The Sound of Your Voice

The Sound of Your Voice
Date: 97-01-12

Disclaimer: many of the characters and concepts in this
work of fiction belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox
Broadcasting, and other people who aren't us. No infringement
on existing copyrights is intended. This story belongs to
Vickie Moseley and Summer, aka Amanda Summers.

This is part of the series that Vickie Moseley and i
began with "Open Book". The format is different, but everything
we've written together is part of that same series-- anyone
wanna suggest a name for it? We call them journal stories. The
Spooky Awards listed them as the "Book" series. Got any better
ideas?

Write us: Vickie is vmoseley@fgi.net
Summer is summer@camelot.bradley.edu

We adore-- and answer-- all email.

The Sound of Your Voice
by Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Tape One

Testing... one... two... three... four.

Okay, apparently this thing is gonna work or it isn't,
so I might as well start.

Dear Scully. Okay, that's how I'd start a letter.
I'm not used to using this damn tape recorder. It's voice-
activated; I think it's gonna record whatever I say.
Oh, shit-- it's okay, ah, that was nothing. Your mom set
the call button by my hand and I bumped it to the side.
The noise you just heard was it banging against the rail
on the bed. I'm not quite sure why they have the rails
up. Guess they think I'm gonna try for an escape later
tonight. Fat chance. Especially with the Gestapo right
outside my door, coming in every fifteen minutes to check
on me. I don't wanta talk about that right now.

How are you? Your mom says that woke up this
morning with a killer headache. Hey, me too! She also
said that you're asleep a lot of the time. That's good, try
to rest, since now they're letting you sleep. Scully,
I feel really bad about this. The last time I got banged
on the head and you wouldn't let me sleep, I couldn't
help thinking "Wait till it happens to you, Scully". I take
it back. I could wait. A long time. Really.

You mom said you asked about me when you woke up.
Since I'd done the same thing to her, she thought that
giving us both tape recorders so that we could exchange
messages would be one small step toward saving her sanity.
I concur. By the way, Scully, you know I'm the last
person on earth to decide these things, but I gotta say it:
your mother is a *saint*. I should send a tape to the
Pope or whoever handles that stuff. They need to put it
in her permanent record.

Ough! Sorry, I moved. Uf. Goddammit, Scully. I
really really hurt. It's worse than Alaska. Then I was so
tired, I couldn't keep my eyes open. Here, I can't close
'em, at least not till they pump all kinds of shit in my IV.
Even then, I don't really sleep. I sort of zone out for a
while. I hope you're doing better. But then, you got
hit on the head. I was the lucky SOB to fall two stories
onto cement on my back. Make a note: when we finally
tell Skinner to take this job and shove it sideways, I'm
NOT going to Hollywood to become a stunt double.

Your mom was here when I woke up. She probably told
you about it already. I think I scared her. But Scully,
you know how I am when I first wake up in these places.
Not real with it, not that quick on the uptake. I've
discovered that when I'm really dopey from all kinds of
stuff that you'd love to tell me all about, and I can't
really focus on anything, your mom really looks like you.

I thought it was you. I was so relieved that you
were okay. I mean, the last I saw, you met the corner of
a brick chimney while you were going about Mach 10, and
when you peeled away from it, you were bleeding. I couldn't
tell if you were breathing. It scared the living shit out of
me, for the two seconds I could think about it. And
then, that thing was on me again. The next thing I
knew there was nothing between me and the asphalt but
forty feet of anorexic air. Free-fall is a lot more
fun when you have a parachute. Or so I'm told.

So when I first woke up yesterday, I was out
of it, and I look up and see a big smile. She must've
heard me trying to say something, and she was leaning
over so I could see her. So now I know where you get
your smile, Scully. It's from your mom. She smiled
and said "Fox, lie still, you're going to be all right."
And I was still fuzzy and ready to bust your chops for
calling me Fox when I realized it was your mom and not
you.

So I just, I started to worry. I mean, what would
your mom be doing sitting next to my hospital bed if you
were sick? If you were in the hospital, she'd be next to
you in your room. And if you weren't hurt, it would be
you sitting in my room, and not your mom. But if you
weren't there and you weren't sick... well, I think I sort
of hared out on her. I'm pretty sure I did, actually,
because a whole shitload of nurses came running in to
turn off all the buzzers and beepers and sirens I set off.
I thought you were, well... you know... And through
it all, the sirens and the buzzers and me, demanding to
know where you were... your mom finally took my face in
her hands and made me look at her.

Then, in this calm voice she said "Fox, listen to
me. Dana is on another floor. She's right here. In this
hospital." She told me that you were in the ICU because
of the head injury and that they had me on the
orthopedic ward. You're only one floor away. That
helped. I relaxed a little. The nurses gave me all sorts
of shit about not moving and definitely not trying to get
out of bed (I'm still trying to figure out how I ever
thought I could manage that feat) and she assured them
that she would make sure I didn't do anything to hurt
myself.

Where was I? Oh, the saint part. Your mom's been
shuttling between the two rooms. Two hours one place,
two hours the other. At the time I woke up, she'd been
at it for 24 straight hours. The nurse told me that. Your
mom would never mention it. Sometimes I wish...

But regardless, you are one lucky woman and you
better never-- never what? I was about to say, you better
never give her a reason to worry. Oh, brother. That's so
ironic it's almost a song in itself. I don't want your
mother to worry about you, Scully. So, what say we run
off to the circus? Nah, that's dangerous, too, isn't it?
The forests of Washington State? Baaaad idea. A boat
in the North Sea? Damn it. Well, if you come up with
something, let me know.

Are you bored? I'm bored. I'm so fuc-- sorry, bored
out of my mind that I can't stand it. I'm flat on my back.
I have a stupid neck brace on, so I can't turn my head
either way. I can't move my head, really. I have tubes
everywhere, including a little one that doesn't feel that
little down my throat-- nasogastric, they tell me, which is
why I sound funny. I can't eat. I can't go to the
bathroom. I can't do a damn thing for myself. But I can
stare at the ceiling. This is the orthopedic ward, they're
used to people who have to stare at the ceiling,
apparently. So some joker taped posters up there. Very
nice.

Of course, my tastes have never run toward
Garfield as a rule. And him bemoaning the numbers on
his bathroom scale never struck me as terrifically funny.
Still doesn't. Then there's one with a kitten wrapped
up in toilet paper. My. How cute. Oh, and my
absolute favorite. Mountains. And the ocean just
peeking through at the horizon. And the sun just setting
to the right of the frame. And the words, in calligraphy,
in the corner. "With Faith, all things are Possible".

Like walking again?

...

i want to believe

...

--The doctor's okay. He's not you, but he'll do
in a pinch. He's got an armload of degrees. I recognized some
of the letters after his name. They brought him in special
from Rush Pres. St. Luke's, or so the nurses told me. We
got lucky. I guess they get their share of spinal cord
injuries in Chicago. Anyway, his name is Michaelson.
Tim. He told me that "There's every reason to be
optimistic" about a full recovery. Okay. I can speak
"doctor"-- I talk to you enough. I can tell he didn't want
to come right out and say, "Yes, Mr. Mulder, you fucked
yourself up big time and we might not be able to put
Humpty Dumpty back together again", but he was sure as
hell hedging his bets.

This time could be for real, Scully.

Damn. I didn't want to do this. Hell, you have
enough to worry about. Look. Don't worry about me.
I'm gonna be fine. I've been through worse. It's you who
needs to get better. Your mom told me that you have a
skull fracture. Hey, been there, done that. Don't move
your head too much. It hurts like hell. And don't bitch
at them when they try to make you comfortable. Your
mom told me you wouldn't let them give you a massage.
Sounds like heaven to me, but I know you, Scully. You
probably think it's a load of horse manure. But you need
to relax. You need to let your body heal. Just kick back.
At least they'll let you sit up a little and watch some
television. Get addicted to some soaps or Rosie O or
something.

The night nurse is really nice. Her name's Peggy.
I told her that I sleep in front of the TV. So, even though
there isn't a TV in this room-- don't want to tempt me into
moving my head, I guess-- she got me a radio. She turns
it down low, and it's good background noise. If I wasn't
flat on my back, I could almost make believe that I'm on
a really looooong stakeout. The Bulls were playing last
night and I got to hear the whole game. They were
playing in Seattle. Good game. Rodman is definitely an
asset, if they hadn't figured that out last season. I think
they did, though. I think all of North America did. I'm
talking basketball, Scully, in case you're wondering.

Skinner called, according to Cathy. She's the daytime
nurse, till three. They wouldn't let me talk to him. I
guess bringing in a speaker phone is beyond the
technological capabilities of this fine institution of
medical science. I wanted to tell him what we saw.
What that Thing looked like. What it was capable of.

Detective Jackson was by just a little before your
mother. He said they searched the entire area and
couldn't find anything bigger than an alley cat. He still
thinks it was a mountain lion or something from Lincoln
Park Zoo that manages to get out at night and then back
in the morning. And you think MY ideas are out there!

I tried to tell him that he was dealing with a
shapechanger, but it's really hard to hold a conversation,
much less a serious debate, when you can't move your
head to see the other person's eyes. So I gave up.
Doesn't matter. I pumped a clip into the bastard just
before I slipped off the roof, so I know it's dead. So
what if it crawled into a sewer somewhere. It's not
going to hurt anyone again.

It's hurt enough people already.

Your mom is bugging me to call my mom. Scully,
what can I say to her? Your mom, I mean. Never mind what
I'd say to MY mom. Your mom has this really warped
view of family life. I mean, your family is a lot closer
than mine. Scully, you gotta explain it to her. My mom
would lose it. That's why I don't let you call her. That's
why you're my next of kin. My mom would be a basket
case. And for what? It's not like she can *do* anything.
It's a spinal cord injury. Either they can fix it or they
can't. Either the swelling will go down and I'll be fine, or
it won't and I'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

Shit.

I'm okay, Scully. Really. I know I don't sound like
it, but I am. I'm being optimistic here. Tim says the
swelling will go down, and I believe him. I mean, hey, that
damned alligator didn't manage to give me a pegleg
when I wanted one, so I really don't think some eight foot
hairy monster from Rodger's Park is gonna be able to
put me in a wheelchair for the duration, either. Not my
luck. I guess I have to achieve great things after all.

But Scully, if the really bad part does happen...
promise me something? Don't let them shove me in a corner.
I mean, I can still think, right? And I can still write, or
tape or dictate or something. I mean, Scully, they'd
use this as an excuse for shutting us down, y'know, and I
just couldn't . . . Just don't let them do that to us again,
okay?

That's a slim chance, though, really. We'll know
in three or four days, according to good Dr. Michaelson,
graduate of Loyola Medical School and a bunch of the
Ivys thrown in for good measure. Did a stint at Johns
Hopkins. Your old stomping grounds. Maybe you two
shared a rotation or something. By the way, Scully, you
should really try to meet this guy. Use me as an excuse.
No reason to waste a perfectly eligible bachelor, right?
I'm keeping my eye out on the nursing staff, but I keep
seeing gold bands. Just my luck.

Tim did tell me that if everything looks good after
next Friday, I'll be starting physical therapy for 6 to 8
weeks. They'll let me go home for most of it. Oh joy.
My apartment and crutches. I can't wait. Hear the
excitement in my voice here, Scully. I'm chompin' at the
bit for this. Raring to go. But he did throw me a bone
toward the end. Light desk duty after a month if I make
good progress. Nothing before that. Of course, it's
amazing what can be accomplished with a nice laptop
and a modem, isn't it, Scully? Okay, okay, I won't bug
you too much...

But you'll be out of here a long time before I
will and I would truly love to get my hands on some of
the files in the office, if you have the chance to get to the
basement. I was so bored earlier that I almost asked
your mom to ask Skinner to let Danny or Pendrell in
there and send me just the stuff on my desk. But I
didn't. Too much of an imposition on everybody. You,
I feel like I can impose on you all I want, right, Scully?
I mean, isn't that what partners are for? That, and writing
reports on 8-foot hairy monsters with an appetite the size
of Cleveland.

"Mr. Mulder. It's after 10. I'm going
to give you your sedative now and I don't want any
complaints. Doctor's orders. I'll turn on that radio
station we found last night."

Okay, fine, Peggy. Thanks.

Scully, they're making me go beddy-bye here, so I'm
signing off. I hope you get a tape done soon. I really
miss hearing you bitch at me to be nice to the nurses and
not make such a fuss about all the tubes. And your
"Mulder, you're lucky to be alive!" speech. I'm really
starting to crave that one. It's like the swallows
returning to Cappistrano. Besides, I bet you have a whole
bedpan full of theories about what that thing was and what
happened last night. So, I'm waiting. Hope to hear from
you soon.

G'night Scully. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

end of tape one.

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
_ _
\ / For information on the XAngst Anonymous
\ / email fanfic list, please write:
X A N G S T Anonymous
/ \ & xangst@frii.com
/ \ The Myth Patrol Dean Warner--Founder and moderator
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**********************************************************************

Subj: NF> The Sound of Your Voice 2/15
Date: 97-01-13 13:52:59 EST
From: xangst@frii.com (Myth Patrol)

The Sound of Your Voice
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
with Vickie Moseley

Tape 2

Mulder, it's me.

I'm not really sure how to begin this tape either,
but... that's what I'd say if I called you on the phone.
I phoned Skinner, incidentally, and told him what I could
about what happened to us. He asked if he should send an
agent out from the Chicago field office... he said in order
to `make sure nothing unfortunate happens'.

Things must be bad if _Skinner's_ paranoid.

I told him that I thought we'd be okay, but I have to
admit, Mulder, I wish we were at least on the same floor. I'd
be a lot more comfortable if we could watch each other's backs.

I'm sorry I'm talking so slowly. They have me on
acetimetophin, but I still have an IRS-audit-sized headache.
The drugs take the edge off, as they say, but the trade-off
is drastically inhibited concentration. And since it's a head
injury, they have to monitor my neurological state closely,
so they're trying not to drug me much or often. Most of the time
I feel like the egg they had to break to make the omelette. I'm
having trouble thinking straight.

So I'm going to rely on you to think things through
for me... okay? No more staring up at Garfield. I need you
to go over everything we know about that thing we saw and
help me put the pieces together. What happened after it knocked
me out? I know you shot a clip at it and it took you down.
Was there anything else?

Just bear with me. If you're lying there, and all you
can do is think, and I'm sitting here, and really the only
thing I _can't_ do is think straight... tell me what you're
thinking. I'll get the word out. I'll do what I can.

Let's start out with a few defined parameters, though.
That thing was not a shapechanger. At least, we have no physical
proof that it changed shape, and _I_ never saw it change shape,
did you?

So it wasn't a shapechanger, all those legends you
quoted for me on the flight to Chicago notwithstanding.

Let's concentrate on what it _was_. I'm not going
to argue with you on one thing, Mulder. On a dark night
in the decrepit section of a big city, that thing looked
pretty menacing. In fact, I don't really have the energy
for skepticism right now. The thing looked like a big
scary monster.

But I don't think big scary monster attacks are
covered by our insurance.

So, more specifically, it appeared to be... what's
the word they use in science fiction? Humanoid. It seemed
humanoid, with exaggerated proportions and extremely thick,
almost fur-like body hair. The wounds we found on the victims
suggest curved tearing implements-- claws, probably. And either
malformed teeth or, as you'd doubtless prefer, fangs.

Claws, fangs, fur... you can understand why Detective
Jackson would rather see a mountain lion in that description,
rather than worry about some enormous unidentified thing that
may have been clambering all around Chicago.

Maybe it was just a very tall homeless person wearing
a mohair coat.

I'm kidding, Mulder.

Its mode of attack is the curious thing to me. All
the victims were mauled. But when it charged us, Mulder--
it didn't claw either of us. It slammed me into that chimney
and rushed you to the edge of the roof. I don't have a scratch,
and I made them show me your charts; all your injuries can be
accounted for by your fall.

Can you accept, as one among a number of options,
the possibility that we've been hoaxed? I agree that it
seems unlikely, but the discrepancies between the way it
came for us and the way the victims died-- it bothers me.

When it noticed us, why didn't it run the other
way, as any animal would? Even grizzly bears take off when
people appear. This thing has no fear of human beings. I
mean, _it_ chased _us_. So I think we can safely rule out
Detective Jackson's sensible theory about a mountain lion.
Even a crazed mutant mountain lion. It'd have to be a
Thundercat to be that fast and fearless.

...Ah. I'm sorry, I'm just... I'm going to quit for
a while. Mom's due to stop in soon. I'll tape more later.

I'm back. Look, I told Mom not to pressure you about
calling your mother. She promised she wouldn't mention it
again.

Just keep in mind, Mulder-- Mom's used to dealing
with recalcitrant Scully men, who never, ever call or come
home unless it's some kind of national emergency. Or so it
seems. We haven't heard from Bill Junior in months. My
brothers are terrible about keeping in touch. So when you
say that you don't want to call and worry your mother,
my Mom assumes you're just being stubborn like my brothers.

But when she stopped to consider all that your
mother's been through, she understood. You're right. She
is a saint.

...It's funny. I never thought of Mom as strong.
Ahab was always the strong one to me. Mom did a lot of
work, inside and out of the house, and she held our
family close together when he shipped out. But if
something happened-- grandmother Maude died, or a ship
went down, anything-- she'd start to cry, and Daddy always
seemed so awkward and uncomfortable.

I thought, when I'm a grown-up, I'll never do
anything like that, get upset and make Ahab uncomfortable.

I'm beginning to see that it was just as brave
for Mom to go ahead and cry as it was for Ahab to hide
it when he wanted to break down. So maybe it's okay to
admit that you're hurting, or lonely, or scared.

I'm not there yet. But I'm trying.

I talked to Dr. Michaelson. Or Tim, as he insists
I call him. I slipped at one point and called him just
Michaelson. He was arguing with me. It just came out.

Mulder, he wasn't bullshitting you about your
prospects. Chances are really good that you can make a
full recovery. But only if you do some things that I
know are absolutely contrary to your nature.

You have to stay still. And I mean, STILL. No
fidgeting around in the slightest. Let them drug you.
Encourage them to drug you. I know you hate it. Tough.
Suffer now, walk later. Okay? --Okay.

...And now you know why I chose pathology. Every
one of my profs told me I have the world's worst bedside
manner.

I wish I _could_ be at your bedside. I can handle
getting hurt... occupational hazard... and I suppose I'm
inured to your constant mishaps... but I really hate it
when we're both down for the count. Even in quarantine it
bothers me. In a normal hospital, well, if Mom wasn't here,
I probably would have taken Skinner up on his offer to send
agents from the field office.

Listen, it's my fault the "Gestapo" keep looking in
on you. Are you close to the nurses' station? They told
me you were being checked on every half-hour. Maybe I'm
being overly paranoid, but I can't help thinking that this
would be a great opportunity to get rid of us without
provoking a lot of suspicion. When I sleep, it's not like
I'm sleeping... I know, clinically, that head injuries can
cause vivid, almost hallucinatory dreams. But it's one
thing to recognize that fact intellectually, and another
to wake up convinced you just witnessed a murder.

So now you know why Mom ran down to look in on you
in the middle of the night, last night.

Tim promised he'd have orderlies keeping an eye
on the traffic around the orthopedic ward. He thinks I'm
crazy, Mulder... and I don't blame him. I sound insane.
I can't believe it's me saying these things, talking about
the possibility of state-sanctioned assassination, coverups
and conspiracies. I sound worse than you did when we started
working together, as bad as those friends of yours at the
Lone Gunman.

It's so frustrating to talk to these people, tell
them what I know is true, and see the doubt... because I
know _exactly_ what they're thinking. I know how crazy it
sounds to them, because I remember how crazy it sounded to
me.

If we're not careful, they won't have to get rid of
us. One of these nice doctors is going to lock us up in the
nut ward. Think they have adjoining padded cells?

Well, let Tim think I'm loopy from the dent in my
head-- which he does. He got patronizing with me about it,
actually, and it just pissed me off; I know I'm probably
being irrational and jumpy, but dammit, I also have good
reason to be overly cautious. So I don't care if they think
I'm nuts. Just as long as they keep checking in on you.

And by the way, as for vying for Dr. Michaelson--
Mulder, he's got `taken' stamped all over him. You must
not have noticed his watch. His very nice, new, beautiful
silver watch. Men don't buy watches like that for themselves.
Men buy sports watches, digital things that can be hammered
underwater and still work. And his belt matches his shoes.
He's got a girlfriend.

Not that it matters. They shaved big divots out
of my hair and I ended up with two black eyes. My mother
informs me that they've gone yellowish now, and that I
look like I have jaundice. She's a saint, but Mom has no
tact whatsoever. So I'm in no condition to start a courtship.

I'll keep an eye out for you, though. I'm sure there
are plenty of women around here who'd think you look great
flat on your back.

What else did you talk about...? Oh, the "pain
management techniques" they implement at this fine
institution. Mom told you I refused a massage-- well,
she didn't have the facts exactly straight. I'd _never_
turn down the opportunity for a massage.

No, what they wanted to give me was "therapeutic
touch". To Mom, that sounds like another way of saying
"massage". No such luck. The medical benefits of a massage
are fairly well defined, actually-- relaxes muscles, soothes
tension, stimulates the body's natural healing reflexes.

This "therapeutic touch" pottage is something else.
Basically, it's some kind of updating of the superstitious
laying-on of hands. This nice young lady bounced into my
room and announced that her name's Lindsay and she's here
to administer this therapeutic touch stuff. Which consists
of her putting her hands on me and the two of us meditating,
essentially-- I can't believe hospitals are taking this
seriously. When I asked her about the clinical basis for
this prodecure, she bubbled a load of vague, annoying
propaganda about how "TT" is cutting-edge medicine drawn
from ancient practices, hastens the healing process,
floods your brain with endorphins and turns you into a
giggly schoolgirl. Or something like that. The big
revelation came when she said "It worked for me!"

You know how I get snappish when I'm tired...
well... I told her, "So did Hooked on Phonics but I'm
not trying that either."

She backed off and said she'd try back with
me later.

Meanwhile, I conferred with my physician, who
agreed that therapeutic touch probably wouldn't do me
much good... though he says it's because you have to be
"open" to the technique for it to work. Right. This is
the same kind of "If you believe it, it will come", clap-
your-hands-for-Tinker-Bell crap that puts me off these
kind of claims every time. At any rate, he's going to
arrange for a masseuse, instead.

Though you know, Mulder, now that I think about
it, Lindsay wasn't wearing a ring. If she stops by again,
I could tell her I know someone who's very open to
alternative medical practices, if you're interested in
investigating the phenomenon of therapeutic touch more
closely. Purely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, of
course.

As for me, I'm okay and definitely looking forward
to getting a real massage. The headache ebbs and flows, but
the acetimetophin helps a lot, when they can give it to me.
I'm trying to manage simple motor functions, and I think
I'm improving. So maybe by the time I make the next tape,
I'll be able to focus my eyes properly, concentrate more
clearly, maybe even stand up and walk a little...

I'm sorry.

But if I can move around, maybe I can come to the
ortho ward, for a few minutes anyway. It's good to hear
the sound of your voice. But as you'd put it, seeing is
believing; I want to make sure you're all right for myself.

I won't say anything about your neck brace if you
ignore my imprompu haircut and my yellow eyes.

When I do come to see you, I promise to give that
speech about how you're lucky to be alive, Mulder. And look,
I know you-- you're always willing to complain privately to
me, then you do that stoic act for everyone else. If you
need anything, tell a nurse or tell Mom. If you're having
trouble sleeping, tell them! I know you're uncomfortable.
I wish there was something I could do, but the only thing
that will help is if you let them sedate you, and try to
keep your mind occupied the rest of the time.

...If worst comes to worst, I promise you that
I'll do whatever it takes to make sure the X-Files stay
open. And I would never let them shuffle you into a
corner. Mulder, if you were a disembodied brain floating
in a tank somewhere, I have no doubt that you'd still manage
to get a better case-solution percentage than most agents
in the Bureau.

But we're not going to have to worry about that.
Just as long as you take care of yourself and relax and
do what they tell you-- oh, hell. I can't pretend I'm
not worried about it, Mulder. I'm sorry. I am. You know
better than anyone that sometimes, you can do everything
right, and bad things still happen.

It will help if you lie still and relax and do
what they say, even though I know that goes against
everything in you. The chances are good. And you know
I'm going to stick by you no matter what.

Take care of yourself.

end tape two.

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
Subj: NF> The Sound of Your Voice 3/15
Date: 97-01-14 12:14:51 EST
From: xangst@frii.com (Myth Patrol)

The Sound of Your Voice
By Vickie Moseley
with Summer

Tape Number Three

A homeless person in a mohair coat, Scully?!

I think that skull fracture might have caused a little
permanent brain damage. But-- okay, I have to admit, this
afternoon I had this dream. I was being chased by that
Jersey Devil woman. Um-- she was dressed in this long
flowing gown of thick fur. But it was open in the front.
And she wasn't wearing thermal underwear. And when I
stopped running, the dream took a very strange turn.
Woke up yelling some things that I'm darned glad your
mother didn't hear.

Yep, Scully, I gotta thank you for that one. Now the
nurses think I'm a pervert. I'll never get a date out of
any of them now.

And I've made it a rule to never date anyone named
"Lindsay". Don't ask, okay?

Well, maybe not a rule. More like a guideline. What
are we talking here, no brains but "gifted"? Or somebody I
could introduce to you and get away with it? Give me a
description. Be specific. Based on the statistical data,
I'll tell you if I want her number.

You wanted to know what happened after you got
smacked. Okay, it all took place in about three seconds,
but here goes. I remember seeing him, her, it, shove you
against the chimney. Actually, it was more of a body
slam. Which is an important point. How many homeless
persons have you seen that have the strength of Walter
Perry and the height of Shaq O'Neil? Most of them I see
are pretty puny, Scully. And sickly. Not likely to take a
healthy, in-shape Federal Agent and throw her against a
brick chimney like so much silly putty. And that "mohair
coat" didn't seem to slow it down much, either. But after
you were bleeding all over the rooftop, it got tired of
you. Not as much fun when the prey isn't moving, I
guess.

So it turned its attention to me. It rushed me.
But by then, I had the Beretta out of the ankle holster.
Oh, shit. I just remembered. I have to account for the
one that I dropped on the fire escape. Our friendly
Chicago detective didn't mention finding it, and I'll bet
dollars to donuts it's been hocked for 10 bucks by now.
Shit, shit. Anyway, uh-- back to the other night. I got my
gun out and the thing rushed me and I fired. I fired the
whole clip. And that bastard just kept coming. It had to
be momentum. It was dead, Scully. I'm sure of it. I
didn't miss, it was too damn close and I've actually been
getting better on the range. Your pointers really helped.
Anyway, when it hit me, it didn't try to swipe at me or
anything. It wanted us to go over. Or it was dead, like
I've told you. Either way, that's all I remember. I woke
up here, with your mom standing over me.

Now, why I still think it's a shapechanger. Listen to
me, Scully. Or better yet, save this tape and listen when
you aren't seeing double. Or maybe listen now, and
you won't throw up those damned skeptical defense
mechanisms for once. The reason I believe it was a
shapechanger is because it can HIDE so well. There are
a lot of strange things in Chicago-- a team that hasn't
won a pennent in over 50 years and still has sellout
crowds on opening day comes to mind-- but I think the
thing we saw would have stood out in a crowd, don't
you?

And you're right, it didn't act like an animal. Not
unless you're talking the human kind. I saw a large, at
least eight foot tall creature, bipedal, upright, with
facial features marred by an oversized nose and mouth
structure. Eyes fairly far apart. Fur covering its body,
even the face. Claws. I do remember claws, and they
were nasty, Scully. Really, really nasty. Oh, and it had
an attitude. This monster would make the Five Families
run for cover.

It did chase us. You are absolutely right about that.
We were chasing it until we hit those four flats. And
then, it doubled back and was chasing us.

Your hoax theory has me wondering. It was a pretty
clever disguise for any of our normal friends, Scully. I
hate to think what the boys'll do if we tell them that in
addition to Men In Black, they now have to watch out
for Monsters In Black.

I can't believe that it was that hairy and didn't leave
any hair at the crime scenes. Must have Vidal Sassoon
for a hairdresser or something. Eats Rogaine, maybe.
But even if it was a hoax, we would have found fibers.
Nice, easy to explain, manmade fibers. Or animal fur.
Or human hair. Anything. But nothing has been found.

As for reforming my "bad patient" attitude, I'm trying.
I really am. Michaelson was in just a while ago. Scully,
don't pick on my doctor. You have one of your own.
You almost had the poor guy in tears, Scully. You are
so mean. Now he's afraid of you. I told your mom on
you. Told her that you need work in playground and
sandbox detail. You need to learn how to work and
play well with others.

Oh, by the way, what do you mean you could tell he
was taken because his belt and shoes match?! My belt
and shoes match! They're both brown. Dark brown.
And he could have gotten the watch from his mother,
you know. Mothers buy those kinds of things for their
sons, Scully. Especially sons who do the right thing and
go into private practice instead of worrying the shit out
of them by chasing the Midwestern version of Bigfoot
across the Chicago Skyline.

...He's getting married in October. Her name is
Krystal, with a K. They dated all through high school.
She put him through med school. She teaches graphic
design at the Art Institute.

And I let your mom call my mom. Don't rag on her.
It was my idea. I started thinking about what you said
about your brothers and how they never call unless it's a
national emergency... My mom took it better than I
thought she would. Your mom put the phone up to my
ear and I got a chance to say a few words to her. She
wanted to come out, but I told her not to. It's too much
of a trip to make by herself. Your mom promised to call
her every night and give progress reports. It seemed to
make them both happy. What good are we if we can't
make our mothers happy, huh, Scully?

When Tim was here, he suggested upping my pain
meds and increasing the heavier sedative they give me at
night by giving it to me around 8 rather than 10. I
wanted to tell him to use it on himself the next time he
went to talk to you, but I didn't. This is a bitch, Scully.
I wish I could send you some of the stuff I'm on. I
almost told Tim that. But I didn't. I was good. I said
okay. So I'll miss tipoff tonight, I guess. No wait, they're
at home. I'll still get to hear an hour of the game. Great,
the Bulls are high scorers in the last quarter. Shit.

I know you think I should let them drug the shit out
of me, Scully, and I would-- but some of this stuff is
giving me pretty bad dreams and I really think it's
counterproductive when I wake up screaming my head
off. I tend to move when I have nightmares. Usually
sitting straight up. I do it unconsciously. But they put a
nice strap across my chest and I don't get very far.

I was going back to sleep after one when your mom
came in last night. I don't think 'saint' fits anymore.
Angel. She reminded me of all those angels they talk
about all the time. What do you call them? Guardian
angels. She sat by my bed, I couldn't see her but she
took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I fell asleep that
way. When I woke up, she was gone and I thought it
might have been a dream.

Your mom has been reading me the paper. She
stumbles some over some of the names, but she's getting
better with the location of the teams. And she can find
the scores without taking a month of Sundays. I'm
getting a wee bit tired of the Chicago sports writers, but
it's too much of a pain to find either the DC Post or the
Times. I'm stuck with the Tribune and the Sun Times.
Go Cubs, go Sox.

Oh, I remember, I wanted to talk about the guards.
If this whole thing was a hoax, or one hell of a well
disguised plan to 'snuf us out', then you might be right.
Maybe we should get a couple of agents over here.
Now that you've got me thinking about it, I'm a little
worried about your mom, too. She's been here for three
days now, Scully. Maybe we should convince her to go
home. It might be safer. But she's your mom, and I
understand if you want her close by.

The next time you talk to Skinner, tell him to go
ahead and get the guards. Just to be on the safe side.
My room is right across from the nurses station, and
they are in here _all the time_. I don't need a guard. I
have tons of them. But I'm a little concerned about you.
Your mom said you were getting sprung from ICU.
When are you being moved to your new room and
where is it located? Is it by the nurses station? Is it
away from the stairways and the elevators? Let's give
this a little thought before we toss the idea aside, OK?

Since they upped the pain killers it doesn't hurt so
much. Really, it's just my shoulders and neck that hurt
and I have a headache from hell. I wanted to ask you
about what you saw on my chart. What are we talking
here? I'm beginning to notice that the nurses stop
talking and scribble a lot when they check my legs and
feet. I hear the covers move and can hear the pen
scratching. I don't feel anything. That has me a little
worried.

Tim said I was on so much crap that I probably
wouldn't be feeling anything past my chest for a while.
The swelling is still affecting it too, he said. It's not
that I think he'd lie or anything, but you saw the chart.
Is all this on the level? Everybody keeps telling me to lie
still and I'm trying, Scully, I'm really trying. But I don't
have that much I *can* move. And what I can move, I
try not to move, but it's hard. You hit it on the head.
It's contrary to my nature. I fidget. Will fidgeting
get me in trouble? Would you please define the
scientific ramifications of 'fidgeting' for me? I know
enough not to try to roll over, but is there a point where
I'll hurt myself without knowing it? And how will I
know when it's better? Two or three more days of this
and I might be fine physically, but I'll be in a rubber room.

I'm thinking about the case. I need to think about the
case. They found no trace of the monster-slash-
homeless person. That has me worried, too. I had some
really crummy dreams last night and in one of them, that
thing was in the hospital, staring down at me. Weird,
huh? What if that thing didn't crawl off into the sewer
and die, Scully? What if it eats bullets for a midnight
snack and went back into its hidey hole, waiting to come
out again? Where the hell is it and when is it gonna
strike next?

I'm kinda tired now. I'll finish this up later.

Damn it, Scully. I think there's been a conspiracy in
place around me. I've just realized that they don't let me
listen to the news. Peggy found the sports station--an
*all* sports station. I mentioned letting me listen to an
all news station during the day and they gave me some
story about not being able to get one in. Too much
static. I'm afraid to say this, but I'm pretty sure your
mom's in on it, too. She purposely saves the front page
of the paper to read to me last and then has to leave
before she gets to it because she says she promised you
she'd be back at a certain time.

I'm not mad at your mom. I know she's only doing
what they've told her. I'm hoping you are unaware of
this little code of silence, or you are _meat_, Scully.
Raw hamburger.

But I know why they're all tiptoeing around here.
Scully, there's been another attack. They had a very rare
newsbreak in the game a little while ago. It was a
warning, really. The CPD wants everyone on the look
out for anything 'unusual', especially near the Lake
Shore. This time it was on the Loyola campus, at about

3:30 this morning. Not too far from here, as a matter of
fact, just a couple of blocks. Left one student dead
and two pretty bad off, from what I could tell. Attacked
them just outside the library.

It's alive, Scully. It didn't die. And it's still out there.

Talk to me, Scully. What the hell are we going to do
now?

end of tape three.

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************

Subj: NF> The Sound of Your Voice 4/15
Date: 97-01-15 13:38:49 EST
From: xangst@frii.com (Myth Patrol)

The Sound of Your Voice
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
with Vickie Moseley

Tape Four

Mulder, I want you to promise me you're going to
stay calm and don't try to push yourself.

I mean it. You absolutely can not compromise your
health at this point. I don't care how frustrating it is,
dammit, you have to stay still.

Promise?

...I'll take that as a yes.

Look, I'm pretty sure you're right about this
"conspiracy of silence". I've been transferred out of ICU
down to a regular room-- now I'm one floor below you, instead
of one floor above. Anyway, the television in this room is
unplugged, the cable's unhooked, and there's a dustcloth
over it and a sign. Out of Order.

I think they went a little overboard with the Out of
Order sign. Obviously they're trying to keep me from seeing
the news. Mom got really nervous when I asked her about it,
and she told me I just need to concentrate on getting better.
She's right, Mulder. We both need time to recuperate.

We can't do anything now but try to think our
way around this and figure out what this thing is, what it
wants. Why it kills.

It's not a shapechanger. I'm sorry, Mulder. I just
see nothing to suggest that. You said it had to be able to
camouflage itself. I disagree. There are dozens of empty
buildings on that side of Chicago. The city's a mess, a maze.
You're the one who told me about that serial murderer-- was
his name H. H. Holmes? Something like that?-- that man who
built a huge building on a main street in Chicago and killed
and tortured a hundred people or more. He didn't need to be
a shapechanger to avoid detection.

And-- that thing was intelligent, Mulder. We were
tracking it, and it looped around and started chasing _us_.
If it's intelligent enough to circle around and rush the
two of us onto the rooftop and attack-- which is a pretty
good piece of tactical maneuvering, in my opinion-- if it's
bright enough to evade and circumvent us, it's bright
enough to avoid detection under normal circumstances.

Your questions about how it's escaped detection
have me thinking, though. If it's not afraid of people,
if it attacks human beings... what triggered its aggression?
Where was it, before it started to kill? What made it come
out? Even if you were right, and this thing was a shapechanger,
these would still be valid questions.

As for why there's been no trace of hair or fiber
evidence-- from what I witnessed of that creature, it is
medically, scientifically, and common-sensically impossible
that the thing we saw left no hairs behind. If you and I
had been able to reconnoiter the crime scene, I'm sure
we would have turned up traces of its presence. I expect
the Chicago PD is giving short shrift to the investigation
because our claim seems so incredible.

Or-- I mean, we're talking about Chicago. Maybe
they're destroying the evidence. Listen to me, I sound
like a maniac. Everyone's out to get us, Mulder, even the
Chicago PD! I don't know what to think...

I-- ah. Sss. I have to go. More later.

Sorry. I'm better now. You know acetimetophin.
Works great for a certain amount of time, but when it runs
out, it runs out fast.

I'm not on anything at the moment, but a very
nice young man named Keith just gave me what was quite
possibly the best massage I've ever had in my life. Yes,
I'm definitely feeling much better.

Not only did I get a massage, but he asked if
I was a grad student. I don't care if he was just asking
to flatter me. It worked.

At any rate, I asked Keith if he knew anything
about what's been going on with these murders. Luckily
for us, he's well-informed.

You're right. There have been more attacks. They
seem similar to the earlier killings.

It's a terrible thing, Mulder, I know, but
there's not much we can do. You are hurt and you need
to recuperate. At this point, even nightmares could
cause some truly grisly complications. Mom says that
you got agitated last night when she refused to tell
you anything. Mulder, she's just trying to make sure
that you come through this all right. We all are. I wasn't
part of this little plot to keep us in the dark, but
in this case, it might not be such a bad idea.

You asked what kind of medical problems you're
facing. I got a look at your charts; I'll tell you. The
worst danger is probably past. The swelling hasn't increased
since you were admitted, which means it's unlikely that
the spinal cord will suffer any damage.

The reason your nurses have been prodding at
your legs-- aside from the possibility of sheer aesthetic
appreciation-- is that you run the risk of deep vein
thrombosis. In lay terms: blood clots. It's been several
days since you were able to move your legs, and it will
be several more, at least, before you can safely move them
again. In the meantime, there's a chance that blood clots
could form.

Outlook is good-- you're in excellent health,
generally speaking, and you do all that running, so your
circulation is probably first-rate. On the other hand,
there's the small matter of the bullet you took in the
right thigh a couple of years back. You remember. The
one that tore up your femoral artery bundle? The surgeons
did a pretty good job patching you up back in Raleigh
when that happened, but stiches and scar tissue just
aren't as good as the real thing. The blood vessels
in that leg could be susceptible to problems like DVT.

The good news is that everyone is aware of
this problem, and your treatment includes some light
blood-thinning agents that should help stave off any
complications.

There could also be difficulties with urinary
tract infections, a common by-product of this kind of
injury. Your doctor assures me that he's taking every
precaution there as well.

The important thing is that first, you relax, or
if you can't relax, tell the nurses so they can give
you a sedative. You won't do anyone any good if you get
wound up and worsen your condition. Second, you have to
complain if you feel any pain. Your course of treatment
includes enough medication to insulate you from discomfort,
so if you're feeling bad, something is going wrong and you
need to tell a doctor or a nurse.

Of course, I could always send Lindsay up to wave
her hands over you and Ommmmmmmmmmmmmm. What do you mean,
you want her statistical data? I'm not going to get her
measurements for you, Mulder. As for whether or not she
has any measurable intelligence, well, far be it from me
to pass judgement on someone for holding nontraditional
beliefs. I think she's foggier than I am right now, and
she doesn't have the concussion to excuse it. But that's
just my opinion. At any rate, talk to your doctor about
therapeutic touch if you want to meet her.

Damn it... I'm sorry. More later.

Okay, Mulder. At the risk of inflaming your
imagination, I suppose I ought to tell you a little more
about what I heard from Keith. He's very worried about
his friends still on the university's campus. Apparently
some study was done at U of C recently that demonstrates
there's still a certain degree of residual radiation levels
that're higher than normal, ostensibly due to the nuclear
research that took place in their physics department during
World War II.

Keith mentioned that his friends were worried
about this radiation abnormality-- though I suspect that
it's statistically very little more than the norm-- and
then the killings began on and around campus. He wondered
if there could be a connection, if some student or faculty
member had gone wiggy because of this study; he claims
the school is trying to suppress the findings. I tried to
tell him that serial crime just doesn't work like that,
but he's seen one too many crime shows on TV, I suppose.
At any rate, that's what he told me.

Now before you leap into some wild conspiracy
theory, Mulder, keep in mind; none of this is confirmed.
It's all hearsay. I only mention it because I know you'd
want me to tell you everything I heard, whether it's proven
or not.

I... I'm glad you called your mother. And that
she took it well.

Hate to break it to you, Mulder, but your shoes
and belt usually don't match. Dark brown and dark brown
don't go together when one dark brown is dark mahogany
and the other dark brown is dark khaki. Besides, your
ties mark you as a bachelor. No woman would allow you
out of the house wearing those abominations around your
neck.

Guards. I wanted to talk about guards. I have
to say, first, that there's no way Mom would leave. No
way. A few years ago, Bill Jr. caught a nasty strain
of influenza when he was doing a tour in Haiti. Guess
where Mom spent Thanksgiving that year? I worry about
her. All the time I worry about her. Why do you think
I had you help me pick out that alarm system? But she's
as safe here as she would be back in Maryland. And I
can't make her leave. Even if I wanted to, and really,
it's as important to Mom to be here as it is for me
to have her here.

Mom and I spoke about the security situation
last night. I haven't been able to tell her much, for
obvious reasons, but she's picked up on the need to
be very careful. God knows we've learned that lesson
too well... Mom checked out the hospital's policies
on security. They're very thorough about making sure
visitors are cleared and valid. I'm a lot less concerned
about it now than I was when I brought it up in my last
tape. You're near a nurse's station and they check on
you frequently, and I'm just a couple of doors from a
station on this floor. I think we can relax on that
score.

Besides, I was thinking about it last night
after talking with Mom, and what better way for someone
to get at us than to pose as a guard...

I hate being paranoid, but it's so fucking
justified.

Head hurts. I've got to stop for now.

Is this...? The tape's not moving. No. Wait,
it's working. It's moving.

Fox, they haven't decided whether it's safe
to tell you. I... I don't know. You deserve to know
what's happened, but I understand why they don't want
to tell you. We're all very worried about you. Dana
wouldn't want us to tell you anything that might
hurt you, or cause you to hurt yourself.

But I told Dr. Michaelson that if he decides
to tell you what happened, to give you this tape. You
have to stay calm and be strong, for you and for Dana.
Please try to understand.

Something's happened and-- they're not sure what
it is. Maybe the doctor can tell you more, but right
now we don't know for sure why it happened. Dana lost
conciousness a few hours ago, and she... ah... they
told me they can't diagnose it for certain. Her physician,
his name is Dr. Montgomery... he's been looking over Dana's
medical records from when she was in Georgetown last year.
He says this... state... might be similar to the coma...

Fox. You had faith then, even... even when the
rest of us were failing. Please don't forget that. You
have to find that strength again. You need that now.

Dr. Montgomery says that until they know more,
we shouldn't assume that this is a, a, a permanent setback,
he says that it's possible Dana's body has just shut down
under the stress of the fracture. Maybe when she's healed
more, then the condition will abate and she'll wake up.

Until then, I'm going to stay with her. I know
you'll understand because I know you'd be here too, if
you could.

Everyone here is doing whatever they can to help.
They've moved her to the neurology ward and there must
be three or four doctors in there all the time, they're
all trying to monitor her state and understand what's
happened.

I'll try to get word to you the instant we know
anything for sure. If they let you know, if they give
you this tape, Fox, I know you want to be here... you
can't come directly, but if they'll let you, make another
tape and I'll play it for Dana. Maybe if she can hear the
sound of your voice, maybe that could make a difference.

Please take care of yourself. Please don't give
up now. We need you. Dana needs you. She needs you to
be strong now. I'll get word to you when I can. Take care.

end tape four.

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 5/15
Date: 97-01-15 23:16:22 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part 1

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley
In Tandem with Summer

Tape Five

Mrs. Scully, the first part of this is for you.

I'm sorry I upset you the other night. I mean, when
you were here and I was . . . um . .. . I thought everyone
was keeping things from me about the case. I didn't
mean to frighten you. I didn't mean to imply that you
were lying to me.

Please, please, please don't ever NOT tell me what is
going on with Dana. I know you're talking to a lot of
doctors, but I'm sort of in the field of psychology, so please
hear me out. For me, not knowing would be far more
detrimental than knowing and letting me deal with it.
Whatever that might be. I've spent far too much of my
life not knowing.

If I sound like I'm drunk, I guess I am. I let them
sedate me. I slept from the time they told me, ah, it was
what, about, when was that Peggy?

"About 9:30 this morning."

Yeah, right. Nine thirty this morning until I just
woke up. I get another shot right after I finish this, but I
really wanted to finish this. I've been good, right Peg?

"You've been a model patient, Mr. Mulder. Just keep
it up, all right?"

See, even Peggy says I've been good. See you later,
Peg. Peggy and the rest of the nurses are keeping close
watch on me, so don't worry about me being lonely. Not
much of a view from where I'm laying, but they all have
great voices.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Please, I want to know
*everything* about Dana. I need to know.

I realize you have good reasons to think I'd hare out.
I know how strange it was when we found her in Georgetown.
But Mom, ah, I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully, . . . she'd been gone
so long. And we didn't know where she'd been or what
they did to her or if she would wake up or anything and
yeah, I lost it. Hell, anyone in their right mind would
have lost it then. I'm still tryin' to figure out how you
managed NOT to lose it. But then, I think you hide things
like that better than I do. Your eyes told me a lot then.
You still had hope.

I want to talk about one other thing. I think you feel
like you gave up on Dana then. Let's get one thing
clear-- I never thought you were giving up. It's just
that we had different ideas about what hope was then.
Stupid me, I thought those machines were hope. That
was dumb. I should have known better. Dana was the
hope. The machines were nothing. It was all inside her.
That was where the hope lived. That's why she came
back to me. To us. I mean to us.

Damn it, it's so hard to think. I wanted to tell you
something else. It was important.

I talked to Dr. Montgomery. I know why they're
treating me with kid gloves, too. I admit, if I didn't
know the background, some of my questions would
sound pretty out there. All these concerns about
guards and talk about hairy monsters and these tapes
going back and forth and trying to keep me calm and . . .

He came in with Tim. I guess you've met Tim now.
He's OK. He's getting better. He doesn't always assume
that I'm a raving lunatic anymore. They both came in
and told me about Scully, I mean, Dana and the coma.

I surprised everyone, I think. I took the news pretty
well. The thing is, I think I understand why this has
happened. I think Montgomery's right: her body's taking
a time out. When we found her in Georgetown, her immune
system was devastated. By the time she emerged from the
coma, she was back to normal. It was almost like her immune
system shut down for repairs. I think maybe this is another
version of the same thing. Whatever Scully encountered
while she was missing caused a severe autoimmune response
incurring a coma. It's possible that now, when her body suffers
severe trauma... maybe... it causes the same autonomic response.

It's just a theory, and the theory is just a long
way of saying that this may be part of Scully's, Dana's, normal
healing process now. The skull fracture triggered the same
response... we still don't know what happened then for certain,
but it seems likely enough. And it means there's hope. Right?

She's going to be all right. This autonomic response
will just help her heal faster. Letting that swelling go
down, shutting down the brain. This is her head's idea of
a bubble bath by candlelight.

I know about the bubble baths because I've called her
on the phone when she was in them enough times. I
know she does that to relax. It's like when I go out and
run for 9 or 10 miles. I need those endorphins. I need
the sweat and the pain. Dana, she needs the warmth, the
comfort, the relaxation. That's all this is. Her body
relaxed so much, she just stayed there for a while. Boy,
am I gonna let her have it when she wakes up. Relaxing
yourself into a coma. A real trick. I wish she would
have taught me that one sooner.

So after they told me, I let them give me the sedative.
I needed to be out of it, too, I guess.

Scully told me to take the drugs even though I hate it.
And, you know, if I managed to screw up my spine because I
didn't let them sedate me-- she'd probably come out of the
coma just to kick my ass for being so stupid.

I wouldn't mind.

She knows I hate the drugs. . . can't stand to be this
numb. Dead legs, trapped in this prison on wheels and so
far away . . .

"Mr. Mulder, you just set off a monitor. Now
remember your promise? The doctor said you could
make a tape as long as you stayed calm. Why don't you
finish this later?"

No! No, I'm OK. I'm sorry. I'm fine. Really. I
don't want the shot yet. Just a little more, OK? I need
to talk to Scully before I go to sleep. Please?

"OK, but you have to stay calm."

I will. I promise. I'm trying so hard.

"I know you are. I know. It's all right. Here.
Better?"

Yeah, thanks. Better. I promise, Peggy, I'll be fine.
Well, Mrs. Scully, they gave me a replacement for you.
They told me that you can't get down here. You have to
stay with Dana. I'm glad you're there. But now, when I'm
awake, one of the nurses or one of the aides comes in
and sits with me. Sometimes, a couple of them. I have a
harem and I don't even get to enjoy all the benefits.

"We just want you to get better, Mr. Mulder. It's
about time for your medication. I'm going to get the
shot ready. Will you be all right now?"

Yeah, I'll be fine. Go ahead. Take your time. I want
to finish this.

Well, that's all I have for you, Mrs. Scully, and I'm
running out of time. Would you mind putting this next
to Dana's pillow, where she can hear it? Thanks.

Hey. Scully. What, are you trying to outdo me?
Coma beats spinal injury like rock beats scissors. I have
to say, Scully, I didn't think you were the jealous type,
but you definitely went to great lengths to steal the
spotlight this time.

I *know* what this is. Now *I* have to field all the
questions from that idiot from the CPD. Well, guess
what? They think I'm gonna 'overtax' myself, so they
won't let any of Chicago's finest within fifty miles of me.
I'm really upset about that one, Scully. Almost as much
as when I forgot that appointment to have the flu shot
at the office. I've always put talking to overfed,
undereducated gestapo-type local law enforcement on
my list of favorite things. I was so disappointed that I let
'em knock me out for a day.

It's nighttime, Scully. I think it's about 9 or 10
o'clock. Early for a call from me, I know.

I'm here, Scully. Well, not here, exactly, but I'm right
with you. If you're just taking five, I understand. This
was a bitch of a case. We've had a long run of bitch
cases and I don't blame you one bit if you decided to just
check into Hotel Coma for a while and let the world
get by on its own.

Just so you don't get too comfortable there.

I've been there, too. Slightly different set of
circumstances, but I shut the world off once or twice.
You know about the one time, after Sam. I was a kid. I
don't remember much of it . . . needles. I do remember
needles. And drugs. Sedatives. I hate them. I really
really really hate them. I hate the feel of cold as it hits
your vein and then the tingling feeling and the cottony
feeling and your mouth gets kinda dry. I hate that. And
the way you can . . . *not* . . . keep your eyes open, come
hell or high water. It feels too much like being paralyzed,
or suffocated, but the really bad part is, at that moment,
you don't give a shit if you're being suffocated or not.
I hate it.

But the other time I shut down, I doubt you ever
knew about. You used to wonder why I speculated so much
about government coverups. Well, it helps when you've
been involved in one, Scully. A nice little coverup.
Designed entirely to save my ass. No, actually, it wasn't
meant to save my ass. Just my career.

When I was working with Patterson, back in the bad
old days, I caught a nasty cold. And had a nervous
breakdown. That's the old-fashioned term, I know, but
it seemed to fit. Just a little nudge and it all
came together to form a nice bout of pneumonia. But you
usually don't get treated for pneumonia in a psychiatric
hospital, Scully.

Bill was good, I have to give him that. He made the
Bureau higher-ups believe that it was the closest hospital
to where they found me. Really, it was a pretty nice place.
I was there for a while. Got to know the staff. They
have a good teen suicide program.

That time, I checked in of my own free will. I needed
to get away from Behavioral Sci, from the pressure, from
the cases. So I understand what it's like to want a break
from everything. Maybe even a break from yourself. That
was what I really needed, then.

Scully, I know how nice and warm and safe it is in
the dark for you. I know you like it there. I know if you
could, you'd spend more time there. A lot more time
there.

I'm sure you'd dismiss this as unfounded holistic
medicine babble, but it's been proposed than illness might
be a choice, on some level. Okay, so I don't buy it either,
not really. But when I went around the bend, that time in
the ISU . . . it seemed to me then that maybe insanity can
be a choice. I could decide to let myself go, let it all
go, decide that nothing really matters and that I didn't
have to care. I thought about it. Sometimes it was hard
to resist.

I know, intellectually, that my ability to make that
decision was actually an indication of sanity, but the
distinction wasn't so clear then. So maybe, in some way,
I did have a choice.

If you have a choice, Scully . . . I know you'll
come back as soon as you can.

I know it. You can't stop caring any more than I
could. You're too much of a fighter to give up. We've
got too much to do. And I need your help. I need your
strength. Intelligence. Honesty. Even when we argue,
hell, especially when we argue-- I know you're giving
me the truth. We might disagree on the details, but
never the goal. I need that. I need that from you.
I need you.

. . . Hey, I know what you're thinking: you were
perfectly aware of all of that. You know I probably
couldn't find an abduction with both hands and a road
map without you. Just a friendly reminder. It all
falls apart without you, Scully. Make sure that ticket
to La La Land is round-trip.

It's just like this case. I know we aren't seeing 'eye to
eye' on the minutae, but we both know we have to solve
these murders, or they ain't gonna get solved. I was
thinking about something you said. About the student
physical therapist, Kevin? . . . Kyle? . . . Keith, that's it.
Keith. That he's afraid that whatever is killing those kids
has something to do with stuff from U of C. You know,
Scully, the Manhatten Project was one of the first big
government coverups and conspiracies of the modern
era. Top secret, extremely dangerous experiments
conducted in a densely populated urban area. Some
people suspect the reason Area 51 is so far out of the
way is because of the high security needed for the
Manhattan Project here in Chicago. What if, Scully?
What if?

Damn it, I wish I could be there with you. I wish
you were awake and feeling better. I wish I could talk
to you myself.

Get better, please? I really need you, Scully. I
always have. I always will. Wake up soon. And in the
meantime, I promise, I'll be good.

I'll talk to you later.

end of tape five

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 6/15
Date: 97-01-15 23:23:01 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part 1

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Part Six

Fox, it's Maggie again. You're asleep right now,
or I'd come up and tell you myself that Dana seems to be
improving. The doctors just explained to me that her brain
waves indicate she's probably just unconcious now. She
could wake up tonight or tomorrow.

I wasn't sure at first, but Dr. Montgomery came
in grinning like a fool and told me that all her vital
signs have elevated significantly. They still don't know
why her system became so depressed in the first place,
but now she seems to be much better, almost back to
normal. Dr. Montgomery told me that he expects her to
regain conciousness within twenty-four hours or so. I'd
be more skeptical, but I know from long experience dealing
with Dana that doctors are professionally pessimistic. So
if he's confident enough to say she'll wake up soon, I
believe him.

I played your tape for her last night, and again
this morning. Don't worry. I started the player and then
I left the room.

I'm with her now. If I'm quiet you might hear
her breathing...

Dana, honey, it's Mom. I'm right here, Dana. I'm
making another tape for Fox. And you know, the only way
to make sure that I don't say something that might embarrass
you is to wake up before I give him the tape. You have a few
hours to think about that before I send it up to him. Just
think it over.

I want to thank you for everything you said to me,
Fox. It means a lot to me to know you never thought I had
given up on Dana. I could never give up on my baby girl.
But I have to respect her decisions and abide by them. Bill
and I always tried to teach our kids the importance of trust.
We couldn't expect them to live by that if we didn't, ourselves.

Even if it's hard, sometimes. You know, it was never
really nights like this that Bill and I were afraid of, when
Dana told us she was going to join the FBI. Two of our boys
were already in the Navy, Charles played the stock market
like a maniac, Melissa moved to California... we knew none of
our children were cut out for a quiet life. They all had
their wild times while they were growing up. Except Dana.
She was always so serious and so dedicated, and she was
never satisfied. Such a perfectionist. She always had to
do the best anyone ever could, and even then she was never
content.

And then after all those years of excelling in
school and working so hard, she said she had decided to
join the FBI. Bill was disappointed, because he had hoped
she'd join the Navy, and then she made it clear that she
wanted to work in the field, not a lab.

It wasn't because we were afraid of nights like
this, though these are never easy times to face. With two
boys in the service, we had accepted the idea that our
children wouldn't always be safe. Oh, Dana, it wasn't
because we were afraid that something might happen to
you, even though I'm afraid for you now. I know you were
hurt. Because to you, it must have seemed as though we
didn't believe in you. That we didn't think you could
do it.

But your father and I always believed in you,
Dana, always. It's just that your father said he knew
what you were looking for-- a challenge, an adventure,
a test of your strength. Something to prove. He didn't
think you could find that in the Bureau, and we were
worried that you'd discover that too late to change
your mind.

You had always worked so hard and put so much
of yourself into the work. And your father and I were
afraid that you couldn't find work in the Bureau that
demanded all the skills you spent so much time to learn.
That you'd be disappointed. Dana, we want so much for
for you to be happy.

I know it must sound strange, Fox, and maybe even
callous, but even sitting here by her bedside, I don't
worry about Dana now as much as I did then. I know that
she's content, and that she has what she wanted. I know
she accepted this risk a long time ago. I respect that
decision, too.

I know she's found her place in the world--
the challenge she was looking for. The place where
she belongs. I can take comfort in that, now. Even
now. Especially now.

I'm sorry to ramble, but then, I'm sure that
you understand. I've got to stop the tape to talk with
Dr. Montgomery. Next time I tape something, Dana, I'm
going to tell him about all those posters you used to
have up of Mickey Dolenz and Davey Jones... you don't
want that, do you?

Oh, sweetheart. Please wake up soon.

end part six.

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 7/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:27:33 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part 1

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Tape Seven

Mrs. Scully, that was the best part about waking up
this morning, finding the tape and hearing that Sleeping
Beauty is just about ready to wake up. I'd send Tim up
to finish the job, but as I have already discovered, he's
taken. Maybe a tape recorded squeeze of the hand from
her partner might do the trick. --There. Let me know
if it worked, OK?

I hope you're awake by the time you get this tape,
Scully, for a number of reasons. First and foremost
is that I cannot tolerate a partner who sleeps on the job.
I mean, sure, 8 hours a night is fine, but this 24 hours a
day crap has got to stop. Sleeping on the job is only
permitted at the ASAC level on up, and comas are only
allowed among Assitant Directors or higher. Since
neither of us has attained that status, we have to
actually stay awake to do our jobs. More's the pity.

Second, I need your medical opinion. I don't know if
you've been told, but the tape was not the only good
news I woke up to this morning. Actually, what did
wake me out of a sound sleep was the feeling that my
legs were being attacked by 6 billion Africanized honey
bees, intent upon having my flesh for breakfast. As it
turns out, that's the feeling I was supposed to be waiting
for. If they'd told me that it would feel like this, I
might have opted to be more heavily sedated when it
occured. It doesn't really hurt, but it is entirely
unpleasant-- a sensation like having one half of your body
fall asleep and then wake up *hard*. Everyone around
me is ecstatic, of course, so I can't really complain.

I'm glad too, don't get me wrong. The alternative
was weighing very heavily on my mind there for a while.
Fortunately, my ever-observant partner knew that I was
paying too much attention to my own ills and promptly
gave me a reason to focus on *her* problems instead.
That's why we make such a great team, Scully. We're
always complementing each other that way.

The tingling feeling was the good part of the
morning, relatively speaking. I also woke up to chills of
the highest magnatude and generally feeling like
something the cat hacked up in the corner. Which, I
guess is an apt analogy, since I have a cat-type affliction.

The only time I've ever heard of a 'urinary tract
infection' is from a cat food commercial. Now I have a
cat ailment. Talk about adding insult to injury. I'm
wondering, does an orthopedic surgeon know his way
around a cat ailment? Should we be consulting a vet on
this matter? I feel like shit. I don't want to have this.
I know you told me it was possible and I mentioned that
to Tim this morning. He looked sort of surprised and a
little impressed. I get the feeling that pathologists rate
right up there on the same level as FBI agents whose
interests run to the paranormal, on the medical
community status scale.

You also mentioned blood clots. Well, you're two
for two now. It's not that serious. At least that's what
they keep telling me. Every fifteen minutes when they come
to check on me. You even nailed the location-- damn it,
Scully, when we quit the Bureau, you've got to go into
private practice. You could make millions, diagnosing
people long distance. Anyway, the clot is right below
the old gun shot wound. The sensation in my leg isn't
sufficient for it to actually hurt-- it's just hot there and
uncomfortable. They hope to dissolve it before the
feeling in my leg is back up to par.

So, now I have added two new bags to the pole
above my bed. They tell me it's the Keflex that burns like
hellfire when it hits my arm. I vaguely remember that
feeling once before with a serious infection, so I'm not
arguing. Because they're trying to keep track of my
level of feeling, they've reduced my pain killers and
upped the 'coddle' response. If one more nurse walks
through that door and coos 'Oh you poor baby' at me,
I'm cutting out of here, Scully, I swear to God. I might
have to crawl over to a wheel chair at this point, but I
am history. It's a short El ride to O'Hare and from there
a 3 hour flight home. I mean it, Scully.

I guess you can tell I'm hitting my grump stage, as
you so euphemistically refer to it. I feel horrible, I'm
bored to tears, and I keep wondering if you're awake yet
and if they'll tell me when you are or if they're getting
sadistic kicks from making me wait for the news. I'm no
longer worried that you're in danger or that I might be
incapacitated for life, but I'm still too sick to do
anything but lay here and subject myself to all this
attention.

Which brings me back to the news blackout. They
took the radio away after the last incident. You'll love
this one, Scully. They now have someone 'taping' the
games for me, sans commercial interruptions. Do you
believe this? I mean, for gods sakes, someone making a
medical personel salary is sitting there, tape recording
the Bulls basketball game, turning off the tape everytime
either a commercial comes on or they interrupt the game
for a news break. It has to be the moral equivilant of
wire tap surveillance. Well, I hope the poor bastard is
enjoying himself. Heaven knows, I'm not.

However, as you well know, I don't usually rely on
normal channels for my information. Keith is the
resident massage therapist. My shoulders hurt like hell,
guess who came to visit? Apparently the 'don't breath a
word' order didn't filter down to the peripheral staff
levels. Keith is a very talkative guy. Don't be surprised
if you get an e-mail or two from him when we get home,
by the way. Your address sort of slipped out in the course
of our conversation.

Scully, something funky is going on at the erstwhile
University of Chicago. Now, if I could get to the phone,
I'd put a call into our pals back east. As it is, the phone
is connected to the jack in the wall. It's just on the other
side of the room. And since I'm still not allowed to sit
up because my damned legs are elevated above my heart,
I'm not in a position to get to the phone, anyway.

OK, here's what I need you to do. First, get another
massage. This kid really likes you, Scully. He'll talk
your arm off. The fact that you carry a gun made a very
deep impression on him. Maybe his mother was in the
military, I don't know. Anyway, get some more details
out of him and then get to a phone. I figure you are
more likely to be allowed near a phone than I am at the
moment. Call the boys. I'm sure they are chomping at
the bit to hear from us anyway. Altho, knowing them,
they are two steps ahead of the doctors here in the
treatment of our cases. Just see what they can dig up.

On a completely different subject, I have to ask.
Which one did it for you, Scully? Dolenz or Jones. I
mean, I can see the attraction of the British accent, I've
fallen prey to that one, myself, but Dolenz? That hair
cut was the reason most sane people went through the
last sixties fucked out of their minds! It was the only
way to justify the 'white afros' and the bell bottoms, no
disrespect to the Navy intended. By the way, Scully, I
really hope that you are awake by now. If not, I'll be
forced to tape my rendition of 'Day Dream Believer' and
since I am not the singer Davey Jones is, it might be
considered cruel and unusual punishment. As your mom
said, think about it.

Well, I'm done for. All this talking has worn me out.
Just so you know, they are still pumping that sleepy shit
in my veins. I don't mind as much, really. I am not
sufficiently insulated from the discomfort to qualify as
comfortable, but with the shit I'm on, I don't really give a
fuck at the moment. My language skills have decreased
in direct proportion to the amount of sedative I've been
given, I think. Sorry about that, too.

I'm going to take a nap now, Scully. I really hope
that when I wake up, the next voice I hear is yours.

end of tape seven

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 8/15
Date: 97-01-15 23:42:44 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Part Eight

Mulder? It's me.

Howdy, partner.

I know I sound a little rusty. I was thirsty
when I first woke up, but they don't want to let me have
much of anything. Afraid it might shock my system, they
say, which sounds vaguely superstitious to me. Well, Dr.
Montgomery warned me that they'll be walking on eggshells
with my treatment now because they still don't know what
happened to me.

I remember one of your recurrent complaints about
hospitals was that they give you ice chips instead of
water. Privately, I had thought you were being childish.
Now I know better. If I have to choke down one more ice
chip I'm going to arrest someone for... I don't know...
cruelty to animals. I'm human. That's an animal.

Mom gave me your tapes when I woke up this
afternoon. When I listened to the first one, every
word seemed familiar. It was strange, until Mom told
me that she had played it for me while I was out of
it. Another paranormal phenemenon explained.

It was... it was good to hear. Thank you.

I'm sorry about the complications you've
encountered, but it seems so minor compared to the
good news. I was being completely straight with you
about your prospects before, Mulder, but I was also
trying to prepare myself for the worst. I'm glad that's
not an issue anymore. Just the thought of trying to
keep up with you in a wheelchair was exhausting. You're
fast now-- you must be hell on wheels.

I suppose I'll still have to deal with that,
since you'll probably need to rely on a wheelchair
for a few weeks. Don't expect me to look the other
way and let you try to walk before you're ready,
Mulder. You're going to wait until you're out of
danger if I have to bolt your boxer shorts to the
seat.

In the meantime... here I am. There you
are. Now what?

I can't make that phone call. They're
watching me even more closely than they're watching
you right now. And there's no phone in this room.

So you bribed Keith with my email address
to get him to tell you what's going on? Don't think
I can't read between the lines, Mulder. I hope you
get over your Lindsay aversion fast, because I just
recommended therapeutic touch treatment for you. She
should be in sometime this afternoon or tomorrow
morning.

Don't get me wrong. Keith is a sweet kid,
and the ability to give a superb massage is certainly
nothing to sneeze at. But he's what, twenty-five?
Twenty-six? Mulder, that's practically child abuse,
leading him on like that.

I told Lindsay you have a really nice car
and a really exciting job. Don't be surprised if
she offers to read your aura.

And I never, ever want to hear another Monkees
joke from you, Mulder. Yes, during the seventies I papered
the walls with pictures of the Monkees, just like every
other girl in America at the time. We didn't all spend the
decade listening to Rush and Led Zeppelin. Besides, I
kicked out those boys for Helen Ready and Carole King
before long. Let's not play "Your Musical Tastes Suck"
until we're both out of the hospital, okay?

Until then... if you have any ideas about our next
move, I'm listening.

end part eight.

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 9/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:30:21 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley
In Tandem with Summer

Tape Nine

I woke up to find your tape. Thank you. Just what I needed. I'm
glad you didn't take all your accumulated vacation time on that little
trip, Scully. I really missed hearing from you. I'm glad you're, well,
you're back, even if you probably aren't feeling better.

The tingles in my legs are subsiding. Now the 'ouch' factor has set
in. They're still a little worried about the speed of my reflexes, so
the pain medication I am currently receiving is insufficient to keep
me 'insulated from discomfort'. I hurt all over. That could be the
fever, too. The worst of it is how tiring it is just lying here. At
least one good thing happened. They took the damned neck brace off
because it was starting to chafe. I'm still supposed to lie flat on my
back-- say, did I mention the part where I'm not allowed to have a pillow?
You're bitching about ice chips and I haven't had a pillow for, what,
however the hell long we've been here? Gimme your pillow and I'll
*live* on fucking ice chips.

Remind me Scully, we are NEVER to get hurt in Chicago again.
They just don't know how to treat a patient. Not nearly as
accommodating as USAMRID was after the Arctic Ice Core Project.
I'm almost sorry that quarantine only lasted 48 hours. That was the
best food we've ever had in the hospital.

Anyway, back to the neck brace. It's history. Yippee skippy. They
still won't let me move that much. Can't roll over, can't lay on my
side, can't raise the bed, can't move my arms that far. And I've been
told that if I try to scratch my leg again, they'll bring on the bondage.
A straight jacket, if they can get their hands on one. I'm starting
to wonder about these nurses. They all seem to breathe a little too
deeply when they talk about putting me in restraints... Anyway. It itches,
Scully. Really bad. The clot is dissolving, but slowly, very slowly.
Peggy says that's normal because of the decreased circulation, which
caused the damn thing in the first place. And the medicine makes it
itch worse, or so it seems when they shoot it in the IV.

...I just rewound the tape and listened to this. I'm whining, Scully. I
can't believe it. I hate this. It's just that I'm so tired of being here
and it sounds like I'm not getting out in the next day or two, since
the clot is being so slow. Kinda shoves everything back, so they tell
me. And I spent twenty minutes trying to talk Peggy into letting me
wheel on down to the neurology ward and see you, when you first woke
up. No luck, obviously. I'm gonna start being really good in this life,
because I've decided I must have really fucked up the last one to get
this one.

The blood thinner has an interesting side effect, though. I slept
really well today. No dreams. No nightmares. Just zonked out and
missed the whole day. Tim came in a little while ago and said it was
what my body needed, trying to heal. Trying to shake off this
infection. I was so tired last night, I didn't even hear the tip off of
the game. No game tonight-- travel day. I think they're in New York
tomorrow. Gotta say this for serious injury, it gives me a chance to
catch up on the stats. See, Scully. The reason I keep getting thrown
in the hospital is because it feeds my secret addition-- sports. The
videos in the office are just a cover. But you knew that all along.

Keith came by about the time I woke up. Scully, you know what?
Maybe, now hear me out here, maybe the Detective from CPD was
right. Not entirely right, but right in a way. Keith was telling me
about some deaths that occured back a few years ago. People being
ripped to shreds. I'm sort of surprised we never got wind of it, but
they put it down to an escaped mountain lion or something. Rumor
was that it was done by-- wait. Bear with me, Scully. I know the look
you're going to get on your face when you hear this, and I can already
hear the exact tone of your voice and the way you're going to say,
"_Mul_der..." But just remember. Big hairy monster thing. Pushed
us both off a rooftop. No explanation.

Apparently, there were some speculations and some hastily discarded
evidence that those deaths a few years back were caused by gorillas.
You know, big apes. Probably intelligent gorillas-- maybe trained.
Possibly mutated.

I can see your eyes rolling to the ceiling, Scully, but get this. I got
Keith to smuggle a tape to the boys back home a day or two ago,
while you were playing possum. And they sent me one back today.
I had to listen to Frohike sing a really bad rendition of the Wreck of
the Edmund Fitzgerald to get to the good part. Anyway, the boys
seemed to think that the military might be involved in this. I know, I
know, the military is ALWAYS involved in these things, but listen to
what Byers dug up.

Okay, Scully. Open mind. Did you know that Chicago was flooded about
5 years ago? Not by Lake Michigan. Actually, the streets were
completely dry. It was flooded in the Tunnels under the Loop. The
cover story, for lack of a better term, was that a city worker, putting
down new cement pilings for the Ohio Street Bridge, punched a hole
in the Chicago River. Yeah, you heard me right, punched a hole in
the river. See, the Tunnels system runs under the river at some point
and, well, this guy just screwed the hell out of his pension,
apparently. But oddly enough, no charges of misconduct were ever
filed. As a matter of fact, the worker's name was never released to
the press.

So you're starting to worry that maybe the clot has reached my brain
at this point, aren't you, Scully? But I'm sending you the tape so you
can listen yourself. See, when the hole got punched, the Tunnels got
flooded. Along with the basements of all the buildings in the Loop.
DePaul University was hit pretty bad, they had to replace their entire
heating system. A lot of stores, including Marshall Fields, were
closed for days trying to get the smell out. Major insurance claims.
Big bucks all around.

So what does this have to do with gorillas? Good question. You
always ask the best questions, Scully, every time. This is straight
from the pages of The Lone Gunman-- the boys say that the military
punched the hole. That's right.. A bunch of MIBs punched the
damned hole to kill the gorillas. I am not making this up. Look at
the evidence, Scully. The Federal Government paid every single
dime of that fiasco. 100% on the dollar. Even to the buildings that
didn't have flood insurance in the first place. Go look it up. Even in a
Federal Disaster, the best they do is low interest loans.

So anyway, I guess it's not a radiation experiment, or maybe it is, but
whatever it is, I didn't kill it. And I'm not too sure what to do to
trap it, but it seems to be hanging around the same area. It's
probably going back down to the Tunnels during the day.

I don't know what we can do, both of us flat on our backs, on
separate floors, of course. But it seems that we should be able to do
*something*.

I'm wiped. I'm gonna go to sleep before I scratch something and get
the guillotine for it. Tape me back soon, OK?

end tape nine

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 10/15
Date: 97-01-15 23:54:56 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part one

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Tape Ten

Mulder...

Gorillas?

Killer gorillas?

_Mul_der.

I suppose I should have expected something this
bizarre. At least you've gotten over your shapeshifter
theory.

You know, I thought I might finally have the edge
on you in the weird ideas department-- I have a few thoughts
of my own about what this thing might be-- but once again,
you raced into Toontown ahead of me. Killer _gorillas_! You
just skipped Bigfoot and went totally nuts, didn't you? I've
been waiting for you to say the B-word since this whole mess
began. And what do I get? Gorillas.

Okay, I listened to your tape and to the cassette
from The Lone Gunman-- Frohicke is an absolutely abominable
singer, by the way. Was he drunk when he made that? He sounded
like William Burroughs-- anyway, I've given this King Kong
idea a fair hearing. Mom will testify on my behalf. I did
listen to it.

Now. Let's put that aside for the moment, so I can
tell you what I've been thinking. I've been feeling much,
much better since I woke up-- my head's clearer and I'm
finally thinking straight again. No more long pauses on
these tapes. And after another great massage from Keith...
who, it turns out, is actually twenty-nine. He looks young,
and he went to school late, that's all. So I take back what
I said about child abuse. Though you still had no business
getting his hopes up.

At any rate, I'm better, and came to a stunning
and simple realization today. Cryptozoology. We're simply
dealing with a heretofore unknown animal. There have been
reports of a six- to ten- foot tall hominid in Michigan
throughout the nineties. It's been written off as some
kind of copycat of the Pacific Northwest's Bigfoot sightings,
but those sightings had their heyday in the late sixties,
early seventies; you know that better than I do. So why
would there suddenly be copycat sightings in Michigan? It's
more likely that deforestation has driven some hitherto
unseen creature into visibility...

You see what I mean? This is an out-there theory
almost worthy of you, Mulder.

BUT, what lends credence to the Michigan sightings
is a specimen of hair taken from a sighting in '93. A DNA
analysis showed that the hair came from no known primate.

All right. So, something in Michigan. Hold that
thought.

There's just one problem with the Bigfoot slash
Jersey Devil slash hairy, intelligent hominid model. It's
described as apelike. And the remarkable thing about the
creature that attacked us, Mulder-- remember? Fangs? Claws?
Primates don't have claws.

I remembered something today.

A while back I was leafing through one of your magazines
at the office-- relax; one of the ones that doesn't come
in a brown paper wrapper-- anyway, I remember seeing a report,
complete with the requisite blurry photographs, about
sightings in Montana. Not of Bigfoot or any similar ape-
like creature.

This was a large feline, something like a mountain
lion.

Maybe the Chicago PD's "cover story" isn't such a
ridiculous front after all.

I know what came after us looked nothing like a
mountain lion. Bear with me. What if, as you always say....
what if what we're dealing with is some kind of bipedal
feline?

It explains the claws. Fits with the sightings
in Michigan, which were all from a distance, and with the
DNA sample; they never bothered to check the results against
any other genus. We never really got a clear look at the
thing, Mulder. If it can drop to all fours and travel, it
could be much faster than most bipedal mammals, which would
explain how it got around us so quickly. It wouldn't
necessarily have to be intelligent, in that case, since
feline predators develop natural tactical gambits like
circling around pursuers in the wild. Most likely, this
thing would normally travel on all fours, only rearing up
to two legs when dealing with a large threat-- like a human
being.

Lions and tigers can be as long as ten feet. If a
big cat learned to balance on its hind legs, the maneuver
would have the same basic effect as a cat's hackles going
up, or something like a blowfish inflating. It would function
as a defensive maneuver to make the animal look larger when
it's being threatened.

You have to admit, Mulder. It's odd, but it's a lot
more plausible than gorillas.

And if this thing _is_ just a little-known species
of feline with a peculiar defensive reflex, then we can suggest
a fairly simple bait and capture manuever. Tell the Chicago
PD that basically, they're right, it IS something like
a mountain lion. With our corroborating statements, they'll
have the evidence they need to mobilize, to flush out that
area and try to bait that thing to an uninhabited space,
where sharpshooters could tranq it down and we could finally
resolve the origin of this species once and for all.

The main issue: our statements have to match,
Mulder. Our descriptions will be identical; neither of
us saw much of anything. But if you're talking about
gorillas and I'm proposing this feline idea, they won't
listen. And whatever you may believe, if we follow the
mountain lion-esque theory, we're a lot more likely to
get cooperation from the local force than if we try to
convince them that it was the only one of a horde of
killer apes living under their city that managed to escape
a huge top-secret government conspiracy plot to murder
the aforementioned apes by letting the river flood said
tunnels, thus causing untold property damage and hassles
all around.

Which of these stories do you think the authorities
of Chicago are more likely to endorse?

I'm hoping you'll go with me on this one, Mulder.
I really think it's the best way to catch this thing and
end these attacks.

And I hope you're feeling better. I haven't seen
Lindsay around lately. Investigating the benefits of, ahem,
therapeutic touch? Well, I hope it's helping. I don't
mind listening to you whine a little; you're entitled.
I just wish the source of your whining would diminish.
Then it wouldn't bother _either_ of us so much.

I never thought the day would come when I'd be
nostalgic for USAMRID. But you're right, Mulder.. We didn't
know how good we had it there. Remember the fight we kicked
up over being in total isolation, even from each other?
What the hell were we complaining about? It was only for
a little more than a day. It's been... I think it's been
two weeks since the last time we saw each other here. I
just tried to get visiting rights, by the way. No luck.
I'm to stay in neurology, you're to stay in ortho, and
never the agents shall meet.

A real switch from seeing one another almost every
day for nearly two years. Even now I catch myself just about
to say something to you, or reach for my cellphone and call.

I did miss USAMRID today, when they brought me
Jell-O. Remember those freeze-dried ice cream things
they gave us? The ones that you said were like Count
Chocula marshmellows? I want some of those again. Or
even that Navy-issue soup they gave us after we got
picked up off the coast of Norway. Anything but Jell-O.

I almost forgot. Congratulations on the removal
of your neck brace.. I tried to get you a card, but Hallmark
doesn't make them for this occasion. At least I care enough
to try to send the very best. But if you had still needed
the brace, Mulder, they would have left it on whether it
was irritating you or not. So that's a good sign.

I know you're probably tired, and cranky, and pissed
off because I'm not playing along with your barrel of monkeys
idea. But I need you to tape an answer for me. The sooner
we decide on this, the sooner we can put the locals on a
trail that leads them to that thing. And the better we'll
sleep at night. Get back to me soon.

end tape ten.

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 11/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:02:21 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part one

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Tape 11

<yawn>

Oh, sorry, Scully.

I just woke up a little while ago and your tape greeted me. It's so
nice to hear your voice. It's about the only pleasant thing in this
joint. Even when you're busting my chops for a perfectly legitimate,
reasonable theory that happens to run counter to some wigged out,
far-fetched yarn you found in the back of an outdated Fortean Times,
it's still nice to hear your voice.

I've been sleeping the day away today. Had a bad night last night,
but my fever broke about 3:30 this morning. No more UTI, and I
didn't even have to change cat foods to get rid of it. I crashed right
after that. That's OK. Apparently they like me better unconscious.
Like some other people I know.

The other good news, aside from the fact that I seem to have
survived the cat infection, is that the clot is only about half it's
previous size now. The nurses are turning cartwheels over that one.
I have superhuman healing powers, according to Peggy. Must be all
that Kryptonite I keep in the file cabinet, huh? But with the clot
finally going down, it doesn't feel so hot and doesn't itch as much.
As a result, the death threats against me have been reduced to a
mere trickle. Yessiree, I'm just everybody's little ray of sunshine this
evening.

But jumping ahead to the case. Killer kitties again, Scully? I would
have thought you had enough of those in Boston. I hate to bring up
sore subjects-- I mean, you were the one attacked. And those
scratches on your nose did look pretty nasty. But I would have
thought you could come up with something better than that old saw.
At least my gorilla theory is original.

And just for the sake of arguement, how did this wonder of
cryptozoology manage to arrive in the heart of the third largest city
in the United States? Admittedly, it wouldn't be the first 'wild life' to
arrive from Michigan, but most of them come from tour buses on I-80.
And why did it wait until the Windy City before exhibiting it's
unusual culinary requirements? I mean, aren't people in Indiana as
tasty? It was looking for soybean-fed humans? Give me some
insight here, Scully. How come the first we hear of it is in Chicago?
Because I'm not gonna buy that it was hiding out--undiscovered--in
Lincoln Park all the past several centuries. Somebody would have
stumbled on it before now.

I'm sorry, Scully, but you were asking for it. Where did you get this
stuff? I might have to get a subscription to the New England Journal
of Medicine if they've started having a paranormal report in there.

So you say feline of extraordinate size who likes to play on two
legs, and I say intelligent, violent gorilla. Once again, po-tay-toe,
pa-tah-toe, Scully. The damn thing nearly tore your head off and
and knocked me off the fucking roof. I'm not real happy with it,
whatever it is.

I have to admit, and this is a big IF, if the thing did manage to fall off
the roof with me and survived--without major back injury--it does
give credence to the feline theory. Cats are jumpers by nature. I'm
not saying the thing landed on its feet or anything, but might have
succeeded in landing on the roof across the way. I just didn't have
the foresight to try to leap out instead of fall down. Got to make a
mental note of that for future roof fights.

But one major drawback to this wonderful fairy tale you've
concocted--all by yourself, I might add--is that those idiots over at
Eleventh and State will be breaking their arms patting themselves on
their backs when we tell them. Giving the Chicago Police
Department credit for anything, even the right time of day, makes
me itch worse than the blood clot. I would have to wash my mouth
with Clorox just to get the bad taste out of it. So you can talk to
them, OK? You're always better at 'sandbox' detail than I am.

But that still leaves us with a few minor details. How do we trap it?
An incredibly large catnip mouse? Or better yet, a lifesized doll,
dressed like an FBI agent, stuffed with Meow Mix. Yeah, that might
work, Scully. Let's get right on it.

And once we've attracted the little pussycat, what then? Shooting it
didn't do much. I'm still convinced that I hit the damned thing
square in the whatever passed for a chest, Scully. If that won't
work, what will? I think it might be difficult to convince the
Governor of Illinois, much less Hissoner the Mayor, that we need to
deploy nuclear missles against a six foot prehistoric cat. I hear
they're real funny about that stuff in the midwest.

Oh, well, I'm sure we'll think of something. Or rather, I'm sure
*you'll* think of something. I'm out of somethings to think of, at
this moment.

...Um...

Mom just called again. They let me talk to her for a couple of
minutes but that turned out to be a really bad idea. I moved my
shoulder to hold the phone and my back is now killing me.

By the way, therapeutic touch didn't work out. Did you know that
Lindsey is a follower of the Amazing Yappi? Yeah, and she agrees
with him. I 'exude too much negative energy' to allow the touch to
be effective. She sat down and tried her damnedest to get me in a
more 'positive frame of mind'. I have to admit, it was fun at first, but
with me flat on my back and pretty sure that nothing really positive
was going to happen in the next, what, 6 weeks or better? It just got
depressing. It's too hard to enjoy a pretty woman's 'attention' when
there's absolutely no way to take it to its logical conclusion.
Whatever that might be. So, after about a half an hour, I told
Lindsey politely that it wasn't for me and a nap would probably go a
lot farther to getting me back on my feet than all her good
intentions. Haven't seen her since.

My back is hurting, Peggy is standing next to me with a really big
needle that had better be headed for an IV port and not my skin and
I've worn myself out laughing at your latest theory, Scully, so I'm
gonna say goodnight.

Seriously, I don't really care if it's ancient cats, Marine Corps gorillas
or Daffy Duck, we have to stop that sucker before it kills again. We
really are closer to an answer than anyone else in this burgh, and
that's with one of us on drugs and the other with a skull fracture.

We've been in worse straits, right? None are coming to mind right
now, but I know we have.

Well, Marlin Perkins, what next? The ball is still in our court.

end of tape eleven

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 12/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:07:24 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Disclaimer in part one

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Tape Twelve

First, I want to take back every slanderous comment
I've made about the hospitality of this fine medical institution.
Also, you are completely off the hook for setting Keith on
my trail.

Would you believe that tonight, he had a lovely candlelit
dinner delivered in from one of Chicago's most delectable Italian
restaurants, complete with gelati for dessert and a dozen roses
for a centerpiece? Not just roses, either... you'll love this...
roses from the genetics labs at U of C. They're blue. Blue tea
roses and chicken parmesagna and Italian ice cream. And Keith,
it turns out, isn't just Italian, he's Catholic. Mom is thrilled.
The entire nursing staff here in neurology conspired to keep
everyone out of my room for an hour and we really had a
wonderful time. I found out that Keith is a would-be author;
if his writing is anything like his conversation, then he must
be exceedingly talented. Once I'm discharged, I'm booked for
a tour of Chicago. Your new instructions: I hope you start
feeling better soon, but feel free to take plenty of time with
your physical therapy. Do me a favor and malinger a little.

Oh, and before I had this splendid evening, I called
Chicago PD. They'll be around to take our statements early
tomorrow, but I discussed the case with the officer in charge,
recommending that they sweep the area where we were attacked--
I'm gambling that we stumbled into its home territory-- and be
ready to tranq it with Sucostrin.

As for where this hypothetical creature has been hiding
all this time... down in the tunnels under Chicago with your
gorillas, of course. I'm surprised you didn't come up with that
one yourself. Though you're allowed to miss a few, since you're
still being drugged on a regular basis. What's it been eating?
The gorillas. Or rather, their drowned corpses. I mean, what
had your ape-thing been eating since the tunnels were flooded
in '91, Mulder?

Let me add that the ever-so-original gorilla theory
wasn't exactly _your_ idea, was it? The Lone Gunmen gave you
that one. But as I said, you get to be foggy, since they're
still doping you regularly. I'm glad to hear you're over the
complications; the nurses told me today that the blood clot
is gone, and you've recovered nicely from your appropriately-
named "cat infection". Cheer up, Mulder. You're well on your
way to getting better.

But back to that fine specimen of cryptozoology we were
discussing. It's probably a scavenger, by necessity. And why didn't
it die when you shot it? I think it did. I think what came after
us was the mother.

What's attacking people now is the child.

It makes sense, Mulder. Why else would that thing attack
us? We were bigger, we outnumbered it-- any animal would turn tail
and run. Unless it was a mother, and we were close to its child.
I think we must have gotten too near that thing's den. It was just
defending its home and its baby.

I finally got to look at the reports on the attacks that've
occurred since we wound up here. The claw marks are smaller, more
shallow than on the previous victims. And although there have been
three attacks involving ten people, there's only been one death.
That thing that attacked us would have had no problem killing all
those people.

So why haven't we found the mother's body? The child probably
dragged it back to the den and, well, if they were scavengers, then
all that's left by now would be bones.

Wild Kingdom, indeed.

This is all based on a fragile web of suppositions,
Mulder, and I wish we could see eye-to-eye on a theory this
tenuous. I know-- I _know_ how thin this sounds. It's not
the finely-detailed madness I've come to expect from you,
but I'm new at this speculation stuff.

But if you'll back me up when they come for your
statement, bright and early tomorrow morning, then they'll
be ready to mobilize tomorrow night. And maybe this whole
mess will finally be resolved. If they tranq down a killer
gorilla, I promise to concede your brilliance and bring
you some gelati.

end tape twelve

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 13/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:12:01 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Tape 13

Gee, Scully, I'm glad you're having such a great time.

>From the sound of it, you should probably take this time off the
books as a vacation and save your sick time up for the next time
we end up in quarantine.

Of course, it's your time. Far be it from me to tell you how to use it.

By the way, Keith is recently 'un'engaged. He seems to have a string
of broken engagements. Just can't get all the way to the altar, as it
were. That three year stint in the seminary must have had something
to do with it. He keeps threatening to go back and finish up his
time.

There is a severe shortage of priests, you know, Scully.

Ouch. Oh, God, that hurt. Now I have leg cramps to deal with. I
thought it was bad before-- I was just warming up.

Good news of the day-- I got rid of a tube. Won't tell you which
one. But it's gone and I'm a much happier camper because of it. IV
is still in, stupid monitors still hanging on, beeping just to annoy me.
I think it's fairly well established that I'm not going to have a
coronary on them.

Unless, of course, my partner decided to run off with an almost
priest slash physical therapist and have a bunch of Irish-Italian
children in some Chicago suburb.

Maybe they should keep the defib machine nearby when I get your
next tape, just in case.

As for the meeting with the CPD, I hope it went well. I slept
through it, apparently. Don't get mad at me, Scully. You were the
one spouting the Timothy Leary line to me. All I did was tell them,
yes, please, give me more of the stuff that dreams are made of, and
voila, I was out like a light from 8 last night until 11:15 this morning.
Missed all kinds of stuff, I'm told.

Skinner called, but you knew that. Something about 'Where the hell
did you come up with THIS hair-brained theory' and 'I thought
Mulder was drugged sufficiently to avoid these kinds of calls'. At
least, that's what Katie told me. New nurse. Katie. Very cute.
Very very cute. And she doesn't seem to mind shooting the breeze
with a laid-up federal agent who is bored and hurt and just wants to
go home and forget he ever set foot in this damned town in the first
place. But back to Skinner. I'm DYING to hear what you told him,
Scully. I want you to put that on a really good quality tape, because
I intend to listen to it again and again and again and maybe even dub
some copies off to keep in my safety deposit box back home and for
Christmas gifts for the boys at the Lone Gunman.

But seriously, OK, I'm not up to my usual repartee, so yeah, I can
see where someone with a skull fracture might mistake a gorilla for a
prehistoric feline. Probably not a mountain lion, although the
Wisconsin Dells aren't that far from here and technically, they are a
mountain range. Just a really flat mountain range. So far be it from
me to disagree with your already given statement to the boys in blue
from the Windy City. If they do happen to get past the attack nurses
who watch my door like hawks, I will substantiate everything you
said.

Glad to return the favor.

So you're sitting up now and eating great Italian food with soon to
be priests, huh? They let me sip from a straw last night. A milk-
shake. Well, not exactly a milkshake. One of those high protein
drinks that they try and convince you is a milkshake even though it
tastes more like sawdust than like chocolate. Or maybe it was
supposed to be vanilla. I caught a glimpse of it and it was gray in
color, so it's hard to say what it was supposed to taste like.

So what happens next? Are the CPD going to set the trap?
Sucotrin, that's an animal tranq, right? Kind of strong as I
remember, but maybe that's just what's needed. I hope they don't
screw this up, Scully. I really would like to be there, but we both
know that's a pipe dream. Still, I hope they're planning on letting
someone other than their people examine it when it's caught. If
nothing else, to settle this little dispute we seem to be having.

And as for me relying on the Gunmen, hey. You have your sources,
I have mine. 'Nuff said.

Aw, Scully, I'm so tired of this taping shit. I just want to talk to you.
I don't care if you come in here and tell me every damned second of
this wonderful evening with Father Keith, I just would like to see
your face and know for certain that it's really you who has been
sending me these tapes and not some really good impersonator.

I'm just tired of being alone here, you know...

Your mom said something about leaving in a couple of days. I'm
sure you'll be getting out and going home soon, too. Unless the
Bureau will spring for a med-evac, I'm stuck here for at least a
couple more weeks. Right. I'm not holding my breath on that one.

I'm really tired. Gonna take a nap and maybe if I'm real good they'll
give me pinkish gray stuff to sip tonight.

Talk to you later.

end of tape thirteen.

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 14/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:34:20 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Tape Fourteen

Thank you, SO much, Mulder, for nearly giving my mother
an apoplectic fit. She happened to be in the room to hear the
first part of your tape. The part about the very nice, very sweet
guy I just met, and his abiding interest in the seminary.

Do you have any idea what kind of guilt trip my mother
laid on me for that one? You'd think I had asked around the
hospital, saying, "Excuse me, are there any nice young men
here who're considered the priesthood, so that I may tempt
them back to the ways of the world with petty earthly delights?"

Unfortunately, my skull fracture headache was back-- you
do remember that there was a reason I'm in the hospital too, right?
I got a little snappish with her. Something about how she's
always hinting that I should get out more and meet people.

She said, "People! Not priests!"

And then she started in about how tired and hangdog _you_
look. Admit it, Mulder. You gave her that face you do, didn't you.
That lost-puppy look you always use when you want me to follow you
to the Arctic, or Norway, or Puerto Rico, or Hong Kong...

It's not fair for the two of you to tag-team on this. It's
not like I'm going to marry the guy and start manufacturing
little uber-Scullys, as you put it, or rather uber-- Christ,
I can't even remember the poor guy's last name offhand. At
least he wasn't named for a Disney character.

Okay. I'm sorry. I'm tempted to erase that. But Mulder,
you know me too well, and you always know just how to piss me
off...

I'm not going to leave the X-Files to soar into the sunset
with a twenty-nine-year-old would-be author and, apparently,
priest. It's just nice to know someone in this godforsaken city,
since I'm apparently going to be here another two or three weeks,
waiting for my _partner_ to recuperate.

Probably more like two weeks than three, from the sound
of things. I heard a few of the nurses gossipping in the halls,
and your name came up-- which actually happens rather often, now
that I think of it-- and a few of them were bemoaning the fact
that you'll probably be out of here within a fortnight, and not a
one of them has managed to snag you yet. I was tempted to call
them in and give them a few pointers-- UFO jewelry, maybe,
or a mildly disturbing insect fixation. And then one of them
came in to bring me lunch.

I think her name was Katie-- she smiled at me and
said, "Can you believe them?" Then she asked if I minded
if she sat down for a few minutes, and of course I told her
she was welcome to.

Well, we talked for a little while, and... Mulder, it's
probably tough to see this kind of thing when you're lying flat
on your back, so you probably didn't notice Katie's earring. Her
one earring, in her right ear? The one shaped like a pink triangle?

So now I have two offers for tours of Chicago. Sorry
about that, partner.

You're right, though. Katie is very cute.

I'm afraid the news doesn't get any better. The Chicago
PD should be staking out the neighborhood and flushing out the
animal... the as-yet-unknown animal stalking the East side. I
haven't heard anything yet.

And I don't have a tape of what Skinner said to me,
which is a shame. In your current mood, you'd probably get a
kick out of it. First there was the incredulity that _I_ came
up with this cryptozoology idea, then a lecture about diverting
valuable city resources to prove out a "pet theory"-- from the
sound of it, it's the same speech he's given you a million times,
with your name taken out and mine stuck in. I think once he almost
slipped and said "Mulder", actually. At any rate, I was reminded
that it's Bureau procedure to report to the local field office
before giving out a statement of any kind which might reflect
back on the FBI, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And then, finally, "Since you've already instituted a
plan of action, I want a full report."

I told him we were both still in the hospital, and he
said that if I was well enough to come up with this idea and
mobilize the CPD, I was well enough to give him a thorough
accounting.

What was that you said about checking into Hotel Coma
for a while?

Actually, aside from the headaches, which are still
occasionally getting around the meds, I'm doing much better.
I'm only still here for observation, and they'll probably
release me in a few days. There's a nice hotel right across
the street, and I've already cleared it with Skinner to stay
on until you're well enough to come back to DC.

That's all I've got for now. I'll tape more when I
hear back from the expedition.

There's good news and bad news. Actually, there's
good news, and some more good news which carries with it
some not-so-good news. I'll give you the not-so-good news
first.

We'll probably never know what that thing was--
mountain lion, gorilla, pink elephant or purple people
eater. It's almost certainly dead, but there's really no
way to be certain.

Chicago PD pinned the thing down in Loyola Park
and their sharpshooters picked it off at a distance. With
Sucostrin, in the dosage I recommended.

And then they shot it again. And again. Now, the
dose I recommended for one tranquilizer dart would be enough
to send any carbon-based lifeform reeling. I didn't want to
take any chances. Two shots of that dosage would kill a human
being. Three doses would be enough to put down almost anything.

Unfortunately, the thing dragged itself out of sight
and, since they weren't sure what they were dealing with, the
team kept their distance. A sweep-search turned up nothing.
But they got confirmation from two different shooters that
between them, they got three definite hits.

Whatever it was, it's been hiding for a long time.
It looks like it's going to stay hidden. But we have every
reason to believe that the attacks are over.

Here's some mediocre news: apparently Mom and Keith
had a talk. My tour of Chicago's still good, but it's going
to include a church or two. He's considering going back to
the seminary.

Thanks, Mulder. You realize I have no choice
now but to tour the city with Katie instead...

The good news. I was going to surprise you tonight,
but the nurses told me that wasn't a great idea. So you get
this much warning. Tonight at eight, I'm coming to the ortho
ward to see you.

No more tapes, Mulder. I'm in a regular room again,
I'll be out of here in a couple of days, and in the meantime
I can come to visit. I'm going to bring down some audiotapes
for you. I remember you once told me that you'd always meant
to finish Asimov's Foundation series... well, Mom found the whole
thing on audiotape. Knock yourself out.

So to speak.

I'm also bringing a milkshake-- an actual chocolate
milkshake, not a protein drink. I've looked at your charts,
and there's no reason you shouldn't have it.

You're welcome.

We're done here in Chicago. Hurry up and get better
so we can get the hell out of here.

See you tonight.

end tape fourteen.

Subj: The Sound of Your Voice 15/15
Date: 97-01-16 00:36:38 EST
From: summer@interlabs.bradley.edu (Amanda Summers)
Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com (gil trev)

Yes, you're at the end. If you'd like to write to us, we
like to read email-- vmoseley@fgi.net and summer@camelot.bradley.edu .

Thanks for reading!

The Sound of Your Voice
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley
In Tandem with Summer

Tape 15 & Final

Scully--

I know you're coming down in about 7 hours, but I wanted to ask
you to do some things for me before then. Also, I'm still a little flaky
while I'm on all this shit and I think I'm at a point where my mind's
about as clear as DC drinking water-- the best I can do under the
circumstances. By 8 tonight, I'm gonna be foggy as hell, so keep
that in mind. STILL COME DOWN! Don't get me wrong. It's just
that I probably won't have my usual sparkling wit right then and I want
to get some ideas out before I visit LaLa Land this afternoon.

First, my requests.

One--can I please have a pillow? OK, I know the answer to that
one. But not even a really really flat pillow? More of a hint of a
pillow than an actual fluffy one like the ones on my couch. Or your
spare room. You have great pillows, Scully. Take that however
you want it. If you tell me no, I'll live. But I have to keep asking or
I'll never get anywhere, right?

Two--don't forget the whipped cream on the milk shake. Chocolate
is great. Vanilla is great. Hell, bring me strawberry and I'll share it
with you. You're a godsend, Scully.

I don't tell you that often enough and I know I'll never say it to your
face, so I'll say it now and we can both forget I did, huh? Your
voice has been the only thing to keep me sane in this midwest
version of a prison camp. Without you... when you were out of it...
it was bad, Scully. Even though I knew what was happening. I
don't have a weak heart, but don't do that to me again, OK?

--I'll take that as a yes.

I'm sort of stranded at the moment, so would you please find a florist
and send your mom a bouquet of roses. Yes, roses. Red or white or
yellow or whatever she likes. She deserves the Hope Diamond for
putting up with me, but she'll have to make do with roses. Put it on
your credit card and I'll settle up with you as soon as they let me
write a check. And don't forget the price of this tape recorder. It
has been invaluable these past two weeks. I might even write the
company or invest in the stock or something. Worth every damned
penny of the price.

I don't think I'll be up to par by tonight, but tomorrow, especially
early afternoon, right after lunch, bring down all the stuff you have
and I'll help you with the report to Skinner. You write great reports,
Scully. I think they're among the best factual accountings in the
history of the Bureau. But I think you might need my expertise on
this one. This one might just require the work of the master--
Stephen King, that is. I'm a little better at coming up with almost
reasonable explanations for misuse of Bureau funds than you are.
I've had more practice. I'll lend you my insight.

Hey, I just had a thought. We could put down the price of the tape
recorders on the expense report and have the Bureau pay for BOTH
OF THEM. Yeah, that should work. Don't roll those blue eyes at
my tape, Scully, before you hear me out. We worked on this
damned case the entire time we were awake. We did research, for
God's sakes, and all the other crap. We consulted the locals and
organized the stakeout--well, YOU organized the stakeout. And
you even picked the drug for the tranquilizer gun. Now, how could
we have pulled off any of that without these handy dandy little tape
recorders? And get the full retail price on 'em, too. I know your
mom, she's a mom and buys only on sale. Get the real price. And
the cost of the tapes that fit in them. Aw, hell, add the cost of the
milkshake, too. You never put down enough stuff on those things,
Scully.

Don't let me forget to put down that damned gun I lost, either. Shit,
I'll hear about that one. That makes, what, four this fiscal year. I
think my high was last year with 5 and three cell phones. Damn it.

Maybe being flat on my back and drugged to the gills isn't all that
bad. Skinner's probably not going to yell at me until I can stand up
in front of him, right? Talk about being between a rock and a
hard place.

Hey, and don't feel too bad about the gorilla dressed up like a
mountain lion, huh? It's not like I have a trophy wall or anything. If
I got the mama and they got the kid and I'm hoping they left dad in
the wilds of Michigan, then it's just a matter of time. No attacks,
and we're in the clear. Two weeks, yeah, that should be enough
time. If no more attacks have taken place before I'm freed on
parole, I think we'd be safe in declaring this case closed.

There, you even have an excuse for hanging around and waiting for
me.

As for Keith... Sorry, Scully. What can I say? I was kidding. I sure
as hell didn't expect for you to listen to the tape with your mom in
the room. What, did you let her read your diary when you were a
teenager, too? Are you one of those I-never-lied-to-my-parents
girls who I always hated to date because I felt like a heel when I
saw their parents later? Anyway, I'm sorry if I got you in hot water.
But I figured you would have found out soon enough. I mean, I
know you run NCIC checks on any guy you date, so I figured when
he turned up clean--one traffic violation in '87, he paid the fine--that
you'd ask around the nursing staff. I just did all the footwork for
you. Looking out for you. You know. What partners are supposed
to do. What you'd do for me, Katie being a perfect example.

Don't ask how I got the traffic report. Just think real hard about
changing your phone number when we get back, OK? For that
matter, are you still thinking about moving? Y'know, Bethesda is
getting really congested. You might consider Chevy Chase.

As for Katie, well, it just goes to show you. All the cute ones are
married, taken or gay. I give up.

Oh joy. More meds. Just in time, I think I was starting to get
morose there for a minute. I'm gonna take a nap and then when I
wake up, maybe you'll be here.

Just like Christmas morning, huh, Scully?

I can't wait to see you. But it's been great talking to you.
I'll see you soon.

The End.