Lush Basement Office. The camera pans past Scully's gigantic belly as she stands at the filing cabinet. Frankly, she's looked better. I'm not talking about the weight: I mean the clothes. She's wearing this hideous navy blue sweater set, and it just doesn't do her any favors. I know, I know, it's like she's wearing widow's weeds, I get it, but please, she's looked smashing all season, and I'd hate to see it all go downhill just because her true love, best friend, and the possible father of her baby has fallen dead out of the sky. There is no excuse for dowdiness. This message has been brought to you by Pea in the Pod: Maternity Wear for Stylish Moms of Alien Babies. Doggett blusters into the office, and solicitously asks after her health. "Fine," Scully responds shortly. "How are you feeling?" Doggett grins a little bit and reminds her that he "don't got [sic] a little J. Edgar to lug around." Scully doesn't even smile, probably because she's afraid that her baby actually will end up looking like J. Edgar Hoover. She rubs the small of her back absently and mentions that Skinner told her about their meeting with Kersh. She advises Doggett not to ruin his career by getting tied to the least respected department of the FBI. Doggett slams his papers on the desk and reminds her that she's going on maternity leave in six weeks. If he takes the transfer, the X Files will be closed. Forever. Or until Scully comes back from maternity leave. Whichever. "You don't owe me anything," Scully sighs. Doggett repeats his "I still have big questions about this case" spiel and she finally cracks a small smile, and snorts in his general direction. She tells Doggett that she gave Mulder the exact same speech seven years before, and that Doggett ought to get out while he still can. Before he's fathering Monica Reyes's baby and letting her get abducted all over the place. Doggett looks thoughtful.
Just off the coast of Cape Fear, North Carolina, a fishing boat gets all Perfect Storm through the pouring rain and giant waves. After a lot of yelling, the fishermen pull in a dead and decomposing body. Or is it?
Because is just ain't The X-Files without an autopsy, we chung chung, metaphorically speaking, over to the county morgue in Wilmington. The older of the two coroners twangs something about the inconvenience of being asked to perform an autopsy at 2 AM. The younger coroner twangs something about the District Attorney's demanding answers. The older one hems and haws and starts the procedure. He makes some general comments about the body, noting particularly a "certain enviable post-mortem tumescence," to which I say both: ew, and, really, ewwww. The older coroner turns away from the body, muttering that, "short of this body sitting up and telling [them] what happened, [he]'d say [they]'ve got a long night ahead of [them]." On cue, the Body's mouth moves. Younger Coroner blanches and tugs on the Older Coroner, who's all, ha ha, that's the oldest coroner joke in world. Younger Coroner is all, I'm serious. They stare at the Body, which is definitely moving around. Older Corner leans in for a closer look. It occurs to me that I've never had the kind of exciting job that requires me to get up and investigate stuff in the middle of the night. People just don't need copy at 2 AM. Now that I've finally fallen victim to the internet downturn and am out pounding the pavement, perhaps I will look into getting a job that entails the occasional late-night investigation. Maybe I'll join the FBI! Seriously. I'm having a career crisis. Should I join the FBI? Do you think I'd meet a tall, good-looking wise-ass willing to impregnate me? I think I'd want him to marry me, first. Not that I want a baby right off the bat or anything, I'm only twenty-five. Am I getting too deep into the personal information, here? I'll shut up now.