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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... "
END
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