Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: all characters you recognize belong not to us, but to Chris
Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. No monetary profit is made, and no
copyright infringement is intended. All other characters are ours (poor 
them!) and we reserve the right to torture them accordingly :-)

Classification: XA 

Rating: R

Archive: Anywhere, but let us know, please!

Spoilers: All seasons, all episodes, up to and including Redux II

Feedback: Need we ask? It's always appreciated and will be replied to
promptly.

Warning: This story contains some disturbing scenes, but they are not
explicit or sexual in nature. 

Summary: Upon his mother's death, Mulder and Scully discover a curious 
document that eventually leads them to make a desperate choice. With 
Mulder in the Consortium, will the truth finally be revealed? Or will 
the webs of deception destroy both partners? 
A nightmare version of season 5, not leading up to the movie.

Author's Notes are at the very end!! 
Hope you stick around long enough.

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be
careful about what we pretend to be."

			"Mother Night," 
			Kurt Vonnegut

 
Part 1/4

	He was dreaming of bees and clones and of little girls with 
pigtails when a trembling vise grasped his hand, causing his head to 
snap up.

	"Mom?"

	A painful wheeze emanated from within the figure masked in 
tubes and wires, and Mulder shook his head quickly.

	"Don't try to speak... You're in a hospital," there was a pause
before he could continue, resigned. "You've had another stroke."

	A frustrated growl came from the woman, and a masked man in 
green soon stepped into the room -- his beady-eyed attention solely on 
EEG printouts and lines.   

	"Sec..."

	"Mom," Mulder interrupted tiredly, trying to sound the reminder 
gently, even though his nerves were frayed.  "Don't try to speak."

	"Sec... sec... ond.... doe... or..."

	The doctor leaned over to shine a light in a dilated eye, and 
the hand grasped Mulder's fingers tighter.

	Requests for silence went unheeded by the patient, and he soon 
leaned his ear closer to her mouth.  "I don't understand, mom.  
What's the second door?"

	There was a worried grunt from the man in green when the 
machines starting protesting faster, the beeps of EEG and EKG 
monitors jarring and escalating.  

	"Sec-ond... draw-er."

	Mulder leaned in closer, the eyebrows over his bloodshot eyes
furrowing.  "What's in the second drawer, mom?"

	She threw her head back into the pillow and a resounding 
mechanical scream filled the air.  The vise became loose, and 
eventually fell away.  Doctors soon surrounded the place, pushing 
Mulder away.

	He stood dumbly, unable to speak, only moving when 
the men in green pushed him to do so.  

	<What's in the second drawer, mom?>

	She wouldn't get a chance to answer as the faceless doctors 
took her away.

***

	Scully escaped the noisy crowd inside her mother's house by
coming out onto the front porch.  With a melodramatic sigh into the 
smoggy Baltimore air, she wondered when the moment had come that 
Thanksgiving dinners with her family had become a heavy obligation 
instead of the celebratory times that she had once looked forward to. 
Was it after Dad had died and his absence at the table had become 
almost palpable? Was it after Melissa was killed that the sharp tang 
of guilt soon became a dish she tasted along with the turkey and 
stuffing? Or was it after her victory over cancer that she realized 
her way of life and that of her family's were as different as black 
and white. 

	And that fire and water couldn't coexist -- no matter how hard they 
tried.

	Scully looked through the living room window to see a very 
pregnant Mrs. Bill Scully batting away Charlie's exploratory hand. 
The federal agent sighed again, absently rubbing her ring-less fourth 
finger.  She looked longingly towards her rental car, wanting nothing 
more than to go back to Washington.

	But there were still two more days to be spent here, with food, 
Bill, Charlie, their wives, and her mother -- and there was no excuse 
good enough to flee the area.  She looked around at the picturesque 
yard with helpless longing and tried to hide from the chill inside 
her long coat.

	"Dana, what are you doing here?"

	Startled, Scully turned around. 

	"I was just getting some fresh air," she innocently replied 
to the worried expression of her brother.  Did it sound as false to 
his ears as it did to hers?

	"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding us," Bill 
continued.  After her miraculous recovery, he honestly wanted to spend 
more time with his sister.  But apparently, she wanted to achieve 
just the opposite, and the thought nagged at him more than he cared 
to admit. 

	"Don't be silly,"  Scully smiled, as still-too-thin skin pulled
against cheek bones.  "I'll be inside shortly."

	Was Bill to consider this conversation over? "They just served 
dessert." In case his younger sibling had forgotten, he added an 
afterthought, "It's your favorite, apple cobbler." After some 
hesitation, and an audible sigh, he eventually stepped inside.

	"Just what I've always wanted," whispered Scully to no one in 
particular.  She slowly turned around to meet the beckoning glow of the 
house head on.

*** 

	Lively conversation was interrupted by a phone call that Dana 
answered.  She turned her back on everyone for fear of revealing the 
relief she felt from hearing her partner's voice. Lately, he seemed 
to save her from family gatherings all too often.

	"Scully, I'm sorry to disturb you during the holidays, but..."

	"It's all right," she hastened to reassure him. "What's going 
on?"
	
	There was a pause and Scully could hear Mulder's breaths 
through the receiver.  "My mom... Scully.  She just had another 
stroke."

	"Mulder..." Scully shook her head -- she was lost as to what 
to say.  "I am so sorry."

	Mulder nodded into the phone and closed his hands tighter 
around the receiver.  "She's in surgery now... and I don't, Scully... 
I don't understand what the doctor is saying to me..." there was a 
pause on the other end of the line, as if he was trying to think of 
what to say next, as if trying to find a way to subtly ask his partner 
to leave her family and come help him, yet again.

	"I'll have to look through her things later tonight... and I 
know you're with your family but would you... could you come here.  
Please?" an expulsion of air and an apologetic flood of words followed 
the tentative request. "It doesn't look good, and I was hoping that..."

	Scully shook her head.  "I'll be there," she turned when there 
was an annoyed intake of breath behind her.  Ignoring Bill's glare, 
she turned her attention back to her partner. "What hospital are you 
at?"

	She gravely absorbed her partner's directions to the hospital
before gently resting the phone receiver in the cradle with closed,
tired eyes.  Minutes later, she was packed and heading out the front 
door. The smiles were fake, and the Happy Thanksgiving's seemed forced.  

	She had a perfect excuse to get away now, but it didn't make 
her feel better. 

* * *

	Scully cursed the unfortunate timing and every holiday 
tradition as she fought traffic on the way to the airport, in the line 
to get tickets, and in the airplane as it was stuck behind twenty plus
other jets waiting to get on the runway.

	She stared out the window as children cried, a couple bickered, 
and as harried people tried to move through too-narrow aisles.   
Except for Christmas, Thanksgiving was the worst time to travel -- 
maybe it was the guised happiness that came with forcing twelve people 
to sit at a table designed for four that brought out the worst in 
everyone. At any other time, she would have taken two Tylenols and 
laughed at the situation, but now her heart was heavy and her mind was 
filled with apprehension.

	Her anxiety reached a new level when she finally made it to
the hospital and a nurse informed her dispassionately that Mrs. Mulder
passed away "just two hours ago".  The nurses were at a loss as to 
where the tall, lanky, brownhaired man had gone, and Scully futilely 
double-checked the ICU.  Exhausted, defeated, and with her patience 
wearing thin, Scully grimly stepped into her rental car, on her way to 
Greenwich and Mulder's mother's house.  Disgusted when she passed a 
Christmas tree lot, Scully gripped the steering wheel tighter, pushing 
her foot harder on the gas pedal.   

	It was turning out to be the worst holiday yet.

	Mulder met her in the doorway and listened absent-mindedly to 
her condolences. Scully looked him over worriedly, noticing the 
disheveled hair and the Oxford sweatshirt hanging limply on his frame. 
She wondered how long it has been since he changed clothes or had 
something to eat. Dark eyes never quite focused on her, and her words 
seemed to miss their destination. 

	He cut to the chase, skipping the greetings and pleasantries,
speaking in a voice that was hollow and distracted.  "I'm looking for 
something my mother said is here... something I'm guessing she or my 
father left for me," he aborted his speech suddenly, looking past the 
door frame and suspiciously out into the yard.  He pulled his partner 
into the house, hastily slamming the door.  Scully followed quickly.  
"What is it, Mulder?"

	"She didn't say."  He paused, taking a couple seconds to 
compose himself.  "Her entire left side was paralyzed, and she had
difficulty talking, so she just mentioned something about the second
drawer."

	"Second drawer where?"

	He turned around, exasperated.  His glowering eyes relayed the 
message clearly:  Would I be asking if I knew?  He took a breath in an 
attempt to control the emotions brewing inside, and scratched at his 
neck absently.  "I don't know.  So I'm checking everything out.  You 
could start with the kitchen on the first floor, while I continue 
working on the second one through the bedrooms," with the string of 
words sounded more as a command than a request, he was already running 
up the stairs.

	"Mulder, are you all right?" Scully shouted behind him, but her
question went unheeded.

	She shrugged off her coat and looked around, noticing the acute 
contrast between this lonely place and her family's busy and noisy 
house in Baltimore. A woman who used to live here was gone, but her 
sadness and secrets lingered behind, loath to depart.

	Careful not to disturb them, she began to search through the
drawers.

* * *

	"Mulder, are you sure she said second drawer? Maybe, we should
look through the other ones, too," Scully looked helplessly at her
partner whose drawn face and obsessive behavior were worrying her more
with each passing minute. They had just looked over every second drawer in
the house, but had found absolutely nothing important. 

	"I am not sure she even said drawer. I told you, it was
difficult for her to speak, and even more so for me to understand her,"
annoyance born from sheer frustration was clear in Mulder's voice.

	"Let's look through every drawer again," suggested Scully. 

	"And what if we don't find it in any of them?"

	"Then we will search again over everything, and we will find 
it," Scully looked at the wrinkled shirt, and at the haggard man 
drowning in it. "But not before you get some sleep, Mulder."

	He snorted, and without any further comments, headed back 
towards the bedrooms. Scully turned again to the kitchen, passionately 
wishing that she knew what to look for.  She wondered what secrets 
were buried in the Mulder family's furniture, and she prayed for some 
answers --  because this cloak and dagger routine was getting too 
damned old.

	Mulder finally collapsed on the couch in the living room after 
hours of futile searching, while Scully looked over the contents of 
second drawers seemingly for the hundredth time -- in  blind hope that 
they had overlooked something important. 

	Methodically, she went over the little things:  clothes, 
batteries, a few books, pens, letters, nails, knives, handkerchiefs... 
Her restless mind flipped back to the letters -- a big cardboard box 
full of yellowed papers that she had hesitated to look through when 
she had originally discovered it.

	Now, she set the box at the kitchen table and started patiently
going over each and every envelope. Except for letters from people 
whose names she had never heard of, there were those from Mulder to 
his mother, sent while he was in England, and some children's 
scribbles that she stopped to read over. She swallowed hard when she 
understood that they were Christmas lists from little Fox and 
Samantha, dated the year she was abducted.  She hastily closed the 
dog-eared covers and shoved them deep inside the box.

	She was too tired to rejoice when one of the old envelopes
stated:

	"To my son, Fox Mulder.
	To be opened in case of my death.
	Bill Mulder."

* * *

	The next morning, after much-needed rest, Scully discovered
Mulder at the kitchen table, staring at the still-unopened letter she
had left there.

	"You know, Scully, I never even told mom that Sam was alive," 
he said,  hiding his face in his hands. 

	"Mulder, I'm sure she knew that always," that hadn't come out 
right, and she hastened to correct herself. "Not where she was, but 
that she was all right..."  

	Her partner waved a hand dismissively, understanding her 
message. His face grew more grim and Scully studied the table, knowing 
he was still brooding over his encounter in the diner.  She was afraid 
to ask, to press the issue -- as far as she knew, there were still no 
calls or letters from Samantha.  He spoke of the encounter in passing, 
abbreviating the painful details, hiding behind a shy smile as he took 
her home after the cancer went into remission.  But Scully could still 
remember the regret and chagrin that flickered on her partner's face 
while recounting the story.

	Mulder shook his head. "How could I tell her? That her daughter
was just fine, but didn't want to come see her?" he stated the question
absently, not really looking for an answer, but checking just one more 
time to make sure that he had done the right thing.

	"Mulder, I am very sorry," Scully whispered brokenly.

	"She was the only family I had left, Scully."  He opened his 
mouth to add more, but quickly shook his head.  With a visible effort, 
he tried to change the subject, suddenly turning his gaze towards the 
letter. "Why do you think she never mentioned this before?"
	
	"I don't know. Maybe she thought that there was some 
information here she didn't want you to know?" Scully suggested 
hesitantly.

	"Maybe. Or perhaps it was useless to pretend that our family 
was a well-functioning unit of American society," Mulder laughed 
mirthlessly, eventually holding up the letter and waggling an 
eyebrow.  "And now, for some family dirt," dramatically, he ruptured 
open the envelope. Inside, there was another envelope that stated:

	"Fox, you may only open this after you reach 25 years of age.
Your father."

	"Well, I'd say that this is long overdue, wouldn't you?" 
Without any pause, Mulder pulled the stack of papers from inside. He 
read them quickly, in silence, while his partner politely turned 
away.  "Scully..." his voice came out haltingly.  "I think you may 
want to read this."
	
	The somberness of Mulder's voice compelled her to look at his
face that held an odd expression of wonder overlapped with sadness.  
Slowly, she reached for the papers and began to read.

	"Fox,

	I entrust this letter to the care of your mother, knowing that
she will give it to you when I die. I write it days after your 
fifteenth birthday, but you should not receive it until you are at 
least twenty-five. Regardless of the profession you choose for 
yourself, and the course your life takes, I hope that the information 
contained herein will prove to be useful for you. 

	Don't grieve for me when the end comes, for I have not lived a 
selfless and honorable life. But know that I always wished I could have 
been here longer, to see my grandchildren, and their children. 
Apparently, it was never meant to be, and I wish I had recognized 
that a long time ago, before I joined the group who was to destroy my 
family and me. 

	I presumed myself to be above the law and beyond the judgement 
of common people; but the most frightening verdict for the crimes I 
committed came from my own conscience. Guilt and shame that consume me 
from within, day after day, are a penalty harsher than jail sentence or 
death. As much as I have tried to rectify what I had done, nothing will 
ever be enough. 

	Not all is what it appears to be. When you look at the night 
sky, you may see the stars and the moon, but I see the source of 
disaster that awaits human race. The project I have worked for is 
still underway, and the deep conspiracy surrounding it now spans many 
countries and governments. You must stop them, and below, I provide 
you with enough material to bring these people to justice, before it's 
too late. There are locations of the secret labs where frightening 
experiments on human subjects are being conducted right now and the 
names of everyone I know who ever authorized them.

	I had been one of them.

	You are a good boy, Fox, and you have always had compassion. 
I can never repair the consequences of mistakes I made so long ago and 
that you have to live with, but I have always loved you and your sister, 
and I pray you will remember that. 

	I beg your forgiveness, and I leave a gift for your children, 
a book called "The Eleventh Hour."

Your father.

Animal Diseases Research Center Makon, GA
Flu Research Institute Reading, PA
ECCO Labs Irvine, CA

James Hedges
Scott Edwards
Stanley Jakobsen
Dennis McInnis
Carl Rolstow
Damien Martinoff"

	Scully took a deep breath before looking up to Mulder with a 
raised eyebrow.

	Mulder looked at the letter and then back to his partner. 
"Well?"

	Scully regarded her partner's dancing fingers and expectant 
gaze. She saw a teenager still eager to please his father -- his quest 
for the truth once again refueled.  She looked at the scrawlings on 
the letter, and saw the words of a guilt-stricken man, a desperate 
attempt to make amends with the guilt-laden boy that would grow to be 
the guilt-driven federal agent.

	"Mulder, I'm not sure of this."

	Her partner reached over to grab the letter from her hands, and 
waved the potential evidence in front of her face.

	"Scully, it's all here.  Evidence," he stressed the last word
before looking around, confused, disoriented -- eventually finding the 
phone posted on the far wall.  He started walking resolutely towards
it, mumbling his plans to make plane reservations.

	"Mulder," Scully repeated more forcefully.  "I'm not sure about
this."

	 He roughly hung the receiver back onto the cradle and started 
to pace the room with the letter firmly gripped in his left hand.  
"What are you talking about?  It's all here.  We have to go."

	Scully shook her head.  "Mulder, this letter was written by 
your father twenty years ago.  Who knows if these places still exist? 
Or if these people are even alive?" she paused and took a breath, 
hoping to distract him.  "What about this book your father talked 
about?"

	He looked around distractedly, pulling the thin book from a 
pile of miscellaneous things that came from the drawers -- the colors
of the cover splashing in a sharp contrast to the drab Mulder kitchen.  Scully 
gingerly opened it, her fingers soon tracing the first few lines of 
the story, the animal caricatures, the crisp condition of the pages. 
She gently closed the covers again, tempted to smile at the innocence 
behind a simple children's book.

	Bill Mulder and Innocence.  It seemed like an oxymoron 
engineered by the faceless shadows that had eventually killed him. 
Judging by what little Mulder told her about his father, and so much 
he never said, Scully did not think of William Mulder as the 
sentimental type. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder shake 
his head.  "I never knew my father to be the sentimental kind, Scully."

	Scully smiled at the response to her silent comment and 
watched the play of emotions on Mulder's face. "Why did he leave you 
this book?" she asked curiously, suspiciously. 

	Mulder shrugged, his vision clouding for a second. "It's a 
book of puzzles. I used to love them when I was little, Dad and I 
solved them together."

	Scully touched the book gingerly, wondering if Mulder could 
envision giving it to his kids. She sighed resignedly and asked the 
question the answer to which she dreaded: "Where do you want to go?"

	"Reading, Pennsylvania," he answered resolutely.

	There it was, and she groaned inwardly, pushing her chair away 
from the table to stand up.  "Mulder, you can't rush headlong into 
something your father wrote twenty years ago."

	Mulder's pacing stopped, and he drew his arms protectively
over his chest.  "Why not? Scully, I realize that the information is 
old, but it can still be valid."

	"Because.  Because, Mulder, you've said yourself that your
father worked with the Cancerman."

	"Trying to deceive me through a letter that he wrote when I 
was fifteen years old?"

	Scully shrugged.  "It sounds suspicious."

	"You don't trust my father," Mulder stated matter-of-factly -- 
his voice ominous and suspicious.

	Scully gaped at her partner, hearing overtones reminiscent of
drugged water and DAT tapes.  "And do you, Mulder?" she shook
her head firmly.  "Don't hold that against me.  We both were at that 
mine, and we both saw those files."

	Mulder winced at the reminder.  "Scully, my father was too
guilt-stricken to do anything malevolent after Sam was taken."  He
kept his voice calm as his eidetic memory flashed through drinking
binges and sobs emanating from the closed door of a bedroom.  When
his voice continued, it's volume and intensity had decreased. "I think
of my father, Scully, and I've seen what guilt can do to a man."

	Scully looked at her partner, and the letter that was gripped
tightly in his hands.  The irony of Mulder's words was only too obvious,
and she nodded with understanding.  "So do I."

***

	Warm sunlight was abruptly turned to a dusky gray as it 
filtered through the windows of the office high rise.  A congregation 
of men sat in plush, leather seats and their expensive suits blended 
well with the oak walls and hardwood floors.  

	A decanter sat on a table, and through shots of bourbon, 
secrets were being formed, and conspiracies were being manufactured.

	The Well Manicured Man sat beside a more rotund figure, and 
their faces lacked emotion, were not hidden anymore behind a smoke 
screen.

	"Mrs. Mulder is dead.  How should we proceed?"

	"Mulder is going through the Greenwich house right now."

	"Is he going to find something?"

	No one spoke, for no one knew the answer.  Mr. Mulder had 
been as paranoid as his son.  Behind the innocent facade of the 
summer house and the two Mulder houses,  lay potential photographs 
and documents.

	"Is there a possibility of a deathbed confession?"

	"Mulder and his partner seem to be looking for something 
specific."

	The Well Manicured Man nodded once before rising.  "Mulder has
no more relatives which we could use to keep him in line.  He's 
dangerous. Perhaps desperate.  And those are the men we most need to 
fear."

***  

	"The Lone Gunmen."

	"Turn off the tape, Langly."

	"It's off."

	"You still don't trust me?"

	Mulder finally heard the click he had been waiting for, before 
Langly started grumbling. 

	"Okay... it's really off this time.  What do you need, G-man?"

	Mulder paused from the far corner of his mother's kitchen to 
look at Scully and met her steady disapproving gaze. "What do you 
know about the Flu Research Institute in Reading, Pennsylvania?"

	"That they study the flu?"  Langly responded dryly.

	Mulder rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

	"All right, all right..." he could hear fingers clicking over 
the keys on the keyboard, and he chanced a glance at Scully once 
again -- she failed to look impressed.

	"They look pretty clean, Mulder -- that is, if you were 
looking for some dirt in the first place.  Whoa... wait a minute..." 
the clicking on the other end of the line grew more frenzied, followed 
by a lengthy pause as the Gunman studied the figures playing across 
his monitor. "Mulder, I don't know how you find these places, but 
these guys are getting major funding from some division of government 
named Rousch.  Make that major, *private* -- as in *silent* -- 
funding."

	Mulder smiled into the phone.  "Thanks, Langly.  I owe you 
one."

	He hung up the phone and looked at Scully expectantly.  She 
stood from her chair and sighed.  "The weather in Pennsylvania better 
be nice, Mulder. I didn't pack anything thicker than my trench coat."

	Mulder opened his mouth, wanting to sound the numerous 
innuendoes dancing through his head.  Instead, he picked up the phone 
once again to book two tickets to Reading, Pennsylvania.

	Minutes later, they were driving to the airport. And it was 
only when he was already buckled up in the airplane seat, while flying 
over the state of Connecticut, that Mulder realized that in their 
haste and excitement, he forgot the letter and left it carelessly on 
the kitchen table near the puzzle book.

	The realization was jolting enough to cause his knee to hit the 
tray in front of him, the pain and the paranoia of the documents being 
taken almost enough to send him into a panic attack.  Scully was quick 
to offer words of reason, pointing out that prior to forty eight 
hours ago, only two people had knowledge of the letter.  Mulder 
absently nodded, hanging onto his partner's words.  

	He gratefully accepted a glass of water from a stewardess, 
quickly finishing it, immediately asking for another -- trying to 
drown the unease in his stomach.

***

	"They've gone to Reading, Pennsylvania."

	The Well Manicured Man raised an eyebrow while holding the 
cellular phone closer to his ear.  "Pardon me?"

	The man in black grunted as he shrugged his falling M-16 over 
his shoulder.  The phone was awkwardly being held between his shoulder 
and neck, as his other hand held up the letter towards the light. 
"Apparently, Bill Mulder left a letter for his son with a list of 
laboratories. Supposedly, it states in the letter, these places have 
evidence of what Mulder is looking for."

	The Well Manicured Man's lips grew into a tight line.

	"Sir, these locations are fake.  Bill Mulder gave his son the 
wrong information." 

	The Englishman processed the information quickly, his pulse 
quickening in suspicion of some trick. "Have you found anything
else?"

	The leader looked around to his black clothed companions who 
were stalking stealthily through the Mulder house. Upstairs a dresser
crashed to the ground, while beside him, floorboards were being ripped
open.  "Nothing yet."

	"Bring the letter, and whatever else looks... out of place," 
the Englishman commanded succinctly, before disconnecting.

	The members looked at him expectantly, and the Well Manicured
Man set the phone down gently. "Retrieval has been uneventful as of
yet.  Mulder and Scully are off to the Reading facility."

	Some eyebrows were raised at the last statement, and the more
rotund figure sitting to the left of the Englishman cleared his throat.
"I believe that their 'find' should be rewarded with a little 
media attention."

	The youngest Consortium member moved towards the phone, 
smirking, dialing a familiar number.

	Away from his companions' studious glances, the Well Manicured 
Man absently traced circles on the top of his bourbon glass -- his 
mind racing. The situation was more unsettling than he would admit to 
the others. A letter sheathed in innocence... a guilt-stricken father.

	The factors were begging a question that nagged at the back of 
mind, like the tar-laced smoke had done at the back of his throat 
months ago -- would Bill Mulder's greatest legacy be yet to come?

* * *

	Patrick Ewing was destroying the Chicago Bulls and mindless
sportscasters were reviewing last season's shooting percentages as
Mulder mulled over the bland manila folders on the table.

	Cancerman's bloodwork lay in front of him, as well as the 
photographs of his blood-painted apartment.  The report of the first
officer on the scene was in his hands, and Mulder's eyes were closed
to try and keep the pounding headache at bay.  

	Every detail had long since been memorized, each shadow
in the photographs had been engrained into the fissures of his dura
matter.  Mulder had even visited the crime site. 

	The Cigarette Smoking Man lived his life shrouded by secrets, 
and  apparently he chose to die that very same way.  Mulder's eyes
passed over the report, a finger traced the numbers, looking
for something -- anything -- alarming.  

	Mulder was tempted to show this report to his partner, 
but things had always gotten in the way.  Scully's recovery.  Her 
return to work. Her newly developed reticence to become involved in 
cases like these. 
	
	Mulder sighed, dropping the papers to stretch his arms.  As
evidence, adding further insult to injury, a photo of the photo of 
Samantha and her older brother had been taken, and was now staring at 
him. His heart burned with the knowledge that he had been this close 
to his sister -- had held her hand, touched her fingers, feeling red, 
human blood coursing through them.  How her hair was still long...

	... and how he could still make her cry.

	There was a knock on the door, and the spell was broken.
Scully and Chinese food were waiting impatiently on the other side of 
the wooden panel, and Mulder roughly gathered all the papers and
photos into a haphazard mass, shoving them decisively under the bed.

	Opening the door to a casually dressed Scully and the
smell of garlic, Mulder smiled.  "I think that the only reason why you 
agreed to come to Pennsylvania was to have an excuse to order some Kung 
Pao Chicken, Scully."

	The female agent offered a sarcastic "har har" before setting 
the bag onto the dresser.  "What were you doing?

	Mulder nodded towards the TV. "Watching my Knicks destroy 
Chicago."

	Scully rolled her eyes, muttering something about men and 
testosterone.  She handed a carton with chopsticks and a plastic
fork to Mulder, while settling on a chair in the far corner with her 
own. To the doctor in her, the noodles smelled sinful -- chockfull of 
cholesterol and salt and God knew what else.  To the just recovered 
cancer patient in her, the noodles were close to manna from heaven, 
mouth watering, and her chopsticks soon made a repetitive journey 
from the box to her appreciative tongue.

	She knew Mulder was watching her -- he had been doing a lot 
more of it lately.  His hand was a little bit more anxious to touch the 
small of her back.  There were a lot more "how are you's" when she 
came to the office in the morning.

	She caught his eye and smiled with a mouthful of food.

	Mulder returned the gesture, although the corners of his 
mouth creased slightly. He felt guilty for not showing her the papers 
under the bed, but his mind quickly pointed out that she
wouldn't have flashed him that smile if she had known.

	He toyed with his chopsticks, not hungry all of a sudden, 
anxious to go to Reading and see if his father would get
the absolution it appeared he so desperately wanted.

***

	Scully and Mulder stared at the vial silently.

	The Gunmen had helped them hack credentials, and both
agents were wary to avoid the video cameras that littered the
facility -- as well as the security guards with 9mm pistols at their
hips.

	Scully looked at Mulder, her breaths coming out faster than
normal.  The room was ice cold, and she looked around nervously 
once again.  Her partner held the vial up gingerly to the light, 
scared of the liquid contents inside.

	Purity control, the label screamed in boldfaced, courier font.

	Mulder set the vial down, while Scully quickly scanned the 
counters, noting the liquid nitrogen coolers.  Flashing back to the 
alien fetus and Deep Throat's death, Scully's gloved hand hovered 
around the lid.  

	Her partner's panicked whisper that someone was coming 
stilled her movements momentarily, then had her at the doorway to
join him.  Mulder started to look around jerkily, his eyes eventually 
coming to a computer terminal. Pressing the eject button, 
he quickly pocketed the floppy disk before motioning to Scully to 
leave.

	"Freeze!  Drop what's in your hand on the floor, then raise 
your arms in the air where I can see them."

	Mulder closed his eyes when the baritone voice came from behind 
him.  He turned around slowly and pointed to the ID on his lapel,
glancing at Scully.  "We're authorized to be here." 

	"You are trespassing on government property, Agents Mulder and
Scully.  Now I suggest you start walking before I have to use terminal 
force."

	Scully followed Mulder's sagging shoulders to the front 
entrance which was beckoning them.  The glass shone, almost blinding 
them, and both federal agents were roughly helped out by the gun 
almost touching their backs.

	The sun was so bright, it seemed like there were six of them, 
scattered around in a circle.  Bees were buzzing overhead, beside 
them, and soon, the cameras whirred, and the reporters chattered as 
Mulder and Scully were surrounded.

	Faceless, colorful blazers reeking of strong perfume and 
aftershave flung questions in their direction. 

	"Is it true that you're FBI agents?"

	"We received a tip that you're investigation aliens?"

	"Agent Scully, is it true that you were abducted?"

	"Agent Mulder, is it true that you're known as Spooky?" 

	Mulder shielded his eyes as a large, foam-covered microphone 
was shoved at him. His brain was screaming, flashing a neon sign that 
blinked "SET UP!  SET UP!" in big bold letters, and inside, he was 
burning -- seething with the knowledge of who the anonymous tipster 
was.  He watched Scully try to bat at a camera that had been pushed in 
her face, and he tried to pull her to their rental car.

	"What is the FBI's business in a place like this?" 

	"The FBI has absolutely no jurisdiction in this facility."

	All heads turned as Colonel Henderson walked to the crowd, 
activating his car alarm with a flair.  The shine of his briefcase 
matched the shine of his shoes, and his chiseled face soon bore 
perfect teeth in a perfect diplomatic smile.

	"Still chasing imaginary UFO's, Agent Mulder?"

	Mulder spun around to face the Colonel.  "Yes, I am," 
he sneered back.  "But for some reason, all evidence gets... sanitized.  
I wonder why."

	Henderson laughed and all of a sudden, his hand snaked into
Mulder's pocket, grabbing the disk.  "I believe this is ours... and 
you have just committed theft."  He turned back to the reporters.  
"I'm afraid Agent Mulder is a little deluded.  I think his 
professional record speaks for itself."

	Mulder turned to a camera.  "Ask him about Purity Control."

	Expectant lenses turned to the uniformed officer.  "Purity 
Control simply refers to the measures we take in securing our medical 
facility. We are dealing with the flu, ladies and gentlemen.  Some 
'purity' must be retained for the health of all our employees."

	Mulder squinted his eyes and started to see red, but Scully's
hand was on his arm, trying to pull him away.

	"Ask him about Max Fenig, or the plane crash!"  Scully's nails
started to dig harder.  

	The Colonel chortled behind him, as the cameras followed 
Mulder's and Scully's retreating figures.  "I'll look to the stars and 
see if I can find your sister, Mulder."

	In the car, Mulder let out a flood of expletives and punched 
the roof with his hand.  And as Scully helplessly tried to shield 
them, the cameras kept rolling.  The noise in the cramped vehicle was 
deafening, and Scully finally -- mercifully -- started the engine, 
watching the reporters scatter, driving away from the disaster.

	On the way towards their motel in Reading, far from any 
trailing cars, Mulder shifted his eyes to Scully, who stared back. 
They dropped their gazes at the same time -- the message understood.  

	The hammering of nails into the X-Files' coffin had never been 
more audible.

***

	The trip to the Mulder home in Connecticut had been 
accomplished in frosty silence.

	Mulder chanced a glance from the road to Scully's arms across 
the chest posture. She caught him staring at her, and fired a glare in 
return. He clenched his teeth, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. 
Her message was loud and clear: I told you so -- now get the hell 
away from me.  

	Mulder sighed, still cringing at her white knuckles, and the 
clothes that were still slightly big for her tiny figure.  

	He had promised.  He had promised himself to take it easy, to 
get away from the conspiracies.  To not push, and goad whoever it was
that was pulling the strings into doing something as manipulative and
evil as Scully's cancer again.  He no longer wanted to jump 
headlong into some vague reports...

	... or long-lost letters from his ancestors.

	Mulder resisted the urge to pound the car roof once 
again -- this was only the second month, and he had already broken the 
promise he had so solemnly sworn the night Scully's cancer had gone 
into remission. And he knew that the stifling silence in the car was 
only a prologue to the brewing storm.

	"Scully... I'm sorry," Mulder looked quickly to his partner, 
and she refused to bat an eye.

	"You were..."  The admission was difficult to make.  
"...right.  I shouldn't have jumped into this.  I shouldn't have 
forced you to come."	

	Scully shifted in her seat, and inhaled sharply, signaling 
that he had said something wrong.  "You don't have to apologize for
forcing me to come, Mulder.  I'm your partner.  So, don't apologize 
for that."	

	Mulder winced at her succinct reply and cautiously nodded, 
not knowing what Scully meant by her last sentence.  He
was grateful when they finally pulled onto the familiar side street and 
reached his mother's house.

	Their feet across the pavement was the only sound as they 
approached the house, and Mulder pulled Scully back when he saw the 
door was ajar. Pulling their guns out of their holsters 
simultaneously, the agents entered the house together.

	Any strife between them disappeared momentarily as they
moved in tandem, communicating silently through hand gestures and eye
signals.

	Mulder felt his legs wobble when he saw the couch upturned, the 
cushions ripped, the walls torn through.  Silently, he took in the 
broken china, the smashed lamps, the upended cupboards and drawers -- 
their contents spilling onto the floor.

	Mulder reholstered his gun while Scully moved past him, 
mumbling that she was going to check the other rooms.  He moved a 
hand to cover his eyes, to hide the tears that were burning at the 
back of his throat. A strangled grunt came through his mouth before he 
was able to clamp down on the hurt of seeing his mother's house 
ruined. He took a breath and reopened his eyes -- prepared to look 
through the house with practiced detachment.

	Scully came back, breathless, her eyes wide with adrenaline. 
"I can't find the letter in the other rooms.  Is it here?"

	Mulder looked at her confused.  "Letter?"

	Scully nodded.  "Yeah, the letter, Mulder, remember?"

	His partner's voice was echoing though his ears, and a gust of
wind through the open door caused him to shiver.  Scully immediately 
adopted a look of a doctor examining a seriously ill patient, one that 
Mulder had the privilege of seeing numerous times, and he pulled the 
trench coat around him tighter, uncomfortable under her gentle 
scrutiny. He shook his head, synapses finally firing. "Oh yes... the 
letter. It's..." he looked haphazardly around the room. "It's not 
here."

	Scully sighed and nodded sympathetically. "Mulder... come 
here." She turned one of the chairs over and led him to it, sitting 
her partner roughly, before shuttling over to close the door.

	It seemed like an epiphany, and Mulder sat further upright.  
"Scully, if this letter was a decoy, they must have known it. Why would
they take it?" Mentally, he cursed himself for leaving it here, for 
making a mistake characteristic of rookies straight out of the Academy.

	Scully walked over and put a hand on her partner's forehead -- 
familiar ministrations. "Maybe they didn't and it's still here. We'll
find it," she stated confidently.  She offered a smile, patting the top
of his head softly.  "Or you can recite it from memory, right?" she 
teased gently.

	"But," Mulder pushed Scully's hand away, struggling to get out
of the chair.  "The book is over there, Scully.  The letter is nowhere 
near it."

	Scully shushed him, and Mulder could feel her tense at his 
agitated words.  "Let's not think about it now. We'll report the 
break-in to the police," she ignored a disbelieving chuckle from Mulder at that 
and continued firmly.  "Then, we will check into a motel and get some 
sleep, and head for D.C. in the morning."

	Mulder nodded, inspecting the chaos in the house once again.

	He wondered when the madness would end.

***

	"Agent Mulder, do you know what personal leave means?"
	
	"Yes, sir."

	"Does personal leave include traipsing off to Pennsylvania 
under the guise of official FBI business, Agent Scully?"

	"No, sir."

	Mulder chanced a glance at his superior and knew that with
each newspaper headline, each segment on the six o'clock news,
his head had moved closer and closer to the proverbial hangman's 
noose.  The media had mocked the FBI, having a field day with the 
rumors regarding Spooky Mulder in particular.  But most of all, to 
Mulder's chagrin, they had mocked Scully -- using her medical 
credentials to label her the mad doctor.

	The TV reporters were still camera happy with the story, and 
Mulder was still doing a slow burn as to where the tip had come from. 
Scully had semi-believed him; Skinner had outright shot the theory 
down.

	"Mulder, we've been in this position before. You are 
suspended. Again. Without pay." There was a pause. "Yet another mark 
on your professional record."

	Mulder rolled his eyes.

	"And Agent Scully's."
	
	"With all due respect, sir..."

	Mulder looked at Scully, but her face was expressionless. 
Her legs were tightly crossed, and her fingers were interlaced tightly 
in her lap.

	"Sir, this was my idea.  I coerced Agent Scully into going."

	Skinner shook his head.  "Agent Mulder, I know your division 
has certain... abnormalities.  But FBI procedure is very strict, and 
my job is to enforce it.  Scully is part of this disciplinary action."

	Mulder sagged in his chair when he turned to Scully once again
and she said nothing in her own defense.  God, it was so easy to just 
not care anymore. Skinner was yelping in the corner.  His father left 
him a stupid letter, which he had fallen for, hook, line, and sinker. 
His meager reputation was shot. His deceased mother's house was broken 
into and trashed. Funeral homes were leaving somber messages and 
estimates on his machine. Scully still refused to discuss their current 
dilemma. 

	Mulder suddenly felt weary and old, and he closed his eyes 
momentarily. 

	"Mulder, according to the FBI Rules and..."

	"Sir... with all due respect, please state the disciplinary 
action taken against myself and Agent Scully."

	His rough interruption caused Scully's head to snap and 
Skinner's face to turn more red.  

	The Assistant Director composed himself and sat at his desk.  
"Indefinite suspension... at least until this matter with the media 
gets resolved.  No pay for the first two weeks, and a notation in your 
records."

	Mulder nodded resignedly, while Scully stood up to offer a 
brief bob of her head.  He began to follow the prim walk of his partner
when a beefy hand grabbed his arm.

	"Agent Mulder," Skinner paused, making sure Scully had left the 
office. You and I both have been part of some events these past few 
months."

	Mulder nodded in agreement.

	"You gained some credibility when you pinned Blevins, but you 
threw it all away with this latest charade."

	Mulder started to pull himself away, and opened his mouth to 
protest, but strong fingers refused to let him go.

	"All I'm saying, Agent Mulder, is don't get swallowed out 
there. And don't take risks at the expense of Agent Scully or the 
Bureau. If you're going to take a risk, make sure it's worth it."

	Mulder finally succeeded at pulling his arm away, and 
Skinner straightened his shirt, making his way back to the desk chair.  
"You're dismissed, Agent Mulder."

	Walking out, rubbing his arm, Mulder noted that Skinner's iron 
clad grip had disappeared, but his words had not.

***

	Her partner was going insane.  That was the only answer.

	She thought that she understood his desperation and grief, but
they did not justify his insistence on going after half-decent leads. 
Their subsequent fallouts were going to drive him over the edge.

	And her too, if she wasn't careful.

	Chasing morphs to the bowels of the Arctic, jumping onto train 
cars, getting holes drilled into heads -- those gut-churning events 
were occurring at a greater frequency.  And the resulting sullen 
silences of Mulder, his set face that screamed his insistence that he 
was right, and the whole god damned world was wrong -- those periods 
were lasting longer and longer, taking a toll on her, causing the 
quality of X-File investigations to suffer.  
	
	First, there were the zone-outs like the one he'd had in 
Connecticut. Then, like during the flight back to Washington, he would
talk her ear off, throw in the occasional lewd comment -- his 
us-versus-them mentality momentarily put on the backburner.  

	She had hoped that the mood would last.  But, she could hardly 
recognize the hard-edged man who sat in Skinner's office today as her 
partner.

	Walking slowly towards the office, she recounted how their 
names had been splashed on the pages of the newspapers.  How they had 
called her and her partner crazy -- too wrapped up in the hype of 
hundred-million-dollar movies. She read all the articles, memorizing 
each word, and then studied an interview with the flabbergasted, 
indignant director of the Flu Research Institute. According to him, 
his employees were really just... researching the flu. 

	Mulder could be so... blind sometimes, and he had a unique 
ability to compound the ill consequences. If only he hadn't opened his 
mouth, if he said nothing to the reporters, it wouldn't have blown up 
as much as it did. And Mulder's mother's house had been trashed -- he 
still hadn't made funeral plans. Scully tried to breathe deep and get 
a grip on the stifling anger inside her.

	 The letter still hadn't been found, and Scully had watched, 
fascinated, as her partner rewrote it from memory in the office, prior
to their appointment with Skinner.

	She inwardly growled when she started to clear her desk.
Her partner still had no clue why she was upset.

	And she was still so tired -- the cancer still looming over
her.

	His next quest... she wasn't sure if she could participate in 
it.  

***

	The contented gurgle of the fish tank above his head only made 
Mulder more antsy.

	He tried to lay down on the couch, but his thoughts were too 
jumbled, the lights streaming through the blinds too annoying to be 
ignored.

	The phone rang, and Mulder debated whether to let the machine 
take it. Perhaps it was Scully... Skinner... the Gunmen... Arlinsky... 
Deep Throat come back from the dead.  He didn't know anyone, except 
for Scully, who thought that the ring of the phone sounded more 
ominous than friendly.

	"Mulder."

	"Hi, Mulder, it's Danny.  I've finished with the phone 
records that you sent me."

	Mulder was immediately alert, hugging the phone close to his 
ear. "Yeah, and?"

	"You were right, most of the numbers from the dead guy's 
apartment were to office high rises with no registered users.  But 
there was one residential house that was called quite regularly, and 
it's in the D.C. area."

	"Where?"

	Mulder hastily wrote down the address of the house, while 
hearing his heart thud in his chest.  Perhaps the Cigarette Smoking Man
had left one secret after all.  "Danny, is there a name to the house?"

	"Yeah..." there was a pause as paper rustled.  "It's Samantha
O'Connor."
	
***

	The drive was a blur, his left hand steering as the thumb
on his right hand nervously rubbed the fingers' knuckles.

	He turned the key abruptly, and the motor died, 
leaving birds to sing in the background.  Mulder sat in his car, 
staring at the neat yellow house with cherry bushes growing in the 
front yard.  A neighbor clipping his hedges was looking at the 
unfamiliar Taurus with suspicion. Sighing deeply, Mulder opened the 
car door.

	He was nervous; his skin felt prickly, and his hands were cold.  
His pulse was racing, and he tried to swallow a lump in his throat.  
He barely felt his knuckles hit the door, but the knock echoed 
thunderously through his ears.

	Somewhere someone stopped clipping, and Mulder knocked 
again, trying to remind himself that this might be nothing, and that
Samantha O'Connor did not have long, brown wavy hair with eyes
that matched her brother's.

	"She's not home."

	Mulder spun around to meet a heavy set, lumber-jacket wearing
man.

	"What do you mean?"  His voice remained steady, but
inside his every nerve trembled.

	"She's moved away."

	Mulder's heart stopped and his mouth momentarily gaped open.  
"Do you know where to?"

	He shook his head no. "I dunno, the whole family packed up and
left in a hurry."

	The word 'family' pained him, and Mulder numbly pulled out his 
badge. "Can I ask you some questions about Samantha O'Connor?"

	The neighbor nodded. "Shoot."

	To each question that Mulder fired -- whether about Samantha 
O'Connor's personal whereabouts, the presence of mysterious visitors, 
or her mental state -- the neighbor cheerfully stated he didn't know, 
or that things appeared as normal as American apple pie.

	Mulder rubbed his temple while saying thanks, and walked up the
wooden stairs to the doorway. The screen door was unlocked, as was the 
heavier wooden panel, and he braced himself for what he would see...
or who he wouldn't see.

	Air pushed through his lungs and roughly through his mouth when 
he absorbed the bare hardwood floors and the unused moving boxes still
piled in the middle.  A play of emotions went across his face -- from 
the shiny eyes of heartbreak, to the grim set mouth of frustration. His
shoulders sagged in flagging determination. 

	Mulder felt himself tense as his right foot lashed out and 
kicked the wall.  A black heel mark remained imprinted, and he doubled 
over, seething with an unexpressionable rage.  He leaned against the 
wall trying to control the errant breathing, and the hot stinging 
tears that threatened to spill.  

	His foot was throbbing, and he relished the pain -- so much
better than the anguish he felt deep inside his chest.  

	When a minute passed, when the air shifted, Mulder stood up, 
inhaled deeply, and let the air out slowly. He walked out of the house, 
latching the lock as he went -- hoping to trap the emptiness and 
desolation inside. 

***

	Scully walked wearily down the stairs to the X-Files office, 
cursing herself for forgetting the papers she had wanted to take home.

	The sight of her partner at his desk, with his sleeves rolled
up surprised her, and she automatically turned her head to the left, 
expecting to see the slide projector set up. 

	It wasn't.

	And Mulder was sitting back in his chair with one foot propped
up on the desk, a pencil to his teeth -- brooding for some time now, 
by the looks of the bags under his eyes.

	Scully set her things carefully on her desk and approached her
partner.  "Mulder?  What's wrong?  We're suspended, remember?"

	He shook his head, and then got up from his chair, limping to 
the door, peering out, and then checking the lock as he made his way 
back.

	"And what happened to your foot?"

	Mulder grunted. "I kicked a wall."

	Scully raised her eyebrows, startled at his terseness.  
Watching him settle back in his chair, Scully could see how badly his 
shoulders were tensed, how many styrofoam coffee cups were scattered 
around his desk.

	He looked exhausted, and the wrinkles in his dress shirt were
indicative of how many hours he spent here.

	It was yet another reminder of the downward spiral of her 
partner, and Scully managed to contain her sigh of exasperation.

	"Mulder... what's happening?"

	"Nothing. I'm fine."

	Scully flinched imperceptibly when Mulder leaned over to 
push a note towards her. His eyes narrowed at her reaction, and
he stepped clear of her path, limping back towards the door.  He
grabbed his coat quickly, shutting the door behind him quietly, 
leaving without any parting comments.

	Scully stared at the note -- scared, terrified,
nervous, angry, annoyed at its ambiguity -- at her partner who had 
just walked out and expected her to follow.  She pocketed the note, 
the words already engraved in her mind:

	I KNOW HOW TO GET THE TRUTH

* * *

	With deliberately unhurried movements Scully gathered the 
forgotten papers, put on a coat, and collected her bags. Before 
stepping out, she swept the office mentally, scolding herself for 
being paranoid. Finally, she started walking up the stairs, trying 
to clamp down on the urge to run after her partner. 

	As she expected, Mulder was waiting beside the car, silently
motioning for her to get inside. The nonchalant stature failed to 
hide his fatigue, and his lips refused to shape into a smile. 
Sensing that it was best to follow, Scully got inside and waited 
for some explanation. But except for a soft murmur of "Shall we 
go for lunch?", the man behind the wheel remained silent, and her 
pulse quickened in anticipation. 

	Whatever he had in mind while writing the note could not 
have been good.

	They walked inside a little diner, and Mulder looked around, 
searching for familiar faces, finding none. He picked this place 
with more care than a chess player calculates each step, making 
sure that their FBI colleagues did not frequent it. Not 
surprisingly, the busy atmosphere and crowds of people inside could 
not distract him from the upcoming conversation with his partner.

	She would not take it well.

	And that was an understatement.

	Scully frowned, seeing her partner lean against the wall 
favoring his right foot, his eyes dark, his expression grim. A 
sense of dread settled in her stomach, and the smell of food was making
her sick. At the moment, all she wanted was to be far away from him, 
from this noisy room, and from D.C. Her mother had called last night, 
not too subtly inviting her to spend some time in Baltimore till 
"things blew over." And while the young woman had inwardly shuddered, 
imagining her family's reaction to the media hoop-la around their 
name, she suddenly longed for the house where she spent her childhood, 
safe from insanity and conspiracies.

	The same house she couldn't get away from fast enough only days
ago over Thanksgiving dinner. 

	The hostess had to ask them to follow her twice before either 
agent  responded.   Mulder's hand suddenly rested on her upper 
arm, and the uniformed teenager abruptly shoved two dog-eared menus 
into their hands, hastily walking to a nearby table.  

	"Mulder, please tell me what's going on."

	Her curt voice did not conceal the pleading undertones, and 
Scully hated herself for them.

	Mulder, who until then was researching the condensation on 
the glass of water and waiting for the drops to fall down, slowly 
raised his eyes to the woman in front of him.  The clarity in his voice
betrayed the cacophony of thoughts and conflicting emotions that had
plagued him during the past couple of days.  He reached for Scully's 
hand, as if searching for a point of balance on a wildly rotating 
carousel, and felt her fingers momentarily tense in surprise.  The din 
of the diner suddenly dissipated, and Scully watched Mulder's lips 
move, the words registering seemingly hours later.  "I want to join the 
Consortium."

	Hearing that statement and snatching her fingers away quickly, 
Scully felt weeks of stress and madness explode inside her, leaving 
only bleak emptiness and the tortured face of her partner.  The diner
suddenly came alive again -- dishes were rattling, and patrons were 
engaged in animated conversation.  She was momentarily stunned by the 
fact that everything around her still remained the same.

	And that the Earth was still rotating around the Sun. 

	Mulder offered an uneasy, sad smile. "Say something, Scully."

	"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered, envisioning 
the empty basement office, knowing that if the one constant she could 
believe in disappeared -- understanding that if his statement became 
real, she would be working against him.  And he would be working with 
the forces he so vehemently opposed.

	Even though she comprehended the degree of his frustration, she 
could not forgive him for making this choice -- or for leaving her 
behind. She tried frantically to contain the desire to cry, to scream, 
to break the nervous fingers which were now playing again with the 
condensation of the glass. There was no possibility of her making a 
scene here, and she congratulated him mentally on choosing a 
public place to break the news. 

	And her heart.

	"Because you are my partner, and I need your help," Mulder 
watched Scully's face thoughtfully, cautiously. He knew exactly what 
she was thinking, and the knowledge burned him like the flames of hell. 

	Scully could not believe his audacity. "You are asking me to 
help you while you work for those sons-of-bitches?"

	"Scully, I need you." He injected each word with as much 
persuasion as he could master, because there was nothing as important 
to him at the moment as making sure that the partnership forged over 
the years through fires and heartaches was not destroyed by one 
sentence. "I have never needed you and your trust more than now. I 
would never -- do you understand? -- never become one of them. This is 
a proposition to you, and I will only follow through on it after you 
accept. I would only pretend to join their ranks, to get at the truth 
we both so desperately want. I hope you want it as much as I do," he 
aborted the speech suddenly as he watched a tear finally spill out of 
Scully's clouded eyes.

	Five years, thought Scully. Five years, and it could not have 
come to this -- and no truth could be worth sacrificing the honesty
of this man. A desperate decision, it would only lead him further into 
their web, and she was sure she would plummet to the bottom with him. 

	"No." 

	The steel in her voice galvanized him like a shot of 
electricity. 

	"Mulder, if you are giving me a chance to stop you, let me do 
it now."

	"Scully, I know that lately my credibility has approached the 
zero levels, and the truth I keep preaching about seems as elusive as 
the mechanism of perpetual motion. But I am begging you," Mulder shook 
his head, looking for words. "Do you remember that morning in the 
hospital, when I told you I was offered a deal?"

	She bowed her head, still shivering at the memories of the 
white room, the detestable weakness, and the feeling of helplessness 
against the disease.  The meaning of her partner's words finally sank 
in to her, nauseating her, freezing her blood. But even more 
frightening was the thought that he was ready to accept the deal. 
"Someone made an offer to you to join the Consortium."

	"Yes. And I said no. Because I thought that there were other 
ways to find the truth. And when I nailed Blevins, and when your 
cancer had gone into remission, I knew -- I was certain that we would 
win. But then..." he cringed at the thought of public humiliation, 
Samantha's disappearance, the threat of the X-Files department being 
closed down. "And now, I remember that offer, and it makes more sense 
to me than ever before." Encouraged by Scully's silence, he continued. 
"It would take us years to understand what the Project is, to get the 
evidence, and to make people listen to us, especially after the fiasco 
in Reading. But if they thought me on their side, I would have access 
to all kinds of information, and we would finally be able to do 
something."

	"So, you want to destroy them from within," Scully nodded.

	"Absolutely," Mulder searched her face for a sign of acceptance 
that would not come easily.

	Getting a grip on thoughts and emotions that whirred in a mad
kaleidoscope inside her, Scully evaluated the situation coldly. He had
made up his mind, and she would not be able to talk him out of it. 

	"Do you realize the potential consequences of your decision?
You will lose your integrity, and you may well lose your life in the 
process."  The fire in her eyes abated, and the tone of her voice 
suddenly softened.  "Damn you, I could not bear that."

	Mulder's heart cinched at his partner's admission, but he 
forged ahead ignoring the painful sentiment. "I know, Scully -- and I
agree on all counts."  He leaned forward, whispering, seeing Scully's
eyes were only inches from his own.  "But there is no gain without the 
risk. Just think of how much potential lies in this prospect," he 
hoped that his tone and words were enticing enough. 

	Scully contemplated the offer silently, her own desperation 
warring with  rationality. The arrangement he proposed was, of course, 
utterly insane. There were so many things that could go wrong with it. 
But at the same time, it made perverse sense, and she thought it more 
appealing than another microphone shoved into her face. They would 
have access to the actual evidence instead of the pathetic scraps 
thrown at them occasionally, the ambiguous ramblings of shadowy 
informants, or the false leads from dead people.

	"I accept your decision." The words were out before she had a 
chance to swallow them. She simply could not allow this man to go 
alone into the snake pit. And if he wanted to mingle with the poisonous 
creatures, she wanted to be there to pull him out.

	And if, as a result, their quest was finally fulfilled, the 
reward would be immeasurable.

	She could not -- would not -- think about the potential fallout
should they fail.

	Mulder exhaled, feeling  gratitude and amazement sweep 
through him. Leaning close to her ear and smiling widely, he 
whispered: "You know, Scully, I always wanted to be a spy."

	Scully's slight smile did not reach her eyes. She could not 
help but feel as if they had just released a boomerang that could only 
come back to haunt them. 

	Mulder watched her, relieved.  And for the first time since
his mother's death, he allowed himself to relax, let the nervous 
tension drain away. At the moment, he was happy to ignore the nagging 
doubts, the dangers that awaited them both, and the possibility of 
failure.

	Because together, they stood a chance of winning this long and 
arduous war.

	* * *

	Andrew Winters took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and 
focused on the papers in front of him, oblivious to the chatter in the 
other cubicles, the repetitive sound of coffee being poured, and the 
constant ringing of the phones. It was the first case he was in charge 
of, and he was determined to complete it successfully. 

	He finished the FBI Academy, fourth in his class, after 
graduating from the University of Wisconsin, and since then, worked in 
the Violent Crimes Unit. With each day, he became more and more 
convinced that he had chosen the right occupation. Without being 
overtly modest, Andrew considered himself an asset to the department. 
And while his colleagues at first laughed at Andrew's youth and boyish 
good looks, they soon began to respect him for his sharp intellect, 
profiling skills, and an innate curiosity.

	Winters did not remain unnoticed by his superiors, as well,
and more and more often, he participated in the high-profile cases.
The manila folder in his hand did not fit into such category, but it 
was intriguing and disturbing. He also did not exactly understand why 
it was in the care of the VCU, for the crimes were non-violent. Not 
that he was about to question its validity.

	Four women in Richmond, Virginia were reported missing over 
the past few months. Each one was returned seemingly unharmed, with no 
recollections of the few weeks lost, days that their families spent by 
the phones, trembling and expecting the worst. Now, another one --
just a girl -- was missing, and if nothing else, Andrew honestly hoped 
to expedite her return. 

	He inspected the picture of fifteen-year old Lina Fremont; 
the girl was as average-looking and all-American as kids came. Blue 
eyes dominated her round face, blond hair was fashionably cut, a huge 
smile revealed a set of beautiful white teeth, and the navy school 
uniform complemented her features. Winters searched his desk quickly 
for a pin and fastened the photo to the wall in front of him, right
above the tiny model of a red Porsche -- the one thing about which
his fellow agents still teased him mercilessly. 

	Still studying her portrait, Andrew reached for the other case 
profiles, preparing to call all the families once again, hoping for a 
lead, knowing that he would settle for any scrap at the moment. 

	One of the women had to remember something.

	* * *
	
	Mulder stirred his iced tea absently, scanning the crowd inside 
the upscale bar of the downtown Hilton. When the familiar figure of 
Marita Covarrubias appeared in the doorway, he stood up -- not too 
eagerly, he reminded himself -- and went over to greet her.

	"Agent Mulder, why did you need to see me?" Marita questioned, 
as they were seated at the table. "You are on suspension; there are no 
cases to investigate."

	Mulder grinned, detecting her curiosity and not in the least 
bothered by her evident displeasure. "Actually, this is a personal 
matter. I wanted to get to know you better."  He looked into her eyes, 
suppressing a laugh.  "We just never seem to really talk, do we?"

	Marita stared at him with little comprehension, her large, pale 
eyes wide open. "I am afraid to ask what you mean, Agent Mulder."

	"I will start." Now, he was really enjoying this meeting. "I 
work in the X-Files division of the FBI. What do you do?"

	The blonde shifted uncomfortably under his humorous gaze. "I'm 
sure you know."

	"I'm sure I don't. But I'd love to find out," Mulder sipped 
his tea contentedly. "Our working relationship has been so pleasant, 
I'm thinking that I'd like us to become colleagues."

	Mulder watched Marita retreat slightly, her eyes marking her 
confusion. "You want to work for the UN?"

	"Oh, it would seem like a great job -- wouldn't it?" Mulder 
mused aloud. "But it pays so little -- and the perks are so limited. 
No, I'd like to work for your other bosses, Marita."

	She made a small movement, as if wishing to get up -- then sat 
back down again. Well, this was certainly. . . unexpected. How could 
she be so careless?

	Seeing the play of emotions on her smooth face, Mulder felt 
something akin to pity. "It wasn't so difficult to figure out -- I was 
only going on the fact that you knew just a little too much, even for 
someone who works at the SRSG office."

	Marita reached a decision quickly. "I didn't know you were that 
unsatisfied with your present occupation. Otherwise, I would have 
offered my help. . . a long time ago."

	So she admitted it -- that is, to a degree that Marita 
Covarrubias ever admitted anything. "Why were you so forthcoming with 
sensitive information, may I ask?" Mulder questioned curiously.

	"Part of my job description," Marita answered -- and for the 
first time, Mulder felt that she spoke the truth. "Obviously, I will 
be concentrating on the other areas from now on."

	"Pity," Mulder offered calmly.

	A sarcastic smile settled on her lips as she contemplated 
something. "There is a weekly meeting in Manhattan next Tuesday," 
she spoke softly. "Would you like to attend?"

	"I will never say no to more frequent flyer miles," Mulder 
replied evenly.

	Presuming that the conversation was over, Marita stood up, 
glancing at the federal agent cautiously. "Please do not discount my 
words as another misleading nugget of information. But you should be 
more discriminating in choosing who you work for."

	Mulder smirked, watching her depart, his smile faltering when 
she disappeared in the sea of faces.

	One certainly could not believe the words of a liar.

	
	* * *

	The Well-Manicured Man studied the large even handwriting of 
Bill Mulder once again, still puzzled by the blasted letter. The names 
and places listed at the bottom were so obviously wrong that they 
begged further investigation, and every word was so unlike the cold, 
stern man he remembered.

	If Mulder senior was indeed the author, he should have been 
pitied. Unless he was still waiting behind the curtains for a last 
laugh.

	"So far, this letter has been a blessing in disguise," a heavy 
figure to his left pronounced, sarcasm dripping from each word. 

	"Indeed," the Well-Manicured Man muttered under his breath. 
"Though it seems to me that Special Agent Fox Mulder should learn to 
apply his superior intellect and place more faith in his father."

	"William Mulder died a pitiful old man," his companion answered 
calmly. "Guilt and grief are powerful enemies."

	The thin old man played staccato on the heavy cherry-wood table, 
lost deep in thought. He was remembering a devastating fire in one of 
the Consortium's prized facilities that occurred decades ago, and the 
underlying fear in the eyes of the man who oversaw the experiments 
inside it. Bill Mulder's insistence on the accidental nature of the 
disaster. 

	His subsequent resignation. 

	Several surreptitious searches of his house had been made, each 
without results.

	"There is a chance that Mulder senior kept some information 
about the project," the Well-Manicured Man stated, leaning back in the 
leather armchair. "And I would certainly like to see it."

	The rotund body on his left shifted. "And you think that the 
location of these magical documents are in this letter?" a slight 
disbelief was apparent in the thick voice.

	"It's a possibility. And something tells me that the young 
Mulder is the one man who can decipher this curious little riddle," 
thin lips shaped into a smile.

	"In that case, the federal agent should take a few therapy 
sessions and work on his trust issues, don't you think?"

	A low laughter echoed throughout the darkened room, when a 
younger man entered. "There is a phone call for you, sir."

	The Well-Manicured Man pushed a speaker button. 

	"This is Marita Covarrubias," a steady female voice spoke. 
"You will never believe who will attend your next meeting."

	* * *

	Andrew Winters read the chart of the woman sleeping on the bed 
beside him and frowned. She had been admitted to the hospital after 
fainting at work and causing a minor panic. According to the doctors, 
the reason behind Nancy Ivar's ill health was internal bleeding. 

	But what the young agent was mostly interested in was a 
discovery and subsequent extraction of a small metal object near her 
navel. He wrote down the doctor's name, planning to contact him, and 
placed the chart back in its place. 

	Andrew felt like a hunting dog that just smelled a wily fox. He 
didn't expect much after calling Nancy's house and listening to the 
hysterical explanation of the husband, but he drove to the Richmond 
Medical Center nonetheless. 

	He hoped that his intuition was correct, once again.

	The doctor was only too happy to be rid of the little object 
once Andrew flashed his badge. In D.C., he sent the metal chip 
straight to the lab. An hour later, one of the technicians called him 
back, asking him to come downstairs.

	"Brian?" the agent shook hands with a small plump man. "Andrew 
Winters."  He nodded towards the vial on the counter.  "So what is that 
thing?"

	The technician seemed excited about the article in question, 
his right foot bouncing, as the man seemingly could not bring himself 
to sit still. "I believe that it is a sophisticated computer chip. 
Very high-tech. And I have only seen it once before in twenty years 
I've worked here."

	Andrew tensed, waiting for Brian to continue. 

	"Agent Scully -- she works with Agent Mulder in the X-Files 
department -- brought it to us some time ago," he stopped, 
contemplating that fact. "She would probably be able to tell you more 
about it."

	"Thank you," the young man pocketed a vial with the chip 
gingerly and almost ran to the door.

	"You're welcome," Brian shrugged. "Hey, you won't be able to 
talk to them. I heard they are both on suspension."

	Andrew stopped dead in his tracks. "Why?"

	"Don't you read the newspapers?" The small man smirked in 
disbelief. "They made quite a scandal just a couple of weeks ago in 
Pennsylvania. Seems they were looking for aliens in the wrong places," 
he lowered his voice to a mock whisper.  "And the FBI does frown on 
that kind of publicity."

	His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and Andrew blindly reached 
for the door. "Thanks anyway."  More disconcerted and perplexed than 
ever before, the young agent returned to his floor.

	* * *

	Mulder studied the address scrawled on the piece of paper, even
though the numbers and street names were long since learned by heart -- 
1342 West 46th Street. Arrangements had been surprisingly easy to make, 
and he chose to interpret it as a good omen. His contact with Marita 
proved to be useful, after all.

	Mulder walked briskly, having no patience to fight the 
afternoon Manhattan traffic even in a taxi, using physical exertion 
to calm his jagged nerves. He saw the tall building from afar, and 
incongruously remembered the adventure books he read as a boy, 
imagining himself a character who came face to face with the castle of 
the evil magician. Chuckling lightly, he picked up the pace. 

	This was not the time to pull out the sword.

	But it would come soon.

	The young man who greeted the federal agent was taken aback by 
his friendly facial expression, but composed his features into a 
reciprocating polite mask. "Follow me," he turned on his heel smoothly 
and went ahead, expecting the visitor to follow. 

	The door was opened, and Mulder entered a spacious room, 
appreciating its exquisite interior. Several pairs of eyes studied him 
openly, while the perfectly groomed man, obviously in charge of the 
situation, leaned forward with recognition. 

	"We have been expecting you, Mr. Mulder," a cultured voice had 
undertones of excitement. "Please, sit down."

	Mulder took an offered chair, choosing to remain silent.  

	"My deepest condolences on the passing away of your mother," 
the Well-Manicured Man continued. "I regret that I was unable to 
attend the funeral."

	Mulder bared his teeth in a resemblance of a smile, and tried 
to contain a sarcastic remark burning his tongue. "Let us skip with the 
formalities, shall we?" he replied tersely, receiving an amicable nod 
in return.  "First of all, I believe you have something that belongs 
to me."

	"Oh, you mean the letter of your father?" the heavy-set man 
entered the conversation. "But by all means, keep it." 

	The yellow piece of paper was pushed in Mulder's direction, 
and he took it knowing full well that all the necessary copies of it 
have already been manufactured, that it has been read and reread 
numerous times. "I believe I could bring you up on charges of mail 
fraud," he commented non-threateningly.

	"If I were in your place, Mr. Mulder, I would think twice 
about value of this particular piece of mail," the thin man answered 
evenly. "It may not be worth the trouble. Let me give you a piece of 
advice: there is nothing going on in either Makon or Irvine. Don't 
tell me that it was the reason for our gathering?" 

	Instantly, Mulder felt as an applicant to the restricted 
institution, about to take a difficult entrance exam. Time to put the 
cards on the table.

	"I have reached a difficult decision," he started quietly. 
"Some time ago, a certain member of your organization offered me a 
deal which I was not prepared to make at the moment. Since I cannot 
contact this person any longer," Mulder congratulated himself mentally 
on his choice of words, "I have had to arrange for this meeting."

	The Well-Manicured Man exchanged glances with the rotund figure
on his side. Neither had to question the identity of the mysterious 
member.

	"He proposed that I come to work for him. And in his absence, I 
would like to offer my services to you now," he concluded, scanning the 
room and trying to read the inscrutable faces around him. 

	"Why such a change of heart?" 

	Mulder bit his lip. "I have come to a point where I have little 
chance of finding the truth on my own. I am on the indefinite 
suspension from my status as a federal agent, and the X-Files 
department faces a threat of being shut down, once again. Without 
access to the necessary information, I cannot continue my job."

	"And you feel you have no choice but to become one of us," the 
Well-Manicured Man finished for him. "May I remind you, Agent Mulder, 
that your work so far has been quite disruptive to us? How are we to 
trust you?"

	"If I were not of some value to you, I would have been 
destroyed a long time ago," the agent replied with certainty. "All 
this time, my purpose has been to find the truth, and you can give it 
to me."

	The only sound in the hushed room was the crackling of logs in 
the fireplace.

	"Let me prove my worth to you."

	The thin man settled back in his chair. "We must confer on this 
matter, as you understand," he directed his gaze to the young man 
standing at the door. "Please see Mr. Mulder out."

	The agent got up and retraced his steps to the exit but the 
inquisitive question stopped him in mid-tracks. "Have you given 
thought to the situation with your partner? What should you do if she 
finds out your intentions?"

	The realization that this was the true test of the interview 
hit him, and he turned around to face the curious eyes of his 
opponent. The tormented expression was easy to produce when he 
remembered the anxiety that took up residence in Scully's eyes 
recently, the fear that she tried to hide unsuccessfully, and his own 
reluctance at plunging her into this lunacy. 

	"She will not find out," the message of his words was clear, 
and the Well-Manicured Man bent his head, satisfied. 

	When the elevator doors closed, Mulder leaned against the wall, 
delighted but exhausted.

	He reminded himself that this was a mere preview of the days 
and weeks that were to come -- and he wondered wearily how he would 
get the strength to walk through the inferno that he voluntarily chose.

* * *

	Scully researched the newspapers and magazines methodically, 
looking for a continuation of the "newest adventures of the FBI." 
Lately, she had developed a curious detachment while reading them, as 
if the people deconstructed within each article were not herself and 
her partner. She found none today and, for a few moments, felt relieved 
that there were other issues of more importance to report.

	Unless someone had made sure that the current media campaign 
against the FBI would stop.

	And if that were the case, Mulder's negotiations had been 
completed successfully. Scully took off her glasses and closed her 
eyes, still uncertain about his decision -- or about her resolution to 
support him. She questioned the means through which he contacted the 
Consortium, considering the fact that Cancerman was gone, and Skinner 
was enjoying a nicotine-free environment. Mulder had discarded her 
queries with a wave of his hand and a joke, switching the topic 
smoothly. She knew that he had connections, and respected the secrecy 
he afforded them, but this was not the right time to be private. 

	The phone rang and she picked it up tentatively, hoping that 
it was not her partner, because any meaningful discussion between them 
was banned until further notice. And any small talk would be senseless. 
They were both afraid of bugs, and Scully combed through her apartment 
with a renewed vigor, her failure to find them only deepening her 
disquiet. 

	"Agent Scully? Assistant Director Skinner."

	Scully tensed, fearing another unpleasant discussion. "Yes, 
sir."

	"I just spoke to Agent Mulder. Both of you may come back to 
work tomorrow." His voice was cold, official, and Scully 
wondered how long it would take to restore the uneasy trust between him 
and the X-Files department. 

	Although given the current situation, her mind dryly amended,
the Assistant Director had no reason to trust them at all.  

	"Thank you, sir. We will be there," she replied, allowing the 
gratitude enter her voice,

	"Have a good day, Agent Scully." He hung up before she had a 
chance to say goodbye. Sighing, Scully put the phone back into its 
cradle.

	The games were about to begin.

	* * *

	Mulder entered the basement office early in the morning, 
seeing Scully already at her desk and engrossed in the paperwork. 
"When did you come in today?"

	"Oh, about seven. We have a lot to catch up on," she replied 
without lifting her head. 

	He nodded and slowly made way to his desk. "Did Skinner 
mention to you any new cases that we could take on?" 

	"No," Scully chanced a glance in his direction, an unspoken 
question in her eyes.

	Mulder shrugged imperceptibly, the message understood, but the 
answer still unclear. The fateful meeting transpired a couple of days 
ago, and since then, he had heard nothing. I hope I didn't forget to 
put my phone number on the application, he mused sarcastically. 
However, the abruptly terminated media campaign and the invitation to 
come back to work were good signs. Or bad -- depending on how he chose 
to interpret them. 

	There was a knock on the door, and both agents flinched, 
glancing at each other uneasily. In the little office, visitors 
were rare -- and most often unwelcome. In this respect, they were 
paranoid in sync. Scully recuperated first and went to open the door 
to an impeccably dressed, broad-shouldered young man. "May I help you?"

	He flashed her a wide smile and extended a hand to shake. 
"Agent Scully? Agent Winters. I hope I am not interrupting 
anything?"

	Mulder got up from his desk, coming closer to meet him. "Agent 
Mulder. No, you are not interrupting."

	Scully smiled politely. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Why were 
you looking for us?"

	"Actually, I was looking for you, Agent Scully. Unless you 
could also shed some light on my current investigation," Andrew turned 
to Mulder. 

	"I will try," Mulder pointed to a chair, inviting him to sit 
down, sensing reluctance in the fellow agent. "What is it you are 
working on?"

	"I am investigating several disappearances in Richmond, 
Virginia," Andrew started. "Actually, all of the missing women have 
already been returned, even the last one." He shook his head in 
frustration. "I am certainly happy that she is back, and everything is 
fine, but I never had a chance to help them... her," he sighed. 
"I really want to find the man, or men, who did this, but the only 
lead I have is this," he took a vial with the chip out of his pocket, 
handing it over to Scully. "It was extracted from the navel of one 
young woman, and the guys in the lab said that you could tell me what 
it is."

	Scully stared at the chip, the exact copy of the one implanted 
in her neck, and tried to slow down her pounding heart. She cautiously 
raised her eyes to Mulder who schooled his features into a mask of 
indifference. The silence stretched interminably, and Andrew was the 
first to nervously break it.

	"I am glad that you are back from suspension, by the way," he 
offered timidly, sensing the tension in the room and wondering about 
its causes. "I hope everything has been resolved."

	"I am afraid we don't know what this is," said Scully, 
disregarding his last comments. She reorganized the neat pile of 
reports on her desk to keep her trembling fingers busy -- ignoring
Agent Winter's questioning gaze.  "I did see it before, in a similar 
kind of case that still has not been solved," she finished, trying to 
sound appropriately apologetic. 

	Andrew, visibly disappointed, pocketed the chip. "Oh. I am 
sorry... I only wanted to find out what was going on, you understand. 
It was my first case," he concluded with obvious regret.

	Mulder eyed him sympathetically. "May I ask -- how long have 
you been working for the VCU?"

	"About four months. I was recruited right after I finished my 
Masters in Psychology. My other passion besides the race-car driving," 
he shared with a smile.

	Mulder laughed politely, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 
God, he wondered if he had been this green when he came out of 
Quantico. The phone rang, and his smile faltered.  He excused himself 
to answer it, suddenly wary of the sensitive ears in the office at the 
moment.  Scully followed him with her eyes, then reluctantly turned 
her attention back to the young agent. "I apologize that we're unable 
to help. Weren't there any witnesses to the disappearances? Do the 
women remember anything?" she already suspected the answers to both 
questions, but felt obligated to ask them nonetheless.

	"No," Andrew got up, preparing to leave. Near the door, he 
suddenly stopped and turned back to Mulder, who had just 
finished the phone conversation. "Agent Mulder, if I may be so forward, 
I still hear legends about you in the VCU. And the way you handled the 
matter with Blevins..." he stopped, unable to find words to express his 
admiration. Over the last few days, he had meticulously studied all the
materials he could find pertaining to the two agents, and what little 
he learned instilled him with awe. Despite the dog-eats-dog media 
frenzy, and the recent face washing Agents Mulder and Scully endured, 
there was no doubt that both of them added credibility to a division 
that could have easily been lost to the tabloids. "I just wanted to 
let you know how much I respect your work."

	Mulder busied himself with the papers on his table, inwardly
smiling. The kid was green, green, and more green.  He had to hand it 
to Winters, he had the art of brown nosing down to a capital T.  "I 
assume you've missed the latest news. We're the crazy agents."

	Scully flashed him an annoyed look, then smiled at the young 
agent. "Thank you. I wish you luck with your next case."

	"I am still looking for the answers to this one," Andrew 
replied resolutely.  He  stepped out of the office. What a strange 
couple, he thought on the way upstairs. He was impressed with these 
remarkable people who seemed to communicate without words. But silent 
communication had its limits, and Andrew was ready to bet his entire 
paycheck that both knew more about the chip than they let on.

	Mulder went over to Scully, who had not changed her position 
since Winters had left. "How are you doing?" he asked tentatively.

	"I'm fine, Mulder," she replied offhandedly, unable to deal 
with the concern in his eyes. How many times would the damn metal chip 
come back to haunt her? "He seems like a good agent. Too young for 
the VCU."

	Mulder's eyes darkened, and Scully stopped abruptly, 
remembering how young and inexperienced her partner was when he 
started to work for the same department.

	"I have to go," he said softly. "I'll see you later."

	Once again, she was left alone in the office, a small note in 
her palm. It read:

CHECK OUT INTERNET NEWS LATELY?
SCI.ZOOLOGY.PRIMATES
SCORPIO13 FOR SKYLARK2

	"See you there," Scully whispered, memorizing the name of the 
newsgroup.  She looked back towards the now silent office phone on
Mulder's desk, sitting innocently, but privy to secrets she didn't
know.

	She did not have to wonder from where the phone call came.


	* * *

	Mulder settled in the plush armchair, a bit exhausted after 
fighting traffic and catching a forty-five minute flight from D.C. to
JFK. He hoped that he wouldn't have to travel to Manhattan every day,
the insanity of this city did not attract him in the least. 

	"Welcome back, Agent Mulder," the Well-Manicured Man looked
pleased to see him. "I hope you went back to work today?"

	"Yes. I have also noticed some interesting changes in the news 
topics," he replied, fully realizing the underlying meaning 
of the question. 

	"All things pass. I doubt anyone will remember your 
indiscretions for long," the thin man mused. "We believe you may be an 
asset to our organization. Personally, I wonder what took you so long," 
he smiled suddenly, openly delighted. "And I am glad you reevaluated 
your position. By the way, I don't think we have been properly 
introduced. James Milton."

	Mulder could not hide his surprise, knowing that at least this 
piece of information would not be forthcoming unless he was truly 
accepted by the organization. "It is nice to meet you," he mumbled, 
already scolding himself for the stupidity of the answer. "I assume you 
have some directives for me."

	"You are correct," Milton nodded approvingly. "And we need you 
to continue working in the X-Files department with Agent Scully. But do 
make sure to inform us of each sensitive case that comes to your 
attention. We could give you some valuable advice on how to proceed 
with it."

	Sarcastically, he assumed that they would want to keep the 
evidence, too, and accepted the assignment with a succinct nod.  "Is 
that all?"

	"Well, there is another small matter," the old man echoed 
thoughtfully. "The other members of the Consortium are doubtful of 
your loyalty, Agent Mulder. And frankly, I need some assurance from 
you -- a token of good will, so to speak, as a proof of your 
commitment."

	Mulder listened with a sinking heart, his every 
instinct alerting him that this might not pass quite so easily. "What 
would it be?"

	"You are an Oxford-educated psychologist, if I am not 
mistaken?"

	Mulder concurred, uncertain of where this line of questioning 
was going.

	"We could use your training, then. You would talk to some 
young women and try to erase their memories of the time they have 
spent in our facilities." The Well-Manicured Man watched the face of 
the young man for signs of distaste and hatred, finding none and 
complimenting him mentally. "It is only for their own good, you 
understand."

	His suggestion was met by grave silence, and he continued 
shortly. "It would take very little of your time, if that's what you 
are concerned about."

	Mulder tried desperately to collect his thoughts and wished 
that time were the least of his concerns. What they required of him, 
the little token of his good will, was unimaginable. However, there 
was no choice but to acquiesce. "I agree."

	"Well, that's settled, then," Milton paused for a second. "I 
do not doubt your abilities, but I imagine you will need some 
assistance in the beginning, and we will acquaint you with an older 
doctor who has similar responsibilities."

	"Fine. May I go?" Mulder was suddenly  seized by the 
desire to get away from this darkened room, his lungs spasming 
claustrophobically. He could never tell Scully about this part of his 
new job responsibilities. 

	"But of course. We have a meeting here every Tuesday, I expect
you will want to attend," the old man watched as the newest member of 
their organization exited quickly. He did not fail to notice the 
haunted look in his eyes, or the unconsciously clenched fists. The 
second request bothered him, as was expected. 

	"Make a deal with the devil..." he whispered softly, still not 
discounting the possibility of foul play from Fox Mulder, wondering if 
the proud young man would obey his orders.

	And he would be watched carefully, every step of the way.

	* * * 

	Walter Skinner flipped on a flashlight and looked around a drab 
room of Motel 6. Dirty towels on the floor, blankets of an 
indescribable brown-gray shade, and a small TV  bolted to the table 
fit in surprisingly well with yellow police tape and a chalk outline 
on the ground. He noticed some traces on the floor and knelt down to 
sweep them away.

	This exercise was getting old.

	The Assistant Director stopped for a second, pondering his 
present situation. He was on the scene of yet another bee-induced 
death -- yet another unfortunate accident, this time in Upperville, 
Virginia.  This cloak and dagger assignment was getting uncomfortably 
routine, and his woolen black sweater was scratching mercilessly 
against his chest, the ball cap threatening to slide against his bare 
scalp.

	The memories of the previous incident were still too vivid in 
Skinner's mind, and this room was a continuation of a nightmare that 
began months ago. The walls of a dank bathroom weeping with honey. 
Scarred, feverish children in the Payson Community Hospital. The stern,
frustratingly ambiguous reprimands of Marita Covarrubias. 

	Mulder pointing a gun at his head, mistrust and grief in every 
word and movement.

	There was no one who gained from the deal he had made with 
Cancerman but the nameless, faceless people who still managed to hound 
him, even now. 

	And he was rapidly becoming tired of cleaning up after their 
indiscretions.

	When Skinner did find what he was searching for -- any pieces 
of evidence that the police may have overlooked -- he almost laughed. 
A couple of dead bees were lying under the ventilation hole, leading 
to the neighboring room. Lifting them gingerly with gloved fingers, 
he placed them in the cellophane bag and pocketed it. This type of 
evidence would be just the kind of thing that Mulder would sell his 
soul for. The type of evidence that informants died for, that Mulder 
would blindly defend at the expense of all reason.  

	The Assistant Director shook his head, thinking back on the 
events of past few weeks. He was exasperated and frustrated with the 
rogue agents of the X-Files department, especially Mulder, who 
apparently thought of himself as the next James Bond. And Scully was 
no better, never stopping him in his explorations. As their superior, 
he had to follow the procedure and reprimand them accordingly for the 
disaster in Pennsylvania. However, he felt an uncalled-for sympathy 
for them as they left his office on suspension, conquered for the time 
being. 

	He recalled his relief from the tumultuous time when Scully's 
cancer went into remission and marveled at how the X-Files department 
changed since then. How Scully had reported to work shortly after her 
hospital stay, despite the way the suits still hung on her. How Mulder 
continued quietly, mechanically -- but even Skinner could see the 
former profiler lagging, his eyes showing their true age and weariness.  

	He could feel the cellophane bag shifting as he once
again surveyed the crime scene. With a sigh, Skinner thought that the 
X-Files department could use a break right now.

	The plan that was born in the next moment felt like a 
revelation. Skinner shook the dead insects out of the bag on the 
floor, in the same place where he'd found them. Stepping around the 
strewn towels, he returned to the door and softly stepped out, 
exhilaration flowing through his veins.

	The next morning, back in the sun-lit office of the FBI 
building, he called his secretary and told her to invite Agents Mulder 
and Scully for a meeting.

	There was a murder investigation to be done.

	* * *

	Mulder tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, waiting for
his partner's reply to appear on the screen. Despite the gravity of
their present situation, he had to admit that he was enjoying some
aspects of it, like this cryptic conversation that they conducted on
the Internet.

	"It's about time you found the names for the monkeys,
Scorpio," a message appeared on the screen, and Mulder's lips curved
into a smile.

	"Oh, I found one name already," he typed quickly. "For a polite
old monkey. Tell you later!"

	"This new case study from the bald orangutan should be 
interesting," another message floated on the screen and Mulder 
appreciated Scully's discretion in not pursuing the question of the
names, as well as her inventiveness in the choice of titles.

	Skinner as the bald orangutan. 

	Mulder would just love to see the expression on his boss' face
if he heard the comparison.

	"Agreed. Just remember that from now on, I will have to 
follow new guidelines on the cases in our department."

	"I know, Scorpio. Just remember to be careful. It would be 
terrible if the monkeys became violent."

	Mulder imagined Scully's concerned face and started typing 
again, trying to think of words to dispel the sudden seriousness of
their conversation. "Skylark, I know how to handle my animals. And
the monkeys were peaceful yesterday."

	"Do you think that our department will enjoy an influx of
work?" her reply quickly followed.

	Mulder nodded, as if she could see him. "Absolutely. We will
just hold off on making the results of experiment public, until such
time as the study is complete," he smiled at the forced jargon he
adopted and wondered how this discussion looked in comparison to 
the other ones conducted in the same community.

	But one thing he knew for certain: it would take an inhuman
detective ability to find them communicating here.

	And for now, it had to be enough.

	* * *
	
	"Upperville is such a tiny town," Scully thought aloud, 
flipping through the case file. "More people stay at the hotel than 
live there."

	"You know, I find it peculiar that we will be sleeping in the 
same place where the investigation will be conducted," Mulder quipped, 
smiling at the woman in the passenger seat. Lately, the uncomfortable 
silences between them diminished, and they reverted to the easy-going 
camaraderie of the old times. Whether it was the monkey-behavior 
discussions and the humorous outlook that they inadvertently provided, 
or the natural adjustment to the current situation, he was certainly 
enjoying it. 

	"Well, Motel 6 is actually an improvement on your usual lodging 
fare," Scully returned the gesture. "There is little information here," 
she closed the folder. "It is good to be back to work, though. I was 
thinking of hugging Skinner when he gave us the case."

	Mulder smirked. "Decided to make his dreams come true, huh?" he 
bolted off to the side to avoid a shove from his partner. "Hey, I 
wanted to hug him myself, Scully. It is great to be back."

	In the parking lot of Motel 6, a middle-aged, tired-looking man 
stopped them. "Are you the FBI agents?" he extended a hand to them. 
"I'm Detective Michaels, I'm investigating this case." 

	"Were you waiting for us?" Mulder asked after introductions.

	"Yes, someone from the FBI called to inform us that we should 
not disturb the crime scene until you look at it," the detective 
shrugged, leading them upstairs. "I don't know what you'll find here 
that we haven't already. But you're welcome to look. To tell you the 
truth, we could use some help with this one. Oh, I don't think we sent 
you the pictures of the body -- here. They are the reason we opened 
the case."

	Mulder stiffened, contemplating them. The photos of the corpse 
were reminiscent of the one he saw in the postal-worker death case, and 
the recollections of that time came rushing back. Suddenly, it was 
clear to him why Skinner gave them the case.

	His jaw clenched, and he wondered if the gesture was merely
the AD's attempt to atone for his own sins -- his subtle way of 
apologizing for the suspension.

	Among other things.

	"May I ask to look at the body itself?" Scully questioned the 
officer as Mulder moved to open the draperies and let the sun in the 
room. 

	"Of course, our forensic lab is nearby -- I can take you there 
if you like?" 

	Once they both left, Mulder looked around, searching for 
something, fully certain that he would find little if nothing. When he 
discovered the bodies of the bees, he was speechless.

	The first thought that came into his mind as he snapped on the 
gloves and placed the insects in the plastic bag, was that he was 
incredibly lucky. The next thought was that someone did a poor job 
cleaning up the incriminating evidence, and it sent him crashing back 
to earth. Now, it would be his responsibility to hide this evidence, 
and he was suddenly thankful that Scully was not in the room at this 
moment to see it -- or to watch him as he participated in the 
obfuscation and criminal conspiracy.

	Lifting his head, the agent saw a ventilation hole and wondered 
if the bees could have come from there. It was worth checking out, and 
he went to the front desk to ask who was in the next room on the night 
when the death occurred, when his phone rang. 

	"Mulder, it's me. I am afraid we are missing the body," Scully
sounded completely unsurprised. "Detective Michaels is trying to figure 
out what happened to it."

	At least that is no surprise, thought Mulder, saying aloud: 
"Was there any forensic work done already?"

	"Yes, I have some bloodwork," the female agent answered, 
leafing through the papers. "I think this person died of small-pox, 
Mulder," there was a note of concern in her voice. "The pathologist 
requested that blood be checked for variola virus."

	So she already knew that there was something wrong here. That 
made it so much easier. "I will be there to speak with the detective," 
Mulder ended the conversation, got the information from the clerk, and 
drove to the Upperville police department.

	"I can't understand how this happened," Detective Michaels 
rubbed his temples in frustration. "Bodies do not just disappear."

	"Is your morgue guarded?" Mulder questioned cautiously.

	"No, there is no need for it -- it is not even locked. She is 
saying that this death was caused by small-pox," the officer jabbed a 
finger at Scully. She glanced at Mulder surreptitiously, flashing him 
an apology with her eyes. "Isn't it supposed to have been eradicated? 
And what am I to do with the case now?"

	"Well, frankly, I don't think that there is a case. Neither you 
nor I found anything suspicious in the hotel, and I see no indication 
of a crime here," Mulder turned away, unsure if he would be able to 
keep a straight face while uttering an obvious lie. The dead bee 
corpses were burning a hole in his pocket, and Mulder wondered if the 
sound of cellophane shifting was as loud to Scully's ears as it was to 
his. "At least, I am sure that our involvement is not necessary."

	"Are you positive? And what about the body?" 

	"Get a lock on the door, detective. And yes, I am positive."

	"Well, thanks for coming out here... I guess," the detective 
watched with his mouth open as both agents left hurriedly.
	
	Scully squeezed Mulder's hand as they were walking to the car. 

	"These new guidelines are a bitch, Scully," he said, trying to 
keep his voice level. "You know... what just happened here, don't you."
	
	She thought that she had never seen such a guilty expression
on his face before. She quickly suppressed any concern for what would
happen when the cases started getting bigger, when the evidence became 
more difficult to hide.  "Oh, Mulder. Look at it this way," she smiled 
encouragingly. "Now, we don't have to stay at Motel 6."

* * *

	Skinner pulled up to Mulder's apartment building and stepped
inside, absorbing the dull lobby walls and dark trim.  Even when 
lit by fluorescent, cancer-inducing lamps, the shadows in the corners 
of 2490 Hegal Place refused to be dispelled.  In his hand was the 
three-page thick report that Mulder had unemotionally handed to him 
this morning, and at the reminder of what he had read with incredulous 
eyes, Skinner's hand gripped the manila folder tighter, threatening to 
crumble it.
	
	Skinner had always had respect for Mulder's investigative 
skills. It was one of the things that kept the X-Files division from 
dying into obscurity, giving credibility to all things strange and 
unbelievable. Mulder's VCS history as a profiler extraordinaire was a 
testament to his ability to observe fine details, and apply them to 
the bigger picture.

	So what the hell happened at the motel to make Mulder's report 
sound something more like the bland Scientific American than "Spooky" 
Mulder? The disjointed leaps of logic, the labyrinth of a hidden 
conspiracies were noticeably missing; prose had been replaced with 
regulation paragraphs.  

	And only Mulder would warrant a job description that included 
making house calls, Skinner grimly mused. His knuckles rapped harshly 
over the wooden panel, the bronze forty two staring back at him 
impassively. 

	With a crack of the deadbolt, Mulder opened the door, squinting at 
the light from the hallway.  Skinner watched the agent's eyes travel 
from his face, to the report, then innocently back to his face. He 
made no motion to invite his boss inside.

	"What are you doing, Mulder?"

	"Thinking."

	Skinner processed the reply, then looked around the hallway 
suspiciously.  His voice seemed unnaturally loud, and he wondered if 
anyone on Mulder's floor had heard it. He looked back towards the 
younger man, his impatience overriding his nervousness.  "Can I come 
inside?" Mulder's eyes drifted towards the folder once again before 
he expelled a sigh and opened the door fully.

	Skinner's eyes did a quick inspection of the room in front of 
him, noting the psychology textbooks lying haphazardly on the coffee 
table.

	"A little late to cram for the finals, isn't it, Mulder?"

	Mulder licked his lips, arms nervously moving from his sides to 
cross his chest.  "I take it this isn't a social call." Skinner shook 
his head in agreement before raising the manila folder towards Mulder. 

	He refused to take the bait, his eyebrow rising.

	"You really think, Agent Mulder, that this case did not 
warrant more than three hours of investigating?"

	Mulder's eyes suddenly flashed, and Skinner immediately felt 
something gnaw at him -- a hint of apprehension about things to come.

	"No, sir.  I believe that it was an open and shut case. 
Frankly, I don't know why it was handed to us, instead of VCS.  It's 
their jurisdiction."

	Skinner ignored the condescending tone, watching Mulder 
carefully. "You don't think that this case was reminiscent of 
another?" He asked innocently, hedging his bait further.

	"No, sir.  Not reminiscent of any X-File anyway."

	The AD paced the tiny apartment as the agent stood still, 
studiously watching his superior's movements.  "I was sure the 
reporting officer said something about finding incriminating 
evidence -- about suspecting foul play."

	Skinner watched Mulder's jaw clench, almost feeling the teeth 
grind as his cheekbones reflected the gesture.  

	"No evidence was found to suspect foul play."

	The Assistant Director squinted his eyes and looked at the 
federal agent standing in front of him. Something was wrong -- 
something that smelled of smoke and the bastards on West Forty Six.

	He liked to think that after four years he and Mulder had 
gained a certain... rapport.  A professional camaraderie.  But this 
apartment felt cold, and its darkness only served to make him feel 
more off center in the presence of the maverick agent.
	
	Skinner suddenly stepped closer to Mulder, watching for any 
flinch. When it didn't come, he consciously swept the darkened corners 
of the room for dead informants or bugs, once again feeling off kilter 
when he saw the half a dozen psychology texts.  "These," he gestured 
to the folder in his hands, "are your thoughts?"

	"Yes, sir."

	Skinner watched for any hints that Mulder meant the contrary, 
but there were none. Whatever nervousness Mulder had failed to hide 
earlier had long since disappeared -- his eyes betrayed nothing as he 
leaned casually against the wall.
	
	The Assistant Director suddenly felt foolish, overly paranoid.  
But as Mulder saw him to the door, his mind screamed that the air in 
the apartment had changed.  It had become darker, more oppressive -- 
as if secrets were weighing the oxygen atoms down.

	He took one last look at Mulder before the door was 
respectfully closed. The sound of the dead bolt being turned jarred 
him, made him abruptly swallow the flutterings growing inside him. 
Skinner stepped into his car, finding comfort in the lull of the 
engine.  Something was going on, and he was suddenly haunted by his 
warning spoken a week previously -- that if Mulder was going to take a 
risk, he better damn well be sure that it was worth it.

	A truck rambled past the sedan, causing Skinner's car to 
shudder, causing the comfortable lull to disappear.

	Change was hanging ominously in the air.

	And Walter Skinner could take no comfort in the sudden dim 
light that was illuminating the window of apartment forty two.

	* * *

	The hallway was painfully white, painfully sterile, and two 
pairs of wingtips were echoing off the cinder block walls.

	"Now, Fox, you're lucky.  Your voice has a nice cadence to it 
already, so it shouldn't be too hard to get the patients under."

	Mulder nodded, still recovering from the on-the-job training he 
had received thirty minutes previously.  Doctor Anthony Miller was 
painfully good in his area of expertise, and the sixty-year old had 
taken great pains in showing his student all the ropes.

	The session had had eerie overtones of Robert Modell, and 
Mulder had watched, detachedly fascinated, as Dr. Miller effectively 
erased the memory of a helpless young woman.  His eidetic memory had 
absorbed it all, and in the span of three hours, three women had been 
lead like chattel -- had the part of their brains that coded for 
memory re-programmed.

	A key card was produced in the elder's hand and a protesting 
door opened with a hollow, metallic sound.

	A viewing window welcomed Mulder, and he absorbed 
the frail woman sitting on the couch in the next room.  Her fingers 
were trembling, her legs were bone thin.  She turned away abruptly, 
and an angry red scar screamed at him from the base of her neck, the 
stitches still visible.

	In the quick once over, Mulder's eyes flashed accusingly at his 
companion.

	"Relax, Fox," Miller placated.  "We just need to make sure you 
can handle any circumstance."  He stared hard at Mulder, issuing the 
unsaid threat.  "Should the circumstance arise."

	Mulder's nostrils flared, and he once again stared at the 
woman who bore a striking resemblance to his partner.  Miller placed a 
hand on his shoulder, and Mulder shied away, stepping closer towards 
the window. He silently reminded himself that Miller was his mentor -- 
but the inflections in the elder's voice were too similar to yet 
another Mulder. The coincidence was beyond disturbing, and he felt 
himself withdrawing from the elderly man beside him -- fighting 
flashbacks of Chilmark and West Tisbury.

	"You ready?"

	The agent looked at the Consortium member, mentally steeling 
himself.

	"Yeah."

	"Now, remember, I'll be here watching you from the two-way 
mirror. So if you have any trouble, just signal."  The elder's 
eyebrows furrowed and his face grew grim.  "It's important to get 
everything right.  There are unimaginable consequences should one 
detail be forgotten." Mulder nodded silently, not yet trusting 
himself to speak.

	Another door opened, and the faux-Scully and the "sanitizing" 
room were beckoning him. The room lacked the sterile conditions of the 
outside hallways.  A couch was used by the patients, an office chair 
by the doctors.  The walls had painted with soft colors, decorated by 
matching trim, while the carpet was plush. There were still life, 
pastel-colored paintings adorning the walls. Even through his 
uneducated eyes, Mulder knew that the entire room had been 
esthetically designed to provide comfort and ease to the distressed.

	Stepping in, Mulder immediately knew that he had opened the 
door to his own private hell on Earth.

	* * *

	The Well-Manicured Man watched with amusement as a very nervous 
Fox Mulder stepped into the sanitizing room.  The feed off the video 
camera was crystal clear -- even the beads of sweat forming on the top 
of the agent's hairline were discernible.

	The wheezy voice of his heavy set companion disturbed him from 
his thoughts.  "Mr. Mulder has turned into quite a valuable 
acquisition. We needed a worthy replacement for Miller's upcoming 
retirement."

	The Englishman nodded absently at the Consortium member's 
observation, still disturbed by Mulder's reluctant recollections of the 
bees found at the motel. There was no such thing as coincidence, and 
Walter Skinner was not a careless man.  History dictated that a 
conscience was a dangerous thing.  And after Bill Mulder, such petty 
hindrances were abhorred by the Consortium.

	"It seems one of our other FBI assets, however, is losing 
value."

	The men were silent momentarily, knowing who the FBI employee 
in question was.  "Is he dispensable?"

	The Well-Manicured Man looked to the TV screen, watching Mulder 
sit professionally, although somewhat awkwardly, in a leather backed 
chair. Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI dispensable?  He 
looked to the gentlemen congregated around him and felt his lips curl 
upward in a cruel semblance of a smile. "Definitely."

	* * *

	Anthony Miller had perfected the art of hypnotism to a science, 
and Mulder could feel the doctor's eyes boring towards him through the 
two way mirror.  Somewhere overhead, the second hand of a clock was 
beating a steady drum, marking the tormented seconds as the silence 
lagged on.

	Hypnosis was supposed to be a controlled form of relaxation for 
the person being hypnotized, yet Mulder could feel all his motor 
neurons firing -- could feel the knots forming in all his major muscle 
groups.

	The hairs on the back of his head prickled as he felt 
expectant, ravenous eyes on him.  The camera had been hidden, but not 
cleverly enough, and Mulder had to fight the urge to squirm under the 
gaze of the electronic eye.

	Mulder took a deep breath, hiding it underneath a yawn.  
He called upon the teachings of Bill Patterson to allow Fox Mulder to 
temporarily disappear, to allow a more insidious presence to enter his 
mind. He looked up to the patient with different eyes -- he saw her 
as a chattel, a thing, a crime scene photo that could be looked at
with indifferent eyes -- filed or thrown away when its meaning was 
lost. The woman turned into a pitiful object, and Mulder coldly looked 
at the chart before speaking brusquely.  

	"Sheila Freeman?"

	At the affirmative nod Mulder flipped through the papers, not 
really absorbing the words -- having memorized them long ago. "The 
doctors say you've been under a lot of stress.  That you've been 
having difficulty with your situation."  

	The words flowed too easily through his lips, and Mulder 
watched his patient nod miserably. Something pushed his empathy down, 
hid all feeling behind medical jargon and professional babble. She was 
pitiful. Stupid. His mind taunted the woman silently, tried to give 
the doctor some reason not to care.  

	The woman licked her lips when her lower lip started to 
tremble, her fingers starting to wring frantically. "I don't... I 
don't..." a tear ran down her cheek and her face twisted.  "I don't 
understand what you want from me."  Her forehead wrinkled, and her 
face morphed once again, snarling.  Her voice rose in intensity, and 
she stood up, stomping her bare foot onto plush carpet.  "I want to go 
home.  I want to go home, you bastards!"  The woman ran to the two way 
mirror and started to pound on the glass, the noise reverberating 
senselessly in Mulder's ears.

	A door slammed open and Mulder tried to remain impassive, 
indifferent to the half pleading, half furious screams of the woman 
cursing at him.

	Stupid, pitiful.

	Bitch.

	He watched detachedly as the syringe was produced, as someone 
screamed, and as someone pulled his arm, talking senseless words to 
him. His head dully turned, and Miller was telling him that in one 
minute his patient would be more receptive to his voice.

	Submissive.

	The doctor in him nodded curtly, watching the patient's gown 
ride up to show a pair of simple white, cotton panties as the guards 
roughly sat her on the couch.  Mulder blinked at the color of 
innocence, at the betrayal that hung in the air -- around his neck.

	Wary of the eyes in the ceiling above, Mulder leaned forward, 
suddenly mesmerized by the blueness of the woman's eyes.  Like 
Scully's, they grew more sharp as they filled with tears.  He looked 
at the papers in front of him once again, to gather himself, to 
remember that this was his plan.  His ploy.

	That he was the greatest actor in this play of life-like 
proportions.

	The woman was no longer fighting, the sweat around her neck 
causing her hair to curl, any resemblance to Scully diminishing.  Her 
voice came out hollow, tired, and she slumped against Mulder's 
shoulder.

	"Please... I just want to go home.  I need to... I want the 
pain to go."

	Mulder stared at the wall, swallowing, feeling his innards 
churn as a voice that was not his replied.  "I can make you feel 
better. Then you can go home. I promise." His reassuring smile bared 
all his teeth, made his face twist into a gargoyle-like mask.

	And the doctor felt the woman's stare on his face soften at the 
change of cadence in his voice. Her shoulders slumped in submission, 
and the angry scar on her neck was now bleeding red onto the white 
hospital gown. Her fingers were moving languidly, as if she were 
trying to write on the air in front of her. The angry needle tracks on 
her left arm betrayed the innocence of her movements, and Mulder could 
see the expectant glint in her eyes -- anxious orbs waiting for the 
forgetting to begin.

	Baby killers and rapists were howling in the darkness that was 
his mind, and a pitiful creature was bleeding in front of him.  
Mulder's eyes changed color and he methodically began to speak.

	It was time to put the creature out of its misery.

	* * *

	James Milton watched the black and white image of Fox Mulder 
effectively erase the memory of a black and white Sheila Freeman. The 
federal agent's voice was devoid of inflection, his posture remained 
casual.  In fact, nothing about the man on the TV screen resembled 
the impulsive agent that they used to deal with.

	"We have another assignment for you to give to Mulder."

	Miller turned to accept the offered envelope, gazing at it 
curiously.  "What is it?"

	"The means to Walter Skinner's demise."

	Miller shook his head.  "Mulder won't kill him, despite 
anything you say."

	The Englishman raised an eyebrow before settling into a more 
comfortable position in his chair.  "Who said we were going to kill 
him?"

	Miller accepted the reply silently, and thought about the 
newest addition to their staff.  "Mulder still hasn't talked about the 
letter."

	Milton waved a hand dismissively.  "Give it time."

	The doctor felt his annoyance grow.  "What if there's nothing 
in the letter?"

	"There's something."  The Well-Manicured Man replied 
confidently. He flashed back to stories of Mulder Sr. and his tumblers 
of scotch and guilt. "A father's greatest weakness is his son," he 
stated cryptically, passing a knowing glance in Miller's direction.

	Memories of a cancer ridden sick boy lying on Gumby bed sheets 
suddenly filled the doctor's conscience. His sacrifice had not come in 
time to find a cure, but his son unknowingly gave him an opportunity 
to do something on a much grander scale.

	Miller nodded, the message received.  "I'll see Mulder gets 
this right away."

	* * *

	His harsh breathing was echoing off the porcelain throne, 
rebounding off the steel walls, and reverberating between the tiled 
floor and ceiling. The dry heaves refused to abate, and Mulder noticed 
too late that seeing the liquefied and emulsified remains of his lunch 
only served to perpetuate the gag reflex.

	He had listened to Sheila Freeman talk about tests and needles 
and probes with chilling detachment. Mindful of the hidden electronic 
eyes, he was able to push thoughts of Samantha and Scully away.  But 
as the one-sided conversation continued -- as there was talk of 
implants and incisions and brain numbing body scans, Mulder's throat 
started to convulse.  Images of Scully's prone body and Samantha's 
shriek started to threaten.  There was talk of electroshock therapy -- 
firing all the alpha motor neurons in temporal succession so that all 
the muscles in the body twitched and convulsed; the way an undisturbed 
uterus had been probed cruelly for signs of life -- all the while 
stealing the potential to bear one; how lasers had drilled minute 
holes in flawless teeth, in the skull, through the membranous eyes, 
and the delicate nose -- rattling the brain, causing the nostrils to 
quiver in response to the smell.  And how, more for his sake than for 
his patient's, he had told her to lock up the story in a safe in 
the back corner of her frontal lobe and to never speak of it again.

	Her beautiful blue eyes spoke of the horror she had 
experienced. And something he had hastily buried deep inside two 
hours ago felt an unseen rage, a tangible desperation when it thought 
of a similar red-headed woman, and the three months that she was 
missing.

	The doctor dissolved completely when the patient hugged him and 
smiled shyly when the session was over.  Two personalities -- Jeckyl 
and Hyde -- and Mulder didn't know how he would be able to control 
either one.

	A door creaked open and he bolted upright, flushing the toilet 
while wiping his mouth and drying his tears. He ignored his Consortium 
acquaintance and washed his hands, dispensing a liberal amount of soap.

	"It will become better, Fox."

	He met the reassurance with a non-committal grunt.

	The mentor rolled his eyes at his newest student's sensitivity.  
They were doctors in every sense of the word.  And Mulder would soon 
need to learn to view his patients as minds needing repair, rather 
than reincarnations of his sister's and partner's abductions.

	If not out of instinct, the young man would need to do it out 
of survival.
	
	"We have another assignment for you."

	Miller watched Mulder suddenly brace himself against the sink. 
"What now?  I'm already your stalking horse and brain washer de jour," 
a dry voice hoarsely replied.

	The envelope was held out to him, and Mulder hastily dried his 
hands on his suit to receive the sealed document.  "My understanding 
is that VCS is working on the case right now.  Stonewalled, from what 
I hear."  Mulder turned the sealed envelope with his hands, listening, 
but unable to fully absorb the words. "Maybe Agent Winters could use a 
break.  Cast suspicion away from the source of evidence and give him
something else to do with his time."

	Mulder felt papers shifting inside, surprised at its weight.
	
	"What is it?"

	The colleague offered a cryptic phrase before leaving Mulder in 
the bathroom with a fading echo.  "The key to your promotion."

End of Part 1/4