From: eponine119@att.net (eponine119 )
Date: 4 May 1996 19:37:17 GMT
Subject: NEW: Interview 1/4


Disclaimer: All but one of the characters herein belong to Chris Carter, 
10-13 and Fox.  The format of this story was inspired by Anne Rice's 
"Interview with A Vampire". [Note, I said format; this is not a vampire 
story] Also there's a couple of lines in here that bear strong 
resemblence to one of the songs on the X Files soundtrack, and a quote 
from "Casablanca".    No infringement is intended, and please note that 
this entire story is a work of imagination; not one iota is intended to 
be percieved as truth.  The character of the young woman belongs to ME.  
(Finally, something I can claim!)

Author's Note: I had no idea until I went to the library and opened some 
books that the Majestic 12 (MJ-12) was a group of people!  I thought they 
were, uh, I don't know.  But I thought it was interesting, and worth 
having the guy who was shelving books laugh at me for looking at books 
that could've been written by Jose Chung.  This has been slightly revised 
since posting to Mysterious and Suspicious.

Spoiler Warning: "Blessing Way"/"Paperclip" references abound.  Also, 
there are references to a scene in "Apocrypha" that would probably be 
considered spoilers as well.

Interview
by eponine119 
eponine119@att.net
4/19/96

	The young woman did not hesitate before entering the room, nor did she 
knock on the door.  Once inside, she sat down, smoothing her skirt neatly 
over her knees and placing her hair behind her ear before she looked up.  
"Shall we get started?" she asked, meeting the eyes of the man who sat 
across the desk from her,  He didn't speak, merely raised an eyebrow at 
her, giving her permission to proceed.  She lifted her leather bag up 
onto the desk and opened it.  He watched her movements; they were precise,
 economical, as she withdrew a small tape recorder.
	"I like to record the conversations.  If you don't mind?" she asked.
	His reply was slow in coming.  First he searched her face, marvelling at 
its smooth whiteness, the fact that it seemed to have no lines in it 
whatsoever.  "I don't mind," he said at last.  She pressed a button on 
the side of the recorder with her thumb, and then picked up the small 
machine and looked at it, to make sure the tape was winding.  
	"As I told you before, I collect people's stories.  Someday I may fill a 
book with them, or I may do something else.  I'm not sure yet, so for now,
 I am just collecting," she said quickly, as though she'd said the words 
so many times she'd grown bored with them.
	"Are you sure you know what you're letting yourself in for?" he asked, 
leaning across the table to look into her clear green eyes as well as to 
see what she would do.  She didn't lean back, away from him, and finally 
he settled back into his chair, satisfied.
	She didn't actually answer his question.  "I see people sometimes whose 
faces speak to me.  I know that they have a story to tell; I can feel it. 
 Your face was like that, when I saw you on the tour.  Do you have a 
story to tell?" she asked, a strange light in her eyes.
	He pushed his chair back then and got up.  She watched him closely, with 
something like fascination.  He stood by the window and struck a match, 
lighting a cigarette.  "Do I have a story to tell," he said, almost as 
though to himself.

	"I am not one of those people who believe that what happens in a 
person's childhood determines what paths they will follow through the 
rest of their life.  My childhood was no better or no worse than that of 
a thousand other people.  I was born in 1928, which only means I grew up 
during the Depression and I was too young to serve in the Second World 
War.
	"I joined the Air Force when I was eighteen.  I'd always had a 
fascination with things that could fly, and even then I had a vision of 
the kind of power the military could provide me.  But such service did 
not satisfy me for long, and I left once my time was up.  I learned a lot 
during that time, and the things that I learned then did shape my path, 
and the paths of many other men around me.  Perhaps the path of every 
person alive today."  He met her eyes for a moment and crushed his 
cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk before he continued.
	"Near the end of the first year of my service, in July in 1947, I was 
sent to check up on a small matter in a tiny, insignificant town in New 
Mexico.  Maybe you've heard of it," he said, lighting a new cigarette.  
"Roswell.
	"You have to understand that the United States had defeated the greatest 
enemy the world had ever known, and unleashed a weapon so powerful...The 
world was a different place then, desperately searching to regain an 
innocence that had been horrifically lost.  There were things the 
American public was not yet ready to face...is still not ready to face.  
What I saw in that desert changed my life forever.
	"Two weeks passed between the initial incident and the official 
investigation.  During that time, rumors ran rampant.  The faces of the 
people in the town were pinched and tight with fear.  Everyone went about 
their daily business, but it was with a sense of real dread, that 
something terrible could happen to them at any moment.  Another horror 
could come from the sky, and maybe this time it would obliterate them and 
their pitiful little lives in a bright flash and a little heat.
	"There were four bodies at the site.  They had been lying there, in the 
sun, in the desert, at the hottest point of the summer, for two weeks.  
Animals had torn three of the bodies to shreds and the fourth was badly 
decomposed.  There was no alien autopsy until much, much later.  What I 
remember most was the smell.  It was not the festering smell of human 
decomposition.  This smell was sweet, almost enticing.  It was like the 
smell of a woman you have loved, or the scent you vaguely recall from 
childhood.  A motherly smell, one that draws you in and makes you feel 
deceptively warm inside.  Two of the men with me broke down and cried 
right there, standing in the desert staring at these things with the sun 
beating down hot on their heads.
	"I was the one who got the work done, analyzing the crash site.  And I 
was the one who disposed of the bodies because I was willing to do what 
needed to be done, for the good of the American people.  For the good of 
the whole world.  We were the protectors of what was right.  What would 
happen if the Russians knew we had these things, these fragments of 
unidentifiable metal, these beings who called up within us strange 
memories of a collective childhood for our species?  We couldn't take the 
risk of high-level spies within our own government learning what really 
happened, so we covered.  What you saw was a weather balloon, we said to 
the people.  And the people believed it.  People are gullible.  They will 
always believe what they want to believe, what they need to believe to 
stay sane, no matter the odds or the evidence against it.  It is a fact 
that grants power.  And it granted a small part of that power to me.
	"I spent the next six months there in New Mexico, unable to tell a soul 
where I was or what I was doing.  That was when I lost touch with my 
family.  My father had died during the war, anyway, and my mother never 
quite recovered from the shock of losing him.  They say she didn't see 
the tree she hit with her car in that rainstorm...but then, again, people 
believe what they want to believe, don't they.  My sister wanted to 
believe the reason I didn't come to my mother's funeral was because I was 
cold-hearted bastard that didn't care about anyone but myself.  Perhaps 
she was right, but I didn't hear of the accident until I was released 
from the Roswell Base months later, in December.
	"We weren't able to determine much in those months, even though we spent 
sixteen, eighteen, as many as twenty hours a day slaving over the pieces 
we'd found in the rubble.  It was metal, we knew that.  And we determined 
that the four creatures had ejected from the ship when they knew it was 
going to crash.  But we didn't know where those buggers came from, or 
what they wanted.  I did my best to look at the facts objectively and 
report them to my supervisors.  My efforts did not go unrewarded.
	"In December, I was called to Washington, D.C.  Because of my background,
 they knew that I could be trusted.  The other men, the ones who broke 
down into tears when they saw the bodies of those beings and had to be 
led away like pathetic kittens who had lost sight of the mother cat - 
they did not live to see 1948.  I learned from them, as I learned from 
everything at the time.  Knowing the truth is dangerous.  You have to 
make yourself vital to operations, and you have to know how to keep your 
mouth shut.
	"A project had been functioning in Washington since before the 
detonation of the first atomic bomb,.  Twelve men met in secret 
headquarters in the nation's capitol, called together by the president 
and others who had interest in National Security.  These men called 
themselves the Majestic 12 and their job was to predict what these beings 
from space wanted, and what their next move would be.  And they needed 
assistants.
	"One of these men had predicted back in the early stages of the 
Manhattan project that unleashing such unheard-of power would have 
repercussions throughout our universe, much greater than the consequences 
to the lives of those on our planet.  There was a line in an old war film 
that said, 'The lives of two little people aren't worth a hill of beans...
', something like that.  He believed the same was true of conflicts 
between the people on our own planet.  He said that atomic weapons should 
not be used because we would attract attention to ourselves.  He viewed 
the crash at Roswell as proof of his notions.  But then, the United 
States has always been an ostentatious nation, seeking glory and 
attention wherever it can.  That man also did not live to see 1948.  
	"Even faced with proof, the eleven others did not want to believe the 
things he said, that we were not alone in the universe, and that these 
other beings might not approve of the ways things were progressing.  They 
were good men, they believed in God and the President.  And so he was 
replaced.
	"Meanwhile, I was answering the telephone and making coffee and learning 
everything I could.  That included how to keep my mouth shut.
	"It was a busy time after the war; many projects that were begun then 
continued for decades to come.  Among other things, we struck a deal to 
bring Nazi war criminals to our country to continue their research, 
essentially rewarding them for the experiments that we fought a war to 
end.  For reasons I did not understand at the time, these men were 
obsessed with the recent discovery of DNA in 1944, even more obsessed 
than they were with the evidence that beings from far away worlds were 
visiting our planet.  That was merely a trifle to them, an inconvenience, 
something to be swept under the rug to keep the general population from a 
panic.
	"My silence and cooperation did not go unnoticed by those around me.  In 
1948, when my time in the Air Force was finished, I was invited to join 
the State Department to work on a special project engineered by the men 
of the Majestic 12.  After all, I had intimate knowledge of their work 
with DNA.  And as a loyal citizen, I had to realize the threat the 
Russians posed to truth, justice and the American way.  The Russians had 
to be stopped, but in case they couldn't be stopped, precautions had to 
be taken.
	"Very quickly I became the one in charge of making these precautions.  
At the age of twenty, I had the inevitable future of the human race in my 
hands.  Every person in the United States was at my fingertips.  It 
heightened the fantasy of power until I realized I had choices to make.  
A lot of choices.
	"My best choice was to select a young man named William Mulder to work 
alongside me.  He had a brilliant mind for politics, and he also had a 
willingness to get things done.  That, coupled with a deep-seated fear of 
World War Three and a hopelessly optimistic view of the future made him 
ideal for my purposes.
	"The Majestic 12 required humans for their research.  This was never 
said to me outright, but nonetheless it was something I knew.  This 
knowledge was all I had when I was turned loose, in charge of the project,
 a twenty year old boy who'd seen enough to make him an old man already, 
drunk with the slight power afforded him.  I remember that night, when I 
went home, I didn't have a drink the way I usually did after work.  
Instead, I faced myself in the mirror and laughed to think of how easy it 
had been, fooling these people into giving me what I had wanted all along.
  I thought I had achieved it all, that the whole world was at my 
fingertips.  How much I had yet to discover.
	"Bill may have been brilliant, but he was also naive.  Trusting.  I knew 
exactly what to tell him; a made-up story about protecting the fate of 
the human race from the Russians.  To do this, I told him, we needed to 
collect samples from as many people as we could.  He bought it, of course.
  It was a clever story, incidentally the same one the Majestic 12 tried 
to sucker me with when they offered me the project, but I'd seen through 
it instantly.  Bill was the one who suggested collecting the samples from 
people at the time of their smallpox vaccination.  It only took us four 
years to collect samples from virtually every adult in the nation. Four 
years may sound like a long time, until you consider how many people that 
is, and how completely they were at our mercy.  And they never suspected 
a thing.  
	"It only took simple processing to decide who was suitable and who was 
not.  The words "Super Race" were of course never used, since they 
conjured up images of Nazi tests that were best forgotten, even among the 
men working on the Project.  Bill never questioned that we were 
collecting records for the purposes of post-apocalyptic identification.  
Of course, at the time he was easily distracted; his thoughts were full 
of a young woman who would later become his wife.  After the initial 
phase of data collection and screening, only the children of the 
candidates who were selected were screened.  That saved considerable time 
and effort at a time when we needed it most.  
	"Reports of sightings were increasing rapidly, and almost seemed to 
relate to the intensity of our experiments.  That correlation worried the 
Majestic 12 and the President, who in spite of the earlier findings of 
non-human entities in New Mexico, were not entirely convinced that this 
was not some new Russian plan.  As the data collection wound down, I was 
selected more often to investigate these claims of UFO sightings.  
Sometimes Bill accompanied me; sometimes he did not.
	"In spite of having witnessed and even touched these nonhuman creatures, 
I was not completely convinced that the Russians were not somehow behind 
this new phenomena.  After all, five years had passed since my last 
contact with these beings, and then they had been dead.  The mind erases 
information that is not frequently used; even I was guilty of believing 
only the things I wanted to.  And five years after the Roswell incident, 
it was simpler for me to accept that the Russians manufactured the entire 
scenario.  That opinion changed quickly.
	"There was a rash of sightings over the Midwest and I was sent to 
investigate them alone.  The Majestic 12 did not believe the reports were 
important enough to call away more than one man, but they had to believe 
in their credibility because they sent me.  The night before I began my 
investigation was the last comfortable night of sleep I've had in nearly 
fifty years.
	"It was an odd small town, as small towns are frequently odd, and that 
enhanced my skeptical belief that the sightings were imagined by overly 
stimulated townsfolk.  After all, everyone was watching the skies anyway, 
never sure if this would be the day the Russians chose to blast the USA 
out of the big picture.  A few strange lights wouldn't be too difficult 
to conjure up.
	"It was again summer, and on this warm summer night, I gained the trust 
of the locals by joining them on a tour of their bomb shelter.  Shelters 
were all the rage then; the bigger and more high fashion your shelter, 
the higher your status in the community.  The innkeeper was particularly 
proud of his model, designed to accommodate up to thirty people, he 
claimed, should his motel ever be occupied by thirty people all on the 
same day.  I laughed and grinned and shared cigarettes with these people, 
all pleasant Midwestern types who reminded me of my own boyhood.
	"All towns that are small enough for everyone to know everyone else are 
alike.  There are certain roles that need to be filled.  And that night, 
smoking down in the motel bomb shelter, the local eccentric took a 
disquieting interest in me.  It made me uncomfortable, so I made my 
excuses early and returned to my room to write up my reports on what I'd 
seen - or rather, all the things I hadn't seen.  Like the existence of 
extraterrestrials.
	"My mind kept wandering back to the eccentric.  I couldn't get his face 
out of my mind for some reason, no matter how much I tried.  And I did 
try, believe me, because his dark eyes following my every movement 
reminded me too much of things in my own small town past I knew were 
better left unremembered.
	"I lay in bed for what seemed like hours, unable to get his face out of 
the vision in my mind.  I tossed and turned and counted and cursed and 
finally gave in, pulling on my robe and my slippers and venturing back 
out into the warm night, thinking some air was what I needed to bring 
sleep to me.  I was heading back to Washington in the morning.
	"He was waiting for me.  Sitting on the step outside the door of my room,
 waiting for me to come out as though he'd kept the image of his face in 
my mind to keep me from sleep and drive me outside to him.  I opened my 
mouth and heard myself ask him inside to share a drink with me, even 
though he was the last person I wanted to have in the room where I 
intended to sleep.
	"The door closed, the chain went on, and the booze flowed freely into 
glasses that neither of us touched.  Both glasses remained full, on the 
table between us like an offering, so I know my memory of that night was 
not influenced, and I know that the story he told me was not made-up.
	"He was not of earth.

End part one
Comments appreciated!  Please direct them to eponine119@att.net


===========================================================================

From: eponine119@att.net (eponine119 )
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Interview 2/4
Date: 4 May 1996 19:38:14 GMT


Disclaimed in part one.

Interview part 2
by eponine119 
eponine119@att.net

	"He was not of earth.
	"I didn't believe him, of course, at first, because he looked nothing 
like those beings I'd seen in New Mexico five years earlier.  But as the 
night wore on and the hours grew thin, I knew he was telling the truth.  
The others, the greys, like we found in Roswell, were much more common 
visitors to our world, he explained and he confirmed that their attention 
had been attracted by the nuclear activity on our planet.  He did not 
know their agenda, though he warned me it was probably not in the best 
interests of the people of earth, even though the greys are excellent 
manipulators and would make it seem so.  They are essentially evil, 
selfish beings.
	"Of course, there has always been something to be said for being evil 
and selfish.  It is often the only way to get what you want in life.
	"He told me that his people had walked among us for many millennia, and 
that all of our early myths and tales, the ones taught now to children as 
fairy stories and lies, actually told of his people and their quest to 
better life for the people of our planet.  There were few of them left 
among us at that time, and probably only a handful today.  Many of them 
died. Most of the rest lost interest.
	"Do you know what it is like to be told that the future of your race is 
hopeless?  That is has been deemed hopeless by beings with greater 
knowledge?  That there is only one probable outcome, decided by them long 
ago, the same outcome that was inevitable in their own society and 
culture?  The hopelessness has never left me, because I know that his 
story was true.  Those who once walked among us, giving aid and guidance, 
were content to watch silently.
	"Why did he tell me this?  And why did I believe him?  I have asked 
myself that very question a thousand times or more since that night, and 
I have no more answers now than I did then.  I believed him because it 
was true, and it was true because I had no choice but to believe the 
things he told me.  That night, the being died.  In my motel room.  
Corporeal form was not essential to his life so by morning, there was 
nothing left.  And there were no more sightings in the area.
	"I returned to Washington with new purpose.  I had heard of a new 
project under the control of the Majestic 12, a project begun to keep the 
president happy and public speculation about life on other planets at bay.
  It was called 'Project Blue Book' and most Americans believe they know 
its findings and its purpose.  But they're wrong.
	"It was, of course, designed to mislead the public.  But under my 
control, it took on more importance.  I was determined to find out what 
the greys' purpose was; what they wanted from us.  So that I could use 
that information to my own end.  Bill Mulder did not suspect my agenda; 
he was content to think he was protecting the psyches of the American 
public.  I allowed him this fantasy and we worked side by side.
	"One of our very first investigations for Project Blue Book took us to 
Pearl Harbor in the summer of 1953.  We were both working under the 
auspices of the State Department.  The Majestic 12 liked it that way; 
they enjoyed having a double agenda where they could.  The State Dept. 
sent us there because they believed there was a wayward nuclear bomb 
under the waters of the Pacific Ocean. 
	"That was what the Majestic 12 wanted them to believe.  They were 
powerful men, and then, that is the definition of bureaucracy, isn't it?  
The more powerful agency lying to the other agencies to control them and 
to control the flow of information.  The cult of information is 
considered to be something new, but it was cultivated in the paranoid 
1950's and has never been as magnificent since.
	"In truth, there was a UFO lying under those waters and it was in 
everyone's best interests to leave it there.  We were not the only ones 
experimenting with the power of atoms.  Bill and I and another man went 
to get the story from the only sailor who survived the attempt to recover 
what was beneath the water. The other man who worked with us is still 
living so I am not at liberty to give his name; I will call him The Don, 
as he always called to mind images of another highly successful 
bureaucracy, the Mafia.
	"That sailor was suffering extreme radiation burns.  He told us an 
incredible story of his fellow crewmembers being possessed by an alien 
force which took on the form of oil.  It sounds like the plot of an 
unimaginative science fiction film, but the evidence was there.  Insanity 
among the crew, mutiny, the fact that none of them survived.  The 
radiation was easily explained by the cover story given to the State Dept.
 about a wayward bomb, but we knew that story was untrue.  The radiation 
in some way had to have come from the alien substance.
	"This information was enough for the Majestic 12.  They ordered the 
investigation closed and called us back to Washington.  When the 
recovering sailor died suddenly, that was merely convenient to their 
cause.  They were content to enter the location of the possible UFO in 
their logs and forget about it.  But some of us were not so willing to 
forget.
	"The Majestic 12 had gone through several assistants in their time, 
moving these men onward and upward to higher positions once they proved 
themselves worthy.  We knew of each other; sometimes we worked together, 
as in the case of the Don and I - we had both been assistants for the 12. 
 We knew everything that they knew and it frustrated us when they closed 
investigations mid-stream because someone found them to be uncomfortable. 
 Under the guidance of one man who was never formally associated with the 
Majestic 12, we formed our own group.
	"It was a benefit for us to operate outside the realm of government, but 
it was dangerous for us at the time.  If the 12 had had even the 
slightest clue as to the existence of our operation, we would have all 
been executed.  We emulated them shamelessly, with one exception.  We 
formed a global information network, gathering reports and data from the 
corners of the world.  It didn't matter what political side you were on, 
so long as your information was the truth.
	"That was the idea of the man who never formally connected himself with 
the 12, a man who was not an American citizen.  He spoke with a British 
accent, though he never spoke of his background.  As he is still living, 
I will refer to him as the Well-Manicured Man because he had a fondness 
for the finer things in life, inside and out, right down to his 
fingernails.  He knew how valuable these alliances would become in the 
years to follow, and to some degree we owe our success to him.
	"The Majestic 12 eventually disbanded when the government turned its 
interests elsewhere, convinced there was no longer the public threat of 
exposure of extraterrestrial life.  The government had more pressing 
matters to attend to, with the Korean war, the Cuban missile crisis, the 
Vietnam conflict.  They were too busy creating a reputation for our 
country as defenders of the small and weak on the side of democracy to 
care about a few lights in the sky at night.
	"It was a stroke of good fortune for our organization.  The 12 had paved 
the way for us; we continued our research where they left off.  Their 
scientists became our scientists.  Their projects became our projects.  
Only we were free to do as we liked.  We had no president to answer to; 
our agendas were our own.  We even liked to think of our group as a true 
democracy.  Unlike American politicians, we kept ourselves honest for the 
good of the group, which was also our own good, for a while.  We used 
anyone and everyone we could, several hundred to a thousand freelancers 
and mercenaries over the years.  We could make people appear or disappear 
faster than magicians.  We thought we were invincible.
	"We all had our own pet projects as well as our own positions within the 
actual government.  With Bill Mulder our firm contact in the State 
Department, I left that organization, though Bill and I continued to work 
together in many respects.  Eventually the agencies that served to 
ultimately protect the American people fell to my care: the CIA, the NSA, 
the Secret Service, and the FBI.
	"Our organization was never a real democracy, of course, as true 
democracies are too busy being equal to accomplish anything.  I gave Bill 
Mulder orders just as surely as the Well Manicured Man gave my orders to 
me.  We continued our genetic experiments, and that, along with our 
research into UFOs, remained our primary focus. We inherited the MJ-12 
documents as they were referred to, and added to them as we went along.  
There were of course other projects as well, along the way.
	"There is a publication that operates out of Washington DC called 'The 
Lone Gunmen'.  It is a play on words, of course, and a play on the 
mystery concerning the assassination of President Kennedy.  What those 
word-clever conspiracy theorists don't know is how right they are.  There 
were many gunmen involved in that death, both figuratively and literally, 
but in the end it came down to one man.  Lee Harvey Oswald may have 
pulled the trigger, but I am the man who killed President John F. Kennedy,
 Jr."
	The young woman looked at him incredulously, and he saw her hand move 
slightly in her lap, as though the thought passed through her mind to 
shut off the tape recorder and leave, to forget the interview entirely.  
"You don't believe me," the man said, almost amused.  He withdrew a fresh 
package of Morley cigarettes from the inner pocket of his jacket and took 
a moment to tap them on the table upside down, compacting the tobacco in 
the cigarettes.  Then, as she watched, he removed the plastic wrapping 
and the inner foil and withdrew the first cigarette of the pack.
	He offered it to her.  "I suppose you want proof," he said.
	"I do," she said, and didn't take the cigarette from him, though her 
eyes lingered on his hand, making a thorough examination of it as though 
she would describe it sometime later in conjunction with the interview, 
or perhaps draw its lines and age spots to illustrate some point.
	"I don't trust people who don't smoke," he said and smiled cynically as 
he raised the cigarette to his own lips and lit it, blowing the smoke in 
her direction.  Most nonsmokers flinched or tried to avoid smoke that 
wafted in their direction, but she didn't move, merely regarded him with 
confident eyes that didn't even blink.  The smoke seemed to make them 
more green, more luminescent.  The smile lingered about his lips.  He 
liked her.
	"Why not?" she asked, her flat tone teasing him, her eyebrows going up 
only the tiniest bit in a challenge.
	"So you want proof," he said, asserting his control over where the 
interview was going.  Her expression did not change.  She waited.  
Patiently.  His eyes slid away from her and he continued his journey back 
into the past.
	"Kennedy is often revered as one of the greatest presidents.  But what 
did he actually do in his three short years in office?  Very little.  
Television had entered the American way of life and charisma went farther 
than it used to.  But at the same time, Kennedy was not a weak man.  He 
would not allow himself to be controlled the way other presidents before 
him and after have done.  Still, there have been men we could not control 
that we did not kill, and men that we did influence and still needed to 
take care of.  What killed Kennedy was his handling of the Cuban missile 
crisis.
	"The Cuban Missile Crisis is often viewed as a moment in history nearly 
as important as the signing of the Declaration of Independence, because 
it is viewed as the moment when America nearly ended the Cold War with 
the burning flames of hell.  It is popular in the culture to portray red 
emergency phones being used to avert the nuclear crisis, to show imagined 
situations where manly fingers were on that single red button, ready to 
grant death and destruction by nuclear holocaust with the next breath, 
only to have that next breath turn to a sigh of relief when everything 
comes back to normal.  It's a nice story and it makes for some dramatic 
prose, some tense scenes in the movies.  The real situation was much more 
dire.
	"The Russians launched Sputnik in 1957.  Our space program was 
floundering.  As you may know, Kennedy was very interested in putting 
Americans at the forefront of the Space Race.  We were a nation of 
winners, we could not forget that, nor could we forget that we were 
better than the Russians.  Anything they could do, we could do better.  
Even if we couldn't.
	"Kennedy knew as much about our contact with extraterrestrial races as 
he needed to know; as much as was in the official documents.  This was 
perhaps too much.  Because in November of 1963, he had come to the 
decision to reveal the presence of extraterrestrial life to the American 
public.  To the world.  This could not be done, so he was executed."
	"Wait," the young woman said, interrupting him for the first time.  The 
man's focus returned to her, surprised.  "You can't just say that, you 
have to tell the whole story."
	"Why?" he asked.
	"Why?" she cried, a bit of color rising into her face, "Because you know 
the truth, you have to give the details."
	"The details are well known to everyone.  In Dallas, in November of 1963,
 President Kennedy was killed by a shot in the head, a shot that was 
fired by Lee Harvey Oswald."
	"But Oswald was working for you!" she argued, "You've just admitted that 
you know the whole story.  You can set the record straight, you can 
finally make the truth known."
	"Ah," he said, "But you remember what I told you about the truth?  It is 
a very dangerous thing to hold in your hands."  He regarded her for a 
long time, his watery blue eyes fixed on hers to drive home his point.  
"Now shall I continue?" he asked in a casual voice, looking away at last. 
She said nothing, her jaw set, her full lips almost pouting.  He went on.

	"Other things happened about that time as well, things that didn't seem 
so important then but eventually became as important as any other element 
of our operation.  My friend - no, my colleague - Bill Mulder married in 
the late '50s and in the early '60s had two children, a son and a 
daughter.  He enjoyed his work with the State Department, but became 
increasingly vocal about the operations of our group.  He, unlike the 
rest of us, had become a family man, seeking on the weekends to shut 
himself away from the horrors he knew during the week.  It became 
difficult for him to reconcile his home life with his work.  How do you 
watch experiments involving the most horrible, unimaginable amounts of 
pure pain a human body can attempt to withstand and then go home and 
teach your children that the world is a wondrous place?  Even though 
those very experiments made the world a safer place for his children to 
live.  How could he attend a meeting in New York City one morning 
determining the fate of the president and country and three days later, 
watch the suffering of little Jon-Jon Kennedy, the same age as his own 
son who looked up at him with trusting brown eyes?  The problem wasn't 
that he wanted out; it was that he wanted to change things.
	"By 1973, America had proven itself once again to be the best nation in 
the world.  We'd planted our flag on the moon.  We were once again 
defending democracy and the rights of the little guy against the Red 
Menace.  And the fact that we were losing the fight meant that Americans 
were a little tougher.  A little smarter, a little more sophisticated. 
Suffering puts an attractive knowing gleam in your eye.  Having been to 
the moon, Americans would perhaps be a little more open to the idea of 
extraterrestrial life.  It perhaps would not cause the ruin of the 
greatest society on earth.  Our experiments were progressing nicely, 
though sometimes the ethical issues became a bit blurred. 
	"Bill Mulder's children were getting older; they were starting to 
question the world around them, and it was up to him to answer those 
questions, which included the nature of life.  He knew things that he 
wanted to pass on, not only to his children but to children everywhere.  
Again, he didn't want out.  This time, he wanted to expose things. 
	"We knew exactly what would happen if Mulder talked.  And we also knew 
that he was going to.  This was at the same time as Nixon's presidency 
was coming to its unfortunate end.  America had become, if possible, a 
little too trusting.  Our projects would be seen as threatening.  Evil.  
They would most certainly be discontinued.  And we could not let that 
happen.
	"Mulder approached a reporter from the Washington Post on November 21, 
1973, but couldn't meet with the man that day because he had to be back 
at his Massachusetts home that evening to celebrate his daughter's eighth 
birthday.  They arranged a meeting for after the Thanksgiving holiday.  
The meeting was to be held one week later on November 28, but it never 
occurred.
	"Because on the night of November 27, Bill Mulder's little girl 
disappeared, never to be seen again.  He knew what the consequences of 
talking would be - I even pseudo jokingly asked him which child he loved 
best - but for some reason he thought we wouldn't actually do it.  Or 
perhaps he simply believed that the rules did not apply to him.  In any 
case, the girl disappeared from her room that night.  If he was quiet, 
she would be kept safe, though not returned, and his son would not be 
harmed.  If he kept the meeting, both of his children would be dead 
within the hour.  He knew what choice to make.  And the project was once 
again safe.
	"The eighties brought a time of financial prosperity to the United 
States, but also a new wariness among the people.  We lost the Vietnam 
conflict.  Citizens of our country were held hostage in the Middle East 
for more than a year.  The  world was changing again, and so was our 
project.  We reached a point where we needed more test subjects; 
Americans reached a point where they needed to believe there was 
something more to life on earth than shallow looks and wealth.
	"The two combined spectacularly into a phenomenon known as Alien 
Abduction.

End part 2


===========================================================================

From: eponine119@att.net (eponine119 )
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Interview 3/4
Date: 4 May 1996 19:40:13 GMT


Disclaimed in part one

Interview part 3
by eponine119 
eponine119@att.net

	"The two combined spectacularly into a phenomenon known as Alien 
Abduction.
	"The idea of course was not a new one.  The first public reports of 
alien abduction occurred in the 1950's when a couple named Betty and 
Barney Hill claimed to have had encounters with aliens.  I interviewed 
them myself.  Those two had never seen an alien, of that I am certain, 
but by the '80s, abductions came to be a very real part of the culture.  
'Close Encounters'  and 'ET' were released; 'Star Trek' returned, alien 
abductions occurred on 'Dynasty' and in the ground breaking book 
'Communion.'  Believers at the time speculated that this new wave in the 
media was controlled by the government to gauge public reaction to the 
possibility of extraterrestrial life.  Actually, many of these things 
were designed by our organization to plant the notion of alien abduction 
firmly into peoples' minds in anticipation of the expansion of our 
genetic experimentation.
	"We were doing a multitude of things.  Most of our new freelancers were 
scientists, though we maintained our army of mercenaries to ensure 
everything went smoothly,.  Some of our experiments continued the Nazi 
legacy, and some of them involved stockpiling genetic resources and 
material in case a holocaust did come.  The threat decreased in the eyes 
of the American people with the end of the Cold War, but new threats 
arose every day from new sources, countries gaining technology before 
they were ready to handle the responsibility that comes with knowledge.  
But our focus shifted to alternate forms of human life.  All of our 
attempts at creating an artificial intelligence failed, so we returned to 
our genetic investigation.  Cloning.  The combination of alien DNA with 
that of humans.  All of these things required a great number of subjects, 
more than we'd ever needed before.
	"But alien abduction was more than a simple convenient cover story.  The 
greys were still hanging around, pestering the human race.  They had 
their own agenda, and in some ways it seemed to mirror ours.  The greys 
took more people than they had in the past, too, though the numbers never 
really amounted to much.  They were an irritation to us, but a minor one. 
Like a mosquito bite in a place that's easy to scratch.  
	"At the same time, our one unsteady player, Bill Mulder, retired from 
the organization, having never really recovered his enthusiasm after the 
loss of his daughter.  We let him go because we knew he wouldn't talk, 
not while there remained some chance, however slight, that she would one 
day be returned.  Things went along splendidly for us for almost eight 
years."
	"You're leaving out a lot of details," the young woman said when he 
paused as though he was coming to a stopping place in his story.	
	"Am I?" he asked her, almost teasing her because he could see the 
seriousness in her eyes, in her face, in the way she still sat straight 
in her chair even though hours had passed.  "What more do you want to 
know?"
	She looked down at the small notepad she had in one hand.  Every so 
often, he'd watched her scribble something down, a fact to verify, he'd 
assumed.  Now she read questions to him from the page.  "Why did you need 
an alien human genetic combination?  Why did the greys need human test 
subjects?  And how did you know what these aliens were doing, did you 
speak with them?  For that matter, where did you get their DNA to combine 
with that of the human test subjects?"
	He held up his hand to stop her.  Apparently she'd scribbled down more 
than he'd thought.  "Some of your questions will be answered with what I 
am about to tell you."
	"And the rest?"  Her long hair had come loose and fallen into her face, 
a reddish brown lock resting against her white cheek, covering one eye.  
As she looked up at him from her notepad, it almost gave her the look of 
one of the glamorous movie stars from the 1940s, except she looked 
ordinary and honest at the same time.  It was an intriguing, appealing 
combination, he thought.
	"You remember what I told you about the truth...don't you?"  he asked, 
smirking as he shoved another cigarette in his mouth, surprised to see 
the pack was almost empty.  He watched her as he lit it, expecting her to 
bob her head in answer to his question.  She didn't, just watched him 
back, waiting for the rest of the story.
	He continued right away.  "The nineties brought recession.  People were 
discontent, distrusting.  The world had gone cold with the expectation of 
lies yet to be told.  And again our project was threatened by one man 
with a yearning for the truth.  That man was Bill Mulder's son.  Fox.  A 
genius.
	"He was the FBI's boy wonder until his dark obsession with the secrets 
of his own past drove him to seek out a series of cases we had in the 
1950's appealed to J. Edgar Hoover to ignore, cases that fell into the 
realm of unusual or strange, some of them involving UFOs or other aspects 
of our work.  These cases were designated by the letter X and stored in 
the basement, kept out of the way of curious thrillseekers.  Until Fox 
Mulder became obsessed with them.
	"I had been concerned about the possibility of a problem with Mulder 
from the time he joined the FBI in 1988, and I recruited a young medical 
school graduate with the notion to put her with Mulder should he ever 
cause a problem.  I let him toy with the X Files alone until he came 
closer to the truth than he ever realized and I was forced to act to stop 
him.  I assigned Dr. Dana Scully to be his partner, to take notes on his 
behavior and keep him in line.
	"She disappointed me terribly.
	"I made the mistake of liking her; she was strong, stubborn, and 
absolutely scientific.  I was certain nothing she would witness in 
pursuit of the X Files could make her believe in the strange forces at 
work in some of them.  But somehow Mulder charmed her, got her on his 
side, and she ceased being of any use to me.  In fact, she backed Mulder 
up on his ridiculous quest for the truth.  I had to call in every favor I 
had to separate them.  She was useless in any capacity but one.
	"She was in my files from the data collection projects of the Cold War 
days.  So she became the subject of one of my experiments, one that was 
meant to break her if not kill her outright.  For three months we kept 
Mulder wandering blindly in the darkness.  It worked beautifully; he was 
merely the shell of a man without her.  We returned her to him just in 
time for him to watch her die in agony.
	"Except the bitch didn't die.  She pulled through and recovered, and the 
X Files were reinstated.  Mulder became more of a problem than his father 
ever was.  I had to focus all of my attention on Mulder to keep him one 
step away from the truth, to close that one final door in his face before 
he could blunder his way through it into the meeting room of our 
organization.  I threw cases at them that were certain to kill them, to 
exhaust them to the point of surrender.  I hit them with everything I 
had: mutants and killers, religious freaks, circus freaks, genetically 
engineered diseases.  Not one damn things worked against those two.
	"And then they got their hot little hands on the MJ-12 documents, which 
detailed everything our organization had accomplished.  Mulder had all of 
the pieces to the puzzle.  He had the documents, and he had uncovered a 
significant sample of defective hybrids we thought had been destroyed in 
the desert long ago.  So I killed his father, and I killed him.
	"At least Bill Mulder had the manners to stay dead.  Which is more than 
I can say for his son.  I learned many years ago that fire can be one of 
nature's best friends, stripping away all of the mistakes and leaving 
everything clean to start anew.  Fox Mulder was aware of fire's power 
over the truth; he had a phobia about fire.  And I used that against him. 
 I locked him in that boxcar with the pile of dead hybrids and gave the 
order.  'Burn it,' I said, but somehow he got out.  And came back.  That 
was when I vowed to get him in any way that I could.  He'd caused enough 
complications in my life.
	"The Well Manicured man felt he had to step in.  He had left me to my 
own devices for years.  He trusted me.  He respected me.  He even viewed 
me as an equal until Fox Mulder ruined it for me.  The Well Manicured man 
interfered and looked over everything I had accomplished, to see where I 
had gone wrong.  He gave the order that Dana Scully should die.  For real 
this time.  And I followed through on it.
	"But he undermined me by warning her.  It was all his cleverly hatched 
plan to destroy my credibility and drive me from the organization.  He 
warned her that someone would be coming for her, and he told her how I 
would arrange it.  And when her sister was killed in her place, he made 
it my fault.  Her sister's death pushed Scully closer to the edge where 
Mulder had been standing for years.  Now they were both rabid for the 
truth.  They were on one side trying to get me and the Well Manicured man 
was on the other.
	"So I worked harder, and got craftier.  I knew my usefulness to the 
organization was at its end if I was relegated to the position of 
Mulder's keeper.  I doubled my efforts, acquiring new contacts in Japan, 
taking from them significant documents that chronicled their own genetic 
projects in the Second World War.  The files from their 731 Unit 
contained some things we had not yet learned for ourselves; in some ways, 
they were my saving grace.  The others' distrust for me wavered.  When I 
recovered the stolen MJ-12 documents, I knew I was safe.  At least for a 
while.
	"That gave me more time to devote to my pet project, Fox Mulder.  
Everything fell quite neatly into place, actually.  He was losing his 
faith in the truth, he was beginning to let those deep seated doubts 
about his father wear on him.  He knew there were some things he had to 
cover up.  Just as his father had done.  
	"Poor man.  In the end, it was so easy.  I didn't have to work very hard 
to break him; he'd done most of the work for me.  He was exhausted.  He 
believed in nothing, trusted no one.  He started listening seriously to 
the little comments and jokes about his sanity.  But none of those were 
what brought his downfall.
	"It was very satisfying, the way it happened in the end because Dana 
Scully was useful to me after all.  In Mulder's nightmare of horror and 
lies and distrust, she was always there, standing next to him, strong, 
refusing to change her belief in what was right.  Mulder was only human.  
He turned to the only light in his darkness.  He loved her.  Had loved 
her for years by the time I noticed it.
	"It only took a few forged documents.  One well-placed phone call.  
Timing is everything in my business.  I'd been watching and I knew Mulder 
was too weary to fight.  I lied magnificently, the command performance in 
a career filled with deceit.  I told Mulder that she was his sister.  
That Dana Scully was actually Samantha Mulder, the little sister he'd 
searched for for almost twenty five years.  The lie had the desired 
effect.  And more quickly than I could have hoped.  I thought he would 
carry the knowledge with him, letting it eat away at his insides until it 
drove him insane.  That tortured knowledge was meant to be part of his 
punishment.  But it was done within the hour.
	"I didn't learn until later that when he came to the door in the middle 
of that dark night, Scully was in his bed.  For the first and last time.  
Ironic.  That was a nice surprise as well.
	"You may be wondering why extraterrestrials never invaded our planet.  
After all, they had the superior military and scientific knowledge and 
skills to travel across the galaxy to come here.  And yet they never 
landed their spacecraft on the lawn of the White House, they never 
initiated war with the inhabitants of Earth, they way they are always 
portrayed to do in science fiction films.  Instead, they chose a position 
in the background.  Watching.  Waiting.
	"They knew that was the strongest position.  From inside the action, it 
is impossible to see everything happening around you.
	"Besides, they knew that there was no need for them to bother.  There 
were men who would do their work for them.  Without ever having been 
asked."  He took a deep breath, almost a sigh, and waited before he met 
the young woman's eyes.  "You have questions," he said.
	Her expression had changed while he'd been lost in the world of his past.
  Her mouth turned down at the corners, and there was the faintest hint 
of sadness in the depths of her eyes.  It was not at all unattractive, he 
thought.  He'd accepted long ago that sadness was an essential part of 
life.  "Why have you told me this?" she asked.  Her tone was harsh as she 
continued.  "All the energy you expended, all the men you killed to keep 
the truth from being exposed.  And yet you tell me.  Are there going to 
be men waiting for me, to kill me and take the tapes?"
	"No."  For one single second he wondered if he had done the wrong thing 
in telling her.  He turned away from her accusing eyes to light a fresh 
cigarette, the last one in the paper box.  He coughed slightly as he 
exhaled the first breath of smoke.  
	"Why have you told me this?" she repeated.  "Why must the world know 
this now?"  She met his eyes and he found himself unable to lie.  Just as 
he could not tell her the truth.
	"I have seen the past, so I know the future," he said and she frowned at 
him slightly, puzzled.
	She looked at him but did not speak, her eyes intense and wide and 
interested.  "That's all you're going to tell me," she said, not really a 
question, not really asking for more.
	"What else is there?" he asked.
	"The rest of the story.  What happened next," she said.
	His eyes turned cold.  He crumpled the paper cigarette box in his hand, 
crushing it before he dropped it back on the table between them.  "That's 
the end of the story," he told her.  "Nothing happens next."   Without 
looking at her again, he rose from the table and quietly left the room.  
The door didn't even make a sound as it closed again after he'd passed 
through.

End of part three.


===========================================================================

From: eponine119@att.net (eponine119 )
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Interview 4/4
Date: 4 May 1996 19:41:10 GMT


Disclaimed in part one.
As always, if parts have gone astray, email me and I will get them to you.


Interview part 4
by eponine119 
eponine119@att.net

	The young woman slowly reached out and turned off the tape recorder.  
Then she put her hands over her eyes as though to try to fend off the 
tears and the sobs that began to flow through her body.  She jumped when 
she heard the door open again, and turned her head sharply without really 
looking.
	"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here, I'll just, I'll -" she stammered, 
blindly grabbing her at her notebook and her tape recorder to put them in 
her bag, but the woman's voice stopped her.
	"I'm sorry.  I didn't know there was someone else in here."  The voice 
from near the door was clear and cool.
	The young woman had to turn and look.  The woman who stood there matched 
the voice: collected and elegant, looking distinguished in a black suit, 
her grey-streaked red hair falling neatly around her face.  The older 
woman's blue eyes were startlingly bright, but sad.  She did not smile.  
"You're Scully, aren't you?" the young woman asked her.
	One side of the woman's mouth curved up in a fleeting half-smile, as 
though the question raised bittersweet memories.  "Yes," she said after a 
pause, her voice soft.  "Dana Scully, Assistant Director of the Federal 
Bureau of Investigation," she introduced herself.  "You were crying."
	The young woman nodded, feeling foolish as fresh tears burned her eyes.  
"He's dying.  Isn't he?"  
	She looked up at the older woman, who walked over and placed a light 
hand on her shoulder.  "Don't cry because he's dying," the older woman 
told her.  "He..." she broke off and looked down, unable to say that any 
human being deserved to die, whether it was the truth or not.  "We all 
die," her soft words faltered for a moment and the young woman saw pain 
cross her face.  "...sometime," she finished.  "We all die sometime."
	"You're thinking of him, aren't you?" the young woman asked.  "The man 
he spoke of.  Mulder.  Would you - I'd like to know about him."
	Scully bit her lip for a moment, holding her breath, trying to keep the 
emotions from rising in her even after all this time.  "He was a 
wonderful, brilliant, gifted, gentle man, the likes of which I've never 
known before or since."  It wasn't working this time.  Those simple words 
brought the pent-up memories rushing to the surface, flooding her eyes 
with too many tears that had never been shed.  She rubbed her eyes and 
forced the feeling back.  "He was special and kind, but he couldn't 
escape the darkness.  It didn't matter -"  she stopped and took a hard 
breath.  "Nothing could break through the darkness.  Not even love."  One 
slight sniffle, a blink to send away the tears, and she stiffened her 
shoulders.  "He shot himself in front of me.  He died before I could take 
him in my arms again and whisper in his ear that my love would take away 
the darkness."
	The young woman looked up at her through tears, amazed to find that the 
older woman was dry-eyed.  "I think you have quite a story to tell," she 
said, and did not expect an answer.
	To her surprise, the older woman sat down across the table from her, but 
she said nothing.  Instead, she looked pointedly at the tape recorder.  
The young woman misunderstood, opening her bag and reaching for the 
device to put it away, wanting to hear the story whether she could use it 
or not.  Suddenly the recordings, the uses for the stories seemed so much 
less important than hearing them.
	"My partner had a saying, and he believed in it with all his heart."  
She placed her hand over the young woman's and forced down the record 
button, starting the wheels on the tape spinning again.  Scully said, 
"Mulder always said, the truth is out there."

The end.
  
I am desperate to hear your comments!  PLEASE email me at zzcf89a@prodigy.
com   I will be eternally grateful!!!
eponine119