, it was just another 
day, one out of three hundred and sixty five.  
June twenty eighth had no meaning, not 
really.  Millions of people were born on 
that date, but no more and no less than had 
been born on any other day of the year.
     It was better, on the whole, to let 
no one know.  Skinner knew from past 
experience that although one or two 
people might wish him well, the practical 
jokes made any good wishes pale into 
insignificance.  Skinner was not a fan of 
practical jokes.
     The little "ping" of the bell alerted 
him to the fact that he was now on the 
fourth floor, and just yards away from his 
own office.  He had made the short journey 
every morning for the last eight years, and 
yet, on this same date every year he suddenly 
became apprehensive.  What if someone had 
found out?  What if, in the few seconds it 
took for him to reach his door, someone 
pelted him with eggs?
     It was an irrational fear, and he knew 
it.  And how would anyone find out, anyway?  
There was no one to find out from.  No body 
knew in the first place.
     Taking a deep breath, Skinner stepped 
out of the elevator.  Now then, that wasn't 
so difficult, was it? teased the little voice 
in his head.  He made a resolution to stop 
listening to little voices.
     As he entered the outer office he nodded 
curtly to his secretary and checked his 
memo board.  A meeting with three other 
Assistant Directors at 8.00, to discuss 
budgets for the next quarter.  He checked 
his watch.  7.45.  He had fifteen minutes.
     Crossing in to his office he hung his 
jacket in the small closet space hidden in 
the rear wall.  It was only upon turning back 
to his desk that he noticed the small parcel, 
set carefully atop a stack of mail.  It was 
hexagonal, about eight inches tall, and was 
wrapped in shiny green paper.  It was taunting 
him.
     Silly as it may be, his first instinct 
was to run.  Unfortunately he had a meeting in
twelve minutes, so that was not an option.
     Creeping closer to the desk, he noticed a 
gift tag taped to the side of the package, the 
same colour as the wrapping.  Carefully snaking 
out his right hand, he ripped it off the box, 
drawing it in for closer inspection.
     He had not really expected there to be a 
signature, and yet he was disappointed to find 
that there wasn't.  Instead, there was simply 
a type written message pasted on to the inside 
of the card.  He had a mental note to get the 
lab to dust the card for prints and preferably 
analyse the glue as well.
     After searching the card for clues, he 
finally allowed himself to read the message:
"All work and no play makes Walter a dull boy."
He read it through twice, wondering if there 
was perhaps a message in the words.  Could 
it be an anagram, maybe?
     Through the wall he heard the sound of the 
door to the outer office closing.  He glanced 
at his watch.  7.52.  Whoever it was could wait.
     Carefully he stepped around the edge of 
his desk, keeping a safe distance from the gift 
at all times.  He withdrew a plastic evidence 
bag from the third drawer and dropped the card 
inside, laying it on the desk a reasonable 
distance from himself.  Settling into his chair, 
he once more regarded the parcel itself.
     It seemed to be smiling, greenly, grinning 
at him, tormenting him with its shininess and 
apparent innocence.  He briefly considered 
calling in a bomb squad.
     Leaning back in his chair, he took a deep 
breath.  There was no one else to help him.  He 
had to face this on his own.  He hadn't wanted 
a birthday - why did he have to have been 
allocated one?
     Slowly letting out his breath, he reached 
for the small penknife he kept on his desk.  The 
parcel was well wrapped, very neat, he noted.
But who could have sent it?  Mulder?  No, Mulder 
valued his life.  And he certainly wasn't that 
neat.
     With a quick slice he severed the tape which 
held the paper together at the top of the box, 
for a box it appeared to be.  A hexagonal box.  
With a second swipe he sliced open the paper 
covering the front.  Now all that remained was 
to remove the paper.  And the only way he could 
achieve it would be to use his hands.
     Gingerly he grasped the two torn edges in 
each hand.  Taking another deep breath, he 
pulled.  Hard.
     He wasn't quite sure when he had closed his 
eyes - probably a reflex action, he reassured 
himself.  Only now he had to face opening them 
again.
     He could feel a good sized chunk of paper 
in each of his hands, and therefore concluded 
that all the wrapping was now removed.  Maybe 
the gift wouldn't seem as threatening in its
nakedness.
     Cautiously he opened his left eye.  Just 
the left for now.  One step at a time.
     The box was gaudily coloured - not unlike 
the wrapping, he mused.  Predominantly made of 
cardboard, with a plastic window in the front.
And something was looking at him.
     It was a toy.  A children's toy.  The 
realisation caused him to open his right eye.  
Furby, he read silently from just above the 
little creature's head.  He had heard of them, 
vaguely.  Apparently they were the new sensation 
in the toy markets.  But what on earth would he 
want with one?
    No longer feeling threatened he opened the 
lid of the box and tipped the little furball on 
to his desk.  Four batteries rolled out after 
it.  Electronic toy, no less.
     Turning the Furby upside down, Skinner 
located the battery port and discovered that 
he would need a screwdriver if he was going 
to make the creature operational.  Reaching 
once again for his trusty penknife he proceeded 
to insert the four batteries.  Furby instantly 
sprang to life.  Apparently it was a perverted 
little animal - Skinner had wondered about the 
ethics of placing a battery port in such a 
delicate area of its anatomy, but it didn't seem 
to mind.  "Oooooh!"  It purred suggestively 
upon contact with the screwdriver.
     "You have a dirty mind."  Skinner 
admonished the machine as he set it the right 
way up on his desk.  He then admonished 
himself for speaking out loud.
     "Me Toto."  It declared, staring up at 
its new owner from beneath long eyelashes.  He 
had a feeling this collaboration of circuitry 
had the ability to be extremely manipulative.  
Of children only, of course.
     At that moment, the telephone rang.  "Uh- 
oh!  Big sound!" Moaned Toto as Skinner 
snatched up the handset.
     "AD Michaels and AD Lawrence are here, sir." 
His secretary informed him.
     "Ah.  Show them through."  He replaced the 
receiver in the cradle and hurriedly swiped 
Toto, packaging and all, into one of his desk 
drawers.
     "Woah!  No joke!"  Was all the response 
he got.  Shutting the drawer Skinner once again 
noticed the evidence bag with the card inside 
laying atop the files he would need for the 
meeting.  The bag was hastened in to the drawer 
as well.  "Big light up!"  What reason did it 
have to be so cheerful?  Skinner slammed the 
drawer for the second sound.  "Ohhh."  Came the 
muffled, although inevitable response.
     The door opened and Skinner stood to welcome 
the two other ADs.  "And AD Cresswell?"  He asked.
     "Has been called out to New York."  Answered 
AD Lawrence.  "He requested a copy of any decisions 
or alterations we choose to make."
     "Take a seat."  Skinner gestured towards the 
table that had been set up across the office.
     "Doo-dee-do-do-do Doo-dee-do-do-do!"  Chirped 
Toto from inside the desk.  Skinner felt his face 
flame, and turned to his colleagues, but they did 
not seem to have noticed the sudden outburst.
     Heaving a sigh of relief he took a seat on 
the opposite side of the table and opened his 
folder at the appropriate page.
     "As you will both be aware," Began Michaels, 
"It has been necessary to cut budgets to several 
secions this year.  There has therefore been a 
noticable discrepancy between the income and 
expences..."
     "Hmmm, boring."
     "I beg your pardon?"  Michaels' confusion was 
evident across his middle aged, greybearded face.
     "Assistant Director?"  Skinner desperately 
tried to maintain a neutral expression.  Perverted 
as it may be, the creature definitely had a point.
     "I though you had something to bring to the 
discussion.  I must have misheard you."  He nodded 
his balding head slightly in apology.  "As I was 
saying, the expenses for several sections have been 
slowly mounting over the years..."
     A soft snoring sound could distinctly be heard 
from the direction of Skinner's desk.  At least they 
weren't looking at him, he reasoned.  He coughed, 
hoping to divert their attention.
     "If you are speaking of the X Files Division, 
Sir, I can assure you that their expenses are 
necessary for the work they do."
     "Really?"  Lawrence looked sceptical.  "If I 
may refer you to their latest, um, offering, I 
would care to differ with your opinion."  He pushed 
a photocopied sheet of paper across the desk in 
Skinner's direction.  He obliged by picking it up, 
although he knew from past experience that he would 
not be able to jutify even half the claims.
     "A television set."  Began Lawrence.  "Care to 
explain, Mr Skinner?"
     "A cow fell through the motel roof, sir.  The 
owners did not feel they could claim from their 
insurance."
     "Hee hee hee!"  Came the joyful chuckle from 
the drawer.
     "Mr Skinner..." Began Michaels.
     "And that would also account for the other 
articles of furniture listed herein?"  Interrupted 
Lawrence.  "I hardly think these are our 
responsibility.  The bureau can not be held 
responsible for acts of God, let alone be expected 
to pay for the damages!"
     "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"  Crowed Toto delightedly.
This time Skinner could not help the hint of a 
smile which escaped on to his lips.
     "AD Skinner, what is that voice?"  Already 
annoyed over the seemingly ludicrous claims of 
Skinner's two most troublesome agents, Lawrence 
seemed ready to explode.
     "What voice, sir?"  He couldn't shut the 
little beast up, so he may as well have some fun.
     "Wheee!  Doo-ay!"  Well, someone was having 
a good time, a least.
     "That voice!"  Bellowed Lawrence.
     "Ow, ow!  Loud noise!"  Skinner secretly 
sympathised with the furball.
     "I'm sorry sir, I can't hear anything."  For 
a moment Skinner turned his attention to Michaels, 
wondering why he hadn't commented.  Then it 
dawned on him - Michaels had young children of 
his own.  He knew exactly what was going on, and 
what's more, he was enjoying it.
     "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Skinner." Lawrence 
shuffled his papers back into his folder.  "Maybe 
we had better postpone this meeting until you are 
feeling better."
     "Thank you sir."  Skinner watched as Lawrence 
strode towards the door, closely followed by Michaels. 
     "I will contact your secretary to arrange a 
time, Mr Skinner.  Maybe not quite so early in the 
morning next time."
     "I love you!"  Came the inevitable call from 
the desk as the door swung shut.
     Letting out a sigh, Skinner stared at the 
door for a moment before crossing to his desk.  
Pulling open the drawer he was greeted with the 
sight of Toto peering up at him through the 
transparent evidence bag.  Carefully he removed 
the bag.  The creature belched at him.  Then 
thought better of it.  "Uh-oh!"  Skinner could 
have sworn it took a step back.  "Me sleep."
     He couldn't help the smile that spread 
across his face.  Maybe birthdays weren't so bad 
after all.  "Yeah, you sleep."  He muttered, as 
he gently closed the drawer.


End

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