When I stepped out of the room, I was a different man. More so machine than human. I no longer felt guilt nor did I mind about myself. I knew my death is pending. It is August 12th, 1992. We are in Texas preparing for departure. I still had to make sure these two got off the planet in tact.

Four more hours till the sky is dark.

Ring, ring, ring.

I picked up the phone.

"Qreg here," I said. "Who is this?"

"Scully," Scully said. "I got in contact with your friend Data . . Over the past two months." There is a pause. "He told me to call you if something strange happens regarding Mulder's return. . ."

"And?" I asked.

"I have not seen him in two days," Scully said. "I am concerned about Mulder. . . He left a note on the desk saying he has some mission to take care of." Normally I would feel relieved to hear those words. But . . . I had no feelings. "Tell me. . .  tell me my partner is going to come back alive."

"He will come back," I said. But I won't, I thought. "Something happened. You believe me now."

Scully sighed. ­

"Mulder ripped his skin off his right arm." Scully said.

"Ah, that must have been scary." I remarked.

"But it is still Mulder," Scully said. "He devotes every minute of his life to the X-Files, machine or not."

I briefly closed my eyes then reopened them.

"You'll see him in two days," I said. "Goodbye, Agent Scully."

And I hung up on her.