From: Erin Kaye Hashet Date: 28 Aug 2002 16:17:27 -0700 Subject: xfc: NEW: Immortality (1/2) by Estrellita Source: atxc Title: Immortality Author: Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet) Rating: PG Category: S Keywords: Future fic...not really much else. Light angst, light romance. Distribution: Absolutely anywhere, just let me know. Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com Spoilers: Through "Existence." Summary: The greatest reward in life is to be remembered after you're gone. Maybe now, Mulder and Scully finally will be. Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder, Scully, William, and various other characters in this story. Author's Notes: Okay, when you read this story I want you to completely disregard all of Season 9. I started this before many of the important S9 episodes aired, so this story has nothing to do with them. Also, this is NOT a character death story, but some major characters are already dead at the story's beginning. Immortality by Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet) True to her word, she is there to meet me as I get off the train. She looks exactly as I remember her: tall, lean, short brown hair, bright blue eyes. I smile as I walk toward her. "Allison." "Jack," she returns, also smiling. I'm not sure whether some sort of physical gesture would make this moment more or less awkward. A handshake would be too formal and a hug a bit too friendly- after all, we've only met once and spoken on the phone as many times. But she's been such a big part of my life for the past few months that I feel as if I've known her longer. * * * We met one cold, rainy Friday night in New York City the previous summer. It had been a busy week at work, and I was more than happy to visit my favorite bar, which I limit myself to visiting once a week. The bartender nodded at me with a kind of detached recognition, as he always does. He looks at other patrons with more friendly expressions, the ones who I'm sure don't limit themselves to one beer a week. They're there every time I go there: a group of very serious middle- aged men in the back whom I secretly call "the Mafia"- I have no reason to suspect that they really are involved in illegal activities, but I avoid them anyway; a gigantic guy who looks like he's in the WWF and has more inches of skin covered by tattoos than uncovered; a man so ragged I'd think he was homeless if he didn't have the money to pay for all those drinks. When she came in I noticed her right away because, first of all, she was a woman. There are never many women in this bar. Her appearance screamed "yuppie"- she had on a tailored suit and heels and big, gold earrings. She walked over and sat next to me at the bar, which was even stranger- usually it's me at one end, the WWF guy at the other, and everyone else at the tables. "Can I get you something, miss?" the bartender asked her. "Shot of whiskey," she said, and I could hear the tears in her voice. I tried not to look at her too often, but I couldn't help but be interested in her. The bartender brought her the drink. I concentrated on mine. When I finished it, I stole a glance in her direction. She hadn't touched the shot glass. She was just staring down at the table, and this time she was really crying. She pushed the glass away from her. "God, what am I doing? I don't even *like* whiskey!" she cried aloud, and I couldn't tell if she was talking to herself or to anyone who could hear her. I looked at her just one more time. Finally, my curiosity took over and I asked her. "So. . .tough week?" figuring that it must have been a bad breakup, or maybe someone had died. She barely looked at me, still seeming lost in her own troubles. "Is anyone going to remember me when I'm dead?" she said unexpectedly. For a minute I wasn't sure if I should answer, but eventually I did. "Um. . .what?" I reminded myself that she wasn't drunk; she hadn't even sipped the whiskey. "Really," she said, and now she was looking directly at me. I involuntarily felt something waxing soft inside of me as soon as I saw her eyes. They were a bright, youthful blue, full of innocence and sensitivity, and now, of a child's shattered hope. "Who is ever going to remember me in a hundred years? I mean, I don't even know my great-grandmother's first name, so who's ever going to remember mine?" She looked at her shot glass as if she wanted to take a sip, but then didn't. "I just feel like. . .like when we die, we just rot into the earth for people to forget about." Her head rolled over to one side. "What *do* we leave behind when we die?" One instinct was telling me to get up and leave, that maybe she was crazy. But another told me to stay, that maybe she had an interesting story. The reporter in me always wants to hear interesting stories, so I listened to the second instinct. "I don't know," I answered her. Then I realized that it was a rhetorical question and felt stupid. The woman exhaled. "I'm sorry," she said, and attempted a smile. "I must have just sounded crazy to you." "Not at all," I lied. "I might as well tell you the story," she said, then paused. "I'm Allison, by the way." "I'm Jack," I said, and extended my hand, relieved that we weren't exchanging last names. If I said "Jack Martin" she might recognize my name from my *USA Today* column- and might hate me for my views. Not that many people do- it's just that when you're a columnist for a widely-read paper, it's pretty much guaranteed that not everyone is going to agree with you. "Jack. Well." She cleared her throat. "Here's what's been going on with me." And she began to tell me. "Back in the 1990's," she said, "two FBI agents named Fox Mulder and Dana Scully worked on a section called the X-files, a section that investigated unexplained cases." "Unexplained? You mean like unsolved murders?" I asked. "No. . ." replied Allison. "I mean like supernatural cases. . . seriously!" she cried in response to my look. "They investigated cases involving things that the government didn't want to acknowledge." "What, like crop circles?" "Yeah, but. . .it was a little more complicated than that," she said. "There was this whole international conspiracy to cover up the existence of extraterrestrials." That had to be the most crazy, paranoid thing I had ever heard, but somehow I couldn't write her off as a crackpot. She seemed too alert, too put-together, and too sincere for that. "An, uh. . .an international conspiracy?" She threw me a sharp look. "You don't believe me, do you?" I paused. "No. . ." I replied slowly, realizing that as ridiculous as her story was, I *wanted* to believe her. "Actually, I think I do." And for the next hour she entertained me with endless stories about two agents named Mulder and Scully. About how Mulder's sister had disappeared when he was young, and how that experience had driven him to search for the truth, which he believed involved alien abductions. About how Scully, a bright young agent who was also a doctor, had been assigned to the X-Files to spy on Mulder, but had instead become his best friend. About how they had investigated cases such as a liver-eating mutant, a flukeman in the sewer, a man who controlled people's minds, a man made of cancer cells, a blind woman who could see through the eyes of a killer, a man who controlled the weather, and a jinnia- a female genie- who came out of a rug. About how a group of men called the Syndicate, led by a man known only as the Cigarette Smoking Man, had worked since Roswell to cover up the truth about aliens. About how Scully had been abducted and subjected to tests that left her barren, with a chip in the back of her neck whose removal nearly caused her to die of cancer. About how Mulder's father and Scully's sister had both been shot to death in the name of the truth. About how Scully learned that she had a three-year-old daughter just days before the little girl's death. About how Mulder was abducted by aliens just before Scully learned that she was pregnant with their child. "So. . .they were in love?" I asked, stunned. "Very much," she confirmed. She went on, telling me how Mulder was returned just in time to see the birth of their son, William, and since Scully had left the X-Files after maternity leave and Mulder had been fired, two other agents were assigned to the X-files. Scully had gone back to teaching at the FBI Academy and later became an assistant director. Mulder found a teaching position in the psychology department at a university. They had married, and when their son grew up, he followed in his parents' footsteps- he became an FBI agent and worked on the X-Files there. "But," said Allison, "the X-Files were shut down recently, and Will Mulder just does background checks now. Investigates big piles of manure." She rolled her eyes. "So. . .where are Mulder and Scully now?" I asked. Immediately Allison's eyes clouded over. "That's just it," she said. "They're dead. Mulder died earlier this year, and Scully the year before." She took a deep breath. "And no one is ever going to remember them." Her voice was teary. "What makes you say that?" I asked her gently. Allison swallowed hard. "I just came back from Washington," she said, "trying to convince the city to put up this memorial to Mulder and Scully." "A memorial?" "They were hardworking, determined people," she said, as defensively as if I'd said they weren't, "who never got any kind of thanks or accolades, even as they were uncovering truths that no one else was courageous enough to look for. They deserve the respect in death that they never got in life." She wiped her eyes, which had begun to tear again. "I mean, I'm not looking for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial or anything. Just a little plaque, a tree maybe, that would be nice." "And. . . they wouldn't let you have this?" I guessed. "No!" she cried, her tears again beginning. "I tried and tried, but I couldn't convince them that Mulder and Scully were important enough to have a memorial for. They said if I want a memorial, I have to purchase the land myself, and I don't have the money for that!" She started to sob. "All I want is for people to remember them now that they're gone, to know of all the great things they did. And it will never happen now," she choked out. "They're just going to rot away in the ground, and no one will ever remember them." She went on crying as I sat in awkward silence. I hated to see her so sad. I wanted to hug her or something ,but I'd only just met her. Besides, I didn't want her to think I was coming onto her, trying to take advantage of her in a weak moment. I wanted to speak some reassuring words, but I couldn't think of any. Finally, I said, "I'm sorry, Allison," very sincerely. She looked up, her crying halted. "Thanks, Jack," she said, and at last, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, too, one that touched my heart in a strange way. "Thanks for listening to me. I appreciate it." "No problem," I said, and as I left the bar, of the many emotions floating around inside me, one of them was deep satisfaction that I had helped her, at least a little bit. * * * Fox Mulder. Dana Scully. The X-Files. Unexplained cases. Aliens. International conspiracy. Memorial. All weekend, I couldn't get these words out of my mind. I couldn't concentrate on anything else, even if I tried. I tried to watch a movie on TV, but it was about aliens. I tried to read a book, but there was a character in it named Allison. I tried to take a walk, but my mind kept drifting back to Allison and her tale. It was so strange. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would believe a story like this, about aliens and conspiracies and the government, and here I was, only briefly considering that the story might not be true. At any rate, I knew that Allison believed it to be true, or else she was an Oscar-winning actress in disguise. And if she believed it to be true it must be- for where would she have gotten all of those details otherwise? I had a vacation coming up, and having neither a wife and kids nor friends or relatives far enough away to visit, I was planning on spending a relaxing week at home. But a little voice kept nagging at me, saying, "Why don't you use this free time to investigate what she told you?" "No," I told myself. "It'll be a waste of time. You won't get anything done, and you'll miss out on that relaxing vacation." But what I kept coming back to was Allison's face. No matter what the truth was, I could tell that this memorial meant a lot to her. Those tears of hers had been so genuine and so emotional that I felt I had to do something to make sure she didn't cry like that ever again. She had said that Mulder and Scully "uncovered truths that no one else was courageous enough to look for." So I made up my mind to uncover some truths of my own. And maybe, somehow, those truths would help. The first thing I would do, I decided, would be to track down William Mulder. The Internet provided me with the phone numbers for a few different "Mulder, William's" and "Mulder, W's" but, as luck would have it, I found the man I was looking for on the first try- or, rather, his wife- at the number for "Mulder, W & C" in Georgetown, Maryland. She picked up the phone at their house and gave me his work phone number, which I promptly called. "Mulder," came the voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello, is this William Mulder?" "Yes. Who is this?" "This is, uh. . ." Suddenly I couldn't think of anything to say. Why hadn't I planned this out before? "This is, uh. . .my name is Jack Martin. I write a column for *USA Today*. . ." "*USA Today*?" He sounded confused and a bit suspicious. "Why are you contacting me?" "Are you, uh. . .are you the son of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?" "Yes, I am. . .why do you want to know?" "Did your parents work on a section of the FBI known as the X-Files, a section that investigated unexplained cases, such as those involving aliens?" "Yes," he replied, and now he sounded more confused than ever, albeit also a bit impressed. "So did I, until a few months ago. How did you know that?" "Is there currently an effort being made to make a memorial to your parents in the Washington D. C. area?" I went on, ignoring his question. So far, all of Allison's information was checking out. He sighed. "Well, there was," he replied, "but now it looks like that's never going to happen." He paused. "Mr. Martin, why does this information concern you?" "I, uh. . ." I racked my brain and could only come up with, "I'm considering writing a column on them to spread awareness of this memorial." "Are you?" He sounded very excited. "That would be wonderful. It would help them to be recognized, spread awareness to a wider area. . ." "I just need more information," I quickly added. I could have killed myself for mentioning the column. Now I would get his hopes up about a column that would never happen, or worse, I'd really have to write it. "Oh, sure," William agreed easily. "Do you need an interview? I'm at work right now, but I can arrange a phone interview if you want. Or would you rather come down here to interview me?" An hour earlier I would have said that a trip to Washington would be a complete waste of time and money, and not worth it at all. Instead, I found myself saying, "Sure, I can come down to Washington. No problem." * * * At six o'clock three evenings later I found myself at the home of Will- as he had told me to call him- Mulder. He greeted me at the door, still wearing his dress shirt and pants from work. He was a slim man in his late thirties, of medium height, with graying red hair and sad, hazel eyes. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he said, shaking my hand. "I read your column. You've done some great work!" "Thank you," I replied with a modest smile. "Come in, come in," he said, and I stepped inside his cute, two-story house. In the kitchen an attractive, blonde woman was serving food to a baby in a high chair. "My wife, Claudia," he said, "and my daughter, Caroline." "Nice to meet you," I said to them. "Let's go into the study," he said. "I think that's the best place." In the study he opened his desk drawer and took out some photocopied papers. "These are the X-files that my parents worked on," he said. "The agent who was assigned to them after my parents read through all of them, after he photocopied them. He then passed them on to me." I flipped through the files silently. Yes, Allison was right. These were nothing if not FBI files, and they documented all of the cases she had said that Mulder and Scully worked on, in addition to many more. Even though I hadn't thought she was lying, the discovery that she was really right was stunning. "Wow," I said finally. "This is incredible." "It really is," Will agreed. "I have to admit, I'm my mother's son. I inherited her skepticism. Even with all the proof in the world, I'll still take a scientific explanation over a supernatural one." He shook his head. "But there are super- natural explanations for all of these cases. Every single one." "Now, you said. . .you worked on the X-files, too?" Will sighed and closed his eyes. "I did," he said. "Up until six months ago. That's when they shut us down." "Shut you down?" "Well, you know," he said with a shrug, "the government has always denied the existence of extraterrestrials. So naturally, they have a problem with this section being open. Every once in awhile they shut us down. It happened to my parents, too, a few times." His expression became serious. "But this time I think it's for good." "Why?" "Well," he replied, "six months ago, we fell under the supervision of Deputy Director Alvin Kersh, Jr. His father supervised my parents." He gave me a wry smile. "My parents were thrilled when they heard that Alvin, Sr. died. But of course, even death didn't mean we were done with him. His little rat bastard of a son followed in Daddy's footsteps and shut us down. And he found a better reason for doing it than his father ever did." "And what was that?" I asked him. Will exhaled. "He asked us to show him proof of how the X-files had ever benefited anyone," he said, "anyone at all. And we couldn't do it." He shook his head sadly. "I mean, we've had culprits get away, or disappear, and even with all the cases we've worked on, we have no real tangible proof of any of it, nothing that proves the existence of aliens or monsters or anything irrational." He gave me a small, sad smile. "Besides, he was right, I guess. We've never really benefited anyone. We haven't saved the world from an alien invasion, haven't prevented nuclear war, haven't stopped killers from killing. We're useless." At the end of the interview I thanked him for his time. He said, "Let me know when that column's going to run," and I said, "Okay," silently vowing never to write any such column. Will went upstairs to change out of his work clothes. But as I was on my way out the door, Claudia Mulder stopped me. "Please," she said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I paused. "Sure. . ." I replied, surprised. "What about?" "What did my husband tell you about the X-Files being shut down?" she asked me. "Well, uh. . .he said that someone. . .his supervisor shut them down because there was no proof that the X-files had ever benefited anyone." "What else did he say about that?" she demanded. "Did he say he was useless?" "Yes. . ." I said cautiously. She swore under her breath. "Did he tell you who his partner was?" she asked. "No." "Well," she said, "it was me." She looked at me as if she expected me to be surprised, but after everything I'd heard recently, nothing could surprise me. "Really," I said. "Yes," she said. "That was where we met, just like his parents. I was assigned to the X-files, and we fell in love. We werepartners until I had Caroline. Then he was assigned a temporary partner, who was with him when the X-files were shut down." Her voice became hoarse. "I loved my in-laws," she said. "The X-files were their life's work, and they became Will's and mine, too." She sounded as if she were about to cry. "I can't bear to have my husband thinking that our work, his parents' work, was useless. That's why we're trying to get this memorial put up." I didn't know what to say. "Oh-" "Please," Claudia said to me, grabbing my arm, "do a good job with that column. If it won't get Will his old job back, it will at least give him some self-respect." *Oh, crap,* I thought sourly. "I will," I promised Claudia. I walked out the door shaking my head in disgust. *Jack Martin, how in the world did you trap yourself into this?* * * * When the column came out, everyone at work knew it. People stared at me in the elevators and as I passed them in the halls. "Did you *see* Jack's new column?" I heard colleagues, who then blushed when they realized I was listening, whisper about me to each other. My friend and fellow reporter Hank was not quite so subtle. "'But this is not simply about memorializing two brave people who valiantly sought the truths that no one else was courageous enough even to fathom,'" he read to me in a falsetto. "'It is about bringing in death the respect that was absent in the lives of these two people. It is about ensuring that the work of their lives is not trivialized or disrespected, but rather celebrated. It is about transcending the restraints that our own mortality places on us by allowing the memory of those departed to flourish in the hearts of the living, for indeed it is through memory that mere humans achieve immortality.' Man!" he said with a laugh. "You couldn't stand to write one more column about the economy? Had to settle for this poetic piece of crap? Where'd you come up with this?" "Well, a-" "Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted me. "A girl told you in a bar. Man, oh man," he said, laughing again, "this is just like that movie." "What movie?" "You know," he said, snapping his fingers. "Richard Gere, Julia Roberts." "*Pretty Woman*?" "No, no, the other one," he said. "The one where she leaves the guys at the altar." "*Runaway Bride*?" "That's it!" he said. "The guy hears a story in a bar, writes a column in *USA Today* about the girl, she reads it, gets mad, they fall in love. Man, Jack," he said, "aliens and conspiracies? This must have been some girl." Surprisingly, the reaction to my column was much stronger inside the office than outside the office. We did not receive one letter to the editor about it. Maybe it was because the majority of America didn't know what to make of it. Maybe people read two paragraphs of it and then stopped. Or. . . maybe it was because they didn't need to write to me. I'd left Will Mulder's address at the bottom of the column, in case anyone wanted to make a donation to the cause. End Part 1/2 Immortality Immortality, part 2/2 EKHashet@hotmail.com * * * In the next few months I didn't hear from Will or Claudia, which wasn't surprising because I hadn't given them a number. But one October day, a week ago, I got the most unexpected phone call of my life." "Hello?" "Is this Jack?" "Yes." The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. "This is Allison." She mistook my shocked silence for confusion and clarified, "You know, we met in the bar. I told you about Mulder and Scully. . ." "Allison. How- how. . ." I meant to say, "How are you?" or "How have you been?" but what came out was, "How did you get my phone number?" "You're in the book," she answered. "How, uh. . .how have you been, Allison?" "Never better," she said, and she did sound happy. I tried to imagine what she would look like happy. She did have that beautiful smile, but it had been a sad smile when I had last seen her. It must be a million times more beautiful when she was happy, I thought. "Why's that?" I asked. "The memorial is set!" she exclaimed. I didn't think I'd heard right. "Wh-what?" The last I'd heard, it wasn't going to happen at all, and now it was all set? "Your column!" she continued. "Enough people who read your column sent money so that we had enough to purchase the land *and* the memorial!" Stunned, I sat down in a chair. "Are you kidding me?" I truly hadn't expected anything to come out of the column. I'd just written it because I felt I had to. "The ribbon-cutting's a week from today," she replied. "I wouldn't kid about a thing like this." I didn't know what to say. "Can you be there?" she asked me. "At the ribbon- cutting?" I struggled to piece my thoughts together. "I, uh. . . that's a Saturday. What time. . .?" "It's in the morning. Ten o'clock." "So, uh. . .I'd have to take a train the day before." "I'm taking the day off work," Allison informed me, "so I'm taking the morning train. But if you take the afternoon train on Friday you can go to work and still be there in time. Think you'll do that?" "Uh. . .yeah," I replied, brightening at the thought of seeing Allison again, her tears dried and her smile wide. "I'll do that." "I'll be there to meet your train," she said. "All right." "I'll see you later, Jack," she said. * * * And here I am, standing with her in a Washington train station. "Want to go for a cup of coffee?" she asks. "All right," I reply, and we go to a coffee shop not far from the station. It's a cute little place, cozy. There are only two other people there. We order our drinks and sit down at a table for two. Allison stirs her coffee absently. She is quiet for a long time. Finally, she says, "My father loved my mother so much." She keeps on stirring. "She died, of a heart attack, and afterward my father just. . .stopped functioning. At first I thought he was just upset about my mother, but. . .it was deeper than that. He started having doubts about his entire life. . .his entire existence." She looks deep into my eyes. "He seemed so melancholy. He started saying he'd wasted his whole life on a selfish quest. 'Everything I've ever done has been for my own benefit, and mine alone,'he said." She bites her lip. "He said he was a horrible, selfish person who'd never done anything to make the world a better place. He said he'd never helped anyone, never made life easier for anyone." Her voice becomes quiet. "He had a stroke and died less than a year after my mother. In *one year* I lost both my parents, and my father died thinking he was a useless failure." Her voice is hinging on teariness. "I loved my father so much, Jack. It hurt me so much to see him like that, and nothing I said could make him feel better." She blinks, as if she is trying to prevent tears. "That's why I wanted this memorial so badly. I thought that if. . .if I could memorialize them, it would be like keeping them alive, in a small way, and telling them just how much they were worth." Her voice wavers. "Jack, I can never repay you for what you did," she says, very sincerely. "You have no idea how much this means to me." "It was my pleasure, Ms. Mulder." We sit in silence for some moments, sipping our coffee. Then I say, "You know, you could have told me your last name the first time we met." "You could have told me yours," she returns with a smile. "I didn't want you to hate me for being a newspaper columnist," I tell her. "I didn't want you to think I was just a girl who loved her parents," she replies. "I wanted you to see them for who they were." "Well, I think now I'm starting to." The bill comes and we split the tab. Allison gets up and throws on her fall coat. "You know, I always knew my parents named my brother William after our grandfather," she says. "But I was never sure why they named me Allison, until one day when I looked it up in a baby book. It said there that Allison means 'truth.'" She smiles. "Then I knew." * * * In the morning Allison picks me up at my hotel in her rental car and drives me to the site of the ribbon-cutting. I'm not sure what I'm expecting. A plaque, maybe, or a little tree. It can't be much, I know. The land and the memorial have been purchased, and that's expensive. Sure, Allison got some donations from a few UFO fanatics who read my column, but even though *USA Today* reaches a national audience, how many people could have had the faintest idea what I was talking about? I don't think there'll be many people there besides me, Allison, and the William Mulder's. I am wrong about everything. We pull up at a little park, with a gazebo, not one but several trees and a very large plaque. At the park's entrance there is a wooden structure with something encased in glass. And there are indeed people there- so many, in fact, that I have absolutely no doubts about where the money to finance this park came from. "All these people read your column, Jack," Allison whispers excitedly. "All of them donated money for this memorial!" I look at the glass case near the entrance. It houses my newspaper column, now laminated and framed in glass. I travel further and read the plaque, which is located right outside the gazebo. It reads: Dedicated to the memory of Fox William Mulder 1961-2040 and Dana Katherine Scully 1964-2039 FBI Agents who sought and found the truth by their children William Scully Mulder and Allison Samantha Mulder and those whose lives they touched in their brief time on Earth. I am awed by the number of people here. I can't imagine all of the reasons that they are here. How did they know Mulder and Scully? What drove them to come here? I approach the nearest person I see, a man in his fifties. "Excuse me, sir," I begin, and he looks at me with interest, "what's your name?" "Kevin West," he answers. "Did you know Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?" I ask him. "I knew them both," he tells me, smiling fondly. "Dana Scully saved my life." "Really?" "My name used to be Kevin Kryder," he explains. "When I was ten, my mother died. My father was in an institution, and. . .another man was trying to kill me. I won't go into it. But Dana Scully," he continues. "She was wonderful. After my mother died, she took me back to her motel with her so that I wouldn't have to go back to the shelter. And when the man tried to kill me, she got there in time and saved my life." He smiles again. "Later I was adopted, and she and I kept in touch for awhile afterward. She was so good to me. . .the least I could do for her was donate money for this memorial." The next person I see is a woman. She is dark-haired with bangs and looks to be in her thirties. I wonder how Mulder and Scully knew her- she doesn't look much older than Allison. "Hi," I say to her, extending my hand. "I'm Jack Martin." She smiles at me, shaking my hand. "You can call me Jenn," she says. "Agent Mulder did." "How did you know him?" I ask. "He freed me," she replies. "On his third wish." My jaw drops. "You're the- the- the genie!" I exclaim. "I read about you in the X-files!" "Oh, yes," she replies. "You know that when Mulder could have wished for anything in the world, anything at all, he wished for peace on Earth?" I'm still staring at her in confusion. "But-but that was years ago. And you're. . ." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "He didn't specify aging." People here have all kinds of stories about Mulder and Scully. There are people who say their lives were saved by Mulder and Scully. There's a man in his early fifties named Richie Lupone, who says he almost died of hepatitis. "If they hadn't followed their instincts," he says, "I never would have gotten that liver transplant." There's a woman of about sixty named Amy, who says, "When I was fifteen, I was kidnapped. The man almost killed me, and it was Agents Mulder and Scully who found me." There's an elderly couple named Holman and Sheila Hardt. "If it wasn't for Mulder and Scully," says Holman, "I never would have gotten up the nerve to marry the love of my life." "Now our weather is always bright and sunny," Sheila adds, throwing an arm around her husband. Some people remember Mulder and Scully as heroes; others simply consider them good people. A woman from Oregon named Teresa Hoese remembers their concern for her when they worked on her case years ago. A retired FBI Agent from California named Kresge remembers working on a case with Scully and how much he liked her. One old woman named Mary Northern says she met Agent Scully only once, at her sister Penny's funeral, but that meeting left a lasting impression. "Penny had spoken of Dana to me so fondly," she says in a soft, gentle voice. "After I met her, I was so glad that she was the one with my sister when she died." An old woman named Susanne is here with her grown children. "My husband was a great friend of Mulder and Scully," she says. "He and his two partners, they're all gone now. But they were always proud to help out Mulder and Scully in any way they could. Great people, they were." One man named Trent says that Dana Scully was his godmother. "She and my mother were best friends," he says. "She was a great woman. I always used to wish she was my mother." Another woman named Leyla, who is here with her husband Gabe, seems to have more stories about Mulder and Scully than anybody. "I used to work in accounting," she tells me. "I knew all about all their cases. I was their biggest fan." So many people, so many stories. I make up my mind to write another column, this time about all these people, and not to care what anyone in the office thinks. But apparently, somebody else had the same idea. This ribbon-cutting is enough of a big deal so that a reporter from the *Washington Post* has showed up and is interviewing Will. "Yes, the X-files are closed down right now," he says. He catches my gaze and throws me a smile. "But not for long." When it is time for the ribbon-cutting, Will and Allison make a little speech. "I want to thank all of you for coming here today," Will begins. "I also want to thank you for your generous contributions that made this beautiful park possible." "A special thanks to Jack Martin," Allison adds, "for helping to spread awareness through his newspaper column." "Our parents were very special people," Will continues, "who worked hard and risked ridicule, unemployment, and even death to uncover the truth. And along the way they made a difference in the lives of many people. You are all here today because you know that." This prompts a large burst of applause from the crowd. "I am proud," he goes on, "to follow in their footsteps, and to join them in investigating their life's work. And like them," he says, smiling at Claudia in the audience, "I have found my soul mate through that work, and that is the greatest truth I will ever know." More applause, and a few "Awww's. . ." "We hope," Allison conclues, "to keep their memory alive, and that their kindness and determination will inspire others to become seekers of the truth." She raises the scissors and cuts the ribbon in front of the gazebo, and the crowd cheers and claps. After the ribbon-cutting, there are refreshments- cookies and punch that frankly don't taste very good- and lots of chitchat. Several adults are exclaiming over little Caroline Mulder. Allison and I stand together, silently looking at my article in the glass case. "Tell me, Jack," she says finally, "why did you listen to me? I must have sounded like an idiot in the bar that day, with my stories. . ." She shook her head in amazement. "How in the world did we end up here?" I try to think of an appropriate, truthful answer. "Well," I reply, "I knew it was a crazy story, but I thought that you really believed it. And, well. . . I wanted to believe it, too." Allison grins at me. "My parents would have loved you," she says. Before I know what's happening, we're leaning in toward each other, and our lips are touching. As we come out of the kiss, Allison smiles a huge, genuine smile. I have seen her completely happy now, and she is indeed absolutely beautiful. "Jack," she whispers, "I'm going to make sure nobody ever forgets you." The End Hope you liked it! Whatever you thought, please tell me. EKHashet@hotmail.com. I want to know for better or worse. Regardless of what you thought, though, I had fun writing this story, so I hope you enjoyed reading it.