Strange Days 7: Vickie (Queen of MTA)
Author: Fox's Gal

December 24, 1998
Well after midnight...
Hmmm...that would make it the 25th...

Some things never changed. No matter how much time went by, Christmas had this effect on her. She wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, no matter how hard she tried. And she knew, rationally, that once she actually got to sleep, she'd be woken up (none too gently) by her brood. So really, sleeping was a waste of time. Right?

"Uh huh...sure...right," she mumbled as she rolled over and tried yet another position that might be more conducive to slumber. Vickie sighed deeply as an old poem ran on an endless loop in her head.

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse...

She pulled the down comforter back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She slipped her feet into slippers and padded downstairs. She had to do something to get to sleep. Perhaps some warm milk would do the trick.

Perhaps some brandy would do the trick better...wouldn't you say?

She shook her head and ignored the taunting voice that echoed through her mind.

Everything was dark. She knew the house so well and was able to maneuver her way around both tree and presents while avoiding stubbed toes. Her creative juices were flowing and she was heading to the one place in the house where she could purge the activity going on in her head. Writing and getting the story that was tromping around up there out on paper would relax her. With any luck she'd be able to get back to bed before the sun started to filter through the window and several pairs of feet began rushing down the stairs to see what "Santa" had brought them. Vickie smiled. She did love Christmas.

She stopped at the kitchen to fix herself a mug of steaming mulled cider. She grabbed two gingerbread cookies and headed back to the computer room. She nibbled on the spicy cookie as the computer booted up. She was lost in thought and only the hotness of the cider brought her back to reality. The computer had booted up while she was lost in her reverie, remembering Christmases past when she, herself, was a little girl running around the tree, shaking the presents that had her name on them. Her parents would only smile and shake their heads, as if they knew some age-old secret that she, at the age of eight, could never know. Now that she was a mother, she knew what they were smiling about because she found her own lips curling in an identical enigmatic grin as she watched her children's excitement mirror her own.

She sighed softly and decided, late as it was, to check the MTA site for updates. Her mind was still somewhere in the snowy past where the scents of hot chocolate, peppermint and pine permeated the house. When she looked up at the screen, she was more than a little disturbed to see a plain white screen. The words "FILE NOT FOUND" glared at her in black, bold text.

"What the...?" Though her voice was soft, it echoed in the loud room. Furrowing her brow, she retyped the address of the site. Again, the same message came up.

What could have possibly happened? Was the site down for some reason? Was Shirley updating the page? But even if she were, that certainly wouldn't have happened... Vickie tried to think of reasons why the page wasn't there. The only explanation that came to mind was that the page had been shut down. The very idea of the MulderTorture site being shut down filled her with an interminable sense of loss mingled with red, hot anger. Her hands were shaking as she opened up her email program. She addressed the message to Shirley and found that her usually nimble fingers flew over the keys at an even faster rate.

TO: mulder1@banet.net
From: vmoseley@fgi.net

Shirley,

Something's wrong with the MTA page. It says "File Not Found." Is anything wrong?

Vickie

She clicked "send" and sat back. The page was Shirley's baby. The very idea of it being shut down...

"No. It must be some mistake," she muttered. It had to be some sort of weird, warped mistake. There was just no other feasible explanation.

Shaking her head and taking another bite of cookie, she decided that now would be as good a time as any to work on some fiction. The characters had become as dear to her as if they were as real as they were in her imagination. She hadn't thought herself the type to get into fiction writing. It turned into one of the best escapes she could have ever come up with. And if there was one thing everyone needed from time to time; it was an escape.

The idea presently bouncing off the inside of Vickie's cranium was another piece of Fox as a child. She thought of doing a holiday piece of sorts, perhaps to explain Mulder's disdain for holidays and family festivities in general. Granted, there were plenty of stories out there that offered each author's different viewpoint on why Mulder was the way Mulder was. Some writers emphasized the allusions to abuse that might have had a place in his past. Others took the character of Mrs. Mulder and ran with it; making her an unfeeling, selfish bitch. Everybody was entitled to their own opinions, of course...Vickie preferred to write about Mulder's childhood with a slightly different spin on things.

Who likes to be cliché, anyway?

Now that she had the notion in her head, there was no stopping her. She opened up her word processing program and decided to start right away. A blank screen beckoned at her to try to erase its void with words strung together to make a story. It was always a challenge, trying to come up with new and original ideas. Though, she'd be the first to admit that sometimes the old standbys were good for a quick read as well.

Perhaps why the concept of MulderTorture was such a popular one. There were so many options for plots. The romance sites...well, there were only so many ways Mulder and Scully could get into bed. But Mulder getting into trouble...he just had a knack for it. It made for great plots and interesting reads. She thought briefly about the potential for ScullyTorture. It just didn't have the same ring to it. Though there were possibilities, it just seemed a little far fetched that the cooler, more analytical agent would do something so stupid as to get herself in the kind of trouble her partner got into.

Vickie chuckled to herself softly. "No, a STA site just wouldn't go over well. It's not that much fun to psychologically torture Scully..."

She lightly tapped her fingers on the keyboard, trying to think of an opening line for this story. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, centering herself and focusing her creative energy.

"Okay, ready." Her fingers flew over the keys rapidly, and she wasn't sure how much she had typed-or would have typed-had the computer been printing the words she had been typing. Alas, there was nothing on the screen.

Angrily, Vickie hit several keys in an effort to make something appear on the screen. Unfortunately, this was all to no avail. Nothing was showing up on the screen.

"That's enough of this. It's time to go back to bed. It's too late to be dealing with these kinds of antics." She closed her eyes and stretched tiredly. It might have been the frustration induced by a frozen up keyboard, but suddenly Vickie was very tired and ready to give slumber another try.

She relaxed from the stretch and opened her eyes. She was more than slightly surprised to see a line of text on the screen.

So, you're the one. Funny, you don't look like the type.

Excuse me? What the hell is going on here?

I don't know. You tell me. It would appear that you're the catalyst for this reaction. If anyone should know, it should be you.

Forgetting that her keyboard had locked up earlier, she began to type again.

Why don't you enlighten me on what you're talking about?

She waited for a few seconds before a stream of text appeared on the screen much, she assumed, like the first one.

I'm talking about your sick, sadistic excuse for a hobby. That's what I'm talking about.

"What?"

Just then a voice, softer than her own, sounded through the room.

"I'm talking about your participation in the MTA site. Okay? That's what I'm talking about." He stopped for a second and snorted. "Participation. That's a nice word. I think it would be more apt to say that you are the entire reason that site is even there. I'm not sure whether to thank you or to shoot you.

Startled, she turned around. Whoa, wait a minute. Could I have a strong helping of reality please? To say seeing Special Agent Fox Mulder sitting on a chair in her computer room was a surprise would have been the understatement of the millenium. He looked every inch the G-man in his black trenchcoat and charcoal suit. She vaguely noted that it was the same suit he wore whilst chasing shape shifting men with tails in Small Potatoes. He was sitting backwards on a hard wooden chair, the back of the chair pressed against his chest. He was looking at her expectantly.

Vickie was lost. "Excuse me?"

"Which should I do? Thank you or shoot you?"

"Shooting me might prove messy. Why not just thank me instead?"

He looked at her and rolled his eyes. "She thinks I should thank her..."

"And why shouldn't you? Give me one reason why you shouldn't thank me!"

"Could we start with the fact that I haven't been able to get a decent night's sleep in ages? Could we just start with that? Y'know, it wouldn't have been so bad if it had only been you doing the fanfic. I mean, I can handle a little abuse. I'm a strong person, really. If it had only been you doing the Mulder Torture, then I might have an easier time with it. However, it seems that that's what takes up most of my time these days. There used to be a huge rush on the erotica stories," he shuddered, "but that seems to have died out ever so slightly. The big thing these days is MTA. What's the fascination with angst anyway?"

"Well...umm..."

"Mulder."

"Well Mulder, you see, I think people like the challenge that writing angst and torture presents. It's easy to write a happy piece where you guys do nothing more involved than having sex."

"We prefer the term 'making love.'"

She shrugged. "Poh-tay-to, poh-tah-to. Regardless, I think it has to do with the challenge it presents."

"But don't you feel like you're surrounded by wannabes? Don't you feel like people are adopting the topic you made popular?"

Vickie blushed. "I think you're exaggerating. I wasn't the one who made MTA popular. The fans have. They see there's more to fanfic than you discovering what kind of panties Scully wears."

He laughed softly at this. "You don't fool me. You're a die hard 'shipper' too."

She looked down quickly. "Guilty as charged. But you must admit, it's a good mix between the two. And I wouldn't call what I write erotica. I don't get graphic at all. And, just to be fair, most of my torture pieces have to do with things that happened to you as a child. Going on the whole concept that you should have been the one chosen to go rather than Samantha.

A cloud settled over his features for a moment. "I'm not sure how much I like you people delving into my life and changing aspects of my past."

She shrugged. "Sorry Mulder. A good character is developed all the way around. The only way we can explain your self destructive behavior is by examining things that we think might have gone on in your past to make you the way you are."

There was a moment of silence before he broke out in a jubilant belly laugh. "You sound more like a psychologist than I do!"

They both laughed for a few moments and Vickie had a little more time to contnemplate the situation. This was weird, to say the least. The only viable explanation was that she had fallen asleep. She was so very tired...

"Vickie?" He was trying to get her attention.

"Mmmm?"

"I've asked a few people this question and...well...I need to ask you. I think you're the only one who can answer my question. What kind of pleasure does making my life an interminable hell give you? I just have to know. I have to know why you and the others insist on stabbing me, poisoning me, kidnapping me, running tests one me...I have to know why."

She thought about this for a second. "Y'know, you're just a tragic character. You make us feel for you. I'm not sure if we as fans sympathize as much as we empathize for you. You make us feel things. Your character...well, you're just a very Romantic character...and I don't mean 'romantic' in the contemporary sense, but in the literary sense. The type of character--"

"Umm, would it be too much for you to stop referring to me as a 'character'?"

"What would you prefer?"

"Person," he stated simply.

"Okay...um, the type of person you are...well, it just seems natural to put you in trying and stressful situations. As long as you come out of it triumphant, what does it matter?"

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Well, that's all well and good, but sometimes I don't come out on top. Those character death stories...well, to say they're disturbing...I don't know which is worse; me dying or Scully dying and me killing myself. I'm sorry, but I wouldn't do something like that. I just wouldn't, okay?"

Vickie straightened up in her chair. "I have never done something so utterly cliché."

"I know, and I thank you."

"You're welcome."

There was a long beat of silence.

"You're still going to keep this up, aren't you?"

She only shrugged. "Sorry, Mulder. This is a hobby of mine. I'll try to keep your feelings in mind--" she stopped short when she realized what she was saying. Feelings? Hello! Fictional character here! Soon she noticed that Mulder was throwing her a wry smile.

"You still insist that I'm fictional. Everyone...all of you have. What's it going to take?"

Smiling, Vickie was about to ask for something that could be programmed, categorized or easily referenced. Hesitant footfalls on the stairs distracted her for a moment and she turned her head in the direction of the stairway.

She heard warm breath on her ear whisper, "Merry Christmas, Vickie."

"Mommy?" The whisper filtered through the holiday darkness.

She turned her head back to where the whisper had come from, but the room was empty...

She shook her head in an effort to clear it. "In here sweetie...in here."

The room was empty, her cider was now cold and the MTA site was glowing brightly on the computer screen. Had there not been the lightest tone of aftershave in the air, she would have been convinced that the last half an hour had been a dream. There was a slight figure standing in the doorway clad in footed pajamas. Tiny hands rubbed sleepily at tired eyes.

"Did Santa come yet?"

Vickie wasn't entirely sure how to answer that...

"Not yet sweetheart. Come on, let's get you back to bed before he comes."

She collected the small child in her arms and switched off the light in the room with a free hand. She gave the wooden chair he had been sitting in a backwards glance.

...And to all a good night...