Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER 19, 1995
8:53 PM
A DARK ROOM
WASHINGTON, DC
Scarlet stared straight ahead. She'd heard the litany before from others in the Federal Bureau of Investigations, questioning her about illicit computer activity from her dorm room at Georgetown. At first she'd been scared to death when they'd caught her hacking government files, but after six different sessions of questioning with six different people, she was bored, quite frankly. She almost wished they'd send her to jail and get it over with.
She watched the handsome black man as he paced around the dark room, recounting her crimes for her benefit. She did not know his name. She hadn't been introduced to him. All she knew was that he'd entered the room after the last agent left.
"Scarlet," he said, in an uncompromising, rich tone, "Are you listening to me?"
"Yessir," she said, trying to keep the petulance from her voice. She summed the situation in a pair of even-toned sentences. "I'm accused of having broken into federal records that were classified. This is considered an act of potential espionage."
"Accused?" The man looked almost amused behind his beard. "You were *caught*, Scarlet."
Scarlet regarded him curiously, innocently. "I was?"
"Don't play the fool with me." His voice was coldly homicidal. Scarlet blinked. This man was dangerous, she knew. He went on, seeing that he'd gained her attention. He walked closer, his dark eyes capturing hers. She saw no mercy at all behind his gaze, and she shuddered. He ignored her reaction and continued. "If you decide to work with me, I'll make sure you're never accused of those crimes."
"Work with you. Doing what?" There it was, she mused. Out in the open. Bribery. Hell, she told herself, I can be bribed when it's the rest of my life that's at stake.
"Sharing what you've learned," he said. "First with me. Then as I direct, with another that I know. Only as much as I allow."
He looked at her unprepossessing appearance: a twenty-something young woman with dyed black hair, pale skin, and bright red lipstick, dressed in distressed jeans and a loose sweater. Strange how the ones who look so unassuming always turn out to be the most trouble, he thought, bringing to mind another he knew.
Scarlet swallowed hard and nodded, feeling very small and very frightened. She began to tell him all that she had found.
SEPTEMBER 21, 1995
1:24 PM
WASHINGTON, DC
Scarlet sat down once more, waiting for the intimidating man to brief her. She didn't like him, but she was growing used to the way he made her feel--paranoid and more than a little bit intimidated.
She was almost disappointed when a thirtyish man in a suit entered, a nondescript sort of fellow. He was of average height and build, dressed in a lightweight grey suit. She glared at him and shrugged, reaching into her bag and fishing out a compact. She flipped out a tube of lipstick, applied a fresh coat, and then drawled, "Yeah?"
He answered, "Got your instructions. You know who they're from." He held out a hand to her. She studied it, and then shook it. He smiled, as if he enjoyed speaking in double-talk because it impressed civilians.
Scarlet was unimpressed. She noticed he didn't give his name, but made no comment. "Okay, let's hear it."
"Contact the target tomorrow. The means of contact are in this envelope, as is the information you're to pass along."
"Got it." She took the envelope, sealed with a wax mark. She recognized the mark from the previous night, when the other man had showed it to her. She did not open it, just slipped it inside her leather jacket.
The nondescript man raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you gonna read it?"
"Nope. It's either there, or I'm fucked." She shrugged. "But he'd want me to check it out alone."
"An informer," he said, with the small smile of a cat toying with a tasty rodent, "I thought all you computer hackers believed in freedom of information and all of that."
She replied, in an unimpressed voice, "I do."
His condescending smirk no longer even made a pretense at friendliness. "But by cooperating with us, you're selling out, aren't you?"
Her tone was pure disgust. "I never bought in. I'm not an anarchist."
"No, just a fruitcake," he added, with mild amusement.
"Are we gonna do the verbal waltz all day, or are you gonna let me go so I can do my grocery shopping?," Scarlet retorted, bored and irritated. Goddamn pinhead, she thought, playing power games.
"Yes," he said, satisfied, "That's what he said to pass on for now. And Scarlet, one more thing--?"
"Mm-hmm?" She played it casual, but felt the bile rising inside her. She wanted nothing more than to smash in that smug, arrogant, nondescript face.
"Don't play games. He said he knows that you know a lot more than you like people to think."
"Huh?," she quipped, annoyed, "You lost me three verbs back." Fucking jerk, she fumed silently.
"You know what I said. Goodbye, Scarlet." He left the room, the same little smirk plastered in place. Scarlet kicked the chair over and stalked out.
SEPTEMBER 24, 1995
6:41 PM
A SMALL STUDIO APARTMENT
WASHINGTON, DC
Twelve-bar blues emitted mutedly from the stereo. The room was furnished in Early Milk Crate, with an occasional IKEA expenditure. It was a small place and somebody had to furnish it. She didn't do well. A poster detailing an Intel microprocessor schematic was taped to the wall above a table littered with computer parts.
Scarlet fed the single sheet of laser-printed paper into the fax machine and hit the SEND button...
SEPTEMBER 24, 1995
6:41 PM
THE J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, DC
Spring cleaning was hell.
Special Agent Fox Mulder was knee-deep in file folders, arranged in a system only he could understand. Of course, being eidetic didn't hurt matters when he was looking for the paperwork from a three-year-old case. His desk was covered with teetering piles of paper.
Cold coffee stagnated in a Star Trek mug on his desk. The mug had been a joke gift from Special Agent Dana Scully, his partner and (in the rare moments when he would admit it) his only friend. The design on the ceramic surface was a logo for the Vulcan Science Academy. After catching a glimpse of the contents of the mug, he concluded that the logo was appropriate--what was inside the mug very well might grow up to be a new wonder-drug.
The fax machine made the loud whining noise that signified a connection. The sound was so loud against the relative quiet of the room that Mulder looked up from his file folder, almost sliding backwards off his chair in the process.
"What the...?" He was only mildly curious, but boredom made him walk over to the fax machine and pick up the single sheet, its slippery paper rendering the image streaky and hard to read. The words were simple:
MEET ME AT THE NORTH ENTRANCE TO THE SMITH AT 10 PM. I HAVE INFORMATION FOR YOU. WE HAVE SOME MUTUAL ALLIES.
The note was unsigned. He folded it carefully into a pocket. "Jeez. I haven't had a secret admirer since fourth grade," he told himself, then smiled a bit sheepishly at the fact that he was talking to himself.
SEPTEMBER 24, 1995
10:02 PM
THE SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM
WASHINGTON, DC
Mulder stepped out of the car and walked toward the entrance of the museum. He'd changed into jeans and a loose sweatshirt before coming. His thinking was, even if it was a set-up, at least if he wasn't wearing a suit, they'd assume that he wasn't the right man for just long enough for him to escape.. and besides, it was a lot easier to run in Nikes than wing-tips.
He mused on the possibilities and was both fascinated and wary. Another informant. Another potential source for the small bits of The Truth--and he thought of it in just that way, in capital letters, a very proper noun, in the same way that one always capitalized the H in "he" when speaking of God.
Some part of him wished he'd called Scully, asked her to come along, but another part told him that if he hadn't come alone, his soon-to-be-benefactor would have turned tail before he'd so much as said hello. Sighing, he feathered a hand through his spiky brush of hair and walked to the entrance, casually.
A young woman appeared from behind him, dressed in faded jeans, her black hair obviously dyed. She was kind of cute in a pillowy sort of way, he observed, watching her move. Until she stepped close, it never occurred to him that she might be the one.
Scarlet looked at the tall, slim man before her and swallowed hard. She felt the tension knotting inside her, and decided to plunge in before nerves made her run away.
She stepped over to him and slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. Laughing, she stood on her tiptoes--for she was no more than five feet four inches, and he was probably six feet tall, she surmised--and whispered, "Play along. It's me. I'm the one who sent the fax."
Mulder almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. This rumpled girl was the one? Then he thought of the Lone Gunmen, and it didn't seem so absurd any longer.
"Hey, long time no see, guy. You owe me dinner," she said aloud, her voice cheerful and teasing.
Mulder found his voice and played along nicely: "Yeah. It's been a long time, hon. Too long. Come on, where do you want to go?" He slipped an arm around her shoulders, too easily, and she said, "I know a great place a few blocks away. Come on..."
As they walked, she muttered to him, "Don't lose yourself in the part, Agent Mulder."
"I'll try to restrain myself," he noted, with a wry expression. "So who are you?" He whispered back.
"Scarlet," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder and looking, to all intents and purposes, like a co-ed in love, "I was sent by someone you know. He said to tell you it was X and you'd know who he was."
"X," he said, evenly. That bastard. Mister X was somewhere between ally and adversary--even Mulder wasn't quite sure which. X had given him some of the best information he'd ever had, but Mulder suspected that Mr. X might be as much a product of the conspiracy as he himself was. Mulder still wasn't sure how much of Mister X was a free man and how much was a mere tool.
"Yeah," she said. "I have some things for you."
"All right, what?"
"Hold on." She slipped an arm around his waist playfully and he felt something sliding into his front jeans pocket.
"Hey, what kind of guy do you think I am?," he quipped with the lazy smile that was far more charming than he realized.
"I dunno. Maybe all those subscriptions to dirty magazines should say something about it." She giggled. He was kind of cute, even with the super-short hair, she thought. She still had no idea why the information was so important to him. She knew why *she* had sought it out, but this g-man...?
Mulder frowned. How the hell did she know about the magazines? He was all set to come back with a quick rejoinder, but then he realized that whatever she'd shoved into his pocket, it was still there, and her hand wasn't. It felt small and flat. A floppy disk, he ascertained after a moment.
"Just who the hell are you, Scarlet?," he asked.