The following story is inspired by actual documented events. Or is it?!
A girl, encumbered by her long, wet nightgown, runs though the woods in the middle of the night. She stumbles and falls to the ground, panting and half-sobbing. She pulls herself up and staggers a few more feet before tripping and rolling down a small hill. The wind rises, whipping her long hair into her face. The girl rests on her side in a small clearing, watching as the leaves around her start to rustle in the wind. A bright light appears over the crest of the hill and soon a man (or something looking very much like a man, since you never know with this show) trudges down that hill towards her. The wind blows harder and harder and soon the girl finds herself in the midst of a mini-tornado of leaves. When the man reaches her side, bright lights flash. The light grows brighter and brighter and brighter, until the screen fades to white.
We fade back to what looks like a sepia-toned photograph of the girl, sprawled face-down on the dirt. Eventually, that photograph blossoms into Technicolor. Welcome to Collumn National Forest, in northwest Oregon. Several official-looking men -- including a man I assume is the sheriff, for example, and another man in a flecked sweater -- come tramping down the hill and join the officers already on the scene. Mysteriously, there is no visible sign of death on the girl, and no evidence of battery or sexual assault. The only thing strange about the body, in fact, are two small marks on her lower back, like bite marks, or very strange moles. Sheriff and Flecked Sweater exchange looks and turn the body over. The girl suffered a nosebleed at some point: there's a long trail of blood running from her nose almost to her chin. ["That's not evidence of battery?" -- Wing Chun] Flecked Sweater straightens up, pale, and identifies the girl as "Karen Swenson." She went to school with Son of Flecked Sweater, he says; he makes an angry face and stalks back up the hill. Sheriff stands and calls after him, "Would that be the class of '89, Detective? It's happening again, isn't it?"
FBI Headquarters. A very small, very young woman with sort of brownish hair and a truly hideous suit walks up the stairs into the building and speaks to the security guard. Good God, it's Scully. And she's wearing my hair. Although mine isn't this indefinite auburn brown color, it's certainly the same cut -- shoulder length, no bangs. And while this strange, unglamorous person is certainly pretty (and very, very young-looking), Pilot Scully isn't anywhere near the babe that Current Scully is. I guess it just goes to show that a great haircut and good dye job can make all the difference between "cute" and "knockout." Which is why I just placed an emergency phone call to my hairdresser. Anyway, Scully gives her name to some yahoo and walks through a bunch of random FBI offices, occasionally greeting people we'll never, ever see again.