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Schlitterbahn

by tangential thinker

     Date: Friday, May 23, 2003 1:38 PM
     Title: Schlitterbahn
     Author: tangential thinker
     Email: tangential_thinker@att.net
     Summary: What if Dana didn't put the gun down?

Spoiler: Wetwired, but only through the beginning of Act Three. Watching Wetwired prior to reading this story to put yourself in the proper mood is recommended.

Category: Major and minor character death. Psychological torture of a sort. Divergence from canon, alternate episode twist.

Rating: R for violent imagery, a couple words. No sex, though. Nobody has sex ever in my stories. It must not exist in my XF universe.

Disclaimer: Not mine, belongs to CC and all the other legal entities thereto, hereafter,and forthwith.

Thanks to Dr. Ruthless for the lyrics and to Gillian Anderson for portraying freaked out so well.


Previously on The X-Files...

Residence of Maggie Scully
9 P.M.

Maggie Scully: Put down the gun, Dana.

Instead of letting go, instead of acquiescing, Scully hung on, determined.

BLAM! BLAM!

Screams, then running. Door swinging open, shut. Hand pushing door, door swinging open.

One face blank, another frozen forever in fear.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

It was over.


Precious minutes slipped by, time well spent kneeling close, watching a liar's blood soak her mother's carpet.

Scully rocked back on her heels with a smile on her face, blood on her hands. She smiled, at last contented with herself; at peace. Watching Mulder's life slip away, counting his ragged last breaths had been an absolution of her sins so desperately desired.

"Salve me, Domine," she murmured. "Cleanse me of my sins."

Mulder had deserved to die, after all. He had let Them abduct her, gave her over to Them with less care or thought than he gave selecting what to wear to work. He let Them experiment on her, torture her, reduce her to nothing more than bits of data collected and stored.

Hadn't she seen him and the Cigarette Smoking Man in the parking lot just last night? Seen him give everything they had over to that black-lunged bastard? Hadn't she always had those suspicions about him? That he undermined her work. Certainly he had never given any serious weight to her theories on their cases. All those ridiculous theories, all his childish arguments against her incontrovertible, scientific evidence proved his guilt.

Didn't they?

Yes.

Everything shone with crystal clarity now. Why hadn't she seen through his false charm, his illogical naivet, his insincere attentions before now? It was disgusting the way she'd fallen for his lies.

Lies, all lies, all with one goal in mind: Subvert the truth in order to corrupt her.


Scully stood at her mother's kitchen sink drinking a glass of water, staring at the tiny pots of herbs crowding the windowsill. Thinking. Reflecting on recent events. For a flashing instant, she allowed guilt to wash over her. Mulder had certainly deserved to die, but had her mother?

Scully turned away from the sink toward her mother's cooling body, sprawled inelegantly on the kitchen floor. Three neat bullet holes, three wet swells of blood punctuated her mother's death like macabre exclamation points.

Absently, Scully began evaluating the crime scene, lips pursed, brow furrowed. She thought idly of taking some notes, but who would really care to investigate the murder of a traitor and his accomplice? If no one had cared about Melissa, why would they bother to investigate Maggie's death?

A dark, slick stain spread from underneath Maggie Scully, oozed under dinette table, changing color as it soaked into the small rug rag near the back door. Scully analyzed the patterns in a detached manner. Calmly, scientifically, as befits a highly trained law enforcement officer.

She slipped her weapon back in its holster, became aware that her pants clung, wet and heavy, on her legs.

Mulder's blood stained her slacks. She wondered if they were salvageable or if they, like other clothes before, were destined for the trash can. Damn that Mulder, she thought. It's his fault they're ruined.

Was it her mother's fault, though, that her shoes were ruined, coated in her blood? Mom did let him in, after all; she had to have known what he was. She wouldn't have tried to run away, tried to run out the back door if she hadn't been on his side, would she?

Pulling a glass from the cabinet, she pushed up the faucet handle. Cold water spilled into the glass, which for some reason, she was gripping extremely tightly. She drank with deep, noisy swallows, and felt some kind of fog lift from her mind.

"I'm glad it's almost all over," Scully said firmly. She carefully washed and rinsed the glass, laid it on the drain board. Mom always did keep a neat kitchen.


Scully stood under the arch in the dining room over Mulder and prodded his leg with her foot. Mulder's blood had seeped into her Mother's fine wool carpet and ruined it. Shame; it was always a beautiful rug and it was ruined now, too.

"Damn it, Mulder, you always could fuck up even the most simple of situations, couldn't you?" she murmured.

Scully sat next to Mulder, near his head. She leaned over and studied his face carefully. Would it always and forever have this slack look? Or would his mother have the mortician mold it into something pretty? Something false?

Only make up would cure the waxy, yellow appearance of his skin, though. People always said the dead were white or gray, but they had it all wrong, she thought idly. Only the living, the gravely ill, can retain that purity of white skin. Blood still pumped through their bodies, still imbued them with some coloring, no matter how small. Once dead, all color was gone, all color save yellow.

Scully leaned over further and rested one elbow on Mulder's still chest. Blood from the entrance wounds wet her jacket sleeve, but she dismissed it. She was almost done and this suit would be headed for the trash heap.

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Mulder? If you had just stayed away, left my mother out of this, she'd be alive. But, no, not you Mulder. You tried to drag me down, but you dragged my mother down instead. I hope you rot in Hell for this."

Vaguely she was aware of a screaming sound, like a modem gone wild. Some irritating noise, far away, down a tunnel, but, annoying or not, it was a warning, a spur to hurry up, to see this thing through. Conversations with the dead could wait. There was much to do and the noise was getting louder.

"It's my turn now, Mulder, my turn. But you know what, Mulder?" Scully chuckled low in her throat, almost a growl. "These past couple of years, I've had so much to say and so damn few opportunities to talk. You were always busy filling the dead spaces between us with your incessant talk. Now it's finally my turn but I'll be damned if I can think of a single thing I really want to say."

That incessant noise grew louder, an irritating hum. Some pull at her gut told her what it was and she sat up, hand at her holster. Blue and red lights danced along the walls, the ceiling, ran across her face. Icy waves of panic crashed down, made her fingers tingle, knocked her breath out of her lungs.

"No!" she shrieked, scrambling across the room, sitting down hard on the floor, back to the wall, hard enough to send a picture frame crashing down, glass splintering everywhere.

"You bastard! You called Them!" Scully stared at Mulder's face, half expecting him to smile and raise up and grin. To tell some asinine joke. "How the hell did you call them? You're dead!"

Weapon drawn, pointed at Mulder, Scully frantically watched the lights spinning around the room, throbbing, intense. Loud pounding on the door startled her again.

"Open up! Police!" boomed a loud voice. The door fairly shook with more pounding, too hard, she thought, to be made by a human hand. More tricks.

"They won't take me this time, Mulder. Not this time. I'll steal this last from you."

Scully carefully stuck the barrel of her weapon in her mouth, pulled the trigger and...

THE END


Author's Notes: Hysterical, mind-controlled Scully, who knew? While I'm not 100% thrilled with this tale's ending, it is a horror. Maybe on more levels than one Blame Stephen King; I read Misery for the first time (never saw the movie, either) and was unduly influenced to go this route. Or maybe it was "must-see TV" that did it?!?

I have to admit, though, that I have always wanted to write an alternative ending to Wetwired. Nothing short of someone dying would do it this time around.

Schlitterbahn means "slippery road" in German. This is the name of an amusement park here in the US that I saw mid-story writing --- the top ten water parks. Scully is on a slippery road to hell in this story.

I'd haven't check the headers and make sure that it's clear that this was written for the Lyrics Wheel.


If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to tangential thinker

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