The Twi-Files: The Truth: Prologue

Rated M for Sculdermully and Bedward yumminess.

This fic is interrupting our regularly scheduled programming at the behest of one man: Anthony, aka Mr jmolly, who has been begging for it for 8 months now.

Happy Father's Day, Dear. Hope you're happy with it. Xoox

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is merely coincidental.

Music for this chapter can be found at youtubedotcom/jmollytwilight2, on the playlist 'X Marks the Spot', beginning at #1:

'The X-Files Theme: I Want to Believe', by Mark Snow

I had to play with the time lines a bit, since I wanted to fit this story into my canon. So we're pretending Season 7 of the X-Files took place in 2010, not 1999.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, District of Columbia:

July 4th , 2010:

The pencil thwacked into the suspended ceiling, quivered, and stayed there in the cheap tiles, hanging, along with a couple of dozen others, like a bizarre porcupine sculpture. Mulder looked at it, musing. Waiting for his partner. He tapped another one against the sole of his shoe, impatiently.

Two more joined the congregation on the ceiling before the determined click of her high heels was heard on the old linoleum floor of the hallway. He turned in his broken-down chair, anticipating the moment she would open the door.

"Scully," he smiled, his eyes lighting with pleasure.

"Mulder. There are such things as Sundays in the Park with my sister's kids, you know? Especially on the Fourth. What kind of bee do you have in your bonnet this time? Do you realize it's 5 am?"

"Ooh. Somebody's a little grumpy this morning. I'm going to take you for a nice café mocha on the way to the airport. C'mon, Scully. You're gonna love this. And we're going to a park. A great big one. The Olympic National Park, near Seattle."

"Mulder," she huffed, looking at the floor and counting to ten in her head.

Mulder sprang up from his chair, and squeezed her rigid shoulders. Unconsciously, Scully melted against his beautiful hands. His much-wanted touch. Not that she would admit that to herself. They were playing a game. Dancing around the idea that they were more than friends.

They were afraid to be more than friends. The FBI did not allow partners to date. The Powers that Be, save Executive Director Skinner (who kept his suspicions to himself), would jump on any excuse to split them up. And the X-Files would be done away with for good.

"Scul-ly," he wheedled, "Come on. Dana, this is going to be great. A real adventure. I promise, if you want time in the park, I will take you out in the wilderness for a real walk. See the redwoods, the wildflowers, the mountains..." he sang, painting pictures in her head. " I bet we could even fit in a trip to the Hot Springs before the brass kick our asses home."

"Hot Springs?" she asked weakly.

"Ye-ah. You should bring your bathing suit. But you'll need your raincoat, too, because it rains a lot there. And good boots. None of those high heels, you hear me? I don't want to be carrying you around the Rainforest with a twisted ankle." Of their own volition, his fingers were trailing up and down her arm, picturing her in a black bikini, not in her formal business attire. He had to admire her fabulous legs. A bikini would let him see all of them.

Not that he hadn't seen her naked, when he pulled her out of the alien ship in the Antarctic, but there hadn't been time to enjoy. Besides, she had been unconscious.

Having her naked and conscious would be so much more fun, he decided. Especially if nothing was trying to kill them at the time.

"Well, it has been a long time since I saw Mount Olympus," Scully waffled. Scully could never say 'no' to Mulder. Why was that? Life would be so much simpler if only she could tell him 'no'. But that's what love does. It makes you compromise on stuff you don't want to compromise on. Like Sundays off.

"Please, Scully? Please? Come with me?" Mulder asked softly, wishing he could reach out and touch her silky hair.

Scully looked at his full, soft lips, resisting the urge to close the distance between them, and suck the lower one between her teeth. They had kissed, way back on New Year's. Perhaps the kiss was longer than a kiss between friends ought to be. Perhaps it hadn't been long enough. No, it definitely had not been long enough.

She had not stopped thinking about kissing Mulder since. It was only a normal human reaction to a nice-looking specimen that made her feminine parts twitch, she told herself. Only normal to want someone who shared such a special bond with her.

Even if they did disagree on practically everything.

Consequently, she had to make excuses not to go on this trip.

"I don't have anywhere to put Queequag," she protested.

"Then bring him. Dana? That dog needs to be a dog. He's been shut in apartments most of his sad, ridiculously fluffy little life like a stuffed toy. Bring him out. Let him run around. Chase some Douglas Squirrels or something."

Summertime on the Olympic Peninsula. It would almost be like a holiday. Except for one thing.

Scully sighed, bowing her head. Her lovely red hair hung in a sheet over her eyes. It smelled like lilacs. How Mulder relished that scent. He wanted to put his fists into her hair, and drag her face up, and kiss her so thoroughly that she would forget to be proper, and throw herself around him, and let him take her right there on top of her ever-so-organized desk. He would push up her skirt and ...

Scully shut her eyes, remonstrating with herself. "What's the case?" she moaned.

Mulder couldn't resist taking her face between his hands and planting a feather-light kiss on her soft mouth. He sped away from her, intent on giving his usual slide show. Because his back was turned, he didn't see how she caught herself in the act of reaching out for him, or see the conflicted look in her eyes as she touched her lips with confused fingers. She smoothed her skirt with damp palms, marshaling her thoughts.

"Olympic Peninsula, Washington State," he began. "Since May, there have been a series of unexplained deaths, all with the same characteristics, progressively more daring. Four murders, of people who apparently have nothing in common. The work of a person, or persons, unknown.

"A well-renowned surgeon has been threatened. Since the first body was found, he appears to have been the target. Each victim has been found with a sign around its neck, painted with the words 'Carlisle Cullen' in blood. To wit, said doctor's name. The doctor has been able to account for all his time, around the time of the murders. He shrugs off any warning that someone may be out to kill him.

"Aside from that, he and his family have been less than forthcoming. And the police chief, Charles Swan, a very respectable individual with an excellent track record, whose daughter is married to the doctor's youngest son, has also been less than helpful.

"They know, Scully. They know who is doing this. And they're not telling. Perhaps they're being blackmailed. Or else it's someone they know. The whole bunch of them are sealed up tighter than a virgin's a-"

Mulder!" Scully exclaimed, exasperated. "Would you kindly get to the point? Obviously, for some reason, you think this is an X-File. I haven't heard anything inexplicable yet." Scully hugged herself, half-hoping that Mulder would come up with some reason to justify the trip.

"Two things, Scully. First? The bodies."

"What about them?" she insisted.

Mulder put up his first slide. "The first victim, Randall Williams, Caucasian, age 46, as you see, grossly obese, was found sitting up in the high school cafeteria in Forks, on a Monday afternoon. Nobody saw how he got there. Quite the lunchtime entrée, wouldn't you say?" Mulder flashed the next slide.

"The second victim, Toby Brightman, African American, age 22, was found outside the downtown Piggly Wiggly in Seattle, at six o'clock on the following Friday night. Again, nobody knows how he got seated at that picnic table."

Mulder clicked on the third slide. "Sheila Cooper. Found sitting in a booth at the Bella Italia Restaurant in Port Angeles, at 8pm a week from that Saturday. There was a 20 minute wait to get into the restaurant that night, and nobody saw anybody dump the body."

"So they've all been found at busy times of day, in locations suggestive of eating," Scully summarized.

"All except the most recent victim. Margery Thompson, Quileute Tribe, was found twenty feet up a Douglas Fir, at a small Native community called La Push. The locals there have been particularly resistant to helping the authorities.

"The wounds inflicted on the victims are different. And the evidence shows more than one killer is likely involved. But they all have one thing in common," he enthused.

"What's that?" Scully asked, curious in spite of herself.

"The bodies. They're totally exsanguinated. Not a drop of blood left in them." He waited, smugly, for her to tell him he was right. It was definitely a case for the X-Files.

"Aw, Mulder? You want us to fly across the entire country to chase vampires again? You must be kidding me, right? We've already been through it once, and that was enough for me."

"You ought to believe it's possible, based on previous experience. And there's something else." He waited, hook baited, for her to bite.

"What's that, Mulder?" Scully moaned weakly.

"The doctor, and his family? They're like, totally creepy according to most of the locals. They moved to Forks in the year 2001. Cullen and his wife couldn't have kids, so they adopted two adolescent boys and a girl, and fostered a pair of twins who later married the eldest son and the daughter. It's the youngest son who's married to the Swan girl. Anyhow, most of the locals don't trust them, although the youngest has managed to make some friends who remember him fondly. Nobody's seen him or his wife since their wedding five years ago. People thought the young couple moved away although he still pays taxes and claims principal residency at the father's address. He did marry within the community, so you'd think he'd be part of it.

"The Cullens are extremely pale and cold to the touch. The officer from Seattle told me. And the local rumour mill is rife with stories about them. People claim they all have the same health condition, and it includes a lot of food allergies. The eight of them all live together in a mansion out in the woods. They're richer than the Catholic Church."

"Sounds like small-town outsider prejudice to me," Scully decided.

"Yeah. But then, there's this," Mulder said, ante-ing up. He flashed a picture of the doctor's hospital ID up on the screen. "Look at the year, Scully."

"2002. So what?" Scully asked. The doctor looked like a nice man. She didn't like the thought of him being insulted just because he was new to the town. She didn't like gossip.

"Look at this one," Mulder said excitedly, flashing another picture ID.


"He hasn't aged a day," Mulder said passionately. "Now, this one." He played his trump. A hospital ID from Alaska, dated 1997.

Scully edged closer to the screen, frowning. Mulder put the two pictures up beside each other. The photos were virtually identical. Thirteen years apart.

"How old is this doctor?" Scully asked, the clinical part of her brain kicking in.

"According to his British immigration papers? Thirty-eight."

"But ... he looks like ... a college kid."

"And get this." Mulder put up a new slide. "This is his youngest son, Edward. He's twenty-four."

"He ... doesn't look old enough to shave," Scully remarked, forehead wrinkling.

"His wife, Isabella, age twenty-four." Click. "His sister, Alice, twenty-six." Click. "His brother, Emmett, twenty-eight." Click. "His mother, Esme, thirty-eight."

Scully gasped. "There is no way any of them can be that old. And they all look alike. Are you sure they're not biologically related?"

"Yep. Got the adoption certificates right here." Mulder patted his folder happily. "And there's one more Cullen. She's also adopted. Her birth certificate says her father was William Masen, biological brother to Edward Cullen. He and his wife were killed in a car crash nearly five years ago, leaving their infant daughter to be raised by Edward and Isabella. They changed her name from Elizabeth Marie Masen to Renesmee Carlie Masen Cullen. It's common knowledge that she was named after both grandmothers and grandfathers as Edward openly admits to being sterile and they wanted to honour their parents. The child was born November 20th, 2005.

"So they got her when she was little, and they're raising her. That's very good of them, Mulder. What's so strange about that?" Scully asked grumpily.

"She's ageing prematurely. According to her medical file, administered by her grandfather, the child has developed to the equivalent physical maturity of a ten-year-old."

"A very small percentage of children are born, who age prematurely, Mulder. Some are born fully-formed after only a few months gestation. It doesn't mean there's anything supernatural going on," Scully protested strongly.

"But look at her, Scully. Just look," Mulder coaxed.

The picture of the child flashed up on the screen, and Scully stared, transfixed.

Bronze curls engulfed a heart-shaped face, with the strange topaz eyes shared by all the Cullens. The child was exquisite. Scully's heart panged. Except for the eye colour, she could very well have been Emily.

Mulder clicked his projector again, putting the pictures of Edward and his wife up on either side of the child's.

Renesmee Cullen was the spitting image of her adopted mother. And the way her hair curled, along with the colour, matched her adopted father's exactly.

"Your a doctor, Scully. You tell me they're not her parents," Mulder challenged, pacing.

"I don't know, Mulder. You probably don't have any pictures of William Masen or his wife, right?"

"No, and I grant you she could look like her uncle as much as she could look like her father. But the shape of the face. It's just like her so-called aunt's. And her mouth. Look at that. I'm telling you, Scully, that's their kid. Why would they lie about it?"

"Well, they'd have been pretty young when she was born," Scully suggested. "If, indeed, the child is theirs, they might have been afraid of the local grapevine."

"Afraid enough to concoct a complicated story about her birth? Afraid enough to obtain false documentation concerning her adoption? Afraid enough to construct birth parents who don't exist?"

"What do you mean, 'birth parents who don't exist' ?" Scully frowned.

"Exactly what I said. There are no records anywhere, confirming the existence of William and Lizzie Masen. No tax records, no birth or death certificates, no proof of residency or immigration. I'm telling you, Scully, the document in my hand is a masterful forgery. An elaborate ruse to keep people from finding out the truth."

"And what truth is that?" Scully asked, eyeing Mulder skeptically.

"That the Cullens are immortals, and that child is special, and the biological child of Edward and Isabella Cullen." Mulder turned off his slide projector, looking as though he would like to take a bow. "So. The plane leaves at 9 am. We need to get busy. We'll leave my car here, and take yours home so you can pack and get Queequag. Then, we'll catch a cab to the airport, okay?"

"Fine," Scully sighed, eyes rolling. Why did life have to be so complicated?