Author's mumblings: This takes place during the first season of Dexter, because I liked Doakes and his angry exchanges with Dexter. I didn't have any particular season of X-Files in mind. This doesn't touch on any of the mythology. Also: I'm not a hard core X-Files fan, just a casual watcher, so I apologize for any mistakes I might make.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any characters in either the series or the books by Jeff Lindsay. I also do not own the X-Files, nor do I have an X-file of my own. But I might have a dossier or something on me stashed away in a government building, especially since I poked fun at Senator McCain on Twitter today. Humor is in the eye of the beholder.

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It was only eight in the morning, and it was already miserably hot and muggy outside, even for Miami. Dexter's clothes stuck to him as he climbed out of the car, forcing him to stop peel them off of his limbs before proceeding to the house. It was a pleasant-looking one storey house painted white. The lawn was neatly trimmed and the trees had delicate strands of Spanish moss hanging down almost to the ground.

Dexter approached the police barrier that surrounded the house. A small clump of curiosity seekers had already begun to gather, many still wearing thin bathrobes over light nightgowns or boxers and T-shirts, whispering to one another about the fate that had befallen their neighbor during the long, hot night. Dexter flashed his ID at the officer standing guard at the barrier set up around the house. The officer flagged him in, looking bored. Detective Angel Batista met him at the front door, looking grim.

"It's a bad one, my friend," Angel warned him.

"Don't worry, I skipped breakfast," Dexter assured him, stepping inside.

The smell of blood hung in the air like incense. Dexter breathed it in deeply, but subtly, and took in the sight of the living room. The body of a thirty-something woman lay on the floor nearby with her back to him. Her T-shirt had been brutally torn away from her body and was attached to her by one sleeve. Her panties had been similarly wrenched away and were wrapped messily around her left thigh.

Vince Masuka was on the other side of the body, kneeling in front of her and examining something. He noticed Dexter come in and motioned him over. Dexter carefully stepped around the body, making note of some blood on the baby blue carpet and the white sofa. As he came around to the front of the body where Masuka stood, he saw the victim's face. What was left of it.

"He really did a number on her," Masuka said quietly.

Dexter didn't reply. He was mesmerized by what he saw. The victim's face was one big bruise. Her eyes swollen shut. Her nose was so badly broken, it was nearly flattened, and some teeth were missing. Dried blood covered her once lovely lips and formed a small puddle under her cheek.

Did he beat her to death? Dexter wondered, intrigued. It was an awfully messy way to kill someone, and it may have injured the perpetrator in the process. Dexter's eyes wandered down to the dead woman's arms, barely noticing the exposed breasts. Her arms were covered with defensive bruises and one of her long, painted fingernails was broken. She'd fought her attacker valiantly, and possibly kept a small piece of him for safekeeping when she'd scratched him. Wordlessly, Dexter met Masuka's eyes and pointed to the victim's hands.

Masuka nodded. "Let's hope so."

Outside of the house, Angel was listening to one of the officers report on some noises a neighbor had claimed to hear late at night. Suddenly, he noticed a man and a woman in black suits at the police barrier, showing some sort of identification to the officer stationed there. The officer hesitated, shot Angel a helpless look, exchanged a few words with the suits and let them in. The suits headed directly for Angel.

Uh oh, he thought. He excused himself from the officer speaking to him and met the suits halfway.

"Detective Batista, I'm Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully, we're with the FBI," the man said as the two of them showed their credentials.

"What can I do for you?" Angel said courteously, thinking to himself, They'd better not be trying to take over my crime scene.

"What can you tell us about the victim, so far?" Agent Mulder asked.

Angel shrugged. "We haven't finished processing the crime scene."

Mulder rephrased the question. "What do you think happened?"

Angel folded his arms across chest, thinking before responding. "Upon first glance, it appears to be the work of a serial rapist we've been after. The bedroom window was jimmied open, the victim was beaten in her bed while she slept, then dragged into the living room where her clothes were ripped from her body. She was raped, then beaten again. It fits this guy's M.O., but he's never killed anyone before. So, either this is his first kill, or he didn't do this. We'll know more once we finish processing the crime scene."

Mulder took note of the Detective's emphasis on the last sentence and let a smile tease his lips as he pulled a few folded pages out of his pocket and handed it to the detective. Angel unfolded the pages and read them carefully, his expression slowly changing from skepticism to alarm.

"Where did you get this?" Angel asked Mulder.

"It was posted on an Internet site for amateur fiction writers two days ago," the Agent replied.

"Two days ago?" Angel repeated.

"There's more," The lovely redhead named Agent Scully piped up. "The anonymous author of this story has written three more stories in the last month, each were posted between one and three days before the crimes took place."

Mulder handed Angel several more pages. "Each crime is described in perfect detail. So far, all attempts to locate the author have failed."

"I don't understand," Angel said. "They don't seem to be related. How could one person be involved in all of these cases?"

"We don't exactly believe that the person who wrote these is responsible for the events they describe," Mulder explained. "We think it's possible they are experiencing some form of precognition and mistaking it for inspiration for these stories. They might not even be aware that these stories are happening in real life."

Angel gave each Agent a long and strange look. "I didn't realize the FBI had an interest in fortune-tellers."

"We investigate paranormal phenomena."

Sergeant James Doakes, who had been listening nearby, snorted. "Sounds like Dexter's area of expertise. Maybe you should introduce them to him, Angel. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll take him back to their home planet."

Angel rolled his eyes, but reluctantly agreed. "He does have a knack for solving the really strange cases."

"I'd like to meet him," Mulder said. "Is he on duty today?"

"He's in there, processing the crime scene," Angel pointed to the house. "He's in forensics."

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Dexter read each of the short stories carefully. He recognized all of them, although he'd only worked on one of them; the bar fight. It had happened about a month ago at a seedy gay bar Cock of the Walk. A young guy went there to find a date, but the date's jealous ex showed up and started a fight, resulting in the young guy getting several stab wounds in his belly that proved deadly. The ex was currently awaiting trial for his murder.

The story Agent Mulder had pulled off of the Internet was hauntingly detailed, down to what each of the characters was wearing, what they were drinking, even the backstory behind when and where the jealous ex had bought the knife he used. (Two years ago at a garage sale in Winter Park.)

"You're sure this was posted before the stabbing?" Dexter asked, holding up the tale in question.

"Yes," Mulder nodded. "They all were."

"Could be someone with computer knowledge who changed the time stamp of the post," he suggested.

"It's not," Mulder assured him. "I've been monitoring this site personally for over a week."

"Well, then I don't see how this could be a cop, or a reporter, or anyone else with inside knowledge," Dexter said slowly. "But I don't think this is the work of a serial killer."

"I didn't say it was," Mulder said. "Each of these cases is completely unrelated to one another, and in two of them, the killer has already been found. The first one was a stay-at-home mother who got sick of her baby crying and drowned him in the sink. She told police that she'd been bathing him and left for a moment to go pee, then found the body when she came back. The water in the baby's lungs had dish soap and particles of food in it. She wasn't bathing her child; she was washing dishes.

"The second one you're familiar with," Mulder went on. "An insanely jealous ex-boyfriend kills the guy his former lover is seeing in a crowded bar in front of no fewer than a hundred witnesses. He was apprehended two blocks away from the bar by police officers. According to this story, the murder weapon was tossed down a storm drain, which is precisely where it was recovered two days later."

"What about the mugger?" Dexter asked, holding up the third story. "A man was robbed while trying to draw twenty dollars from an ATM. The perpetrator hasn't been caught, yet."

"No, he hasn't," Mulder agreed. "But according to our anonymous friend, the mugger is going to attempt another ATM holdup in three days, only this time the would-be victim will have a gun in her purse to use against him."

"Okay, so basically we have to wait for three days to see if a mugger gets shot," Dexter said doubtfully.

"No, we don't," Mulder sorted through the stories and pulled out the last one. "We examine the evidence. If the facts in this story match the facts in the crime scene, we'll know we're dealing with someone with detailed knowledge of future events. Then all we have to do is find him."

"Or her," Scully added.

Dexter frowned. This can't be real. There must be some trick to it. There's no way somebody could be seeing the future and writing about it. This isn't the Twilight Zone, it's Miami.

Still… if what these Feds say is true, I could be in serious trouble. I'll have to find him before the they do.