by Pattie
4 years ago
Rated: G Category: A, Mytharc, Post-Series Spoiler(s): Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man, The Truth, small hints at various other episodes. Summary: Life is like a box of chocolates: you just never know the surprises you'll find before you get to the bottom. Feedback: Welcome, along with suggestions: patfiler2016@outlook.com Archive: Gossamer, if they ever decide to update again. Anybody else, just ask politley. Disclaimers: Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Studios own the characters and the show. ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO NOVEMBER 3, 2002 After several months of travel through many hands, many states, even a couple of countries, the letter finally reached its destination. The person who was meant to read it made note of the fact that it had no return address, and was dropped onto his doorstep. Just like that. It was ironic that a piece of mail could go through so many post offices and customs agencies, and suddenly appear on a doorstep instead of in a regular mail box among the reader's family and friends, or at least the front desk of the little no tell motel. However, the recipient prepared himself to read it, as he was very curious that it was addressed to him by proper first and last name, type-written, and quite yellow with age and reeking of old tobacco. He sat on the worn sofa of the little motel room and began. "My Dear Son: "How different my life could have been if I had been a 'success' in something I had dreamed of doing, instead of walking the road that led me nowhere. However, Fate had another plan for me, and try as I did, I could not make my dream come true. So, I settled for a nightmare. "As you read this letter, you know that I am dead. Gone. Whatever has claimed my life, I can only hope that you have been spared, and that you know what I speak of in writing these words. The man you knew as your father, whose last name you bear, had no idea what we would all become as time passed. He is dead as I write. "There are things that happen to everyone that, along with heredity, make them who they are. You know that from your education, which we all ensured would give you the wisdom to carry on what may seem a horribly lonely, arduous quest. At times, we tried to keep you from discovering some of the knowledge you have now, persuaded by a powerful group of men from whom I tried to protect you. It was also my task to ruin you at one time, and I did not succeed, as you well know. Perhaps it is best that I did not let their directions lead me to your destruction. The near loss of your partner to cancer was enough to hurt you perhaps more than even you knew. "This life that I led did not begin at home, in school, or on some dusty inner-city playground. I suppose you might find it rather difficult to picture me as an innocent child. Nonetheless, there came a time in my life when I had to make some decisions, even follow rules of which I did not approve. Doesn't everyone? I could have declined the invitation to become a part of history, and perhaps died in Viet Nam. Perhaps I felt I was making a difference in some of the things I did. You will never to know how I handled the 1960's. Your Dad was so pleased when you uttered your first words: "J.F.K'. "Whenever I had the time, I sat at this very typewriter inventing what I thought were remarkably riveting adventure stories, which publisher after publisher rejected. I was told my stories were too far-fetched, too exaggerated. So, I continued on the path that led to my demise. Your father had a picture of you at an early age, in your mother's arms. I carried a duplicate of that picture around for many, many years. I looked at it whenever I was beginning to lose hope. Yes, I know that sounds bizarre, and you hate me. You hate the decision that had to be made in the 1970's. For years, you felt you could have saved her. For that, I must apologize, but your intellect somehow understands what was at stake. "You had a fairly normal upbringing, until the day your sister was taken, for reasons which you already are aware. I had no siblings. My mother, your grandmother, died of lung cancer before I was able to speak. Sadly, I did not remember her. As for my father, your grandfather, I have no recollection of him other than what I was told: He was a Stalinist Agent, quite the Communist afficionado, and was executed in the electric chair because he informed the Russians and Nazis of America's plans to join World War 2. "I was moved from orphanage to orphanage, with no living relatives, kept to myself and read when I could have been playing. Perhaps it was out of loneliness that I befriended your father when I joined the army. We were at Fort Bragg together, and I had occasion to socialize with him and your mother. Your father and I became best friends. We were also comrades in an agreement, among our other friends, to deal with the aliens and because this country forced me to follow orders I could not resist as I was a victim of my father's treason, I joined in a Consortium of men, and failed all of you. My friends didn't have to die. You saw them die. I know that much. I know that Cassandra became a good friend to you, and I sold her as well as Jeffrey into the testing and lies. Jeffrey was born when Samntha was two years of age. At least he now knows he has a brother. I had no idea as to how to raise a family or encourage a son. "Since I am dead, or you would not have received this letter, I must leave it to you to use the information you have gathered all these years. With Agent Scully, and your son, I am sure you will never feel the need to write a letter such as this. "You must wonder if I had regrets. I do not regret trying to stall you in your search. That was a matter of protection. The information you had was but the tip of the iceberg back then. "I do regret that I never became a well-known author. Deep inside, I suppose I craved a normal life. You know, time grows short. If cancer does not kill me, I know someone out there will. Forgive me. "Your father, C.G.B. Spender." Carefully, the son folded the letter as his fellow traveller exited the bathroom in a robe, hair wrapped in a towel. "Mail? Way out here, Mulder?" Mulder sat quietly for a moment, closing his eyes as if to wake himself from half-sleep. "What is it, Mulder?" His companion sat beside him and peered at the folded, yellowed paper. "I don't know how it got here, Scully. I just found this on the doorstep. Even after I read it, I couldn't fathom who knew where to send me a letter like this. It's from Old Smokey." Scully frowned, and put her hand on his. "Care to share? He couldn't have possibly made it through the explosion." "He... I wouldn't have gotten this if he had." He gave the letter to Scully and stared at his shoes. "I have to wonder if Jeffrey received a similar message." As Scully began to read the final words the Cigarette Smoking Man had written for Mulder, a younger man, his face badly disfigured, sat outside a camper in the middle of nowhere, somewhere is the desert of Arizona, and began to read an age-yellowed piece of paper, with the odor of stale tobacco rising from the words. "My Dear Son... "