Title: Roulette - Russian Style
Author: Mercury Number One
Category:  Story, Angst, Mulder  POV
Rating: R
Feedback: mercury_2000_1999@yahoo.com
Summary: Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head,
pull the trigger. Click.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and The X-Files belong to
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. 
No copyright infringement intended and no money is
being made from this story.
Author' Note: Season 8, Season 9, Doggett, Reyes. A
Mercury knows not of these things.


Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Nobody will be surprised when they hear about this,
about what I've done. The news will spread through the
Hoover building, agents will stand in the bull pen and
tell each other all about it. I can see them in my
minds eye, all those soberly dressed federal agents,
drinking coffee and shaking their heads dolefully as
they talk about me. Poor Spooky Mulder, they'll say.
We should have known he'd do it, sooner or later. We
always knew he was crazy.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

But I'm not crazy. I'm just tired, sick of the whole
mess. I'm sick of the life I live, sick of being an
embarrassment to my superiors, of being the butt of
every joke. I'm sick of being shut away in the
basement, lurking down there like a troll under a
bridge.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

My life has been a complete waste. I dedicated myself
to the discovery of truth and the exposure of lies.
And yet, after all these years, I am no closer to the
truth than I was when I began. It's all come to
nothing. I tried so long and struggled for so long,
and for what? What have I got, what have I achieved?

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger.  Click.

So many years of being lied to. So much information
withheld, so many years spent carefully gathering
evidence, and then having it snatched away from me by
unseen hands. So many years fighting shadows, so many
years playing a rigged game.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

But I've never been a player, have I? I saw myself as
a hero on a quest, a man on a mission. I would expose
the truth, save the world from the alien threat. I
wanted to expose those men who sought to conceal the
truth, wanted to drag them kicking and screaming into
the sunlight for everyone to see.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Talk about delusions of grandeur. In reality I was a
puppet on strings, a pawn. Free will was never a
factor for me, my destiny was decided before I was
born. The actions of my father sealed the fate of his
son. My whole life I've been controlled, moved around
the board, manipulated by the very people I was trying
to expose.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

I've never been a threat to them, I've never come
close to exposing the truth. If I had, I'd be dead by
now. I've seen how they operate, how quickly they move
when they feel threatened. Anybody who comes close to
exposing them does not live for long. So why am I
still alive? And forget that crap about how killing me
would turn me into a martyr. Kill me and risk turning
my obsession into a crusade? Oh please, spare me that
bullshit. They haven't killed me because they don't
want to kill me. And a couple of well-staged attempts
on my life don't count. The truth is, I'm more use to
them alive. And so is Scully.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Oh, but it hurts to think about Scully. Close my eyes
and I can still see her, see the way she looked the
very first day she stepped into my office and
introduced herself. So young, so innocent, she really
didn't know what she was letting herself in for. But
she learned, oh yes, she learned all right. 

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Taken away, experimented on, returned and dumped into
a hospital to die. She's had her ability to bear
children taken away from her, and she had to stand by
and watch her daughter die, a daughter she didn't even
know she had. She probably still blames herself for
her sister's death. After all, Melissa was shot in
Scully's apartment, the recipient of a bullet intended
for Scully. And, of course,  I have to mention her
cancer, a whole new chapter in Scully's tale of woe.
Her near death and subsequent recovery was worthy of
one of those movies of the week they show on tv all
the time.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

But she refused to leave me, even when I begged her
to. I told her to go, to get as far away from me as
possible, but she wouldn't listen. She was determined
to stay by my side, right to our journey's end. And
what a long and rocky road it has been. So much pain,
so much suffering, we have waded through rivers of
blood. And I couldn't help but wonder, what further
horrors lay in store for her? What if she was taken
again, tortured, experimented on? And dumped by the
side of the road, left to die, reduced to a piece of
human trash when she was of no more use to them? I
couldn't bear the thought of it.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

But she's safe now, they can't hurt her anymore. I
took care of that earlier this evening, when I called
to her apartment.  She didn't seem surprised to see
me, but then, why would she be? We weren't just
partners, we were friends, there was nothing strange
in one of us showing up at the others apartment. But
Scully would never have let me in if she had known
what I was there to do.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

She smiled when she opened her front door and found me
there. I smiled back, careful to keep my gun - with
silencer attached - hidden from her sight. She asked
me in, asked me if I'd like some coffee. I told her
I'd love some. Ah Scully, you never suspected a thing,
did you? I followed her into the kitchen, one hand
hidden behind my back at all times. I waited until she
turned away from me. Then I raised the gun and pulled
the trigger.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

She cried out once as she fell to the floor. I dropped
the gun, knelt beside her, turned her over to face me.
Her eyes were open, and, as I leaned over her, they
focused on me. I detected no anger in them, only
puzzlement. Why, she seemed to ask me, why did I do
this to her?  I pulled her into my arms, and, as her
life ebbed away, I explained it all to her. I told her
it was the only way, the only way to keep her out of
their clutches, the only way to keep her safe. I
couldn't just take my own life and leave her
unprotected. It had to be this way.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Did she hear me? Did she understand? Maybe. Maybe not.
Doesn't matter.  I held her until the end. When it was
all over and she'd breathed her last, I lifted her and
carried her into the living room. I laid her on the
couch, covered her with a blanket, closed her eyes.
She looked so peaceful, lying there. So beautiful. I
kissed her cheek and walked out of her apartment.

Spin the cylinder, put the gun to my head, pull the
trigger. Click.

Now I sit on the floor of my own apartment, playing my
little game, the last game I'll ever play. How many
times have I spun the cylinder of this gun, how many
times have I put the barrel to my temple, how many
times have I pulled the trigger? I don't know, and
suddenly, I don't care. I'm tired of this game. I get
to my feet, pull open the desk drawer and pull out the
box of bullets. No more games, no more delays, no more
bullshit. Game over, man. Right here, right now.

Load the gun. Put the gun to my head. Pull the
trigger.

The End