Disclaimer - The characters contained in this story are 
the creative property of 1013 Productions and FOX 
Broadcasting.
 
Keywords:  None
Classific: S
Spoilers:  En Ami (US7)
Rating:    Strong PG.  Some swearing ahead.
Summary:   What happened just prior to The Lone Gunmen 
           showing up at Mulder's apartment.
 
Notes follow story.
With many thanks to The Lone Gunmen Mailing List for beta, 
feedback, support, and for not reporting us to the 
authorities. 
 
Causa Latet, Vis Et Notissima
by SallyH and Martha
sallyh@webuniverse.net
marthalgm@yahoo.com
 
Lone Gunmen Headquarters
early evening
 
"Out of bounds!"  The announcer's voice blared from the TV 
screen.
 
Langly immediately reacted, rather vociferously, to the 
announcement.  "That is total BS, man.  He was nowhere 
*near* the line."
 
Frohike leaned back in his chair, sipping a J&B neat, with 
a look of distaste crossing his face.  "That ref should 
learn to cover his ass.  His head's been stuck up there 
too long."
 
"It is his least vulnerable spot," Byers commented dryly.
 
Langly settled back on the sofa with his Mountain Dew and 
popcorn.  "At least they got game."
 
Byers agreed.  "Maryland versus N C State does not usually 
disappoint."
 
"Yeah, now if they'd just get rid of that lameass referee, 
maybe they could play some of that game."  Frohike held up 
his now-empty glass.  "I need another hit.  Anyone want 
anything while I'm up?"
 
"I'm cool," Langly called.
 
"Nothing for me, thank you," Byers responded in the form 
instilled in him during his upper-middle-class 
authoritarian upbringing.
 
Frohike wandered into the kitchen towards what passed for 
a liquor cabinet, ready to pour another two fingers of the 
golden bitter concoction that accompanied him to all 
sporting events.  March Madness was in full swing.  
`Better get a case,' he reminded himself.  The UCLA-
Stanford game was in two days.
 
"Oh, man, Frohike, check this babe out."  Langly's 
screeching from the other room finally registered on his 
ears.  "You've never seen legs like this."
 
Frohike set down the bottle but, as soon as he was about 
to check out the attributes of said nubile young thing on 
the screen, the phone rang.
 
"What the?  I tell you, there is no respect for the 
sanctity of basketball anymore."  He groaned loudly as he 
picked up the receiver.  "Lone Gunmen.  What the hell do 
you want?"
 
"Frohike, I need your assistance."  The well-recognized 
voice of Fox Mulder was making a fiber-optic field trip.
 
"Mulder, we're in the middle of State versus Maryland.  
You can't call now and expect . . ."  He stopped himself, 
realizing that Mulder would never think to interrupt 
something as serious as this particular game unless it was 
a matter of life and death.
 
More specifically, someone else's life and death.
 
Frohike felt his face grow hot and not simply from the 
effects of the liquor.  "What's happened to Scully?"  Oh 
please.  He could feel his heart rate accelerate, and not 
in the way it did when he would watch one of . . . those 
movies.
 
"I can't find her."
 
"Did you try looking?"  Frohike knew the question was 
unnecessary, but sometimes Mulder had a habit of 
overlooking the obvious.  It never hurt to be thorough.
 
"Frohike, how stupid do I look?"
 
"Don't make me answer that.  Tell me what's going on."  
Frohike grabbed one of the office chairs and settled in.
 
"I got a message on my answering machine from Scully.  She 
said that she had a family emergency and would be gone for 
a few days.  She was extremely cryptic, and that's not 
like her.  Plus, if it was a family emergency, she knows 
that I'd go with her."
 
"Maybe it was one.  Give her the benefit of the doubt."  
Maybe she didn't need you tagging along, Frohike thought 
rather unmercifully.
 
"I called her mother and there is no emergency.  The only 
thing I did was upset her."
 
"Maybe she just needed a few days off.  You're a full-time 
job, you know, Mulder."  And a half, Frohike winced.  He 
cringed inwardly thinking of all the sleepless nights 
Mulder had given him over the past eleven years.  If he 
added it up, it came to . . .
 
Don't even go there, he warned himself.
 
"No, she'd tell me what was going on."
 
`I wouldn't bet your pension on it,' was his first 
thought.  "Mulder, did you ever think that the dear lady 
would like some privacy?  For something a little 
different?"
 
"Her landlord says that she wasn't alone."
 
Frohike almost said, `so maybe she's got a boyfriend' but 
knew that vocalizing it would only cause the younger man 
pain.  Hell, it hurt him simply to think about it.
 
Mulder continued.  "She went with a tall guy that smoked 
like a chimney.  Remind you of anyone?"
 
Shit, shit, shit.  Frohike slapped his free hand against 
his forehead.  "Damn it.  He kidnapped her, didn't he?"
 
"She would have never gone voluntarily."  There was a 
heartbeat of silence before Mulder pleadingly whispered, 
"Would she?"
 
"Never mind that.  When can you get here?"
 
"That's the thing.  I want to stay here, stay close to 
home in case she calls.  When can you and the other two 
Stooges get here?"
 
"Well, since you're missing the game, I guess we can too."
 
"I need for you to swing by Scully's apartment - see if 
she left anything behind.  Oh, and listen.  I can't swear 
that I am not being watched, and it's a good bet that they 
know what you three look like.  Can you try to not be so  
. . . you?"
 
Frohike hung up the phone, walked into the next room, and 
snapped off the TV.
 
"Hey, he was just about to make a foul shot!" Langly 
screamed.
 
Frohike stood his ground in front of the screen.  "Forget 
it;  we've got a 911 from a lady in distress."
 
"What did Mulder do *this* time?" Byers moaned unhappily.
 
"Well, believe it or not, nothing."
 
"I choose *not* to believe it," Langly bitterly stated.  
"This had better be good;  I got three hundred bucks on 
this game."
 
Frohike's eyebrows shot up.  "Dipping into the petty cash 
again?"
 
"Come on, you two."  Byers had already risen and was 
patting his pockets for the keys.  "If Scully's in 
trouble, we're wasting time.  Let's move." 
 
"We've got a few minutes.  Mulder suggested . . . some 
disguises."
 
"I am not, repeat NOT, wearing that pink-dotted swiss 
again," Langly protested loudly, making reference to their 
Halloween costumes where the three of them had taken 
Mulder's dare and dressed up as prom queens.
 
"Shaving my pits was a disaster."  Byers shuddered, 
remembering how he had to recondition himself to wear the 
red silk sheath.  "They itched like hell growing out."
 
Frohike tried to be reassuring.  "I'm thinking that we 
need something more . . . subtle."
 
Which is always a challenge when you've got three guys who 
are about as subtle as a bulldozer.
 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
 
"Damn, even this one won't fit."  Byers cursed mildly to 
himself, examining the leather getup borrowed from 
Frohike.
 
"And I was gonna say, `it's you'," Langly teased, 
attempting to button up one of Byers' oxford cloth shirts.  
"Man, don't you ever eat?  This is way too tight."  The 
shirt was clinging to Langly's frame in an almost obscene 
fashion.
 
"You tear anything and you are going to have to answer to 
my tailor."
 
"Ooh, I'm so scared."  Langly held up two of Byers' suits.  
"Whaddya think, the gray or the blue?"
 
"Don't try the gray;  even I have trouble zipping that one 
up."
 
Langly draped the blue in front of him and checked the 
mirror.  "Mmmm, the blue does nothing for my complexion."
 
"I'm ready."  Frohike came waltzing in, clad in Langly's 
Ramones t-shirt, Levis with holes, and a pair of 
Birkenstocks with dark socks.  The t-shirt, which was a 
perfect fit on its owner, hung to Frohike's knees.
 
"Hey, that's my favorite shirt."  Langly's cry was with 
the anguish of a three-year-old at seeing his security 
blanket being dumped into the washing machine.  
 
Byers, the closest the three had to a fashion cop, 
examined him critically.  Langly's jeans spilled well over 
his feet.  What may have been fashionable in the seventies 
would become a nuisance in today's world.  "Try rolling 
them up," he suggested.
 
Frohike just stared.  "I'm going to look like a dork if I 
do that."  
 
The other two visibly restrained themselves, covering 
their mouths and smirking at one another.
 
Frohike glowered at them.  "Excuse me,  but if you've got 
a good joke, it's not nice to keep it to yourselves."
 
"No, nothing," Byers said, taking a deep breath to keep 
from exploding into laughter.  "Might I suggest a 
different approach, however.  Maybe you should try the 
suit."
 
Langly was still in tease mode.  "Oh, yeah, it's gonna fit 
him great."
 
And Frohike was still poised for the attack.  "Excuse me 
again;  some of us do own some good clothes."
 
"Yeah, from Goodwill."
 
"Look, we're wasting a lot of time here," Byers reminded 
them.  He stared longingly at the leather gloves and vest 
he was wearing, really liking the idea of going out in 
public in leather . . . but somehow, considering the size 
differential between himself and Frohike, the jacket was 
just not going to work.  "Langly, loan me one of your t-
shirts."
 
"You're not wearing the Ramones.  Nobody wears the Ramones 
but me."
 
"What about that girl you picked up and brought back here?  
She was wearing it."  Frohike added under his breath, "And 
not much else either."
 
"Hey, I was drunk.  I can't be held responsible for that."
 
"What about this one?"  Byers had removed the attire he 
was wearing and popped on the Korn t-shirt.
 
The other two eyed him approvingly.  "Not bad, but there's 
something not right here."  Langly couldn't quite put his 
finger on it.
 
Frohike snapped his fingers.  "It's the hair.  We've got 
to do something about the hair."
 
"What?"  Byers' face reflected extreme alarm.
 
"Relax, it doesn't involve any cutting implements."  
Frohike grabbed an odd bottle of Paul Mitchell Sculpting 
Foam.  "Sit."
 
"Yeah, on the floor;  maybe he can reach your head, then," 
Langly muttered and then returned to the mirror still 
holding both ends of a tie in his hands.  "Um, Byers?  
Like how do I do this?"
 
The two looked at him, aghast.  "You're telling me that 
you don't know how to tie a Windsor knot?"
 
"What's a Windsor knot?"  Langly was honestly and 
thoroughly puzzled.
 
"Why does this not surprise me?  Langly, forget it.  The 
suit doesn't fit you," Byers objected, seeing how the 
fabric was pulling at the bones of the taller, heavier, 
blonder man.
 
"Sure it does.  If I don't breathe . . ."  And with that, 
the zipper on the pants completely gave way.
 
Byers groaned miserably.  "I warned you that you were 
going to have to answer to my tailor."
 
"Oh, use safety pins."
 
"Look, we're moving out of here in five.  Find something 
and get going," Frohike shouted as he applied mousse to 
Byers' reddish-brown hair, spiking it into something not 
normally seen on anyone over the age of seventeen.  His 
mind wandered to the food dye that had been sitting in the 
kitchen unused since the Christmas baking season and 
speculated as to how much of the green coloring could be 
added for extra effect before dismissing the idea for lack 
of time.
 
After more complaining, arguing, and general whining, they 
were finally ready to go.  Frohike had settled for his 
Goodwill suit and a Moe hairpiece that he had bought for 
twenty-five cents (`you were ripped off,' Langly had 
informed him) at a tag sale.  Langly had braided his long 
locks and stuffed them into a kuffe.  He was tempted to 
try the djelleba (Frohike wore it on the nights when he 
did Moroccan cooking) but, as it only fell to his knees, 
the effect was humorous to the point that if anyone were 
to see him, they would remember.
 
They were about to depart when Langly spotted Frohike's 
black leather fingerless gloves on the table.  He slipped 
them on.  `I could get used to this,' he thought.
 
The three of them took one last look at each other, 
critically appraising and nodding their approval.
 
"We are the masters of disguise," Frohike announced as he 
reset the deadbolts and alarms behind him.
 
Langly agreed.  "No one will ever know it's us."
 
"I don't even know it's me," Byers moaned.  "My mother 
would freak out if she were to see me like this."
 
"You think Mulder will recognize us?"
 
"Not a chance," Frohike replied.  "Let's go.  Time to save 
Scully."
 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
 
Two figures loomed over a smaller one in the hallway of an 
apartment complex.  One of those standing did not bother 
to lower the volume index on his whine.  "Come on, pick 
the lock already.  This is getting heavy."
 
The other standing figure harshly whispered, "Would you be 
quiet?  You'll wake up the neighbors."
 
"Yeah, well you lug this bag up the fire escape."  A 
cranky Langly was a whiny Langly.  "Why'd we have to sneak 
in anyway?  It's not like anyone's up."
 
Frohike gave the doorknob one last turn.  "Pipe down, both 
of you.  We're in."
 
The three scrambled into Scully's apartment, and Byers 
took one last look out into the hallway before closing the 
door.  "It would have saved a lot of time if Mulder had 
already done this.  He'd know what to look for.  What 
should I start with?" 
 
"Check and see if she's got a writing pad or something 
near any of her phones."  Langly walked towards the middle 
of the living room and looked around.  "Maybe she left 
some notes behind."  He turned and smiled, noting the 
spacious table.  "I'm going to set up in the kitchen."
 
It had been some time since Frohike had been in Scully's  
home, and he felt almost guilty at having to trespass into 
her sanctuary without her knowledge or permission.  "I 
wonder where she left her laptop?"  But perhaps he was not 
too guilty.  "Maybe it's in the bedroom."
 
Langly had been silently counting the seconds towards such 
an attempt.  'You old dog,' he thought.  "Keep your wig 
on, Frohike.  It's over there on her desk."
 
"It's *not* a *wig*."
 
"Right.  Would you and that rug bring it over here, and 
let's see what I can get off of it."
 
Byers returned a few moments later amid the unwinding of 
extension cords and modem lines.  "There was nothing by 
the phones or any notes in the wastebaskets.  The only 
messages left on her machine are from Mulder."
 
"Does anything look out of place?"  Frohike was still 
curious and planning on taking his own little tour of the 
apartment.
 
"In there?  Hardly.  I checked her bedside tables and 
dressing area.  It looks like her normal personal stuff 
went with her."  Byers hesitated before adding, "I didn't 
find her Bureau issue, either.  Think that's a good sign?"
 
"Not necessarily, but Scully's a smart girl.  If she 
didn't leave of her own volition, she would have left some 
clues for Mulder to use."  Frohike leaned over the top of 
the screen that Langly had his nosed pressed to.  "Check 
her email directory, see who she's been talking to 
lately."
 
Langly made a face that loosely translated into 'what do 
you think I'm doing, Doo-hickey' before adding, "You just 
want to know if she's having a torrid on-line affair with 
someone.  Don't you even want to know what her password 
is?"
 
"I want to know if she's all right."  The password would 
have to wait.  "What about her email?"
 
Langly kept hitting the space bar to skim the messages.  
"Nothing.  The past few days have been the standard 
bureaucratic prose from Personnel and memos about 
reimbursements and holding down costs.  Nothing exciting."
 
Frohike snorted and turned to Byers.  "He means `nothing 
we can steal and publish'."
 
"Whoa.  Now this is interesting."
 
The other two immediately focused their attention back to 
the table.  Byers circled around, peering over Langly's 
shoulder at the screen.  "Give."
 
"Well, I went into her shred folder, and it's completely 
empty.  Meaning that she had to have dumped it fairly 
recently.  So if I follow the yellow brick road backwards 
here . . ."  Langly kept a steady pace pecking at the 
keyboard.  "Well, I'll be damned."
 
Now it was Frohike's turn to be demanding.  "What?"
 
"Hold on.  I'm going to make a copy of this."  Langly dug 
around in his magic bag of tricks for the box of blank 
discs.
 
Byers fed the disc containing the copied files into a 
spare laptop and read silently for a few moments.  "Is any 
of this making any sense?  Do we know anything about this 
Cobra?"
 
Frohike was following along, making a mental note of the 
dates and times.  "These emails go back to last fall, to 
just about that time when Mulder was hospitalized."
 
"Guys, check out the last few from a couple of days ago."  
Langly was still on Scully's laptop.  "It looks like she 
was trying to set up a meet."
 
"Get online and see if there have been any Visa 
authorizations to her account.  Look for plane tickets, 
hotel deposits, gas receipts.  Anything that might tell us 
where she's been the last day or two."
 
The apartment was quiet with the exception of the two 
keyboards in use.  So when Langly's shaky "Guys . . ." 
arose, startling the other two, they quickly shifted their 
attention to his screen.  "Oh, shit."  Escape, escape, 
exit.  "Damn, that was close."
 
"Who was that?" Frohike demanded.

"I have no idea.  It's as if someone cut into the . . ."
 
It was then that all three realized that Langly was 
working out of Scully's laptop - in her own home and on 
her unsecured phone line - with no safeguards and none of 
their usual routing and rerouting.    
 
They all moved at once.  "Grab everything and let's get 
out of here now."  Byers lowered the screens on the two 
computers while the others scooped up the wiring and 
shoved them into the bag.  "Scully's laptop comes with us;  
there might be more we can use."
 
His comments fell on deaf ears - or rather, the mouths of 
the other two were engaged in one of their never-ending 
bitch sessions to the point where they did not hear anyone 
else.
 
"Jesus, Langly, where's your goddamn brain?  You know she 
doesn't have a secure line."  Frohike began the chewing-
out process with little ceremony and even less subtlety.
 
"Look, you asked for a standard authorization scan, and I 
did it.  I do them all the time to Mulder's account with 
no trouble.  Why should Scully's have been any different?  
How did I know what the fuck I was gonna run into?"
 
"Settle down, both of you, and let's just get out of 
here," Byers admonished, trying to remain calm.  No mean 
feat, considering that his antiperspirant had long since 
ceased to work.
 
"We're going, we're going," Langly snapped nervously, 
grabbing one of the laptops.  "You don't have to ask me 
twice."
 
Frohike was still tackling the bag.  "You didn't boot down 
properly, did you?  What if we lose it on ScanDisk?"
 
"Jesus, would you knock it off already?  We got the data 
copied;  we can reconstruct it if we have to."
 
Byers carried a pained expression on his face which, with 
its spiky hairdo above and t-shirt below, looked far 
younger and more vulnerable than usual.  "Please, let's 
just get the hell out of here while we still can."
 
Laptops in hand, bag dragging across the floor, diskettes 
and zips in tow, they made their way back down the hallway 
fire escape and to the VW van.  
 
When they were finally on their way, Langly reached up and 
began tugging at the kuffe.  "I hate having my hair up 
like this."
 
"So cut your frigging hair," Frohike scolded from the back 
of the van.
 
"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you?"  Langly continued 
to navigate the highway while continuing his argument with 
Frohike via the rearview mirror.  "Then you wouldn't feel 
so bad about losing yours."
 
"You should start paying more attention to your own 
hairline.  I've noticed that you're a lot more naked in 
front these days."
 
"Am not!"
 
"Are too."
 
Byers winced.  There was plenty of truth in Frohike's 
statement - the past year had not been kind to Langly's 
forehead.  There was a lot more of it exposed with the 
passage of time, and it appeared to be likely to continue.
 
Langly reloaded with the heavy artillery.  "At least I've 
got a *real* ponytail."
 
"Langly, just drive and get us to Mulder's in one piece."  
Byers pulled out the spare laptop and began reading the 
copied emails from the beginning.  "Maybe he knows who 
this Cobra is."    
 
Frohike set his forearms on the back of seat in front of 
him and leaned in to read along.  "Not likely.  If it was 
some meeting that Scully's skipped off to, why did she say 
it was a family emergency?  Her car is still in her 
parking space, there's nothing out of place at her 
apartment, and when we go looking for a paper trail of her 
whereabouts, suddenly the `blue screen of death' takes on 
a whole new meaning.  Something's not right here."  
 
Byers' eyes met Frohike's as he looked over his shoulder, 
and they both nodded in agreement.    
 
They both turned back towards the messages on the screen.  
Frohike repeated his thoughts out loud, softly this time, 
as if to convince himself of a scenario that he did not 
want to believe.  "Scully doesn't lie, but something's not 
right."
 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
 
Sally, one of the resident Latin experts on the LGM list, 
says that the title means "Hidden Cause, Obvious Force".  
The rest of us are taking her word for it.  
 
Martha double-dog dared the members of the list to write 
the scene with the boys getting dressed up.  Sally can not 
resist a dare.  Martha could not get that hairpiece out of 
her mind.  This madness is the result.  
 
end
 
 
 


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Welcome to the dark side.
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