All Fourteen of Xgirl's X-Files Fanfic Stories by X-Girl - HTML preview

The Sum of My Tomorrows

Is our present defined by our future?

 Location Unknown

Present Day

He gasped for air, having difficulty finding his voice. And when he finally spoke, he couldn't tell whether he actually uttered the words or whether he simply thought them. Ultimately, it didn't matter. He was heard and he could hear.

 "Why am I here?"

 "Because you wanted to be. You wanted to see for yourself. To prove what you've always believed."

"I don't remember that... why can't I remember that?"

 "Your mind is not your own right now."

 "What do you mean?"

 "We have work to carry out and your presence has interfered with that work. You're feeling the effects of the testing."

 "I'm being tested on?"

 "Yes. I can't totally stop them from doing it, but I have been able to protect you from some of the tests. It's why you have trouble remembering."

"You've been protecting me? Why?"

 "Your fight is my fight. Those are my orders."

 "From whom?"

 The broad-faced man had no reply.

 * * * * *

Floating in water. Again. I haven't felt like this in a long time. Or, perhaps I should clarify, in what feels like a long time; I have no idea really. But I've regained a sensation that seems to imply that I have a body with limbs and nerve endings, even though I still can't distinguish them clearly. I feel like I have weight and substance again. It's reassuring.

Then on the other hand, I have to admit that I probably don't know what's real or unreal. I can't trust what's past, present, or future, actual living memory, or mere dreams of wishfulness. I think I'm living purely within my subconscious right now, in a coma of some sort. I have no idea how long I've been like this or whether anyone is affected by my situation. I suppose, like most people, I must have family but I don't know who they are.

 I don't know who I am.

I'm in a state of not remembering specifics but yet I know things. For instance, I'm sure this condition is amnesia of some sort. I can even spell "amnesia". I seem to have retained basic skills and knowledge about the world but I can't pinpoint what makes me, me. I'm familiar with societal conventions but I don't know what it is that I do to contribute to society, what my work is, and how I fit in.

This lack of knowledge about myself should be disturbing, but I'm neither alarmed nor surprised. It's as though some forgotten part my brain knew that this would happen and was prepared for the situation.

 * * * * *

 Quonochontaug, RI

 August 2021

 "You didn't have to get dressed up just for me, Mulder."

He hadn't heard that voice from such a close distance in a long time. Fox Mulder shut the door of his car and turned around just in time to catch a smartly dressed woman — still attractive after all these years — in a half hug.

"Hey, Scully. I didn't expect you so soon."

 "Am I early? I thought we said two —"

"Is it two already?" He started to glance down at his watch but then turned his attention back to his former partner and best friend. His soulmate for all eternity? What a strange thought to have all of a sudden, considering that they hadn't laid eyes on one another in three years. Some things just didn't change. Ever. "What am I saying... it's great to see you again. You look wonderful."

He embraced her fully, eyes closing in fond remembrance of years — too many of them, in simple fact — gone by. He felt comforted by the fact that the strength of her hold on him, both emotionally and physically, was still as strong as ever.

 She broke away first and flashed him a toothy grin, revealing gentle laugh lines on her face. "So what's with the fancy threads? Not that I'm complaining, because I can see that you still fill out a suit better than any man I've ever known."

 He felt distinctly flattered and flustered at the same time. Smiling at her in return, he kept one arm around her shoulders while he guided her up the walk to the house.

 "I just came back from a retirement luncheon for one of my ex-colleagues. A professor from American."

"Retirement?"

 "Yeah, it's alarming. I figure it won't be long before the funerals start happening with regularity..." "Well, that's rather morbid, Mulder."

 "Sorry. I'm sure we have a ton of good stuff to talk about. I didn't get around to asking you yesterday — how was the family reunion?"

 "It wasn't really a reunion, but it was interesting. It was good for everyone to be together for a change. And of course, Charlie was quite proud."

"It's not everyday that one's offspring earns a Ph.D., so I suppose he's entitled." He reached out to unlock the front door, letting it swing open. Pausing as he stepped over the threshold, he waved towards the patio table and chairs off to the side. "It's nice on the verandah. Why don't we grab some drinks and sit out here?"

"Fine."

 "Come on in. Let me get rid of my tie and jacket. There's freshly made iced tea and lemonade in the refrigerator..."

 He disappeared down the hall, pulling off his tie as he walked. Scully stood and looked around in awe at how much the simple old summer house had changed.

"The place looks wonderful, Mulder. Totally different from the last time I saw it." "When was that?"

 "A lot of years ago. Whenever it was that we found your father's files."

 "Well, since this is the only place I keep now, I thought I'd do some renovations to make it more like a real home."

 He had reappeared minus his jacket, sleeves rolled up, his white shirt sufficiently unbuttoned to reveal a generous glimpse of his chest. He was obviously still in great shape.

"Do you think you'll ever live here full time again? On this side of the ocean, I mean." "I hope to. I want to. Soon. It's home, and like Dorothy said, there's no place like home."

 He pulled open the door of his refrigerator and took out two jugs of liquid. He held them up one at a time, putting back the lemonade when Scully nodded at the other.

 "How are you liking life overseas these days?"

 "I think I'm finally getting used to it, after all these years. But it's nice to come back for the summer. Especially here."

 As she accepted a tall glass of iced tea from him, Scully looked at him curiously, trying to figure out if there was some additional meaning to what he had just said. She couldn't tell. "I've missed you, Scully. It hasn't been the same since your mom left. You just don't come out this way anymore, do you?"

"I know that you're as much a reason to come out here as Mom used to be..."

 "But?"

 "Well, you're just hardly ever in the country anymore, Mulder... It's hard to plan around your occasional appearances. Why don't you ever come out to the west coast?"

 "Your brother would sniff me out and have me killed in five seconds, that's why. With most of your family out there now, I can't imagine how welcome I'd feel."

"They wouldn't all have to know. California's a big state."

 "I know. But it's also the place where you started a new life. There's no sense of 'us' out there." "That wasn't a decision I made on my own, Mulder."

 "I know."

* * * * *

 "What could we have done to make us a success, Scully?"

 She could swear that she heard a twinge of wistfulness in his voice, but his expression was openly good-natured and not at all ponderous. She decided to keep it light.

"We are a success, Mulder. After all this time, you're still the greatest friend I've ever had, have, or ever will have. We've made the best of what we were given. That's all anyone can ever ask for in this life."

In this life. Mulder looked out across the street, thinking absently about how the area had filled in over the past twenty years. So much change and yet so little at the same time. He turned his gaze back to her face and offered a melancholy smile that tugged at her heart unexpectedly. "That's a bit sad, isn't it? I mean, to think that we don't have the right to expect more?"

 "I didn't mean it that way," she replied quickly. "I'm just saying that with our life agendas and the way everything had to be... this was the best that we could manage."

 "Back then, did you ever picture us married and living a quiet normal life somewhere?"

"Three times." Well, that was a lie. Maybe it was only three times that she wanted to tell him about. "The first, appropriately enough, was that night after you flippantly asked me to marry you."

 "When was that?"

 "Oh, and he doesn't even remember —" She feigned mock despair as she put one hand up to her forehead.

 "No, no, refresh my memory, I'm sure it'll come to me."

 "I took the weekend off to go up to Maine? And I got cornered into that weird x-file-ish thing with the 'possessed' doll —"

 "Oh, the Chucky case —" There was no mistaking the mocking tone in his voice now, even though it was intended in a joking fashion.

 "There was no 'Chucky' case, Mulder. But during one of our stranger conversations that weekend, after I had spouted off a long list of potential 'out there' possibilities, you —"

"Now I remember. In fact, I think I remember your response, too. It wasn't exactly encouraging." "Mulder, you were joking I presume?"

 "Yeah, but, you know, I think a lot of my jokes had some basis in actual desire... anyway, back to your thoughts."

"When I finally had a moment to myself that night at the hotel, I kept hearing you say those words over and over again. It was eerie. Not so much the idea of being married to you, but the idea of our lives ever being normal enough for us to consider such a possibility."

Mulder leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped together in front of his chin. "So when were the other times?"

"That year we were taken off the X-Files after that incident in Dallas. The first time when we were driving towards Area 51 in the darkness of night and I was having one of those 'I wish I had a normal life' moments. The second was when we were in California on that undercover case several months later."

Nothing about the intensity of Mulder's gaze had changed over the years. It still had the power to make her feel exposed and naked and unable to hide anything from him. It still had the power to make her look away to avoid revealing too much, to avoid seeing too much.

 She swallowed and reached for her glass of iced tea to quench the sudden dryness in her throat. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

 "Did you ever think about us that way?"

"I tried not to. Don't get me wrong... for a long time, I imagined us being together in some fashion. But whenever I considered the image of a normal married life, it just didn't seem to work for me. I was just never sure that I could belong in such a picture."

They sat in silence for several moments, as each considered how different their lives would have been over the past twenty years had they made another choice. The obvious, but ultimately impossible, choice.

 "Nothing going on in your love life, Mulder?" She felt an unwelcome clenching in her soul even as she asked the question.

Surprisingly, he smiled genuinely at her before responding.

 "Nah. I wouldn't be good for anyone anyway. As single-minded as I am, I mean." "I guess some things never change."

 "No, they don't, do they?"

 "So how is Samantha these days?"

"Always progressing. She gets better everyday, I think." Now there was a look that Scully had never before seen on Mulder's face, in the close to thirty years that she'd known him. It was an expression that hinted at having seen angels.

 Strangely enough, it made her ache.

A wait of nearly fifty years and counting was too much to ask of any man, and yet Mulder was still able to rejoice in the small victories. Samantha might never know or understand his true identity, but the look on his face just told her that he already felt rewarded.

"It's so hard to wrap my head around the fact that sometimes, she's really got no better than the mind of a teenager in terms of real life experience. And a scared teenager, at that. On the run one week, on an examination table being poked and prodded the next. There's a part of me that wonders what can be gained by having her remember any of that stuff, but, on the other hand... if she can't get back to that point, she won't ever know who I am."

 "Do you still have sessions with her?"

"I have regular meetings with her, but never in an office setting. We go for walks. The thing is, I don't want any of this to seem dishonest to her when the time comes. I'm not going to play at being her therapist and then say to her one day, 'Oh, and by the way, I'm your brother.'"

 "So who does she think you are?"

 "I'm just a friend she calls 'William'."

 * * * * *

"I can't believe that it's been almost ten years now since she came out of it. And not too much worse for wear other than the memory problem. But I guess we all know that some sort of memory loss is to be expected."

 Scully knew well enough that her three months had remained a mystery to her all these years. From what she understood, Mulder's personal experience had turned out no different. "What if it never returns?"

"I'm fine with that. If she never remembers anything about the first fourteen years of her life, I'll probably be thankful. Even if it means that I remain 'lost' to her. I wish you could see her, Scully. You'd be proud. She's taken to the whole care-giving thing like it's second nature to her."

"That's wonderful. The whole concept is wonderful. No better care can be offered to those poor souls than by someone who's been through it. Have they managed to identify everyone at the facility yet?"

"No." Mulder frowned, clearly disturbed by the idea that someone out there was still missing a daughter or a son, a sister or a brother, and not knowing whether he or she was alive. Just as he had for so many years, perhaps having been fed just as many lies. "We still don't know who the keeper of all this information is, how we came to be notified. The parties on both sides have gone to so much trouble to hide everything that it's almost impossible to match someone who's secretly 'looking' with someone who's lying there without an identity."

"And the old guard is dying..."

 "Exactly. The syndicate took a huge hit that they never recovered from when that hangar went up in flames back in ninety-nine. We've always known that there were other people scattered around the globe who are in on this, but I believe that the core of the operation has always been here in the States. This is where most of the information is. And unfortunately, where most of it's been lost."

"Approximately how old are these people who haven't been identified?"

 "The youngest of them are likely just under thirty."

 "Surely it's possible to investigate missing persons reports..."

"You forget how convoluted this might have been. Take the case of my sister. My father knew all along what had happened to her. Someone in every family always knows; I'm convinced of that. So there's only so much that gets done before someone says, let it be. Stop looking. Sign off on the search. Unlike my father, who had access to information to know that Samantha had been 'rescued', some of these other children's families probably knew nothing."

 "How are most of them doing?"

"We haven't lost any in the past year, but we haven't had anyone wake up in awhile now either. Some of these test subjects seem to be alive in just the barest sense, but there's no reason to think that they won't eventually come out of it. It's just that there's nothing to tell us what's normal or expected or average. Look how long Sam was out for..."

 * * * * *

 Location Unknown

 Present Day

 I'm being given something again. An injection of some sort. A fluid that I can actually feel coursing through my veins, spreading something cool. The rest of me feels hot, burning, on fire.

At times I've felt like Sargon from Star Trek. You know, the disembodied brain in a globe light fixture? Well, actually, I have no idea what kind of "receptacle" I might be in, if any. But that's what my recent existence has felt like. I believe that I must exist in order to be having these thoughts, but I can't seem to connect with the physical world in any way. I can't touch anything, say anything.

 I don't know why I know things like Sargon from Star Trek when I don't know my name or my phone number or address.

On my better days — although I have no concept of what a "day" is — I see faces but I can't tell if I'm seeing them with my eyes or if they're just in my head. It's aggravating because I know I recognize them; I feel a rush from deep within me when I see them, as though they should cause me great emotional stress. One face in particular: broad, almost misshapen, at once frightfully monstrous and gently calming. I know instinctively that he can squash me like an annoying insect but I don't have any reason to believe that he wants to harm me in any way.

There are other faces also. Less and more familiar ones. Hovering hopefully, these faces appear less often but seem to reach out to me in some way. I can sense an attempt at communication, a direct communication beyond spoken words. I'm reminded of a similar time in my life when I had that capability, but I can't quite pin down why I had it or when it was. It's just more of that same "familiar unfamiliarity".

 * * * * *

 Washington, DC

 April, 2004

 "Fox Mulder? I'm Louise Branson —"

"Excuse me?" His initial look of confirmation was replaced by one of confusion as he stood up from his table and extended his hand, hesitating at the unfamiliar name.

 "Oh, I'm sorry — I used Jolene Hilliard in my correspondence, didn't I? Actually, it's Jolene Louise Branson Hilliard, to be exact. All part of a long story that I hope you'll want to hear."

She was tall, with dark blonde hair and brown eyes. Likely his own age or maybe slightly older, but not by much. Her words had tumbled out quickly, even though she appeared to be trying to hold back her enthusiasm. Mulder smiled reassuringly at her and pulled out the chair opposite to him, motioning for her to sit down.

"Well, Ms. Hilliard or Ms. Branson. In either of your incarnations, I don't believe I know you, do I?" "We've never met but I think we might share a history of sorts."

 "In what sense?"

 "I have a sister, just like you have a sister, who disappeared as a child. Without any explanation, any clues."

 "You mentioned that. But that in itself —"

"I know. That in itself doesn't say a whole lot for why I'd make this overture to you. Unfortunately, the world isn't a nice place and kids go missing all the time for no reason. But Mr. Mulder, I'm talking about a situation that's different from the normal, and I think you know what I mean."

 The pause grew long, prompting Mulder to say something in return.

 "I'm not sure what you're getting at. My sister is dead." God, it still tore an emotional strip off him to say it out loud, despite his belief.

"After all this time, I can understand why you'd think that." Her voice was gentle and full of understanding for something that she had obviously lived through herself. "I was sure that my sister Sarah was dead too, until a few weeks ago. But I've since found out things. And I think that it's possible that she may still be alive. Just like your sister may still be alive. Do you have any proof about what you think happened to her?"

He swallowed painfully, realizing once again that what he had seen and experienced a few years ago simply hadn't been enough to close the doors on the mystery of Samantha. He had tried to make the explanation suffice — merely because he thought that the passage of time alone was to his disadvantage — but the lack of physical evidence had largely left the issue unresolved in the back of his mind.

 "No. No body. Paperwork that went to a certain point and stopped, but nothing that can be taken as absolutely concrete. But when you get right down to it, what other explanation can there be?" "Abnormal, other-worldly explanations."

 She had the presence of mind to offer an embarrassed smile alongside her outrageous comment. Mulder suddenly felt as though he were speaking to a younger version of himself. "And how do you justify believing in those?" Goodness. Who did he just sound like?

"I've learned things about you, too, Mr. Mulder. You've traditionally bought into these so-called... unusual explanations with more than an open mind. Let me tell you honestly that, until I uncovered this stuff, I wasn't someone who would have had much patience with you, I don't think. But so much of what I've found out explains my own life that I can't help but be convinced, if only to take some time to learn the truth. But I hardly know where to start..."

"The beginning's always good. How about starting at the beginning?"

 "What beginning? The beginning of how a global consortium came to be, or my own beginning?" Mulder paused for a long moment at hearing her say the words "global consortium". "How about telling me what your connection is to this... consortium?"

 "My father was Laurence Thomas Hilliard."

 She looked at him expectantly, anticipating something. Recognition perhaps? Mulder shook his head.

 "That's the third time you've referred to that last name. I'm sorry, should it mean something to me?"

 The disappointment on her face was clear as she spoke.

 "I don't know. I had hoped that you might know him. What I have — the evidence — seems to indicate that he knew both you and your father."

"If we're talking about the same organization, I don't think its members were highly motivated to give out their real names and phone numbers to people. Maybe I did know him, but not by that name. Probably not by any name for that matter." Mulder thought back to what he still didn't know about the real identity of the cigarette-smoking bastard.

 "My father was highly connected. Both in terms of this group and in terms of his normal everyday life. He had access to British nobility. It easily extended beyond the power of the Royal Family —" "Your father was British?"

 "Yes. God, why didn't I think of this sooner..." She brought up an oversized purse from the floor beside her and rummaged through it, extracting a wallet.

"What?"

 "I have a picture of him."

She removed the photo from its sleeve and passed it across the table. Even before he held it in his hand, Mulder had a feeling. The face in the photograph was younger than he could recall on the occasion of meeting him, but there was no doubt about who it was.

"I knew this man."

 "I thought you might."

 "I never knew his name, but..." He suddenly remembered the outcome of his one and only meeting with the British gentleman in question. "Jesus."

"What is it?"

 He looked up from studying the photo and stared blankly at his companion.

 "You've been talking about him in the past tense —"

 "He's deceased."

 "If you don't mind my asking, how did he die?"

 He knew, and it would have been hard to fake, but did anyone ever truly know what was real with these people?

"They killed him. While he was here in America. Several years ago. Then they packaged up what was left of his body and sent him back to London. Part of 'my beginning', Mr. Mulder, is that until he was killed, I didn't even know he was my father. I knew him as my uncle."

 "You... don't have an accent."

 "No, I was brought up here. In a small town in Pennsylvania. My mother and I came over to live with relatives for our own protection."

Mulder looked down at the photograph that he held in his hand once again.

 "I was there."

 "Where?"

"In DC in the summer of 1998. Your father got into a limousine on a deserted back street and it blew up right in front of me. Technically speaking, he saved my life even though he wasn't exactly pleasant about it. He also gave me the means to save my partner's life."

 Dana Scully would have died had it not been for the assistance of Mr. Hilliard.

"From what I understand, my father was a reluctant participant in the whole project during his final years. All he wanted was for the antidote to be effective so that we could protect ourselves against the threat. Maybe make the first move. He always thought that we had the power to make the first move. I mean, this really gets into an area that I don't know how much I can believe in, but I do believe that there is a threat of some kind that is considerable enough for these men to have devoted so much of their lives to fighting it, sacrificing so much in the process. But as to actual alien invasions... what do you really believe, Mr. Mulder?"

"I don't know what to say because I have no undeniable proof. Anything that I've uncovered in the past has been in my fingers one minute and gone the next. Always one step behind, except when they deem it necessary to give me small wins to keep me invested. But I've seen things. I've been places. And I have the feeling that I've probably forgotten more than I know."

 "Is the alien threat real?"

 "As to whether it'll come down to a take-over-the-world kind of real, I don't know. In any other smaller context, I would have to say yes. As to how alien, I don't know that either." "But you've always believed that your sister was taken for the project?"

 "Yes. But a few years ago, I encountered evidence — paperwork — that suggested that she'd managed to get away."

"Get away to what?"

 "Nowhere safe, I don't think. The trail ended. I believe she died."

 "What if they got to her again?"

"I don't think so, for the fact that there was an eyewitness who said that she was being pursued by the men from the project when she turned up missing. And apparently they were surprised that she was missing."

"You don't think that they could have caught up with her again?"

 He thought of starlight and winced inwardly.

 "I have no idea, really. All I'm saying is that every bit of hard evidence that I had seemed to point to the fact that she really disappeared after that."

"But that makes sense in terms of what I've uncovered. Think about it, Mr. Mulder." Her eyes flashed with increasing excitement at what she was about to share. "Some backlash from within. The testing is not as innocuous as they originally thought. Some subjects do not merely experience lost time. Some actually live and breathe the horror as it happens and it slowly destroys their minds. Rather than being prepared for some future where they'll be immune to this threat, they're just going to wind up being sacrificed to the cause as involuntary guinea pigs. Their families couldn't possibly have been okay with that."

 "So what are you saying?"

"I don't know what price was paid by the people who got involved in this, but I'm assuming that someone from every family knew the real facts. That these weren't just random abductions. These test subjects were chosen. By both sides."

 "I've always thought so too."

"But it doesn't appear to be an agreement that you can easily break. The thing is, as it started to go bad, someone at some point must have decided that they had to rescue certain test subjects before they died from their exposure."

 "So they abducted them from the abductors?"

 What a concept, Mulder thought to himself.

"That's right. And it makes perfect sense. Taken to relative safety but unable to be taken to any traditional place of healing. It had to be kept highly secret. These children weren't returned to their families. In most cases, their families probably weren't even aware that they had been removed. And the awful reality may have been that some of these children were not in any condition to be reclaimed."

"So where were they taken?"

 "That's the extent of my information. I don't know. But I've made an informed guess." "Which is?"

 "You attended Oxford, right? How did that come to be?"

 "It was my father's suggestion... "

 "Did you ever ask why?"

"He — he said it was a dream of his to go there. I took to the idea and since I was a good student... are you insinuating my father and his people somehow made it possible for me to get accepted at Oxfor