Chapter Text
J. Edgar Hoover Building
November 26th, 1998
11.50 PM
As Dana Scully returned to the FBI Headquarters, she realized it had gotten quite late. She took the stairs down to the basement and shed her coat, put the sandwich and coffee she’d just gotten from the convenience store down on the desk. She hadn’t had lunch, and if she was going to get through the rest of the case file tonight, her brain needed fuel. She yawned, and stretched a little.
Mulder was gone. Not gone-gone, as in 'I was abducted by Cancer Man' gone, just the ordinary Mulder gone, as in 'Hey Scully I discovered something that really excited me so I’m off to Podunk, Middleofnowhere SEE YA' gone.
He’d probably resurface by tomorrow. When he had rushed out the door, he had shouted something she didn’t pay much attention to—something about a local... something something sighting. ‘Can you believe it, Scully? Right here, in D.C!’ and she had wavered him away, content with the idea of having their office to herself for one night. Mulder's absence would give her the chance to go over all the gathered evidence without him rambling about various theories. A Mulder-free night when you could actually hear yourself think was nice for a change.
Scully settled back into her office chair, unwrapping the sandwich; the faint smell of questionable deli meat filled the air. Wonder what kind of meat it was. After the chicken scare a couple of years ago she sometimes thought about becoming a vegetarian. But then there were ribs… She flipped open a case file, took a bite.
She’d hardly begun chewing when she heard it – footsteps outside in the corridor. What, now. Nobody except herself and Mulder was usually down here this late. And it wasn't Mulder; his pace was quick, steps heavy and soles cheap. Most men at the Bureau wore leather soles, but Mulder went for rubber and they squeaked. Skinner was out of town, and that annoying Agent Wilder she'd promised an analysis was hopefully tucked in bed asleep.
Bang.
The door to the office slammed open and standing in the doorway was a person whose hood was pulled up and their face completely obscured by a mask. They were pointing a gun directly at her.
Oh. It was going to be one of those nights. Scully slowly put the sandwich down, still chewing, and lifted her hands in the air. The intruder didn’t move or speak, just kept pointing the gun directly at her head.
What did they say at that course back at Quantico where they were taught how to handle a situation like this? It was stored there somewhere, in the back of her mind. The first thing was something down the line of… Building a relationship.
Build trust, and the captor might come around.
She couldn't see so much as an inch of their face, and it was hard to tell how much they could see of her. Okay, now. Keep gaze, and voice, nice and steady. Stay calm.
“I can see that you want something from me. Why don't we talk about what it is that you need from me?”
The intruder reached into their jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and slowly extended it toward her. The gun never wavered.
Make sure they understand your intentions.
“I am going to use my left hand to take the paper. Is that okay?”
The intruder nodded.
Scully very slowly lowered her left hand and extended it towards the figure, unfolding the paper with one hand. There was a single line scrawled on it:
You will come with me.
They didn’t want to talk. She could think of many reasons this person didn't want to talk. One was that they didn’t want her to hear their voice. Another was that this person might not even be a person, but something else. And if this… being wasn’t a human, the FBI’s negotiation methods might not work, but for lack of a better option she would have to keep trying.
Acknowledge the suspect’s dominance.
“Okay. You’re in control here. I’m not going to be an obstacle.”
The intruder reached into their jacket again, pulling out another note.
Good. Leave your phone and weapon on the desk.
Scully slowly removed her gun from the holster, putting it on top of the file she five minutes ago was working on.
“Alright. You’re calling the shots here. I’m putting my phone and gun down.”
Buy time. Remind them you’re FBI.
“But I want you to think this through. I’m an FBI agent. If you take me, you will end up having the entire Bureau searching for you tomorrow.”
It doesn't matter right now.
The intruder waved at the door again, gesturing for her to leave the office first. She stepped out in the corridor and was handed another note.
Garage.
Okay. That was good. Down the garage there were surveillance cameras which meant that the masked person couldn’t put her in the trunk unnoticed. Provided that they knew about the cameras. Would it be a good or a bad idea to tell the masked person about the cameras?
As they entered the elevator she closed her eyes briefly. This was not the first time she’d been in high-pressure situations, and each time, she had managed to keep control. Sort of, at least. And this should be no different. But it felt different. This captor was different, they didn’t seem to follow a kidnapper’s rules. There was no exchange of demands, and thus no way to figure out their motive. No communication beyond the notes. They didn’t seem to want to negotiate. It just seemed like they wanted compliance.
It was ironic how happily she had wavered Mulder away this morning – sin did carry its own punishment. Worst case, he’d be gone for days. And with Skinner out of town… It could definitely be a while before someone even realized she was missing.
The elevator stopped at the garage floor and immediately, the masked person aimed their gun at the corner where the surveillance camera was hidden and shot it to pieces.
How did they know about the camera? Was it someone from the Bureau? She really shouldn’t have turned that date proposal from Agent Ingalls down…
The masked person put the gun against Scully’s back again and handed her another note.
I just wasn’t sure we could get into the car without my weapon being seen. You drive.
Scully unlocked her car and sank into the driver’s seat while her captor got into the passenger seat and a note appeared, folded neatly, just like the others.
Drive toward 270.
A highway that would take them far from D.C.. This was not good. She knew the route well—a little too well. It was mostly isolated stretches of road, few places to stop, few chances to run. Mulder would have a hard time tracing her tracks down that highway.
Go.
She slowly put the key in the ignition and pressed the gas pedal, backing out of the parking spot. As the garage doors opened and the car slid out into the night, the masked person slid her another note.
Good girl. Here we go.