DCD 1/1 by Emily

PLEASE FORWARD TO AXTC, PLEASE ARCHIVE

Send all comments to: ephelps@gwis2.circ.gwu.edu

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and all of the other characters that you are 
going to read are property of Fox and 1013.  No copyright infringement 
is intended, and no money is being made.  

Classification: H - lots and lots of tongue-in-cheek H.   

Rating: PG-13 (I think there are two or three words) 

Spoilers:  LOTS AND LOTS!  US, CA **SEASON #4**  If you haven't seen up 
until Tempus Fugit/Max, delete now!

Author's notes: Let's all give a big happy hooray that finals are over
and I'm back home.  This little monstrosity sprang to mind during a
conversation with Elspeth (Pellinor), following her hilarious story "Nasty
Big, Pointy Teeth," which I encourage everyone to surf on over to the archive
to check out.  WARNING!!!!  If you do not feel like being poked fun at, delete this
NOW!  I'm making fun of all of us, myself especially, in my own special way. 
You have been warned, proceed at your own risk, I'm only kidding. 

Dedication: Thanks always to Kelly-Bird and Amy, and of course Pellinor
for the inspiration and encouragement.

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DCD 1/1

Set of "The X-Files"
Vancouver, BC
Friday, 9:38 pm

Chris sat in his office, trying to figure out the last line.  Witty but 
not corny...Chris looked around the office, trying to find something to 
spark his imagination.  His eyes settled on the clock.  

"9:38!  Damn!"  He grabbed his bag and ran onto the set.  "John!  I'm 
late for my plane.  Can you supervise the rest of this filming?" 

John saluted.  "You can count on me, CC!  I'll make sure Mulder and
Scully don't come within fifty feet of each other!" 

Chris rolled his eyes.  "They are *partners,* John, we can't have them 
shouting at each other for forty-two minutes!" 

"Well, no sex then!"   

Chris tried not to glare at him as he walked out to his car.   

After an uneventful but very reckless drive to the airport, Chris 
settled into his seat on the airplane and quickly fell asleep.  

He awoke to find that all the passengers had disappeared.  More exactly, 
the plane was gone, too.  There was only a long hallway with a door at 
the end.  As Chris slowly approached the heavy looking door, it swung 
open silently.  "This is one *hell* of a flashback," he murmred to
himself. 

He walked into a dark, lushly decorated room that looked like it came 
out of a castle.  There was oak paneling on the walls of the 
large room, and it was carpeted in a deep, rich green.  Dark tables 
accented with gold lamps were the only bright spots of light in the dim
room.  Leather chairs and couches were sprinkled  throughout the room, and
there was a bar off to his left with no one behind it.  The entrance to the
room was slightly raised, and Chris looked over the large crowd with curiosity. 
On the wall opposite him was a large TV screen.

The people, who were talking quietly, stopped.  A woman with red hair 
stepped forward.  

"We've been expecting you," she said.  

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Chris asked, confused.  

A man with gray hair next to the woman spoke up.  "No, Mr. Carter, but we
know you." 

"A lot of people seem to know me these days."  He looked over the sea of 
faces. "You're all familiar, but I can't place it..."

"Season 1!  I was in a wheelchair and that brat with the mystical
powers was supposed to CURE me, but I wound up here instead!"  Called a
voice from the crowd.

"Season 2!  That creep Donny Pfaster killed me for my hair and
fingernails!"

"Season 3!  I was an innocent prostitute with a bit of a weight issue, 
and some nasty man sucked out my fatty tissue!"

"Hey!  What do you have against prostitutes?  We're the oldest
profession, ya know!"

Chris' head as spinning.  What in the hell was going on?  "I-I-I'm
sorry," he stammered, "but I just don't remember..."

A man with red hair stepped forward.  "And you killed me just a few 
episodes ago.  I didn't even have a name, and then you MADE FUN OF ME 
for it!"  He cried.

It suddenly clicked in Chris' head. Pendrell!  "Is that you, Pendrell?" 
he asked.

"Yes.  There you go again, calling me by my last name.  In the future, 
I'd rather you address me as Brian."

"But we never gave you a name.  We saw the fuss online, and we wanted to 
remain neutral on the issue."

"Well, I'm not going to have to worry about that now, am I?  Call me 
Brian!"  Pendrell said firmly.

A tall, handsome black man stepped forward.

"X!"

"No, it's Julian now, thank you.  Brian over here inspired me to aspire 
to something more than a letter."

Chris' head snapped to the older man with gray hair, suddenly
remembering.  "I suppose *you* have a new name, too?"

Deep Throat shook his head slowly.  "Only online.  And even then, Deep 
Throat is a pretty good name for CERTAIN chat rooms, eh, Mr. Carter?"  

Chris shuddered, trying desparately not to let an image come to mind. 
Now exasperated, He turned his attention once more to the first two men
and said,  "I'm not quite sure I understand where I am."

Brian rolled his eyes.  "Have you noticed a trend, here, Chris?  Isn't
there something that sticks out about all of us?"  

"Well, you're all dead," said Chris, after thinking a minute "I'm in a
dead character depository," he said aloud, but to himself.  "I hope
Millenium doesn’t have one, too.  Ow!"  He cried as Queequeg, who had
made it's way quietly through the crowd, bit him on the ankle.

"See, Chris, if Queequeg were dead, he wouldn't have been able to do
that. And he's been dying to do that for *months* now," said Melissa,
patting the dog on the head lovingly.  "He doesn't appreciate the fact that
Mulder is allowed to keep a fish tank and fish for three seasons, but Scully's
only companion just gets an appearance in a paltry *3* episodes, and is
killed off within one season."

Queequeg yipped, or barked, whatever pomeranians do.  Melissa nodded. 
"It *is* a clear case of canine discrimination."  She said to the dog.  She
looked back at Chris.  "You're going to be hearing from Queequeg's lawyer
pretty soon."  

"Oh for heaven sakes," said Chris, exasperated.  "So you're not dead. 
Then what are you?"   

Julian ignored the question.  "Mr. Carter, you are here because we want 
you to do something for us."

"Fine, Julian, what can I do for you?"

"Very simply," said the character formerly known as X.  "We want 
an entire episode about us," he said, gesturing to the room full of 
people.

"What?  What are they feeding you down here?  We can't do that!"
Cried Chris.

"Why not?"  Asked a gray haired man from the middle of the crowd.

"Well, the "X-Files" aren't much without the two lead characters, that's 
why.  You should see all the shit we get if we don't put one character 
in equally."

"That's not OUR problem," said Melissa.  "YOU should have 
thought of all this before you made me an illegitimate child!"

"WHAT?"  Yelled Chris.  "You are NOT illegitimate!"

She folded her arms in front of her chest.  "Sure.  Fine.  Whatever.  If 
you don't believe me, check the character bible."

"We don't have one!"  Sputtered Chris.
        
"There you go," she said smugly.

"This is ridiculous!  You are all worse than the fans!  Worse than those 
Netpickers!!!"

The room recoiled in horror.

"That hurt."  Said a voice from Chris' right.  

 Suddenly, the room was in flames with cries of "THAT hurt?  What do you 
mean?  Someone has to catch the errors!" and, "Right on!  Those people
pay WAY too much attention to the show!"

Chris looked on at the pandemonium in a mixture of amusement and horror. 
Was this what it was like when those freaks online got together?  

"I heard that!"  Shouted a tall man with balding, gray hair, and the 
cacophony subsided.  

"Clyde?"  Said Chris incredulously.  "Clyde Bruckman?  You can't know 
what I'm thinking, only how I'll die."  

"Well," he said dryly, "there's not much else to do down here, is there? 
You gave me the ability to develop one form of telepathy, so why not 
develop another?  Hey, do you want to see me bend a spoon with my mind?" 
 
Chris rolled his eyes.  "Look, I'm sorry.  I just thought that the fans 
were a little over-involved.  Now I've found out the bit characters are 
too."  

He immediately regretted this, as this brought a fresh wave of 
indignation to the already slightly unstable crowd.  Angry cries of, "I 
was the pivotal character!", "Where is the show without a villain?" and 
"If the *writers* were as involved as *we* were, we'd be in the top 10
by now!" could be heard.  

Melissa stepped forward, her eyes flashing.  "Mr. Carter, here's an idea 
that you should have gotten used to long ago: no matter what you think 
of the fans, or *us* even, you do not *have* a show without extra 
characters, or an audience," she said crisply.  "So I will thank you to
keep that in mind in the future."  

The room was still for a moment, as everyone digested the impact of her 
words.  

"Duly noted."  Chris finally said.  Then: "This has been...interesting,
to say the least.  But I should be in LAX soon, so I really need to get 
going."  He turned around, but the door had disappeared, leaving only a 
smooth, paneled wall.  

"What the hell?"  

"Not so fast," Mr. Carter, said Julian.  "We still have some unfinished 
business."  

"I already told you, you guys are not getting your own episode!"  

"You've put us in a most particular position, then, Mr. Carter," said 
Deep Throat.  "If you're not going to put us in an episode, then maybe 
you should know what it’s like to be stuck down here with us."

"But to do that..."  Chris said, his mind working frantically.

"Yes, we'd have to kill you," said Deep Throat gravely.  "But it's the 
only way."  

Chris, at this point, was just about fed up.  "You can’t kill me!  I'm 
the creator!"  

Pendrell snorted.  "And *I* was the lovable lab rat who fawned over 
Scully, but did that matter?  Noooooo...*I* had a memorial webpage...
They lit candles online for me..."  He wandered over to the bar,
muttering "Save the puppy, kill the bitch," to himself repeatedly.

"We're getting off track, people," said a portly man dressed in a 
sheriff's uniform.  "This guy had me barbecued by some teenaged punk, 
and I want him to pay!"  He declared, pointing a pudgy finger at Chris. 
 He drew his gun as the crowd shouted encouragement.

"Shoot him in the head!  We don't want to ruin any of his muscle!"  
Shouted another man dressed in a sheriff's uniform.

The commotion stopped.  "What?"  Asked Chris.

"Yeah, for the stew," said the second sheriff, licking his lips.

"Ew!"  

"Gross!"

"Where the *hell* did HE come from?"  

The distraction gave Chris the moment he needed, and his mind clicked.  
"People, people!  I think I have a solution.  If you let me go, I'll let 
all of you decide who's going to be killed off next!"  

Melissa stared in disbelief at Chris.  "But that defeats the whole 
purpose!  You're supposed to realized that we characters aren’t just 
random actors and actresses and words on a page!  We're people who exist 
after you're finished with us, and it's not fair that you so callously 
and casually discard us!"  

Chris stared back at her for a moment.  "Well, now you've told me, now I 
know.  My offer stands."  

Melissa stomped her foot in frustration, but Pendrell, who had returned 
with a full glass during her speech,  leaned over and whispered in her 
ear.  She nodded then said, "Anyone?"  

"Except Mulder and Scully."  

"Fine."  Melissa said.   She turned to face the group.  "Okay guys, 
who's it gonna be?"  She asked.  

"Skinner!"  

"No, that Smoking dude!"

"All that smoke?  We'd be dead from lung cancer in no time!"  Said a 
young woman named Mona.  

"We don't die - that's the point," a voice amended.

The room filled with mutters of "that Cigarette guy" until a dark haired 
woman named Kristin said, "Wait!  We're forgetting that this isn't for 
the betterment of the show only - we have to be stuck with the guy."  

"So?  He seems pretty cool, in an evil sort of way."  

"No," said Kristin, "What if he tries to tell those stupid Roman a clef 
stories?"  

Then came the murmurs, "Well, maybe not..."  

"Frohike!"  Or one of those Lone Ranger geeks!"   

"Lone Gunmen!"  Someone corrected.

"Whatever."  

After hours of arguing, Deep Throat shook his head wearily.  "It's no 
use.  We can't make a choice.  You'll have to kill both of them off."  

"But-but-but I can't kill him!  *How* am I going to do it?"  Cried 
Chris.

"*You're* the writer.  *You* figure it out," said Pendrell, shaking his 
head.  "Sheesh!"  

A contract was produced and signed by Chris, Melissa, and Deep Throat.  

"If you renege on this, Mr. Carter, we *will* get you."  

"I promise I won't," said Chris solemnly, and he suddenly awoke to find 
himself landing in LAX.  "What a terrible dream," he told himself, 
chuckling at the thought of a dead character depository.  

Two days later in Vancouver, Chris returned to his office at the set.  
He looked through the mail and came upon an official looking envelope 
without a return address.  Deciding it didn't fit the criteria for a 
letter bomb, he cautiously opened it.  

It was the signed contract from his dream.  

He sat down at his desk for a minute, staring at it.  Suddenly, he knew 
what to do.  

Chris walked around the set until he found his victim.  "Look, I was 
thinking," he said, putting a friendly arm around his shoulder.  "Darin 
and Tom got to be in episodes.  It's your turn.  I've got this great 
scene with you and Marita in a car in Anacostia.  How's that sound?"  

"Just perfect!"  Said John enthusiastically.  "But, will I be an
informant?  I mean, they always die on this show."  

"What?  No, I mean, I doubt you'll be an informant, you'll be so much
more!  You're going to play a pivotal role in the conspiracy arc!"

"Oh!  In *that* case, then, I'll do it!"  John said with a broad smile.  

"Perfect," said Chris with a sigh of relief.  

The end