From eponine119@att.net Sat Feb 15 01:41:52 1997 Disclaimer: Characters and situations belong to The X Files, Chris Carter, 10-13 and Fox TV. Author's notes: Char challenged me to write a 'Scully's journal' story because I said I thought if I did it, it would be boring. So this is my shot - I never could turn down a challenge! Summary: Scully's personal log during 'Ghost in the Machine'. ______________________ If She Wrote by eponine119 eponine119@att.net January 14, 1997 _____________________ October 23, 1993 Pretty interesting day today. Got stuck in the elevator with Mulder. Not for very long, though. Work began as a typical day on the X Files, as I am learning. Type a couple of reports, argue with Mulder about the existence of extraterrestrial life on this planet, same old thing. When will I ever learn not to fall into his traps? I told him I'd buy him lunch if he could show me definitive proof. He grinned that charming grin of his and told me it was no problem. Quoting "E.T: the ExtraTerrestrial" is not definitive proof. So why did I end up paying for lunch? The man is more frustrating than a three year old. Then again, I didn't end up paying for lunch. I got to meet Mulder's old partner, Jerry Lamana, instead. Interesting man. Not my type. Not Mulder's either, so far as I can tell. Something about him I didn't like. Maybe it was the way Mulder seemed ashamed of him. The way every time Jerry said something, Mulder looked at me. Almost gauging my opinion. My opinion doesn't matter to Mulder, that's what made it weird. Jerry's also a bit creepy. I didn't like the way he looked at me. Like I was a tasty little morsel. Mrs. Spooky, I know, I've heard it from Colton and various other people I used to spend time with at the Academy. The ones who've stopped calling since I got to be a real agent. At first I thought they were no good at hiding their jealousy - but why would they be jealous of me for getting to go out and shoot guns at slime dripping mutants, when they're scientists? They think I'm on his side. Maybe I am on his side. Not really, but just kind of. I'm not even making any sense now. This is what he has reduced me to. Mulder is the most confusing man I've ever met. I think he does it on purpose - I know he does it on purpose - but that doesn't keep it from knocking me for a loop. Jerry has a case for us. Mulder didn't want it, and I couldn't figure out why. Beyond the obvious, there's no little green - sorry, grey - I've got to stop mocking him in my mind - men involved. Something happened between him and Jerry. Something that hurt him. I like that Mulder feels things deeply, but at the same time it makes me uncomfortable. I tried asking him what had gone wrong and got a characteristic Mulder response. "I'm a pain in the ass to work with." That must have been part of it. He said it as though it was something Jerry had said to him, in passing, that he'd taken to heart and still carries around with him. He caught me when I looked surprised and asked, "I'm not a pain in the ass to work with?" And what could I say? No? That wouldn't be true. But it made me ashamed. A couple of weeks ago, I told Ellen he was a jerk. I can't believe I feel bad about that. He is a jerk; he doesn't listen to anything anyone says that doesn't fit into his paradigm, his microcosmic corner of the world. Mulder likes things to turn out his way. The elevator at Eurisko, a fascinating computer operated building where the murder took place, got stuck. One minute I'm talking to Mulder about the technology - I would love to see what went into constructing the building - and the next I'm on the floor. He puts his hand on my shoulder to help me up. Asks me if I'm all right. I don't know what I'm thinking, this is crazy. So what if Mulder's eyes are greyish blueish green [that is only a result of the way the pigmentation refracts light waves!] and usually focused on me? And he has the most complex mind I've ever encountered and he is boldly unafraid to let that show. That doesn't mean I think he's attractive. Just like I told Ellen, I think he's a jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk. No, Jerry's a jerk. He looks at me like he's undressing me mentally. I've dealt with hambrains like him before - J. Edgar made sure the Bureau was full of them. Mulder doesn't look at me like that. Mulder looks at me like he's trying to see the wheels turning, like he's trying to read my mind by looking into my eyes. And while I know that's not possible, who knows what Mulder believes? Obviously I need to get some sleep. No time to work on my field journal tonight - early meeting tomorrow on this Eurisko matter. I don't have to prepare anything; I'm just tagging along with Mulder. Keeping my mouth shut. No problem. October 24, 1993 Jerry Lamana is a Neanderthal. No wonder Mulder hates his guts. The man's undignified immediate relatives are living in the woods in an undisclosed location with that Jersey beastwoman. It's a wonder he has managed to evolve so far as to stand upright. It can't be easy with balls as big as he thinks his are. He asked Mulder for help and turned around and thanked him by stealing his profile right out from under his nose - or should I say, right off his less than tidy desk? I knew as soon as I heard the words he was using in that meeting that he had not written them. It was the way he glanced skittishly at Mulder before going into the profile of the killer - a very Mulderly written profile - that gave it all away. The man who wrote that profile could see into the mind of the killer, understand his ways: a recluse. A genius. A man uncomfortable with society because society is uncomfortable with him. That is not Jerry Lamana, a man I am convinced spends his weekends at home in an undershirt drinking beer and scratching himself while watching 'the game'. His gall infuriates and sickens me. I knew it as soon as I saw the look on Mulder's face, but I asked him anyway. "Is that your profile?" "It doesn't matter," he whispered back, his eyes riveted on Lamana just in time to hear Nancy Spiller congratulate him for his excellent work. Mulder's excellent work. It doesn't matter. I've said those words. I understand Mulder a lot better than he thinks I do. As different as we are, we come from the same background. I know how it feels to have someone copy off your paper. To ask you for your homework 'just this once'. And I know what it feels like to hand it over because they're your friend and you don't want to see them get into trouble. But Mulder doesn't know that. He thinks I'm as cold an intellectual as Spiller - "The Iron Maiden". Jerry Lamana may look at me like I'm dinner, but at least No. Mulder looks at me like an equal, and that equality is something I have worked very hard my entire life to achieve. Will continue to work to achieve for as long as I draw breath. I am his partner. His equal. That is fact. That does not mean that Mulder is not a man, or that I am not a woman. It simply means that those things do not enter into our relationship. I am certain Mulder, as a man, must look at some women like they are dinner. Those women simply are not me. They are probably blonde. And tall. And have very large deposits of fatty tissue over their mammary glands. If Mulder did not look upon me as an equal, he would not feel free to call me in the middle of the night when he has a thought. He would not have been able to snag my necklace off my chest to get my attention after we lie detector tested Eugene Tooms because if he thought of me as a woman, he would have been much to involved in the sexuality of that gesture I seem to have lost my train of thought. We went to visit Wilcek after that, the most likely choice for the killer. He designed the system and he had recently been terminated as an employee. Perhaps he felt like the victim had stolen his homework. He was not surprised to see us. His living room is a pond. I have to wonder if that ties in to the electrocution as a method of murder. It seems impractical for a man who works with electronics to have a living room full of water. But it was aesthetic and soothing. He asked us to take off our shoes. Mulder is a very tall man. I forget that sometimes; I forget those three inches of height are attached to the heels of my shoes and not to my actual legs. Melissa used to get mad at me; saying it was a waste for a short girl to like tall men. Short girls, to her mind, were designed to use up all the guys who are 5'8" and not suitable. After all, they're tall enough to us. And kissing a man who's a foot taller than you is just so awkward. But I can't help it; that awkwardness is exciting to me. I wonder what Freud and Mulder would have to say about that. Not Mulder. He has to be six feet tall. Maybe more. He knows Greek - Wilcek asked us if we knew what Eurisko meant, as a show off question, something to make himself more secure. An "I'm smarter than the Feds" question, one that points even more strongly to his guilt as the murderer. Mulder almost let it slide and then he answered it: I learn things. Actually, it's I discover things - like Eureka. I could have figured it out if I'd put my mind to it. But he looked at me as though to say, so there, not at Wilcek. I like the way Mulder flirts. He doesn't think Wilcek did it. I believe he may think the computer in the building did it. Perhaps they showed "2001" on cable last night. Genius is a strange thing, and often warped. I'd better get my field journal started. This is sadly not going to pass muster for notes when Blevins wants an update. October 25, 1993 Jerry Lamana is dead. He went to check up on a lead at Eurisko last night and was killed in the elevator. It makes me have second thoughts about when the elevator stopped with us inside it the other day. Obviously it's been malfunctioning for some time. What other systems in that technologically advanced building are faulty? Besides the murderous mind of its creator? Lamana was murdered. And while I disliked the man, he didn't deserve to die for stealing Mulder's profile. I can see Mulder flogging himself over it. When I walked in this morning, he was playing the surveillence video over and over and over. He didn't look at me. He wears his guilt like a cloak. His eyes were puffy, I don't think he slept much last night after he heard the news. I was surprised to see the tears in his eyes, though. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were filled with tears. I took the remote out of his hand and stopped the tape, but he turned it back on. As with everything else, this death and this guilt has only further convinced Mulder that there is an explanation other than the logical conclusion. He firmly believes the computer operating system is responsible. He believes that Wilcek's computer has become a sentient entity, capable of murder. What does Mulder have against the mundane? Why is a human murderer who uses a computer not good enough, not wild enough for him? And it's worse when he's guilty, worse when he's hurting. He absolutely refuses to listen to reason. He told me these theories while we were walking out of Wilcek's building. And I was only hearing guilt. I suggested that he talk to someone. A little therapy might do Mulder a world of good - he could get over this need to believe in the strange, come back down to earth and walk amongst us mere humans. His eyes changed and I realized I'd said the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing to Mulder; we're too different. He simply closed up and walked away. "Where are you going?" I called, and he said, "To talk to someone." Not the way I'd meant it. Someone who would listen to his theories, his insane ideas. The look in his eyes said, "I thought I was talking to someone, but I guess I was wrong." He was trying to trust me again and I wasn't listening. And it would do Mulder good to trust me. Because I'm real, and I have nothing to do with spirits or ghosts or little green men. Because maybe I could be the one to bring him back into the world of the normal, as opposed to the paranormal. I want to be the one to do that. Women fall in love with men thinking they can change them. But they can't. And the women only get battered for their trouble. XXXXX The ringing of the phone woke her and she switched on the light and grabbed it. An electronic whistle sounded in her ear, accompanied by static. The sound her modem made when it was connecting and reading data. Scully knew instantly what that sound meant. She jumped out of bed and ran into the living room where she saw that her computer was on. She picked up the phone and dialed the Bureau and it didn't break the modem connection. Whoever was doing this was one hell of a computer whiz; he could turn her phone line against her. As she recited her badge number with her heart thumping in her chest, she read on the screen which directories on the hard drive had been accessed. C:\wilcek. Her field notes on this case. C:\xfiles. Everything else. The Bureau put her on hold and she broke free of her panic. Turned the computer off - but it had been off when they accessed it - so she dropped to her knees on the floor and unplugged it from the socket and ripped the phone cord out of the modem in the back. The Bureau's trace on her line pointed to the Eurisko building. She didn't know who'd been reading her notes, or how much they'd gotten. She thanked the operative and hung up, sitting down and staring at the computer, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. They had wanted her thoughts on the killer, but whoever downloaded her field notes had gotten her private log - her diary - as well. She wished she hadn't written what she'd written about Mulder. His eyes and his mind and tall men - it was moronic high school girl slop. And if it had been downloaded into Eurisko's computer, it would be part of the evidence when they apprehended the killer. Scully jumped up from the chair. She had to get to Eurisko. XXXXX end. Please send comments to: eponine119@att.net -- _______________________________________________ eponine119 eponine119@att.net http://members.aol.com/Eponine119/ "If Mulder were to say, 'Scully, we have a flat tire,' she'd say, 'Mulder, what you're saying is that one of our tires has no air in it'" - Rolling Stone, 2/20/97