Chapter Text
Mulder was already leaning on Skinner’s door frame when Scully hurried in, irritated at being paged on her day off. She didn’t get a lot of those, after all, and she’d been looking forward to catching up on sleep. Sleep had proven so elusive these days.
She’d been called in so suddenly that she hadn’t had time for breakfast, but Mulder apparently had time to spare, because he placed a coffee in her hand as soon as she arrived next to him. He’d been doing that a lot recently; arriving before her, coffee in hand, sometimes accompanied by a small gift or trinket. She took a sip, already grateful for the extra energy the warm drink would bring her. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
“Any idea what this is about?”
Mulder shrugged. “All I got was undercover .”
Scully raised an eyebrow. Of all the agents to select for an undercover mission, she would never have placed herself and Mulder on the list. “Is it an X-File?”
Mulder leaned back and took a sip of his own coffee. “Like I said, no idea.”
Scully mimicked Mulder’s motions, leaning against the door frame and losing herself in speculation. Undercover . Where could they even be going? Why them? X-Files were usually isolated situations. What sort of X-File could possibly require long-term undercover work?
“Mulder,” she asked, still breathing in steam from her coffee, “do you know of any long-running, continually unresolved X-Files? The sort of thing that might require undercover work?”
He laughed. “There’s plenty of those, Scully, but there’d have to be a pretty big development for them to catch Skinner’s eye.”
“Any of those, then?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.” It was unusual for Mulder to miss these things. Oftentimes, he caught them even before the local news outlets.
She searched her brain for an explanation. “Maybe Skinner wants you to infiltrate a group of high school Dungeons and Dragons players. You’d fit right in.”
A smirk danced across his face. “Maybe he wants you to infiltrate a group of small town librarians. I bet you’d be great at shushing people.” The comment earned him a slap on the shoulder. Before Scully could think of another perfect career for Mulder (perhaps a roadside magic shop owner-he was certainly good at convincing people of the impossible), the door swung open and Skinner’s assistant beckoned them in.
“Have a seat,” said Skinner from behind the desk. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
“Of course, Sir,” Scully answered automatically, suppressing her previous irritation without a second thought. “But if you don’t mind my asking, is everything alright?”
Looking grim, Skinner brandished a file and slid it across the desk into Mulder’s hands. Scully scanned her partner’s eyes for a reaction as he skimmed it over, but gleaned nothing more than surprise from him. That could mean anything.
“I think you’re making a mistake, Sir,” said Mulder after a moment. “There’s nothing here to indicate that this is an X-File.” Seeing Scully’s questioning gaze, he pushed the file in her direction. “Three members of the Green Mountain Singers have been found with their vocal cords ripped out.”
“Well that sounds gruesome, Mulder. Why wouldn’t it be in line with our other cases?”
“Take a look,” he replied. She scanned the autopsy reports in the file.
“According to this, the vocal cords were removed with surgical precision, and the wounds were stitched back up. This would indicate the work of a serial killer, not any sort of…bizarre creature.” She tried to ignore the chills winding down her spine. She wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with a serial killer in the field right now. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t handle it, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t prefer to stick to labs and human bodies rather than twisted minds which no science could explain, if only for the time being. She still dreamed about Minnesota almost every night. “Sir, with all due respect, shouldn’t this case be assigned to Violent Crimes?”
“Normally, it would be,” said Skinner, sliding over to a VCR by the wall, “but I convinced the higher-ups that these qualified as special circumstances.”
“Special circumstances how?” asked Mulder, sucking on a pen.
“You’ll see,” said Skinner, fiddling with the VCR. “I assume neither of you are familiar with the Green Mountain singers?” Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance, then shook their heads simultaneously, looking expectantly at the assistant director. He gave them both a wry smirk. “The Green Mountain Singers, agents, are members of a Vermont based community choir.” He looked at them again, as though expecting a response.
Scully broke the silence. “Forgive my…um…artistic ignorance, but what’s a community choir?”
“A community choir,” said Mulder before Skinner could. “Is a singing organization dedicated to making singing accessible to nonprofessionals. They are traditionally non-auditioned, and consist of traditional folk music from America as well as other countries.” Both Scully and Skinner blinked at him, surprised. Mulder gave a small smile. “My neighbor growing up did a community choir in Boston every month. Never shut up about it. Never got my family into it either, though.”
Scully couldn’t suppress the small smile that crept up her lips. She learned something new about Mulder every day. “I still don’t understand, Sir,” she began, turning back to Skinner. “What does this have to do with us?”
Skinner smirked again. “Well, most members of the Green Mountain Singers hail from rural areas and might be uncooperative if FBI agents suddenly show up on their doorstep. We thought it would be better to have someone who could…meld with the group.”
Scully did not like where this was going at all.
“Community choirs are known for attracting…unconventional types. Naturally, my mind went straight to you, Agent Mulder.” Scully couldn’t keep a small laugh from coming out of her mouth. “Not so fast, Agent Scully,” he continued. “You’re in on this, too. Even though you two exhaust an impossible portion of the FBI budget, you have higher success rates together. You’ll both leave for Montpelier tonight. Rehearsal is tomorrow.” Scully opened her mouth to protest, but Skinner was already sliding a tape into the VCR. “Here’s a recording I managed to unearth from their last concert.”
A group of between twenty and thirty people materialized on the screen. Most were easily over the age of 50 (with a few exceptions), and they were dressed in a startling array of eclectic patterns. Scully was about to ask if she and Mulder would need to replicate their outfits when the VCR whirred to life and the group began to sing and dance.
Iyagaleli mvula
Iyagaleli mvula
Iyagaleli mvula
Intsikelelo
Phakama lungisu mhlaba
Ukuze athwaliziqhamo
Iyagaleli mvula
Iwile intsikelelo
Scully blinked as Skinner turned off the VCR. She was liking this case less and less by the minute. “For a group that’s supposedly made up of amateurs, they’re quite good.”
“That’s the beauty of community choir, Scully,” quipped Mulder. “They take ordinary people and somehow they make real music.”
When you put it that way, it was somewhat beautiful, but Scully couldn’t imagine ever wanting to go onstage in an outfit like that. Plus, there was one other problem. One… bigger problem.
“This should cover all the details you need,” said Skinner, sliding another file across the desk into Scully’s hands. “Most of these types aren’t big on technology, so try to use as little as you can, and if you have to, use it in secret. As for contact with me, you know the drill. Maintain your cover. Watch your back.”
Mulder nodded; he was the more experienced field agent, and had probably heard it all before. He was halfway out the door before Scully managed to bring her worries to her lips. “Sir, I hate to be the cause of trouble, but I think you may want to reconsider selecting me for this assignment.”
Skinner raised an eyebrow. “And why is that, Agent Scully?”
Scully swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought this would be a problem since she’d been asked to leave her church chorus at six years old. “I can’t sing.”
Mulder laughed, walking back in her direction and draping his arm over her shoulder. “It’s a community choir, Scully. They don’t care if you can sing.”