Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro Email: annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com It would really be helpful if you read Theater of the Absurd I first. It's located at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Labyrinth/1495 or http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599 Without it, this sequel will probably not make much sense. For those who don't have time, we provided a brief summary of the first part. Rating: R Classification: XA Spoilers: The Blessing Way, Redux I, the rest are untraceable, as usual Archive: Yes, but please ask us first Feedback: How could we live without it? Our pretty white box still has lots of space inside. Disclaimer: Paul and Kathy were but figments of our imagination - right? So, Mulder, Scully, and everyone who belongs to Chris, FOX, and 1013 Productions still belong to them. But Martin, Kenmore, and I am sure we missed a few, are ours. Timeline: We should have made a note before Theater 1, but it comes now instead: we are ignoring the story line of The End, FTF, and The Beginning. Theater of the Absurd 1 and 2 are set two years after the events of the fifth season, but before The End. Summary: Will Paul and Kathy transform into Mulder and Scully? Will Margaret Scully be happy to have her daughter back? Will Skinner be relieved that the X-Files department is back in full swing? Well, let's find out, shall we? Author's notes at the end. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Brief summary of Theater of the Absurd I. Skip if you know what happened there. Come on, we know you want to. Paul and Kathy, employees of the Consortium, lead happy and normal lives in San Diego. They are working on the Project that they believe will save humanity - a vaccine against the alien virus that could wipe away the population of this planet. On the side, they plot a few intrigues and destroy a few lives. All is well until their smoking friend invites them to Washington D.C. to take care of the 'inconvenience' of AD of the FBI, Walter Skinner, who still searches for Mulder and Scully - the two agents who disappeared without a trace two years ago. Paul and Kathy orchestrate a game of cat and mouse that brings Skinner to the edge of nervous breakdown - a fate that already befell Margaret Scully. Little do Paul and Kathy realize that the clues they provide to Skinner in his search for Mulder and Scully are the clues to their own identities. Meanwhile, two other lives are imperiled in the process - those of Marsel and Holmes, young agents whose brush with truth is too costly. And an unseen player in the game - Skinner's 'informant,' Martin Ng, will make sure that dangerous truths are revealed - thus destroying whatever happiness Mulder and Scully could have ever possessed. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Theater of the Absurd II: Home "And I thank you For bringing me here For showing me home For singing these tears Finally I've found That I belong here." - Depeche Mode, ~Home~ "But it's no use now," thought poor Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make *one* respectable person." - Lewis Carroll, ~Alice in Wonderland~ Act I: Welcome Back, Ye Weary Travelers! "Come inside." He took a long drag of his cigarette as the door slid open. His free hand brushed over the gun lying on the table by his chair. The widening rectangle of light split the darkness of the motel room apart as two figures, half-silhouetted, stood in the doorway. He motioned them inside, his hand trailing smoke. Neither of them looked like they had slept in days. He had almost become accustomed to their laughter, their smiles, the carefree glitter of their eyes. Almost. "I trust you've heard." Kathy Mott's voice was cold, obliquely accusatory. When had she begun to sound like him? "There have been... rumors." The smoker kept his own tone deliberately even. No use in letting them know more than they had to. How much *did* they know? "You lied to us. You kept things from us." Paul Bartlett spoke with more of a tremor - the Smoking Man tried to resist his mouth from curling into a smile. He wasn't supposed to smile. Not now - not with... Not with them. "You were told what we deemed necessary," the smoker replied. Before he knew what was happening, he felt Paul's fingers tighten around his throat, pushing him back into the chair. "We trusted you... you bastard..." "Paul." The command was soft but firm. As she had always been. Paul let go. "You goddamned liar," he hissed. "Did you expect differently?" "Just tell me..." Kathy swayed, clutching her partner's arm for support. "Tell *us* that he's the liar. Tell us it isn't true." "Is that what you would like to hear?" Paul lunged for him again, but Kathy held him back. "Wait." "We've met like this before," the Smoking Man said. "Or do you not remember?" A strange light came over Paul's hazel eyes; a shadow of pain twisted his handsome face. Remembering... as he had again and again, since... Since when? "I... remember..." Paul looked half-ready to kill the smoker and half-ready to put the gun to his own head. He did neither. A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye. He made no attempt to brush it away. "Hello, Fox," the Smoking Man said. He said it with a mixture of resignation and...relief. *** Kathy Mott did not want to admit she did not remember half of what her partner could recall. she told herself. Paul - Mulder - had told her these things. She remembered brief flashes - a dream here, a face there - but... Nothing important. It had been Paul's decision to confront the Smoking Man, and she had only agreed to it reluctantly. She did not want to believe that he was responsible. Maybe he was like them - his memory destroyed, forced into the Project. Forced? Kathy believed in the Project. Didn't she? She couldn't think about that now. Kathy looked at the faces of the two men, grim in their determination. She looked at the Smoking Man's gun, sitting on the table, close enough for any of them to grab it. Of course, she and Paul had come armed. Of course. "Why... I...*we* need to know." Paul looked desperate. She wondered exactly how much he remembered... if he had told her everything. What role had this man - their friend - what role had he played? "You can't know. I could never tell you our reasons." The smoker was still unbelievably calm. It couldn't have been *that* bad then... for him to show no guilt. Paul swallowed hard. "What are you going to do to us?" A pause. The older man dragged on his cigarette. "Nothing." Kathy felt it high time she spoke. "Aren't we... a liability?" She said it with a dark chuckle. Silence. "What will you do now?" He asked instead of answering. Paul reached for Kathy's hand. "We're going back." The Smoking Man laughed. "Are you?" "You won't let us?" "The organization needs you... *I* need you. It has never been more crucial." Kathy pinned him with her eyes. "We are leaving," she said. "Are you going to stop us?" "No." He sighed heavily - his gray gaze weary. For a moment she felt the absurd urge to hug him. She fought it back. He had lied to them. He was not their friend. "Do you think they will want you back?" the smoker asked. Recalling the night on the bridge, Kathy shuddered. Paul nudged her to walk towards the door. "I must tell you..." the Smoking Man spoke again. He no longer looked old, exhausted. He had banished all emotion from his voice, from the sharp, craggy angles of his face. "If you go... if you choose to become Mulder and Scully again, I can no longer protect you. You have to understand..." Kathy nodded. A virtual death threat. They would be enemies again... Again. She could not remember ever being his enemy. "That's a risk we're willing to take," Paul replied. And still holding hands, children lost in a deep, dark, fairy-tale forest - they walked out the door. *** Skinner drew out the key to the basement office, placing one arm on the door to steady himself. He felt tired and useless. A man used up by his enemies, abandoned by his friends. A bad party gag for the Consortium. A microscopic cosmic joke. A failure. The key wasn't necessary, the door gave easily, presenting him with the most incongruous site of the day: a man, dressed entirely in black, tracing the outlines of the inscription on that ridiculous poster of Mulder's, touching the paper with nothing less than reverence. "I don't want to play your goddamn games anymore," Skinner said, reaching for the light switch. "Whoever you are - I don't want any part of this." "Leave the light off." The voice sounded vaguely familiar - he stared at the dark form, analyzing the build, the stooped shoulders, the broad, strong fingers tracing the letters of the damned poster. "Who are you?" Another voice spoke - and this one was achingly recognizable. He caught a flash of red as the second figure rose from within the shadows to walk towards him. "We were hoping," the woman said, "We were hoping perhaps you could answer that." "Mr. Skinner." The man slowly turned, a pale shaft of light illuminating the haunted features. Skinner took a step back, his hand curling around the doorknob, seeking escape, release. He felt as though he had seen a ghost. When in fact... he had seen two. "Mr. Skinner," Fox Mulder repeated, "I was told to tell you that the game is not over." * * * Skinner lowered his head and took off his glasses, rubbing the eyes tiredly with a thumb and a forefinger. The monthly conversations with his counselor were usually exhausting - but none proved to be as wrenching as this one. For the duration of the last hour, he talked nonstop about Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files. He felt as if he were trading supernatural stories with friends during Halloween, the darkness of the basement office reinforcing the impression. From time to time, a hollow smile or an expression of recognition crossed the faces of his listeners - but more often than not his stories were met with silent, sullen disappointment. With grimaces of frustration. Skinner was afraid to ask how much they remembered. How much they didn't remember. Though he realized with chagrin which percentage carried more weight. "Do you remember the night when you..." he couldn't choose the proper word, settled for the one he always used during the last two years. "The night when you disappeared?" Skinner watched as Scully hid her eyes, concentrated intently on the patterns on the floor. Mulder's fingers clenched and unclenched reflexively, and his forehead wrinkled as if he were trying to reconstruct a whole from the desperately torn parts, only to come up empty. He finally shook his head and turned away. So the answer was no. "I suppose it's one part of the story I cannot tell you," Skinner massaged his temples, smiled at them suddenly. "I'd often wondered during these two years... if you were together, wherever you were. And I am glad to find that..." he stopped but not before the spike of pain rippled through him. But there was no reason for it now, he reminded himself. Was there? A hand brushed his fleetingly, and he found himself looking in Mulder's eyes - eyes full of empathy and... something else. A distance he didn't want to dwell on. "You blamed yourself," Mulder spoke with understanding. "We played with your guilt." Scully scooted closer to her partner as if for protection, glancing at Skinner nervously, a contrite expression on her face. "We must ask your forgiveness," her voice was soft. "From what I understand..." Skinner paused uncertainly, trying once again to assimilate the situation, then spoke resolutely. "You were different people then." Mulder laughed darkly, then fell silent. Scully smiled vacantly. "You should go see your mother," Skinner suggested to her. "I'm sure she would like to see Mulder as well." An expression of sheer panic crossed over her face, only to be replaced by resignation. "Tomorrow," she promised herself. "Tomorrow." After a second of hesitation, she spoke again, her voice small. "Um... could you give me her address?" Skinner would have laughed if it weren't so damn tragic. Refraining from comments, he pulled out an address book, scribbled down the numbers and letters on a pad of paper, handed it to her. "Thank you," Scully murmured gratefully and pocketed the note. "Why aren't you... you didn't mention his mother." His. She didn't even know how to call her partner now. He wondered if she wanted to call him Paul. "She is dead, isn't she?" Mulder stared at him hard, as if daring him to avoid the truth. Skinner nodded, bracing himself against the onslaught of grief, and was surprised to see acceptance and... relief. Not what he would have expected. It chilled him even as he felt himself relax. Perhaps there was some value to losing one's memories. "You said that you wanted to come back to work." The partners looked at each other, then back at him. "Yes," they said simultaneously. Skinner nodded, deciding that he would be satisfied with their response. That he would ask no questions and push for no answers. That it had to be enough - and that perhaps, eventually, everything would drift back to the way it used to be. It had to. "Agents," he stood up, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. This - this was right. "It's good to have you back." * * * Holmes walked through the revolving doors of the hospital, automatically shaking snowflakes out of her dark hair, maneuvering quickly in the crowd of patients and visitors. Walk to the end of the hallway. Turn left. Take the elevator to the third floor. Pass an obligatory greeting to the nurse on duty and walk a few steps to the right. Open the door to room fifty-three. When did it become routine? She listened to her own heartbeat and willed it to calm down. Put a smile on her face that she hoped looked genuine. She would much rather scream and break the heavy glass panes of the large windows in her partner's room. The hospital assured them that the room was one of the best. That he would be comfortable until he felt strong enough to go home. That he would receive the best care possible. But not that he would ever walk again. "Hey, partner," Marsel heard her approach and turned his wheelchair in her direction with effort. He was still awkward with it. "Hey." A swift assessment. His light hair was longer than normal, the shadows under his gray eyes were deeper than yesterday. A few quick steps, and Holmes sat down beside him, trying to cut down on the physical differences between them - if only in appearance. "How is it going?" "They're torturing me here," he grimaced. "Tests, and physical therapy, and did you know that they forced me to eat rice pudding?" "Oh no," Holmes laughed despite herself, feeling the tension drain away. "I'll speak to them on your behalf. Tell them to bring you green and slimy but incredibly delicious and nutritious Jell-O." "You're with them," Marsel pouted, chagrined. "This is a conspiracy." "You found me out," she answered, immensely grateful for his carefree attitude that she knew couldn't have come easily. Often, she asked herself how he, a natural-born athlete, could cope with the paralysis. How an FBI field agent could face the termination of his career before it even started. How a young, healthy, twenty-six-year-old man could deal with the reality of this life. Marsel's stoicism awed and exasperated her simultaneously. Her own anger and grief always churned close to the surface, and she made no attempt to hide them. "Skinner made me go to therapy too," she said suddenly and regretted it immediately, reading the concern in his face. "It's not quite as painful." Marsel nodded, understanding the irony. "I want to go home," he said after a minute. "I don't want you to come here every day." "You will go home soon," she promised. "But I am sorry, partner, until then - and after that, you're stuck with me." "Holmes," he chided gently, but she could read the distress in his eyes. "You *are* still a field agent, aren't you? Eventually, you will have to travel, and work irregular hours, and just... lead a normal life." "I'm leading a normal life," Holmes replied, irritated. "And you will, too." "Yeah, I hear that if I eat more rice pudding, my chances increase greatly." She smiled, patted his shoulder. "Marsel..." "What?" "I am looking for these bastards," her voice sounded metallic, devoid of emotion. He swallowed apprehensively and grabbed her hand before it escaped back to her lap. "Don't." "Why not?" "This entire case..." Marsel shook his head, trying to find an argument that would appease her without mentioning his concern for her safety. "It was sinister - sometimes I wondered if I didn't hallucinate everything I'd seen. It felt wrong even when I kept telling myself that we were on the right trail. And I don't want to see you digging around it by yourself." "I'm careful," Holmes snapped. "And I want to see them pay." He sighed heavily, allowed her hand to fall. He wanted to get on with his life, try to get through with the useless therapy, try to forget about the entire incident. She wanted to see them pay. And therein lay the gist of their problem. * * * She had cooked the whole day. The turkey was still in the oven, filling her kitchen with an alluring, comforting scent. Familiar. She needed familiarity now. Margaret Scully sighed, a weak smile crossing her face. She looked at the clock. They would be here any minute. She checked herself out of the rest home on the day Skinner had told her that they were alive. He had told her little else. They were alive, but...changed somehow. Alive, but they were never coming back. Except they were coming back. Tonight. And she had worked all day to be ready for them. "Please...don't fuss over us..." Dana's voice had sounded small, tentative through the hiss of static. Of course, Margaret hadn't listened to her - it had been two years since she had last seen her daughter. It was a mother's duty to fuss, was it not? She was chopping carrots when the doorbell rang. Startled, she dropped the knife with a clatter. "Just a second!" Her voice sounded shrill as she stooped to pick it up. As she bent down she knocked the bowl of carrots into the sink. Tears sprung to her eyes - she forced them back. She would not cry, not tonight. Not with her only daughter waiting outside the door. Margaret ignored the carrots and ran to the front door. She muttered a quick prayer under her breath, and then she looked up through the window. "Someone going to let us in?" Mulder called through the glass. Margaret laughed, and unlocked the door. They were standing together, snow frosting their hair. Mulder held a bouquet of flowers, stiff and cold now. The gesture was oddly touching - but Margaret's attention went immediately to Dana. "Oh...my..." Her daughter blinked up at her. "Mom?" Margaret threw her arms around Dana, clutching her close, and buried her face against her shoulder. "Dana...oh...Dana..." She swallowed - the tears came then, unrestrainable. "My baby...I missed you so much..." "I missed you too," Dana said. Margaret reluctantly released her daughter, holding her at arm's length. She was lying. One glance in Dana's blue eyes confirmed it. She did not remember Margaret. "I...know you." At the sound of his voice, Margaret looked up at Mulder. "You were-" He cut himself off. "We saw you," he finished lamely. "It's all right," Margaret said, "You weren't yourselves. Mr. Skinner told me." she told herself. "Please - it's cold. Come inside." She took their coats, hung them up in the closet with trembling hands. "May I look around?" Dana asked. "Of course." Margaret found herself alarmed at her daughter's politeness. Dana slipped her shoes off and wandered the hallway, staring at the family pictures on the wall. She traced her fingers over the stilled faces - William, Bill Jr., Charlie...Melissa. Margaret swallowed another lump in her throat. There was not even a flicker of recognition on Dana's face. She smiled up at Mulder. "Dana says that the two of you will be returning to work." He nodded. "Monday. Of course, we can't return to active field status until the investigation is finished, but Skinner wants us to get back into the office as soon as possible." Mulder's voice was aggressively cheerful, but distant. He might have been telling a stranger the weather. A burning smell hit her nose. Something...there was something she had forgotten. "The turkey!" Margaret brushed past Dana in her rush to get into the kitchen. Smoke drifted lazily from the stove - she put on her oven mitts and opened the door, only to have a blast of heat assail her face. She tried to wave the smoke aside, freeing the charred remains of the turkey from the inferno. She was dimly aware of Dana and Mulder standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She felt like crying again. "It's okay, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said. "We'll just call for a pizza or something." Margaret was silent for awhile, then she dumped the turkey into the garbage can. She would not cry. Dana was here, and she had to be strong. It was only a turkey. She would not cry. "Let me help you with that," Dana said. "I'm...I'm fine." Margaret shivered at the distance in her daughter's voice. The Dana she had once known - *her* Dana - would not have asked. She would have been kneeling in front of the stove by now, scraping away the burnt bits of dead bird from the oven. This Dana was a guest; she stood by, watching, politely offering her help. This was not *her* Dana. Margaret picked up the phone to order a pizza. They made small talk for the rest of the evening. ~*~*~ Act II: Fragrance of the Past Scully walked slowly along the hallway, letting Mulder adjust to her small steps. Each turn, each face could awake the tingling familiarity, let the memories finally fill the void that plagued her ever since she found out... That her life was a sham. If only the past two years were the truth, if she could trust only their reality and nothing else - what did it make her but a child? The professional knowledge that remained intact could not match the hard-won experience that arrived with triumphs and tragedies of personal life. Life that another woman used to have, life that the new quasi-persona could not regain. Scully squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break through the lock on the parts of her mind that were frustratingly out of reach - hoping that in another moment, everything would become crystal clear. Mulder's hand was suddenly clutching hers tightly, and she stopped, annoyed at the interruption. When her eyes opened, she was looking into the deathly pale face of Agent Holmes. And in that moment, she desperately wished that her amnesia would spread to obliterate the memory of the night on the bridge and the vision of a young man whose breath was growing more shallow as she searched the wrecked car, who could have been dying... Because of her. * * * Holmes wasn't certain of how long she watched the two people who turned the life of Marsel and her own into this continuous nightmare. Never could she imagine seeing them here, in the J. Edgar Hoover building - across from the office of Walter Skinner. They looked exactly as she'd remembered them - yet, their arrogance and haughtiness were gone, uncertainty replacing the self-assured poise. "Agent Holmes," the man spoke first, an insincere smile touching his lips. "This is a surprise." Holmes watched numbly as he moved imperceptibly to stand between her and his companion. She wondered idly what he was afraid of - what could she possibly do in this crowded hallway, a few steps away from the office of her supervisor? "You have no idea." Holmes was chilled by the calmness of her own voice. "I don't think we were introduced properly," he continued softly. "I'm..." "Fox Mulder and Dana Scully," she pronounced mockingly. "I can read." The man flinched. The woman looked down on her badge as if she doubted its reality. "You're probably wondering..." she started haltingly. "What you're doing here?" Holmes finished for her. "Yes. But it makes everything that much easier." "What?" Mulder echoed. Holmes felt the beginnings of a smile on her face but didn't bother replying. Scully took a step forward, a worried expression on her face. "How is Agent Marsel?" "He's alive," she spoke. "No thanks to you." Scully closed her eyes, sighing in relief. "I'm... we're glad." "You couldn't care less," Holmes snapped. "You were ready to murder us both for the two useless vials. Whatever game you're playing now, you are still the cold-blooded killers you were before." "Useless vials?" Mulder's voice was suddenly sharp, on edge. "You had no business stealing them - and you should be grateful that we didn't let you explore their contents..." he stopped quickly, surprised at his own outburst. "So you did us a favor," Holmes felt her smile spread wider. "Thank you." The door of the office suddenly opened, and Walter Skinner's voice cut through the air thick with poisonous static. "Agent Holmes, may I speak with you for a moment?" She whirled around, anger and pain coloring her delicate features, silently imploring him to do something. To acknowledge the fact that these two were the reason why Marsel wasn't standing beside her now. To behave as the man she'd come to trust. "No," Holmes breathed when he failed on all accounts. "Agent Holmes..." "I should have known better than to trust you... sir." Skinner watched with chagrin as she walked away, then turned to look at his agents. Scully was standing close to Mulder, as if seeking support, her face ashen. Her partner didn't seem much better as he leaned against the wall, his eyes two swirling clouds of anguish. "Agents," Skinner moved to invite them inside. "I suppose we need to talk." * * * The smoker flicked his eyes over the small wrinkled man sitting across from him, then turned away. "Dr. Kenmore," he acknowledged. Kenmore smiled wanly and crossed his hands over the chest protectively. "You've been avoiding me." The Smoking Man sounded surprised. "We had no business to conduct." "On the contrary," the doctor disagreed acidly. "We are all committed to the same project. And as far as I heard, it's still proceeding." His words were met with frosty silence. "Once I had an opportunity to work with an interesting patient. Would you like to hear the details?" he questioned after a moment. "No." "Too bad, I will tell you anyway. I am in a chatty mood tonight," Dr. Kenmore leaned forward. "A young woman who physically recovered from a car accident had amnesia. She didn't know who she was, where she was from, who were her friends or relatives. Whatever methods I tried could not bring her memories back. For three years, I continued to work with her, fascinated and determined. I simply couldn't give up." "Is there a point to this tale?" The doctor paid no attention to the impatience of his listener. "One day, I was wearing a new cologne that my wife bought for me. French, I can't remember the designer's name. But when I met with my favorite patient, she closed her eyes, inhaled the new scent, and started telling me the story of her life." "Congratulations." "I enjoyed my success, even if it had come from the least likely source," Kenmore agreed. "It prompted my fascination with the process of acquiring memories - and, consequently, with the process of destroying them, and implanting new ones." "You must be mistaking me for a priest or a writer," the smoker snapped. "What is the purpose of this conversation?" "Our memory isn't comprised of just words and faces." The doctor's thin fingers drew into a fist. "Smells, sounds, textures, unidentifiable feelings - they are all just as significant. You should have never let Paul and Kathy come to Washington. The familiar surroundings, the smell of autumn leaves, the taste of snow as it melts on the tongue - any of these things could have prompted the total recall. And not only did you bring them here, you practically thrust them into the atmosphere where they would have no choice but to remember." His companion sighed, letting out a cloud of smoke. "It was a calculated risk." The doctor's hands flew upward in frustration. "As was letting them go back to the FBI? Listen, at the great, *uncalculated* risk to my health I will suggest that you are in need of counseling." "How old are you?" Kenmore paused to take a breath. "Seventy-four." "Then no one will be really surprised if one morning you... don't wake up," the smoker speculated calmly. "Jesus," the doctor stared at him for a few moments. "Before you give the orders to have me killed, consider the people who are really to blame. Like yourself, for disobeying my specific warnings and instructions on how to handle Paul and Kathy." "Don't worry, Doctor. I don't consider this... accident... your fault," the smoker ground the ashes thoughtfully. "I know exactly whom to blame." Kenmore relaxed minutely, then shook his head in consternation. "We need them." "We will have to do without them," the Smoking Man lit another cigarette, stood up trying to avoid the rest of the conversation. The doctor recognized the gesture and followed suit. "Oh, I forgot to tell you the punchline of the story with cologne." "I'm all ears," he answered caustically as he began walking to the door. Kenmore smiled, his voice suddenly transforming into a stage whisper. "This woman still lives under her chosen name." * * * "Mulder?" She tested the name tentatively. It felt strange on her tongue...awkward. Wrong. He was studying the files on their desk. The work had piled up in their two years of absence. No one in the Bureau could compete with their solve rate. The X-Files had been officially open during that time, but no one had expressed any interest in them. Mulder leaned over the desk in rapt attention, his mind working out profiles of killers who could not be profiled. He took no notice of Scully, standing in the half-darkened doorway. She tried again. "Mulder?" A pause, more silence. "Paul," she whispered. He looked up. "Scully?" He closed the file with a sigh. "What did you just call me?" "I'm sorry," she said quickly. They had been trying so hard. Mulder and Scully, she reminded herself. Not Fox or Dana - they had never called each other by their first names. She wondered why. Had they not been close? "I had to get your attention." "It worked." He stood. "Kathy." God, it was so much easier. So familiar...so natural. "I am not Kathy anymore," she protested weakly. "Are you sure?" He crossed the space that gaped between them to lay his hand over hers. "Do you know...I'm sure Skinner talked to us for an hour, and I couldn't listen to a word he said." He leaned against the desk, absentmindedly flipping through the pile of papers. "A third of these are connected somehow to the organization." "I read them." She cleared her throat. "*Mulder*...that woman, Agent Holmes...Skinner said she wants to go to the OPR board..." "She won't get anywhere." "That's not the point." "We're essential to the FBI...they need us." He brushed his hand over the files. "Ka...*Scully*...we could solve a third of these files tomorrow. What's more - we are the only ones in the Bureau who can solve them." She swallowed hard. "Mulder, we have to stop thinking like this." "Like what?" Her eyes flickered over the files. "They're not our enemies, Mulder." "The FBI?" She nodded. "The other agent...Marsel...he is twenty-six years old, and he is going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. And Holmes...her life is destroyed, in other ways. Because-" She broke off. He knew the reasons as well as she did. "Did you see the way she looked at us?" Scully asked instead. Mulder's eyes flickered over the room - the ceiling, the poster on the wall. Anything to avoid Scully's gaze. "The same way we used to look at..." He laughed bitterly. "Scully, did we actually call him Cancerman?" "So I'm told." "That wasn't very civil of us." She wondered what Holmes and Marsel called them behind their backs. "Skinner is being very considerate about this," she said instead. "He's only one man. If Holmes goes after us-" Mulder shook his head. "Never mind. We can't be held accountable. There's something that bothers me more." "What's that?" She sat down, feeling suddenly tired. "We're expected to solve these cases. We can, and we will. And in doing so, we will interfere with the aims of the Project..." "Mulder, they kidnapped us against our will, destroyed our memories, forced us to destroy lives for them - they *used* us." "They did." His agreement seemed half-hearted. "So we could save the world." She rubbed at her temples. "You believe that?" "I'm not sure what to believe anymore. But-" Scully finished his thought. "But what if it really were necessary?" He did not answer. He could not answer. She pulled one of the files towards her, wishing to submerge herself in the work - wishing it was as familiar as what she was doing a few weeks ago. There was no comfort here anymore. * * * A slight smile crossed his face as he listened to the conversation. Recalling Kenmore's words, the smoker's eyes traveled over the corners of his motel room as he listened to the surveillance tape. A French perfume...such a fragile force against the weight of a lifetime remembered, against the weight of a name chosen. The wrinkled old doctor was the last person he expected to renew his hope. It reminded him that something would have to be done about Kenmore. But not now - he had more important concerns. It disturbed him to think of how he missed Paul Bartlett and Kathy Mott. It was not simply a professional matter, although they had made themselves nearly indispensable to the Project. He missed them on a personal level. He remembered his anxiety every time he caught the laughter of their voices. These two people who were strangers to him, who haunted him with their familiar faces, who appeared at the margins of his nightmares...and yet he had come to like them. He had respected them when they had been enemies; grown inexplicably attached to them when they had been friends. And now that they were enemies again, he did not know if he could bear it. The risk they posed to the organization was secondary - even if he lacked the courage to eliminate that risk, his colleagues would not be so restrained. Their value was the more important issue. They could not have left at a worse time. One hand tapped against the smooth, flat surface of his cell phone as he dragged on a cigarette thoughtfully. Kenmore was right, damn him - the smoker was just as much to blame for the situation as anyone else. He had been foolish to let it get out of hand. His decision was made, then. He picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory. A familiar voice answered. "Yeah?" He exhaled a puff of smoke into the air. "Mulder and Scully are a difficulty," he said. "Would you like me to eliminate them?" He scowled - in his day no one would have said anything so direct over the phone. He had little to fear from wiretaps. It was the explicitness, the vulgar crudity of the statement that bothered him. "That won't be necessary. There are still less extreme methods that may be taken." A stunned silence. "You don't think..." He was losing his patience. "Bring them back," he hissed. "There's no way-" "Find a way," he said. "Or I will." His words may have been cryptic, but the threat was clear. "I'll see what I can do." The voice over the telephone was even, carefully measured. Still so cocky, so terribly, terribly unafraid. "Good." A smile crept over his features as he stubbed out the cigarette. A final wreath of smoke curled up from the ashtray. "Thank you, Martin." He hung up the phone and lit another cigarette. * * * "How can you afford this place with the measly FBI salary?" Mulder stopped halfway up the staircase, keys falling out of his hand. "Damn," he whispered, bending to pick them up. "Martin, what the hell are you doing?" "What do you think?" The young man flashed him a quick grin. "Waiting up for you." "I don't remember inviting you over." Mulder stared at the guest until he moved, giving access to the doorway. "Now do us both a favor and leave." Martin waited until the door was open and stepped inside over the unspoken protests of the host. "You're home late. Are you trying to catch up on all you've missed in the past two years?" Mulder didn't dignify that with an answer and tried to ignore the intrusion as much as humanly possible, walking into the bedroom to change, then wandering into the kitchen. Martin settled down on the couch, looking around appreciatively. "I was told Mulder didn't have a bedroom in his apartment. You're behaving out of character." "People change," Mulder muttered, passed the hand over his eyes. "Dammit, Martin, why don't you get out of here. I'm too tired to deal with this right now." "Paul... forgive me, *Mulder*," he waved his hand at the dangerous flicker in the hazel eyes. "I just wanted to find out how you were doing. You and Kathy left without a goodbye, and I do miss you." He took off the trench coat and hat, stretched like a cat. "Could I get a drink? I've been here for a couple of hours, and there are no vending machines nearby." Mulder sighed. The man was incorrigible. He walked to the refrigerator wordlessly, pulling out two bottles of beer. "If you would just cut the bullshit. Who sent you? Why are you here?" Martin smiled again, accepting the beer gratefully. "All right. I'll be honest." "That'll be a first," Mulder muttered softly. Martin's eyebrows knitted together as he leaned forward, suddenly serious. "I was the one who told you the truth, don't forget that. Though I would gladly take it back - if I'd only known that you would leave..." "What did you expect?" Mulder exploded. "You know, I think you *wanted* us to leave. Otherwise, why spill the beans?" "Listen, Mulder..." Martin sighed. "If I wanted you gone, I wouldn't be here now asking you to come back. You simply couldn't have chosen a worse time to leave. We need you, and Scully." "No organization stands on any one man alone." "But each man is essential." "Martin. We are not coming back. This conversation is over." Mulder took a swig of his own beer and turned away resolutely. "You are being such a child," his guest grinned. "I understand why you may be upset... but I think that you need to get past the personal issues." "Damn you," Mulder hissed, felt his jaw clench. This was one of the very people who, directly or indirectly, participated in his kidnapping and that of his partner's, who erased their memories, who annulled two lifetimes without compunction, who lied to them. And yet, all he could remember were two neatly separated piles of folders on his desk in the FBI office. One pile was deemed "safe" to pursue because no cases would interfere with the Project; the other was destined to get lost in the woodwork if it depended only on him and Kathy. Scully. Whatever. And he tried to ignore the nagging qualms and remember that the last two years of his life were a charade that he couldn't continue. "We need your and Scully's help with working out the next phase of experimentation," Martin continued, interpreting the silence for doubt. "That's it," Mulder pronounced softly but determinedly. "You are getting out of here now or I will really think that you're a double agent. Don't you remember? I am the enemy. You're not supposed to tell me such things." Martin laughed, picked up his coat, and shrugged it on with flair, the black material flapping like wings of a dark angel. "Pop-quiz, Mulder. An FBI agent kills a Department of Defense employee, steals his ID, and uses it to break into the Defense Department's Advanced Research Project Agency facility, Level Four. Multiple-choice question: what happens to him? One, he gets lost in the maze. Two, he walks out of there unscathed after finding what he was looking for. Three, an alien mutant eats him. Four..." "He never sees the light of day again because he is a dead man," Mulder quipped indifferently. "I'll take that for a hundred." "You lose," Martin smiled sadly. "Second choice was the correct answer. All that and the rest of your memories if you come back. Think about it." Mulder opened the door and held it out for him, desperately trying to ignore the longing to know - to regain what he had lost. "I am sure Scully would appreciate it if you told her about our conversation," Martin stepped out and tipped his hat. "I'm here if you need me, remember." Mulder listened to the sound of footsteps fading, to his own wildly beating heart - then closed the door and walked back inside. On some level, he knew that Martin was right. He had to switch apartments. ~*~*~ Act III: The Games We Play The file landed on the desk slightly askew, fluttering open to reveal a picture of a trashed apartment. Skinner saw Scully glance at it, then look up at him. "What's this?" Mulder asked. "Sharona Adamowictz. She is twenty-seven and lives alone here in D.C. Abducted from her apartment two weeks ago and hasn't been seen or heard from since." Scully brushed her hair back with one hand. "Why are you giving it to us?" "I found it on my desk this morning. Apparently it's urgent." The slight roll of his eyes indicated that he felt otherwise. Mulder flipped through the file, his eyes scanning the words. "With all due respect, sir-" Skinner cringed almost imperceptibly - there was sincerity in the man's voice. Since when had Mulder shown anyone due respect? "Any agent in the Bureau could handle this." Skinner pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He had expected them to resist taking the case with a bit more effort - they certainly had enough work to last them for months - but they were arguing with him as if by rote, as if it was what he expected. He studied them closely - the way they stood, the way they watched him. They looked the same, albeit older and more...restrained. But the mannerisms were different - for the hundredth time he felt as though he were talking to complete strangers. He closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. "With all due respect, Agent Mulder," he said, "I am asking the two of you to take this case." Scully nodded first. "I'm...sorry, sir." "Don't be." His response was too light, too immediate, he realized the moment the words left his mouth. "It's fine." For another tense moment he stood there, and then he turned, leaving them alone in the darkened office. * * * "Do you think he knows?" Scully whispered. "Hmm?" Mulder looked up from the file. He pushed his hair back with one hand - it had gotten too long for Bureau standards, he reminded himself. "No, he can't know. He doesn't have access to that sort of information." Scully did not look reassured. He stared at the two piles of folders. There were enough in the "safe" pile. Why could Skinner not be contented with those? "It's a classic abduction scenario." She traced her hand over the photo of the apartment. "The victim was single, with no family or friends who would miss her. Neighbors reported strange lights in the sky, sounds in the apartment..." She smiled faintly. "They weren't exactly subtle, were they?" "You're destroying your skeptic routine, Scully." "Am I? We know this wasn't done by men from outer space." He sighed, his eyes going back to the photo. Had this been done to them? He had stared for hours at the pictures of their own apartments, but they had triggered nothing. "So what do we do?" He closed the file, fought the urge to place it in the second pile. Skinner had asked them. They would be under suspicion if they refused. They would be compromising the Project if they did not refuse. "She'll surface in a few days, without any memory of the past two weeks. We pretend to investigate, interview her, come to no conclusions. We do not pursue it any farther." Mulder glanced up at her sharply. She sounded so much like Kathy. he thought. "Scully," he said aloud to reinforce the thought, "I think there is a problem here." She nodded for him to continue. "I don't think Adamowictz is going to be returned." A momentary pause. "Why not?" "Scully...before we...left." He was finding it increasingly difficult to continue. "They were going to proceed with human testing. I think..." He choked on the words. "I think the tests have begun." "The vaccine was a success when we left. If you're right, then she'll be returned with no ill effects." Mulder's eyes regarded her warily. He was not in a position to question her medical expertise. "But if the vaccine isn't effective..." She let out a quiet gasp. "Then we know where she is being held." "We can't..." He shook his head. "No, we said we wouldn't take these cases. We can't take these cases." "Are you going to tell that to Skinner?" "We'll come up with some excuse...we have to." "How long do you think we can avoid this?" "We can request a transfer." "On what grounds? Mulder-" She drew in a deep breath. "This was our life once. And it still is. These people betrayed us..." He was silent for a long time. "Scully...there's something I never told you." She watched him - waited. "The other night, Martin showed up at my apartment." "Martin Ng?" He nodded. "Why?" "He...said that he wanted to help us." Scully's fingers played with the edges of the folder. "That would be a first." "He said he could help us regain our memories." "Do you believe him?" "No." Mulder's response was too abrupt. "I mean...yes...I don't know. He wanted us to come back." He gave a low moan. "Scully, do you remember, before we were...gone..." He met her eyes. "Did I kill a Department of Defense employee and steal his ID?" "I don't remember." Scully opened the file again, her gaze deliberately avoiding his. "How would I remember that? It doesn't sound like something you would do." "It sounds like something Paul would do." He grimaced in frustration. "Martin's a liar and we both know it. He's trying to manipulate us - just as they have all along." Scully's eyes met his in silent agreement. "Then we'll take this case. Whether *they* like it or not." * * * Mulder could not believe he had forgotten the password to his computer. He had called Scully - she could not remember either, but she was sure she had written it down somewhere. She referred to herself in the third person. Scully would have written it down somewhere. While she went to check, he looked over the file again. The scene of devastation was achingly familiar. They would have to visit the scene tomorrow. His eyes traveled around the room, lit only by the glow of the computer screen and the fish tank. Skinner had held the computer in storage, with the desperate hope that one day Mulder would come back for it. The fish tank he had bought himself, last week. It seemed like something the old Mulder would have owned. The phone rang. He picked it up, hesitating for a moment before answering, "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." Scully spoke with a bit more confidence. "I found it. Trust no one, one word, one as in the number." He laughed despite himself. Scully or Kathy, she was so damned practical and organized. "Thank you," he said, typing the password with one hand as he hung up the receiver with the other. What a silly password, he thought. Anyone who had known Mulder could have guessed it. Columns of file names appeared as the computer came to life in a bright flash of light... Mulder's head jerked up, his fingers instantly reaching for his gun. But the apartment was silent except for the low thrum of the fish tank, the door safely shut and locked. He stared back at the photograph of Adamowictz's apartment. She had gone unwillingly, it seemed. When he had gone...he had gone willingly. * * * "Let's question the neighbors," Scully offered to Mulder who stood, motionless, in the middle of Sharona's ruined apartment. "We both know that there's no evidence here." "Precisely." He worried his lip, eyes dark and calculating. "This is an exercise in futility. As is questioning the neighbors." She sighed, agreeing. "Then what are you suggesting?" "Scully... if there is a chance that Sharona is still alive, and if we want her back," Mulder took a deep breath, about to plunge into oceans unknown. "We have to go and get her." Scully opened her mouth as if about to argue, then suddenly burst into laughter. "I'm sorry," she tried to calm down, shook her head. "It just sounds like something we would have done... before we were gone. Foolishly brave and dangerously stupid." Mulder smiled uncertainly, glad to hear her laughter. It seemed she hadn't laughed since... well, since she stopped being Kathy. God, just a month ago, they both led happy and normal lives. What possessed them to abandon it all? The lies, he answered himself. Paul and Kathy despised lies as much as Mulder and Scully did. "Well, we do have a reputation to uphold," he confirmed, suddenly feeling lighter. "So, are you with me?" "Absolutely," Scully nodded, her eyes gleaming. "We will have to go at night - the security won't be as tight and there will be fewer employees at work." "Tonight, then," Mulder whispered softly as Scully started walking down the stairs, away from the scene of devastation. Running after her, he tried to remind himself that the vaccine had worked - that he himself had seen it in action. There was every reason to believe that Sharona was fine. * * * "Miss..." Holmes and Marsel continued talking, oblivious to the tired nurse standing beside them, looking pointedly at her watch. "Miss," she tried again, this time receiving a glare of the brown eyes. "It's 8:30. The visiting hours are over." Holmes sighed, nodded. "All right." "Thank you, Jenny," Marsel grinned at the nurse. "I thought I would never get rid of her." "Ha-ha," Holmes stood up, searched for her bag. "I will see you tomorrow, partner." Marsel watched the door close behind her sadly. "I know," he whispered. As of late, he was starting to hate this time of day with a passion. Not because his partner had to leave and let him be alone with his thoughts and doubts for the rest of the evening. But because each time she left, she seemed to put on an icy mask of animosity and determination. And because she suddenly refused to tell him what was happening at work. And because she looked as if she were preparing for a battle. And all in all, he didn't like it one bit. * * * Martin watched a dark-haired woman as she took a few steps from the door of her partner's room and leaned against the wall, her eyelids fluttering as if she were about to cry. Oh, the blessed time when denial melts like ice in the spring, leaving a muddy slush of anger behind. Agent Holmes looked exhausted and too thin. Had she been his lover, he would have been naturally concerned. But such qualities were more than a little attractive in the enemy - they could always be put to good use. No, not an enemy, he reminded himself. Today, he was here as a friend. The first two tears sliding down her cheeks were a white flag to signify the fortress' surrender. On cue, Martin materialized at her side, pulled a tissue out of his pocket, and handed it to her silently, smiling inwardly when she accepted it shakily. "Thank you," Holmes whispered. "I always forget these things." Martin watched her with consideration, trying to convey concern and care. As any good actor, he relished the moment when the role became second skin, this absolute, delicious merging of two personalities within him. Sometimes, he felt that he missed his true calling. "You must be Tanya Holmes," he offered her a hand. "My name is Martin, I was going to visit Marsel but I see I'm too late." "Damn hospital policy," she swore under her breath. "Are you a friend of Marsel's?" "Yes," Martin replied. "Haven't seen him lately, and then I heard about the accident..." Holmes shuddered. "It doesn't seem fair, does it?" she questioned fervently. "It should have been me." He was startled by her intensity but recovered quickly. All in all, this was turning out to be an even better situation than he'd envisioned. "I'm sure that is not what Marsel thinks," he asserted. "I am sorry," her expression was suddenly firm, businesslike. "I shouldn't have burdened you. I can only visit for half an hour tomorrow, so if you can keep him company the rest of the time, that would be great." Holmes started walking toward the exit and Martin ran to catch up with her. "Wait, Tanya - may I call you Tanya?" "Yes, what is it?" "Listen, I'm starving," he smiled, embarrassed. "I spotted a nice Italian restaurant nearby - how about you keep me company?" "I should really get going..." Holmes paused uncertainly. "I am sorry." "Please," Martin begged. "You can give me an update on how Marsel is doing. And I can finally get to know you." "Oh well," she shrugged. "I *am* hungry." Martin beamed. He was wrong. Hollywood or Broadway could never provide him with a thrill to match. * * * He wished she would give justice to the incredible cheese ravioli that they both ordered per server's recommendation. Alien invasions and conspiracies aside, there was always time to appreciate fine cuisine. For the past thirty minutes, he'd listened to her talk - she invoked no names, describing the situation in the most general terms, but her despondency and bitterness were a pleasure to behold. He could play this woman like a finely tuned violin. "Are you serious about punishing these agents?" Martin questioned her after she fell silent. Holmes' eyes flickered. "Had it been in my power, I would gladly..." she aborted the sentence, probably unwilling to let him know the extent of damages she would have them suffer. "No," she said instead, unemotionally. "No?" Martin's eyebrows jumped skyward. "How come?" "My boss couldn't care less," Holmes shrugged, stabbed pasta with her fork as if it were an enemy to be defeated. "And what would going in front of the OPR board possibly accomplish? I have no witnesses to speak of and my word against theirs..." "But if you had another witness?" he pushed. She frowned. "I guess." Time to drop the mask. "I was there." Holmes' fork dropped. "What did you just say?" "I saw your accident. I watched as Mulder and Scully held you at gunpoint and searched your car. Then I saw Skinner chase them away. Then I saw the ambulance and police cars arrive. Then I left," Martin recited. "I can corroborate your story down to the T, and I will be happy to do so." Her face was paper-white. "How do you know their names? Who are you?" "I am in the position to possess valuable information," he replied calmly. "And as I said, I am a friend." She made a motion to stand up, and he reached out across the table to grab her hand. "Tanya. Agent Holmes. I need you to go in front of the OPR board and I need you to tell your story. I will provide you with all the necessary evidence. And I will serve as your witness." "Let me go," Holmes hissed at him, her dark eyes boring holes into him. "I don't know what your business is, but this is not how I will handle things." "You're hardly an angel, Agent Holmes. Angels don't break into medical centers without search warrants," Martin wielded his voice sound like chipped glass, accurate and cutting. "And I may have something you want." "The only thing I want is for Marsel to get better," Holmes shrugged him off. "And if I see you hanging around his room again, I will call security." Time to put cards on the table, and draw the joker. "If you do as I ask, I will make sure that Marsel gets better," Martin proclaimed firmly. "This is a win-win situation for you." Holmes' lips twisted as if she were about to laugh. "Who are you, a magician or a lunatic?" "Neither, Agent Holmes. I can keep my promise. You will not be sorry." She slumped a little, melding back into the booth, her face suddenly that of a very small girl at the mercy of a monster unlike any she'd seen before. "What kind of a man would watch all this happen and not offer help?" she whispered, horrified. Martin sympathized with her, on some level. "The kind of a man who knows where Mulder and Scully had been for the past two years. The kind of a man who can give you damning information against them. The kind of a man who will ask for nothing in return except your testimony," he assured her, waved for the server. "I believe you," Holmes nodded in resignation. "After all I've seen during this damn case... I believe you." "You should," he confirmed, then gestured for her to stay silent when the server came over. "Tiramisu for the lady and cheesecake for me, please," he ordered. "I believe that dessert is good for you, emotionally and physically. The healing power of sugar," he joked. "The doctors say it would take a miracle for Marsel to walk again," she shook her head, still mistrustful. "Are you in the business of miracles?" "Uh-huh. Think of me as your own dark angel," he chuckled indulgently. How ironic, considering that she had to know that she was bargaining with the devil. Martin bared his teeth, playing the part - took an appreciative bite of the cheesecake. "I didn't say yes," her eyes flashed defiantly. "Don't celebrate yet." He shrugged. "You will." "What are you getting out of this?" Holmes questioned suddenly. "As you said, this seems a win-win only for me. What about you?" "Why, Tanya..." Martin's eyelashes batted innocently. "The truth. The justice. What can possibly be more important?" * * * One darkened hallway led to another, and still they hadn't encountered a soul. Scully paused in the doorway of a room illuminated with a soft glow of cloning tanks, startled by the familiarity of the picture - by the sudden impulse to check the controls of the monitors. A slight pressure on the small of her back from Mulder's warm hand reminded her of the purpose of this visit and urged her on. She had to remember that she was an intruder, now. A few more turns, and Scully stopped in front of the nondescript door. "Is this it?" A slight tremor betrayed Mulder's voice. "I think so," she punched in the code and turned the knob carefully, soundlessly. "Here goes nothing." Inside, they stared at several supine figures in beds, hooked up to various monitors and IVs. "At least they don't discriminate by gender," Mulder whispered, then broke off abruptly, walking to one of the beds. "It's her." Scully followed in his footsteps, immediately recognizing Sharona in the pale young woman covered by a thin sheet. She reached shaking fingers to check for pulse, released her breath when she heard a healthy, strong beat. Mulder returned Scully's smile, relieved that they hadn't come here for nothing - that this madness was going to pay off, after all. Then the door opened, and his breath arrested. "What are you doing here at this hour," someone's voice began, then paused, incredulous. "Kathy Mott? Paul Bartlett? I thought you quit!" Scully turned around, effectively obstructing her partner who was frozen in shock. A devilish grin played on her lips. "And missed the most interesting part? Not on your life, Tom." The technician whistled. "I knew I heard it wrong. So glad to see you." "Fill me in," Scully gestured to Sharona. "What are the stats on this one?" Mulder relaxed minutely - watched as Tom reached for the chart, half-listened to the dialogue peppered with medical terms, and tried to memorize the faces of the rest of the patients in the room. For the next case that would come from Skinner, and then... And then they would have to refuse it because they would never be able to walk in here as shamelessly as they did just now. He glanced back at Scully, her attention focused completely on the documentation Tom was showing her. She played the role just a little too well. Was she playing a role? "Sorry to interrupt you," Mulder cut into the conversation. "Tom, we need you to return this patient to the hospital this morning." Scully squeezed his hand imperceptibly. "Yes, orders from above. The case is attracting undue attention." The technician sighed regretfully. "And such a promising subject. The usual procedure?" Mulder nodded. "Please." Tom hung back the chart. "We'll need a blood sample or two in a few days." "You'll get them," Scully promised. "Well, we have to go - but I'll see you in a couple of days, Tom." "Sure, Kathy." Scully walked around the room one last time, adjusting the controls and reading a few charts attentively. "This is going well," she muttered to no one. Mulder shivered. The satisfaction in her voice could not have been faked. Walking up to the car, Scully threw him the keys and stared straight ahead. "They will deliver her to Holy Cross. We will have to transfer her somewhere else immediately," she commented matter-of-factly. Mulder nodded wordlessly, turned the keys in ignition. "The vaccine is working," she remarked after a few minutes. "I know it's too early to celebrate, but..." There was not even a trace of Dana Scully in the woman who sat beside him now. There was only Kathy Mott, the consummate professional and scientist, the believer in the Project. Still, he couldn't bring himself to speak. "The doctor in charge of the experiments is excellent. We will have to take blood samples tomorrow and the day after and ship them here," she continued. "Kathy..." he begged. "Yes?" she echoed. He gripped the steering wheel harder, nails digging into the leather. "Nothing." Who was he kidding? The man whose reflection he saw in the mirror every day wasn't Fox Mulder either. "Their security sucks," he remarked finally, passionately. "Tell me about it." They drove in silence the rest of the way. ~*~*~ Act IV: The Tug of War Skinner read the sparse, concise report on the case of Sharona Adamowictz, signed by Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They had no chance to investigate before she was delivered to the Georgetown Medical Center. The young woman still hasn't regained consciousness, but her vitals were strong and she was expected to recover fully and quickly. The case was put on hold until such time as Sharona could tell her story. This report was unlike any that came from the X-Files department two years ago. There were no outlandish theories from Mulder on the woman's whereabouts during the two weeks she was missing. There were no speculations from Scully on what she may have been suffering from. Nothing but straight, dry facts. He read it again, seeking familiarity in the strangely dispassionate account. The choice of words made him cringe. "I am surprised by your forgiving nature, Mr. Skinner." He looked up at the smoker coolly, wondering for how much longer he could ignore his presence. The visitor, apparently unperturbed by the lack of reaction, continued in tone. "Had I been in your place, I wouldn't let Mulder and Scully step inside the Hoover building," he gazed into space reflectively. "After everything they put you through..." Skinner closed the file and put it away with a sigh. "I've been taking lessons from you," he conceded to the conversation reluctantly. "After everything you suffered from their interference... essentially, you let the snake into your own house." "Really?" The Smoking Man sounded genuinely surprised, cigarette pausing in the air for a second before continuing its journey to the mouth. "They have always been extremely helpful." "Just your presence here indicates that they are doing *something* right," Skinner commented calmly. "Now, would you tell me what is it and kindly leave?" "I understand why you would want them back." Thin smoke curled upward, accumulating at the ceiling like a threatening cloud. "Why, they must have solved this latest case in a day! Supernatural speed." "Just a lucky break." "Was it, Mr. Skinner?" the Smoking Man cocked his head to the side. "Well, perhaps." Skinner shrugged philosophically, turned back to his paperwork. "It would probably make sense to give these two other missing person cases to Mulder and Scully, as well," the Smoking Man nodded to a couple of folders lying off to the side. "Maybe they will get lucky again." "Thank you for advice," he stood up, walking to the door. "If you will excuse me, I will follow it right now." The visitor brushed past him, turning around with a slight smile. "The snake may change its skin, but it's still a snake. Take that from someone who'd dealt with a lot of serpents, Mr. Skinner." * * * Skinner watched coldly as the door closed behind the smoker. Demagogic conversations aside, there *was* something strange about the Adamowictz report, though he would be hard-pressed to find an objective reason to nit-pick it. Picking up the two folders, he walked downstairs, hoping to catch the agents still at work, despite the late hour on Friday. He wasn't disappointed when the light greeted him from behind the closed doors. "Good evening, sir," Mulder welcomed him with a smile. He gestured at the half-packed briefcase. "I was just about to leave." "I won't take too much of your time," he took in the organized chaos in the office that had grown progressively worse since it became occupied, once again. "Just wanted to commend you on the success of the last case." Skinner watched as Mulder shifted uncomfortably, his fingers starting to play with a pencil nervously. "It was nothing. It didn't depend on us." "Regardless, this was a success," he disagreed. "Did Agent Scully already leave?" "Yes, she was going to drive over to Baltimore. She wanted to avoid traffic," Mulder's voice changed colors. "I told her it would be good if she... if she went there again." Skinner translated his words. Scully had no recollection of Margaret, and she wouldn't have wanted to visit, especially alone. The tense silence stretched and he glanced down at the folders in his hand. "I have two more cases similar to the one you just completed," he offered them to Mulder who made no move to accept them. "It looks like work of the same person or group of people," he continued, undaunted. Mulder didn't speak as folders landed on the desk. "Agent Mulder," Skinner was somewhat alarmed at this unnatural passivity. "Perhaps you should take a look at all three kidnappings, write a profile?" "Sir," there was a begging note in Mulder's voice. "Maybe..." he didn't finish the thought, nodding to the pile of folders on his desk. "We have enough work." "This work waited for two years," Skinner snapped, immediately regretting his own abruptness as Mulder flinched visibly. "This is more urgent," he explained, in a softer tone. Mulder's cellphone trilled and he muttered excuses as he reached into his jacket pocket. "Fox Mulder," he offered tersely, listened to someone on the other end, the color slowly draining from his face. "I understand," he choked on the words, tried to regain his ability to speak. "Thank you. I understand," he repeated once again. "We shouldn't have done this," he whispered despairingly as he punched the end button. "Did something happen?" Skinner was chilled by the expression of horror that his agent didn't try to disguise. "Who was it?" Mulder stood up, finished packing quickly, the two folders Skinner brought stuffed into his briefcase along with the rest of the daily work. "It was the hospital. Sharona Adamowictz is dead." "What?" Skinner took a step forward, tried to meet Mulder's eyes without success. "How?" "She went into seizures and passed away thirty minutes ago," Mulder explained, shrugging into his coat. "I asked them to contact us in case anything happened." "It could have happened for any reason, Mulder," Skinner grabbed his shoulder, hoping that he interpreted his reaction correctly. "This is not your fault." "You don't understand," Mulder shrugged the offending appendage away, opening the door quickly. "It didn't work. I have to... I'm sorry." Skinner listened to the sound of receding footsteps, puzzled and disturbed by his agent's reaction. What was he supposed to understand? Distractedly, he picked up the top folder from the teetering pile on Mulder's desk. Poltergeist. He rolled his eyes, put it away. Next folder... strange animals in Mexico City. Third folder told of the demonic possession. Now uneasy, he opened up the next file, and the one after that. Half an hour later, after he'd gone through the pile, Skinner stared at his fingers and tried to subdue their trembling. All of these cases were perfectly within the scope of the X-Files department. They were also perfectly useless. Bland. Non-threatening. Skinner looked around, certain that he'd missed something - his gaze catching another pile, albeit smaller, hidden from view under Scully's desk. More reading yielded results considerably different from the first pile. Here were purported alien abductions. Visions of the UFOs. Unresolved murders with insufficient evidence. Two years ago, Mulder would have jumped at the chance to investigate each one of these cases. Today, the partners used them as a footrest. No, he told himself firmly. Since when did he listen to this black-lunged bastard? Skinner took a deep breath, corrected the disturbed pile of folders - set it back under the table. Everything was coming back to normal - there was no reason to grow paranoid and suspicious. None at all. * * * "Dana, honey..." Scully started, then turned around with a brilliant smile. "Yes?" Margaret studied the familiar blue eyes that seemed to look past her, the tense posture of her daughter's small figure. "You've been in the kitchen for the past two hours. I hope you didn't come here to cook." Scully glanced at the lasagna rolls she'd been stuffing for the past half-hour, at the chicken breasts soaking in the marinade. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," she explained guiltily. "I haven't called since..." Margaret squeezed a smile, scared at the answer. "You don't have to apologize. I know you have a busy life." "It doesn't matter," Dana shook her head resolutely. "I should have come before. Or called. If Mulder didn't..." she stopped, bit her lip, knowing that she slipped and it was too late to backtrack. "Oops." "Did Fox tell you to come?" Maggie had to make an effort to sound even, understanding. "He always was... considerate." Dana laughed bitterly. "Was he? Yes, I bet he was," she turned back to the table, mixed the perfect stuffing to an even better consistency. "What was I?" "Dana..." Margaret couldn't think of a reply, and walked around the table to clasp her daughter's hand. "You are a strong, caring, intelligent, kind woman. You always were and you always will be. You cannot remember what your life was - but it doesn't change your essence. It doesn't change who you are." Dana stared at the small fingers of her mother and drew her wrist back gently, imperceptibly. "You've never asked what we were doing in San Diego. Don't you want to know?" Margaret was startled by the metallic notes in Dana's voice. "I don't want to intrude." "Dana Scully was a saint." Margaret shook her head, the same grotesque sensation she'd felt in San Diego coming back to engulf her. The icy glare of the blue eyes that accosted her, the cruel set of the mouth that mocked her hardly belonged to her daughter. "Dana?" she whispered, unsure of what response she was looking for. Praying that this stranger would suddenly transform into the young woman she'd once known and loved. But Margaret still loved Dana. Didn't she? The doorbell saved her from answering the tricky question. "Fox!" "Mrs. Scully," Fox Mulder stood at the doorstep, shivering in the cold wind. "I was looking for Dana - is she here?" "Of course - come in," Margaret was relieved to see her daughter's partner, for reasons she couldn't fully explain or comprehend. "She was cooking all evening, so this time you might get a chance to eat a home-cooked meal." She drew a breath, knowing that she was blabbering, but unable to help herself. "I know that I went a little overboard the last time." "It's all right, Mrs. Scully," Mulder followed her into the kitchen. "Mulder," Scully grabbed a tray with rolls, set it in the oven. "Just a minute," she adjusted the temperature. "What are you doing here?" "I am sorry to interrupt," he glanced uncomfortably at Margaret, took Scully's hand. "We need to talk." "Mom," Dana started. "Could you..." "Of course," Margaret smiled brightly, insincerely. "I will be in the living room." She closed the door to the kitchen, took a few steps away, but at the sound of Dana's voice stopped abruptly, her hand flying up to cover the sob that was about to escape. "I cannot be here. I am not what this woman needs." Mulder's voice didn't come for a few moments. "I know it's hard," he sounded weary. "But you have to try. We both have to try." "I'm not Dana Scully." "But..." "And you're not Fox Mulder," she continued with mounting exasperation. "What are we doing?" "Trying to play the parts," his reply was soft, anguished. "Scully..." "Don't call me that," his partner hissed. He sighed. "*Kathy*. I think we may have bigger problems than this." Margaret leaned against the kitchen door, trying to still her breath. Listening in on her daughter and her partner may have been wrong. But listening in on these two people... Not only did it seem right, it was absolutely necessary. "I got a call from the hospital. Sharona is dead." A startled gasp was his answer. "Oh my God. The vaccine didn't work - or there were complications..." "And Skinner gave me two more cases. Here," there was a flutter of papers. "I remember these two. We saw them in the laboratory." "Subjects of the same experiment?" "Yes. We need to make sure you do the autopsy tomorrow." "Paul... what if we killed Sharona simply by taking her out of the lab? Even if we could, we shouldn't interrupt anymore." "I agree," the answering voice was suddenly stronger, more assured. "Kathy, I don't like what's happening. The testing is attracting too much attention." "I've worked so hard to make this vaccine work," she whispered. "We all have. I never imagined that human experimentation would fail." He moaned. "This is so - *wrong*." "What are you proposing?" she asked. "We can't just call them and ask what's up." A heavy sigh was her answer - in the ensuing silence, the timer of the oven sounded shrill and abrupt. Margaret Scully sat on the floor, rocking from side to side, her hands covering her ears. The tears that rolled down her cheeks were gray and salty. But they didn't signify sadness or grief. For the first time, Margaret tasted hatred. * * * "Such a pity." The morgue attendant slowly unzipped the body bag, revealing the still face of the young woman. "She was beautiful." Mulder grunted without commitment, tossing a furtive glance towards Scully. "An autopsy hasn't been conducted yet," he said. "We were waiting for notification from her family." "We were told she didn't have any family," Scully retorted. "Well..." The attendant glanced at the dead woman's face. "I don't know what the relation is, but *somebody* certainly seemed interested in her the other day." Mulder felt himself gripped by a sense of outrage. Those bastards...they would just as soon take the body and cover up the whole incident. They would probably do exactly that. The morgue attendant was still talking, directing his words to Scully. "They said it's against their religion, or something...the family...that she has to be buried right away." "I am sure they are interested in finding the cause of her death," Scully said coldly, "In finding the persons responsible." The attendant's eyes traveled over the dead woman's body. "I'd be just as happy to keep her here until this is settled." "Uh..." Mulder hoped that the expression he saw in the man's eyes was not a leer, but he had the sinking feeling that it was. "We'll be back with the paperwork tomorrow." He lay his hand on Scully's arm to guide her outside. They went out to the car in silence. They were halfway to the Hoover Building before Scully finally spoke. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "You know, they'll have taken the body by tomorrow." A pause as his hands slid ever so slightly down the steering wheel. "I know," he said. * * * "There's been another abduction," Skinner said. Scully looked up, startled - wondered why she hadn't noticed him standing there. She felt Mulder shift uncomfortably beside her. "Sir...I'm sorry?" "Another young woman was taken from her apartment. We have reason to believe-" He broke off abruptly. Tried to meet Mulder's eyes. When that failed, he looked towards Scully. "It is not common Bureau protocol to refuse cases assigned by a superior, is it?" Scully glanced at Mulder, wondering if she should be the one to speak. "Ummm..." "I was under the impression that we had an understanding, sir," Mulder said quickly. Skinner glared at him. The disapproval sketched in his eyes was familiar, but it was shaded by something else. Exhaustion, Scully decided. He looked too tired to fight anymore. "Do we have an understanding, Agent Mulder?" The voice was deadly. Scully groaned inwardly. "Sir, we can't investigate these cases." The glare migrated to her. "And why is that?" "We're not at liberty to explain why, sir." Mulder's voice sounded more confident suddenly, more like - - the voice of a man who knew he was right. Scully dealt the final blow. "We...you..." She smoothed back her hair, an unconscious reflex. "You have to take our word for it. You have to trust us." For a long time he stood there, watching both of them. "Do you trust us, sir?" she asked in almost a whisper. A hesitation, and then, "Yes." He was out the door before Scully had the chance to wonder if he really meant it. * * * "Agent Holmes?" She turned sharply, recognizing the silky siren call from the shadows. As her eyes grew adjusted to the darkness, she could see the trademark tip of a black hat over glinting eyes, the flash of white teeth in an indistinct blur of features. "Mr. Ng?" He was standing behind her car in the parking garage, leaning against a concrete pillar. He met her puzzled expression with a casual flick of his wrist, motioning for her to come closer. "What are you doing here? How the hell do you know where I live?" "I am in the business of knowing things," he replied, "As for your first question..." A dramatic delay. "I was wondering if you had thought any more on our conversation the other day." She felt her cheeks flush. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what kind of twisted agenda you have, but I don't appreciate you lurking in the parking lot of my building. So would you please get out of my way?" "Gladly." He stepped aside, one hand sweeping towards her car. "Be my guest." Holmes hesitated, her palm limp on the handle of the door. "What do you want from me?" "I believe I have already answered that question." "But you never answered why." "Why I want to help you?" "I don't want your help." Martin smiled. "I wonder," he said, "Have you informed your partner of this independent streak of yours? How readily would he agree with you?" "You..." She broke off, trying hard to contain the seething rage building within her. How dare he? Martin's smile did not even lessen a fraction. "You doubt my motivations, I see. I am sure you have your reasons, however misguided. What would I have to do to convince you of my sincerity?" She said nothing. Did he want her to answer? He leaned closer. His breath smelled of alcohol. "Yesterday a young woman, a victim in a case under investigation by Mulder and Scully, died of unknown causes in Georgetown Medical Center." "Why are you telling me this?" Martin moved back again. "These people are murderers. You know that yourself. The official channels will never bring them to justice." "How do you know?" He laughed, waving his hand dismissively, as if she was the sweetest, most naive creature he had ever encountered. "You've seen it, haven't you? Some people are simply above the law." "You think...they..." "I know it." He took a few steps backward as she slipped into the car. "If you reconsider, Tanya, the offer remains." She slammed the door and started the engine. "Have a pleasant evening." Her eyes bore into him. "You too," she mouthed the words out the window as she pulled away. * * * Skinner studied Tanya Holmes' face - her expression carefully neutral, her hands resting placidly in her lap. He recognized a mask when he saw one; still, she was getting better at hiding her emotions. "Sir, I would like to investigate the case of Sharona Adamowitcz." Not a request, a demand. His eyes narrowed. "The case has been closed." "I believe that investigation hasn't been complete, sir," Holmes retorted. "There has been no autopsy performed - and there is still a question of who was responsible for her disappearance and subsequent death." "There was no permission for an autopsy, Agent Holmes," Skinner explained wearily. "There were no witnesses who could provide any information." "The body vanished from the morgue," she informed him dispassionately. "That could be a start." "Agent Holmes, I can't let you investigate this. Especially," his gaze skimmed over the empty chair, "Especially not alone. " She appeared frail instantly - a doll whose perfect mask was about to crumble. Skinner let his eyes drop to the table, unwilling to witness it. "Why are you so interested in it?" he asked instead. "Because I would like to know the truth. The truth that others..." Holmes glanced at him meaningfully, "...are trying to hide." Skinner stared at several folders on his desk - cases that the X-Files agents refused to investigate. Cases that he now believed were related to the Alderwood Medical Center fiasco. If he buried them now - he would be no better than those who were responsible for the abductions. He glanced back at the young woman. The studied calmness could not hide the anger and passion burning in the dark eyes. If expertly directed, this passion could move mountains or destroy cities. And suddenly, he felt very tired and very old to stand in its way. "These are three related cases," he handed her the files. "One of the young men abducted was returned to Holy Cross Medical Center yesterday. He still hasn't regained consciousness. The other two are still missing. I wish you good luck." Holmes eyed him warily. "Thank you." "I hope," Skinner emphasized each word. "That revenge isn't your only motivation." Silently, he waited for a reaction to the jab. It didn't come. "That will be all." She walked toward the exit, half-turning on the way back. "Why are you protecting them, sir? You saw - you *know* - what they had done." Skinner's lips curled in a self-deprecating smile. The explanation for Mulder's and Scully's behavior sounded too incredible. Their actions since they came back were too questionable. Their motivation was clearly lacking. He didn't reply - he could not reply. He watched as the door closed behind her, felt his jaw clench. The X-Files department was operating, but its usefulness was minimal. Mulder and Scully were back, but their passion was gone - their quest for the truth no longer evident. Darkly, he questioned if their decision to come back to work was wise and if he should have ever agreed to it. Glancing at the ash in the little tray on the table, he wondered if he wasn't being played for a fool - once again. The loyalties of the X-Files agents were clearly suspect. With all the information that they possessed, after having worked for two years in the very organization responsible for their abductions - they used none of their knowledge to do any damage, they tiptoed around the hot issues. No one who knew the things they did would be allowed to leave - they wouldn't live long enough to draw another breath... The realization hit, gripping him in icy fingers. The very fact that Mulder and Scully were here and alive signified their disloyalty. ~*~*~ Act V: A Prayer for the Lost Child "Stacie... hey," Dr. Mark Strauss rubbed his forehead listening to his wife's teary voice on the phone. "Please get a hold of yourself. She will be all right... call the paramedics... she will be fine." Gradually, her hysteria was pushing his blood pressure higher, the concern for his only daughter driving him frantic. "Stacie, she needs you. Call 911. You will pull through, you always..." Strauss listened for a few more minutes, cooing in the receiver occasionally, trying desperately to calm her down. Another sob from his wife and he would be forced to run home *now*. "Stacie, I will be there soon. Bye." "Trouble at home?" He flinched at the sound of a soft voice behind him. "My three-year-old is ill," he explained. "Pneumonia." "That is unfortunate," the Smoking Man sympathized. "And highly unusual. I thought only neglect could lead to such serious illness." Strauss swallowed the nasty reply - forced himself to breathe. Wondered if his little girl could breathe just as easily. "Considering that I spend all my days here, you can hardly blame me for her condition." "Your presence here doesn't seem to do much good, either," the smoker's hooded eyes focused on him, and he shivered. "So far, there have been three deaths from the experiments. Perhaps, you're neglecting your work duties as well." "Sir..." he laughed bitterly. He could hardly expect anything besides accusations. "We barely started testing the vaccine on human subjects. Did you expect immediate success?" This time, the smoke was directed straight at the doctor's face. "Yes." "So far, all of them died after they had been returned to the hospital. Why don't you blame the medical personnel there?" Strauss retorted, uncaring. "I blame you because you didn't keep them here long enough. I blame you because I don't believe in coincidences." "Sir, I have to work with material that someone else made," he wiped the sweaty palms on his pants. Oh God, the only thing he wanted to do now was run home to his daughter. "If Kathy Mott had been here..." "But she is not. Here." The Smoking Man hissed. "Dr. Strauss, let me make myself very clear. If I hear of one more untimely death in the Holy Cross Medical Center - you will not have a reason to go home at all." Strauss closed his eyes. Of course, it had to come to threats. Of course. "I understand, sir." "We all want to see this work, doctor. Do your part." The Smoking Man departed, and Strauss stared bleakly into space. He barely slept for the last three days, trying to figure out why the vaccine that worked seemingly so well led to such severe complications days after the injection. Autopsies lent him no easy answers. And so far, the failures outweighed the successes. His wife was hysterical, and his daughter was ill - and he wouldn't be getting home any time soon. * * * Mulder watched as Scully typed the report methodically. He knew what it would say: the case was closed, the boy wasn't clairvoyant, he could not contribute any useful information to the investigation of a crime committed months ago. He thought the boy was surprisingly good. If he were a fake, at least he was amusing - and the flashes of the future he described were imaginative and colorful. But in all honesty, he just couldn't care less if his clairvoyance was genuine or bogus. The case held no interest for him, and he let Scully take the lead and play the skeptic. She didn't seem to enjoy the role, but she was efficient. The case was closed swiftly. Mulder fought to keep from yawning. "Mulder..." Scully's fingers paused above the keyboard. "I had a terrible dream last night." Nightmares? He glanced at her, concerned - waited for her to continue. "I was alone in the desert, and it was so hot... I felt like I was suffocating," she spoke slowly, trying to recall the details that threatened to escape. "There was a fire burning underground, and I knew that..." she swallowed painfully, forced herself to speak the words out loud. "I knew that you were dead. That you burned in these flames." "I knew I would go to hell," Mulder grinned, his smile fading immediately as she turned a shade whiter. The pain in her face made him hurt - the beginnings of a demonic headache building in his skull. "Scully... it was just a dream," he tried to sound light. "Look - I'm perfectly fine." "No," she whispered. "It was too real. I knew that you had died - and I was the one who sent you there." Mulder's hand closed over hers. "Maybe, it was a flash of memory," he tried to rationalize it. "A distorted memory - you can't trust it." Scully squeezed his fingers, took her hand away, and began typing once again. "Do you believe that our memories will come back?" He nodded, self-assured. "Yes. In time, they will. It's just your garden variety amnesia." "I want to remember," she kept her eyes fixed on the screen, her voice indifferent. "But if these are the things that are hidden in my subconscious... if I'd lived through this..." she shuddered. "Perhaps, we're better off not knowing. Not remembering." The spikes of headache were now sharp and burning. "It's not the answer, Scully," Mulder spoke gently. "Without our memories, we're..." he searched for a word. "We're damaged." Scully turned away. "The report is ready. Read it." He went over to the printer to pick up the pages, barely skimmed them before signing with a name that still didn't belong to him. If they weren't investigating the cases that could interfere with the Project, they were wasting their time on the paranormal phenomena. And while such cases were curious, they were not even remotely beneficial. Damaged or not, as Paul and Kathy, they had fulfilled lives and they did work that they believed in. Work that he still believed in. Despite the inhumane methods, despite the lies - he knew that they were working for the greater good. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe..." Scully sounded miles away. Mulder met her eyes for a brief moment, startled by the longing and fear that he read in them. "Maybe we were damaged before they performed this little experiment on us." * * * There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the railings of the apartment across the street from the hospital. He watched them, shining against the watery gray sky, the light patter of snow falling over rapidly darkening streets. It had become a ritual every night, sitting there, a thin shadow in his wheelchair, watching the street lights come on one by one. There was very little else he could do these days. A faint crack of light split the darkness of his room. "Marsel?" He looked over. "Holmes? What are you doing here?" "I...uh..." She sat down beside him, her eyes taking in the hundreds of lights that laced across the buildings like a net of stars. "Nice view." "Yeah." He traced his hand over the window, outlining the wire meshing between the two panes of glass. "Do you think they're afraid I'll try to escape?" She laughed. "If you could escape, Marsel..." She trailed off. Was she being insensitive? He shifted his gaze towards her, opened his mouth to say something, and then reconsidered. There was something he was supposed to say, was there not? "You came here to talk to me," he said. "Skinner's called a meeting with me tomorrow. We...we're going to initiate an OPR hearing against Mulder and Scully." He groaned inwardly, irritated at having to serve as her sounding board. Her conscience. he told himself. "I...I don't remember very much," he said faintly. Uselessly. "That's...not what I wanted to talk to you about." "Go on..." She drew in a deep breath. "A man came to me. He said he could help." "Help how?" "He said he was there last night. That he could testify, and that..." Marsel nodded for Holmes to continue. "That he had information suggesting that Mulder and Scully are still involved with...that they're still killing people." He stared at her, it was as if she was about to say something else. "Do you believe him?" Holmes shook her head emphatically. "I think he's one of them. Whoever *they* are." A weak laugh. "But he seems to want to take them down as much as I do." "Is that what you want? To take them down?" She met his eyes. "Isn't that what you want?" He turned his attention back to the blinking lights. "I don't know how much that matters." He was silent for awhile. "Of course that's what I want." He could feel her eyes on him. He wished she would look away. "Holmes, if you do this..." "Yes?" "How much better does that make you...than *them*...?" It was the sort of thing he was expected to say. He had to be a good FBI agent, even now. Stick to the book. Uphold the law. Put his own bitterness aside. Even after *they* had taken everything from him. "I know..." He nodded. "So do I." She stood up. "I guess I should be going. They'll kick me out if they find me here." He bit his lip and said nothing. She hesitated, then walked towards the door. "Holmes?" "Yeah?" "Good luck." "Thank you." She closed the door quietly behind her. One of the street lamps had burnt out, but the others came on, like clockwork. * * * William had kept his gun in a box when the children were small, afraid they would stumble upon it accidentally, and it had remained there long after they had grown and moved out of the house. After he retired from the Navy he had no use for it, and it remained at the bottom of the box with all his medals, the old letters to her from overseas. //For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then we shall see face to face.// //Now I know in part; then I shall know fully...// //Even as I am fully known...// She followed the curve of his handwriting over the paper, now yellowed with age, the edges beginning to decay. And then she placed the old letters in a neat pile, breathed in the scent of their timeworn pages, the crackle of slightly wrinkled paper. It was still there. He had polished it regularly when he was alive, and in the years since his death it had barely rusted at all. She tested the trigger. It would still fire. Margaret ran her hand over the smooth, cool metal surface. She remembered the first time William had tried to teach her how to use it. She would not touch it. It was not part of her domain. She baked cakes. She did not fire pistols. Margaret closed her eyes, greeted by a flash of auburn, of crystal blue. Her daughter's face. A stranger's face. //And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.// //But the greatest of these is love.// She lifted the gun to her face. She wanted to know if it still smelled like him, carried his essence. Could somehow carry his essence over Dana, bring her back from wherever she was. Bring her back home. //She obeys no one, she accepts no correction. She does not trust in the Lord, she does not draw near to her God...// //Be joyful, O thou mother, with thy children; for I will deliver thee, saith the Lord.// She stretched her arms across the table, the gun firmly grasped in two trembling hands. "I love you, Dana...Dana...come home..." * * * "Sorry I'm late." He lit a cigarette, leaning back in his chair. The bar was noisy - a good thing. They would not be overheard. But he was unfamiliar with the setting. It was Martin's territory, not his. He gave a thin smile at the insincerity in the young man's voice. "Yes?" "Skinner has initiated a disciplinary hearing against Mulder and Scully." The Smoking Man reflected on this. Three, four years ago he would have known about it immediately. He would have known the results before the hearing even took place. He had so many other concerns, these days. His place in the organization was much more secure. But still, the sense of distance disturbed him sometimes. He was not used to allowing events to unfold as he sat back and watched. "They're on thin ice," Martin continued. He waved for the waitress to bring them a round of drinks. The older man breathed out a long stream of smoke. "Are they?" "You realize the difficulty involved." "Of course I do." He could guess well enough what Martin was thinking. They were not particularly pleasant thoughts. The waitress winked at Martin, setting down two glasses of whiskey. Martin lifted his immediately, smiling back at her. The Smoking Man only watched the silent exchange coolly. "Your friend not the talkative type?" She gave the older man a perfunctory glance. "He's shy." Martin rolled his eyes slightly as the smoker tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. The waitress shrugged and sashayed to the next table. "I think they'll come around." Martin's tone was deliberately light. Confident. Too confident. He was hiding something, obviously. "Once they see the logic from our point of view." "Are you so sure?" "Do you need them that much?" He thought about it as he took another drag on his cigarette. "They're useful." "I heard about Adamowictz." "Yes, the poor woman," He extinguished the cigarette and took a new one. "I would have liked to send the family some flowers, but apparently she had no family." Martin leaned forward. Behind them someone staggered out of the bar to be violently ill on the sidewalk outside. "You're on thin ice too, then." "What makes you think that?" "Don't worry." He glared at the condescension evident in Martin's voice. "I'll get them back." A long exhale, smoke veiling his wearied features, briefly obscuring the smug face of his companion. Could nothing he said intimidate the man? "Oh, I know you will, Martin." He tipped ash into the young man's glass. "I only worry what it might cost you." * * * The old Baltimore house, hidden under a blanket of snow and lit by the lone gaslight, appeared charmed - a vision out of fairy tales. A warm, cozy place where the hero could rest weary feet after conquering an evil adversary, where flames danced merrily in a fireplace, lighting up happy faces, warming disenchanted hearts. Scully sat down on the steps of the porch, using the trench coat to shield her ironed skirt. It was barely six in the morning, but she was carefully dressed and prepared for the administrative hearing that would take place in three hours. Today... She felt her back tense in knots. Today would be the official termination of her career in the FBI. And she was simply going through the motions, waiting for the inevitable to transpire. Calm blue eyes stared in the dusk of early morning, watering slightly. She blinked the tears away, it wouldn't do to destroy the meticulously applied make-up. So tired of being someone else, of combining disjointed dreams and memories into a cohesive whole. So far from being the hero of any fairy tale - so close to being cast in a horror novel. the words of Margaret, so sincere, so false. Her hands shook when the door opened and a woman who was still a stranger stepped out on the porch. Margaret wrapped herself tighter in a hastily thrown coat, her hair still mussed from sleep, her eyes too red, too cloudy. "What are you doing here at this hour?" she asked hoarsely. Scully stood up hastily. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I think this is where I came..." she looked around, uncertain. "To be safe." There was silence as Margaret looked downward and something inside Scully dropped. "Can I come in?" A nervous laugh followed a request. Was she not welcome here? Margaret stepped aside, allowing the passage, and Scully brushed past her, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. I don't even know who I am," the words tumbled out hurriedly, involuntarily. "I've done some terrible things, Mom. But..." She stopped, glancing in the lined face so like hers, searching for a connection that seemed inches away, for a way back to the times past, encountering only doubt and fear instead. She shivered, recognizing that her own mother was afraid of her. "They stole my daughter," her mother said suddenly. "Were you the one who stole my baby from me?" Scully shuddered, unwilling to believe her ears. This woman could still be her mother - this kitchen could still hold the warmth and safety that it promised. "But... I keep seeing you," she whispered with longing, the tears starting to course down her cheeks again. To hell with the make-up. "Your arms outstretched to catch me..." Margaret didn't move - none of her daughter's words could melt away the hardness around her mouth, the distance in her eyes. Scully covered her face, wondering if she would finally crumble under the weight of dual personalities, neither of which was complete. Both women winced when the cellphone trilled, and she reached into her pocket to silence it. "Scully," her voice croaked into the phone. "No, it's... it's..." eyes closed to catch a breath, to disregard the surroundings, to make a momentous choice. "Dr. Strauss, this is Kathy Mott speaking." * * * Margaret Scully watched the transformation of a lost and frightened young woman into an assured, calm stranger with the icy eyes of the machine. A cruel, vile pretender who wanted to take the place of her daughter. A chameleon changing colors to accommodate to the environment, its long striped tongue flicking out to capture innocent bugs. Swallowing them up just like it swallowed Dana two years ago. "How many people had died from the experiments already?" the stranger asked the receiver. "Four? Were there successes?" Margaret reached inside the pocket, touching the reassuringly cold metal, her pulse slowing down gradually. And the dark vortex opened up in her own mind like the hungry mouth of a lizard, obscuring the light of sun, swallowing her whole. "I will need full medical histories of all subjects, surviving and deceased; I need to know whether they had been taken before." And the monster's red lips that spoke of death and cruelty looked just like Dana's. "Dr. Strauss. Just keep him stable... I will be there soon." And the fiend's fingers fixed a stray lock of hair with a nervous, fleeting annoyance, just as Dana used to do. "This is not your fault..." a pause, a quick grin. "Maybe you will even see your daughter today." And the stranger's voice had the same low, soothing inflections that entered Dana's voice when she spoke with small children or distressed adults. Such a good job they had done. But they still couldn't convince her - couldn't make her believe that her daughter had changed into this hungry, ugly chameleon. "Dr. Strauss," clear eyes were looking directly into the nuzzle of a gun. "Gotta go." Kathy Mott put the phone away calmly, laid her hands on the table, her lips curling into a crooked smile. "Mom. This is not a good time." Margaret's grip didn't waiver. "You are not my daughter." "I've tried to be," palms turning upward as if in supplication. "If I could..." "Appearances are deceiving," Margaret whispered. "But the inner nature cannot be altered." "No," Kathy agreed. "But you must let me go. I'm expected... there is a man dying." Margaret didn't let her deceptively tranquil façade crumble as grief choked her. "Then you will be held accountable for his death. Just as you - every last one of you - should be held accountable for Dana's." "If you don't let me leave now," a firm voice brokering no arguments, "you will be the one responsible for a death that I can still prevent. If I am in time." The gun wavered. "Mrs. Scully." And when the monster admitted the truth of its nature, Margaret started and opened her hands, seeing the weapon spill out of them in a quick flash of silver. She hung her head down in anticipation because... Because they were all caught in a spider-web, and a long striped tongue was coming for them, and it was hungry, and it would swallow. And it would not let go. "I just want my daughter back." She stiffened when gentle hands embraced her, when hot breath of this stranger, of her daughter, stung her cheek as the lips left a delicate, regretful kiss. "Dana Scully loved you very much," a familiar voice whispered in her ear. "And she always will." There were hurried clicks of high-heeled shoes and the sound of a gun being unloaded. And when the chameleon ran away, Margaret Scully was surprised to see the sunlight still streaming in the windows. ~*~*~ Act VI: The Choices That We Make "Mulder," his voice when he answered the phone was curt, rough. Edgily, he paced the hallway outside Skinner's office. Scully had better have a good excuse for being late and causing him to worry. "Where are you?" "At work, being the good little conspirator that I am," there was a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Miss me?" Why did he have to suffer this man? "Goodbye, Martin." Martin's voice stopped him hurriedly. "This is about your partner, Mulder. Wonder where she is?" He felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. "What?" "She is busy with Dr. Strauss, fixing another 'subject,'" Martin explained, amused. "I'm surprised at how easy it was to get her back. Nothing like a colleague begging for help." "You're lying, you son-of-a-bitch," Mulder hissed. Someone brushed past him, and he whirled around angrily, shook his head when the offender mumbled hasty apologies. "We have an important hearing in twenty minutes." "Apparently, someone's life was more important to Scully than some hearing," Martin suggested a possibility. "Wouldn't you feel the same way?" Mulder felt like a puppet, every string being pulled simultaneously. "This manipulation may have worked the last time, but it will not work again," he spoke, fighting for strength. "Dangle my partner in front of me, expect me to follow, even though..." "So you remember," the conspirator's voice was wary. "I don't expect you to come running, Mulder. But Scully is tied up at the moment, and I wanted to do you a favor and let you know where she was." "I don't believe you," Mulder whispered. "Why would she go back to serving those who destroyed her?" "Such melodramatics. We didn't destroy you." Martin paused for effect. "Remember what your smoking 'friend' said that night?" Even now, his eyes stung at the pain of betrayal from the man he used to trust. "No." "'Don't be afraid, we will just clean the fissures and replace some rotten parts.'" Mulder slumped against the wall, teeth grinding at the rising migraine, the words twisting inside him like a crooked knife. "Go to hell." He shook as someone touched him on the shoulder, turning around cagily. "Agent Mulder," Skinner's eyes skirted away from his. "Where is Agent Scully?" "I don't know," he whispered to yet another man who betrayed them. "You don't know, or you're not at liberty to discuss?" Skinner questioned scathingly. "Why can't they just leave us alone?" darkening hazel eyes burned with sudden rage. "Why can't you?" "Agent Mulder, this was not entirely my idea." "Did you expect us to fight them? Is that it?" Mulder took a step forward, voice growing in intensity. "We left with a threat hanging over our heads, and even so we disregarded it and brought Sharona back, only to watch her die. Maybe we should have become a link between them and FBI." A bitter laugh. "Tell them which ones to return if the case attracted too much attention. And then watch all the returned ones die." Skinner clenched his fists. "Return from where?" "I'm not at liberty to discuss," Mulder mocked him. "Four people are dead, Agent Mulder," his superior's voice was hard. "And you're telling me you'd rather sit back than stop this manslaughter?" Mulder shook his head, knowing that there was no compromise to agree on anymore. "I'm told we used to be so very brave and impetuous. Haven't we paid enough for it?" he asked softly. "For that matter, haven't you?" Skinner sagged visibly. "Mulder..." Mulder pointed at the door, harsh smile playing on his lips. "I believe they are expecting you inside. Sir." * * * Kathy Mott readjusted the subject's IV, then turned to Strauss with an expression that wavered between triumph and exhaustion. Strauss' own features lacked visible emotion, maintaining the same sullen mask he had kept all morning. "Alive..." Strauss whispered, the slightest nuance of relief sliding into his voice. "Yes." Kathy's own tone was crisp, professional, but not entirely lacking in sympathy. She looked down at the young man lying on the bed. "Alive." She stared at the chart in her hand, a hastily constructed mapping of the measures required to avoid the sort of complications that had already claimed the lives of four subjects. Alive, yes, and barring any further unseen developments, he would continue to be. And the work would go on, as it always had. Kathy sighed, looking at Strauss' haggard face. "You look exhausted," she said, "Why don't you go home?" At his hesitation, she added, "I'll take care of the rest." Distrustful, clearly at the end of his strength, he stared back at her. "Are you positive?" Kathy grinned. "I would bet my medical license that this man stands to live a long and healthy life." She wondered why Strauss still looked so unhappy. The vaccine was successful. He should have been overjoyed. Instead, it seemed to her that he was about to cry. She lay a hand on his shoulder. "Go home," she repeated. He stood up slowly, drained. "Thank you...Kathy..." Turning back to her patient, she did not see him leave. It had not been long before she heard the door open again. "Has Dr. Strauss left? I thought I would speak to him." It surprised her somewhat that she did not feel the familiar prickle of fear at the sound of his voice. Had she slipped back into her old persona so quickly? Kathy rose to face him as he reached for a cigarette. She indicated the man on the bed, and he replaced the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket without taking one. "The situation is under control. I suggested to Strauss that he go home for the evening." She shrugged. "That is all right, is it not?" The Smoking Man looked mildly surprised. "Of course," he said, his voice quiet. "Of course." He approached the bed. "Will he live?" "I believe so, yes." Kathy watched the older man closely. He was as cold and aloof as ever, but the red around his eyes gave him away - he had not slept in days. She glanced at him with obvious concern, realizing only now how desperate the organization's situation had become since their departure. It was good to be needed. "Agent Scully-" he began. A soft laugh. "Kathy," she corrected. He drew in a deep breath. "Kathy," he said. The faint light of a smile touched his icy eyes. This - this was right. "It's good to have you back." * * * Where was he? Holmes glanced at the faces composing the review board. At Skinner, his face grim, fingers rubbing at his temples. At Mulder, stiff and uncomfortable in his dark suit - at the empty chair beside him. Martin was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, that did not surprise her. She had been a fool to trust in him, to believe that these men and women operating from the shadows could ever be brought to justice, to believe that a man paralyzed in a near-fatal car accident could ever be made to walk again. They had used her - and though the realization was painful, it was not shattering. A small voice in her head kept up the mantra, none the less - - while the rest of her mind automatically answered questions. Yes, on the night in question, she and Agent Marsel illegally entered the premises of the Alderwood Medical Center. Yes, they had been pursued upon departure by a black sedan, which had driven them off a bridge. Yes, she could identify the driver of the sedan as Special Agent Fox William Mulder, the passenger as Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully. No, she could not identify the bodies floating in the tanks, nor the contents of the vials removed from the glove compartment of her car by the agents in question. "And you submit to the board that this story can be corroborated?" "By Agent Marsel, yes, and by another man, who is not present at this time." For the first time, she saw Mulder flinch ever so slightly. "Do you have evidence to support these allegations, Agent Holmes?" "I have this man's testimony, but as I said-" "That will be all, Agent Holmes." She returned to her chair, eyes staring straight ahead at the faces of the panel, in defiance. In resignation. Her hands at last had stopped trembling. * * * Holmes' testimony floated towards him, sounding as though it came from far away, a hazy, underwater sort of distance. He was only aware of the weight of her words as she spoke the phrase, "another man". Another witness. Mulder clenched his fists, a slight tremor of fear coursing through his body. He was under no illusions. The hearing was for the sake of formality; regardless of the strength or weakness of the young woman's account, his career - and Scully's - was over. Still, Holmes had no evidence, and he had expected that his termination would be the extent of the punishment. He had been relieved. He would leave the FBI, leave all this conflict, and start afresh somewhere else. He could get a job teaching criminal psychology, maybe head back to San Diego, try to reclaim whatever remained of his life. He had the sudden, sinking understanding that none of it was going to happen. Someone else had been on the bridge that night. Someone else had seen him casually wave away the lives of two young agents as though they meant nothing. Someone else had stood aside, watched as he buried himself beneath the weight of his own sins. Whatever evidence Holmes had, she did not come by it alone. It was no mystery as to the identity of the secret witness. He groaned inwardly, cursing his own stupidity, wondering what sort of sick game Martin was playing. It was Martin who had given them the key back to the memories of their former lives - and now it seemed that he was trying to destroy them. Just who was he working for? There was something missing, he thought, some crucial piece of the puzzle. If he could only remember... It was not all that important, really, just another problem to consider. Martin was irrelevant... absent. What sort of a deal had he made with Holmes? There was probably only one thing Holmes wanted. Mulder shuddered at the thought. A different pain twisted at his heart as he saw Skinner stand up to testify. All these betrayals...Martin, the smoker, Skinner... Scully. His mind wandered from Skinner's account of the night on the bridge, to the last time he had seen his partner. She had seemed so lost, a million miles away. Her empty chair absorbed his concentration. She was gone. She had returned...to *them*, to those bastards who had taken their lives away. Perhaps she had never left. He had to wonder what he was doing here. Even if Holmes' evidence did not condemn him, what use did he have to the FBI? He was chasing after ghosts while the Project was failing, while human lives were at risk. Perhaps their methods were cruel, but they were means to an end, and he could not entirely disagree. When he was Paul Bartlett, he had been useful. He had been happy. Perhaps that was what Scully had realized. His attention snapped back to Skinner's voice. "Two years ago, Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully disappeared without a trace. It is my opinion that they never returned." Mulder steeped his hands, his eyes meeting the dark gaze of his superior. What he must have gone through...it was fortunate that at least now he was willing to let them fall. "For those two years I have searched for them, and I am searching for them still." Such grief in his voice. The resonance of a catastrophe. Mulder's hands clenched the arms of his chair, trembling with the force of the bright white flash that almost blinded him, the rush of voices filling his ears, a thousand faces, stored by an eidetic memory, coming back to life. It was over almost before it started, and when his eyes opened he could feel every eye in the room turned towards him, aware that *something* had just happened. For whatever reason it was Holmes he noticed most - one face he did not remember from the sudden flashbacks. And then, Mulder focused on Skinner, studying the familiar somber face in new awareness, his breath catching for a dizzying moment. In the uneasy silence of the room, his disbelieving whisper seemed too loud - too abrupt. "You have been looking for us for two years?" "Agent Mulder, perhaps you should allow..." an uncertain voice from one of the reviewers broke through. Mulder stood up, glancing briefly at the shocked faces around him. "I remember," his tone was flat. "Everything." And then he walked out of the hearing, ignoring the swell of whispers behind him. * * * Skinner ran down the steps to the basement office, instinctively guessing that he would find Mulder there - for the last time. In a brief moment during the hearing, he'd seen the light of remembrance color the familiar face of a stranger, transforming him into the man he used to know. Ironically, the career suicide the agent had just performed by walking out of that room was the first recognizable gesture Skinner had seen from him in weeks. The words were tinged with an almost nostalgic sadness. And now, as Skinner watched the younger man rummage through the old files, he recognized the expression on his face and it made his blood run cold. He was saying goodbye. "You kept this place clean," Mulder's voice was reconciliatory, an otherwise cutting remark made soft. "It was the janitor," Skinner replied in tone. "Everything is exactly where it used to be... I am glad that you chose to go through with the OPR hearing," Mulder affirmed. "You've made too many sacrifices for us, and what a disappointment." Skinner closed his eyes, feeling powerless as the chain of events unfurled in front of his eyes. Always too late - always a few steps behind, always impotent to prevent new disasters. "I've done nothing." Mulder flicked his gaze upward, contemplating the sorrow written in Skinner's features with sympathy - the reply falling off his tongue almost unconsciously. "If we were killed, it would have been a better solution to the problem we must have presented. And you wouldn't have to go through all this..." he waved his hand, "...needless inquest." With only shocked silence for an answer, he added softly, "Violence does have its value, after all." Skinner shook his head, trying to clear it off cobwebs. Even now, he couldn't agree with Mulder's words - couldn't choose the finality of death over the instability of hope. "You're going back." A grim nod. "Yes." He stared at the badge and a gun when Mulder pushed them in his direction - made no move to take them. After everything that these bastards had done, how could one voluntarily choose to join them? "They need me," Mulder explained, as if having read his thoughts. "Scully needs me... And FBI is better off without us." "There are still ways..." "No." Mulder pointed to the pile of folders beneath Scully's desk. "Any chance you could... destroy these, along with those you gave to Holmes?" Skinner's face grew red in indignation. "Pardon me?" Mulder sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "I didn't think so," he muttered ominously. "Well, there are other ways of destroying the evidence, you know." Skinner reached for the gun and the badge, his eyebrows furrowing dangerously. "Do tell." Mulder grinned suddenly, relieved to see the anger on his ex-boss' face. Anything better than crushing sadness he'd seen minutes ago. "I have to go," he pushed the open drawers shut, stole a last glance at the office that used to be his home for several long years. Funny how he'd always chased after the truth when it was staring him right in the face. "Perhaps... I will have a chance to correct everything that had gone wrong." "Not unless you can perform miracles," Skinner grumbled. "You underestimate our abilities, Mr. Skinner," Mulder spoke seriously. "There is only one thing that I will regret." Skinner watched a fleeting shadow pass over Mulder's face, waited for an answer. "Being your enemy." The door was closed softly, and the Assistant Director flipped Mulder's badge open - stared at the unflattering picture of an achingly familiar face. Once a friend. Now an adversary. Yet always the same person - possessing the same intensity, courage, and dedication whether he worked for the good or the evil. And for the first time, Skinner wondered if there had been a clear division of sides - if he'd make the same choice in Mulder's place. In an empty office, only ghosts could hear his whisper. "Never a needless inquest." * * * Mulder watched his partner at work, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, fluorescent lights of the lab flickering off the glasses perched on her nose. Medical histories and rows of data were piled in front of her, and she chewed her lip thoughtfully as she read over each, occasionally making notes. The picture was at once infinitely familiar and dizzyingly strange - and it took him several minutes to once again assimilate the two identities, Kathy and Scully, into one whole. In the end, the names hardly mattered: this was his partner, the woman he trusted with his life, whichever way he chose to live it. "Mulder," she took her glasses off, revealing weary blue eyes. She pronounced the name with a questionable intonation, as if testing the new waters. He looked - different, as if something happened that changed him overnight, and for a moment, something nagged at her. He shook his head resolutely. "Paul." Kathy released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding, as the fear of going through this made-up life alone released its grip on her. "Paul," she repeated gratefully. "What took you so long?" His heart skipped a few beats in protest, and then started again. He'd followed her willingly the first time without even knowing what lay ahead. He'd made the same choice today - only this time, it was an informed choice, and one he would make without the slightest hesitation, again and again. Mulder smiled reassuringly. "Traffic." Kathy searched his eyes, looking for vacillation and doubt, and saw none. Perhaps, he really did mean it - and even if he didn't, she would have to take what he offered. "I might have isolated the problem Dr. Strauss ran into during the experimentation," she switched back to work. Mulder sat down across from her. "What was it?" "All the subjects who died were vaccinated for smallpox. Everyone who survived was younger and did not receive the vaccinations. Of course, the antibodies were present in both cases, but somehow, they acted differently upon encountering antibodies from the new vaccination. In all the subjects who were vaccinated firsthand, we saw an adverse biological reaction." "How did you fix it?" "Blood transfusion from the younger patients," she explained. "Really, all that could have been avoided if we halved the amount of vaccine injected now. But we still will need to confirm this hypothesis." He nodded, lost in thought. "Yes, though we might have to wait..." he stopped, surreptitiously indicating to Kathy that she should be silent at the sound of footsteps behind him. "I knew it was just a matter of time," Martin smirked, gratified to see both partners back at work. "You finally saw the light." Mulder bit his tongue - commanded his lips to stretch into a smile. "We've decided to take you up on your offer." He felt Kathy tense, tacitly gestured to her to stay calm. Martin paled slightly. "I will have to speak to Dr. Kenmore," he replied evasively. "Hopefully, he can help you restore the memory." Mulder feigned surprise. "You mean you promised us something that you weren't certain to deliver? Just as you promised Holmes the cure for her partner without speaking to our 'friends' first?" Kathy's eyes flared with anger and fixed upon Martin's face. Under two scrutinizing gazes, he suddenly remembered the reason why he wanted to see them leave in the first place. The partners were hardly a match for him to contend with. And now that they were back, they would use their combined strength to overshadow him, leave him to the thankless tasks of an errand-boy. "There was never a necessity for it," Martin replied with forced nonchalance. "Holmes was just a means to an end. I am sure you would have done the same in my place." "Holmes is the agent in charge of investigating a few unexplained disappearances and subsequent deaths of subjects of a certain experiment," Mulder bit off each word. "And it would be wise to draw her attention away from this case. Don't you think, Martin?" "You've grown soft, Mulder," Martin bared his teeth in scorn. "Sorry for your fellow agents?" "It is 'Paul,'" Mulder corrected unequivocally. Kathy would never have to doubt that his memory was still lost - and he certainly would not give Martin the advantage of the realization to the contrary. "You will help Holmes and Marsel - today. When you speak with the healer, explain to him that the two agents may be used for our future benefit, and you'd better make him believe you." "And if I don't?" "I have my own guesses as to who pointed Holmes in the direction of these 'hot' cases." "I was only following orders," Martin glared at him. "Perhaps you should ask your smoking friend why he thought it so important to bring you back." Mulder's eyes narrowed as he processed information. "Question authority, Martin." Martin felt his insides shake in hatred. This would be the last time he obeyed Paul's orders. "Anything else?" he hissed solicitously. "Bring Dr. Kenmore here tomorrow at nine o'clock, sharp. We will speak to him ourselves," Mulder requested with military precision. "You're dismissed." Kathy followed Martin Ng's departure with her eyes, then grasped her partner's hand. "Paul... I'm not sure it's such a good idea. I don't want to remember," she whispered honestly. "Do you?" He'd already remembered, and he wished that he hadn't. "No," he confirmed. If she wanted to bury the recollections of the events she'd lived through, he couldn't force her to do otherwise. "But we won't be here - and neither will be anyone else. Besides Kenmore and Martin." Her eyes narrowed in a question, then smoothed in dawning comprehension. "Do you hate him this much?" Mulder agreed inwardly: he did hate Kenmore, a faceless shadow who eroded their minds, who forced them into this half-existence. But he knew she was asking about someone else. "Martin is an unstable link in our organization," he replied truthfully. "It is not a personal choice." Kathy nodded in understanding, trusting him to make the best decision. "It is your only chance to remember... who you were," she reminded him softly. "I'm willing to give it up." Mulder squelched the sentiment. There would be other chances... there was always a possibility that she would remember - just a random push, a coincidence, a once-in-a-lifetime fluke could bring Scully back to life. And then he wouldn't feel as alone as he did right now. He glanced in her eyes, content to see the strength and trust, qualities that never changed no matter what the name of the woman. He wasn't alone - and there was still a lot of work to be done. "I can't believe we have to switch apartments again, Kathy," Mulder laughed, somewhat abashed. She smiled in answer, feeling the gears of her life, like terrain plates after an earthquake, slide back into their places. "I don't know about you, but I will be asking for a big raise." ~*~*~ Part VII: The Shift of Power It seemed like a very long time since he had last been in this room, seen his own weary gaze reflected in the pale, wrinkled faces of his colleagues. It was a tired room, where every word uttered was a thinly veiled threat, every glare held more significance than he cared to comprehend. He lit a cigarette, sat back, and waited. "There have been some difficulties as of late," the First Elder said, baring rotten teeth. "The situation is-" "Under control," the Englishman finished for him. "Mulder informed us." "Mulder?" He immediately regretted the waver in his voice, the admission of ignorance. Once again, they had failed to inform him. Once again, he could feel his power slipping. He exhaled a cloud of smoke with the name, and fell silent. The Englishman's voice was mocking. "Were you not told? A clean-up operation is proceeding as we speak." He said nothing, waited for clarification. "At nine o'clock this morning there will be an explosion at the Washington facility." The First Elder spoke now, his voice too gloating for a monotone. "We expect only two bodies to be recovered. The explosion will be attributed to a gas leak." A slight nod. Dr. Kenmore and Martin Ng. Two loose ends that would prove dangerous to the organization in the wake of Mulder and Scully's abrupt changes of heart. "I am sorry to hear that," he replied flatly. He looked up. "Will that be all?" He had come a long way simply to be told of the precariousness of his position. They might have told him over the phone. He watched as they shuffled out one by one. Only the Englishman remained, his eyes as cold and hard as the smoker's own. "I would think that you have cause to celebrate." He puffed on his cigarette. "Do I?" "The situation...with Mulder and Scully. It could have gone wrong so easily. As is so often the case with these... calculated risks." He stared the man down. "It went according to plan. More or less." "And to think," a slight smile. "We have so many other, more important plans. I would hate to believe that this matter has diverted your attention..." He extinguished the cigarette. "I hope to return to those plans immediately." The other man's gaze narrowed ever so slightly. "I'm glad to hear that," the clipped voice retorted, and left him standing alone in the room which had grown suddenly so much colder. He lit another cigarette, and closed his eyes. * * * Martin turned on the light switch, startling Dr. Strauss. The doctor had been preoccupied by a virus sample beneath the lens of his microscope - he looked up abruptly as Martin and Kenmore entered the room. "You're in early, Mark," Kenmore said. There was a panic underlying the old man's tone. Martin could sense the unease - he felt the same way himself. Neither of them wanted to be here. Strauss shrugged. "Kathy Mott's findings have put us months ahead in the space of a few days. With the unexpected side effect of forcing us all to work equally as hard." Martin laughed. "How unfortunate." He studied the lines on Strauss' face closely. The man was a knot of nervous energy and overwhelming fatigue. He clearly did not want to be there either. Martin wondered about the need for his own presence, why Mulder had asked him to bring Kenmore. It appeared as though his position had slipped several notches in the past few days. Did they not remember that he had engineered Mulder and Scully's return, that without him the two agents could have easily had slipped back into place, once again endangering the progress of the Project? It seemed that he had been sent here to be humiliated, advised of his place. To be subjected to a reminder of his own sins as Mulder and Scully at last were able to open the floodgates of their memories, to see him for what he was, for what he had done to them. So be it, he thought. They would need him again soon enough. Until then, they could hold their grudges. He yawned, impatiently glancing at his watch. It was a few minutes to nine, and there was still no sign of Mulder or Scully. He listened idly to Kenmore and Strauss' conversation. It did not interest him much. It did not appear to interest either of them a great deal, but it was enough to divert Strauss' attention from the microscope. For a man who seemed to devote all his waking moments to the Project, Strauss was easily distracted. Martin could not help but wonder why he did not simply go home. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably. Something was wrong. Kenmore could have come on his own, easily enough. He stared from one face to another. They were weak, both of them. Strauss' family made him vulnerable; Kenmore's knowledge made him dangerous. He had the sudden awareness that no one, least of all himself, was indispensable. He wondered if the ticking he heard was his imagination, the onset of unwarranted paranoia, or... He turned abruptly towards the other two, quietly talking in the impromptu silence. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Martin said. * * * He slammed the door behind him and ran for his life. An absent part of his mind wondered vaguely whether Strauss and Kenmore realized what was happening. A strangely sympathetic part of his mind hoped that they did not. And he kept running, the breath tight in his chest, until he collapsed on the grass outside of the facility, the sudden heat surrounding him as the building exploded in a fury of flames. Gasping for air, he propped himself up on his elbows, watching it burn. At least he had no more illusions about where he stood with them. A small crowd of bystanders was forming. He knew it was best to leave before he was noticed. He was nondescript, but he would never be nondescript enough. Martin shivered in the cool air, wrapping his jacket tight around his shoulders, and started walking. He glanced only once at the burning building as the squeal of sirens mounted in the distance. "Welcome back, Paul," he whispered, "Welcome back Kathy." The falling snow would conceal whatever footsteps he left behind. * * * Teena Mulder's grave lay buried beneath half an inch of snow. Gently, almost reverently, he brushed away the layer of white, running his fingers over the letters, encrusted with frost. Teena Mulder, beloved mother. Teena Mulder, who had never had a chance to learn of the man her son had become. She had been in the ground for a year, and if the grave had been maintained at all, it was because of him. The ring of cigarette ashes around the stone was a poor substitute for red roses, but at least he remembered. He remembered, when so much else had been forgotten. She had been buried in Parkway Cemetery, beside William Mulder. He had thought it inappropriate, somehow, and then convinced himself that it didn't really matter. He had seen enough in this life to care little for the next. If it hadn't been for the snow, he probably wouldn't have heard the footsteps. "What are you doing here?" Recognizing the voice, he braced himself for a slam against the nearest available wall, perhaps a gun shoved against his face, but there was nothing. Only a calm, cold voice, utterly incongruous with his memories of the man who now stood beside him at Teena Mulder's grave. He would have preferred a gun in his face. "I could ask the same of you." "I-" For a moment Fox Mulder looked defiant, angry, but the expression quickly faded into a mask of impassivity. "I wanted to remember her." "You don't remember her." He paused, taking a drag of his cigarette. By the pious way Mulder touched the gray stone as he laid down a few flowers, he suddenly doubted it. The man was lying. He'd known him for too long to believe otherwise. "Never mind. It's good that you came." Mulder shifted from one foot to another. The Smoking Man stared at him. Wondered how much he remembered. If he remembered everything now. "She was a remarkable woman, Fox. It is a pity that she died the way she did." "Paul," Mulder corrected him. An unnecessary reminder. The smoker had no doubt of the identity of the man before him. "How did she die?" "Alone. I suppose it was for the best that she died before you...came back. The woman had enough tragedy in her life." Mulder scowled, but did not move. He found it oddly disconcerting. The old Mulder would have reacted violently, impulsively. This man's gaze was as hard and unwavering as the smoker's own. The old Mulder was as dead as his mother. The Smoking Man shivered beneath his overcoat, more than vaguely disturbed at the sight of this man who could not be named. "Did she miss me?" Mulder asked, a sudden crack of vulnerability beneath the hard shell. "I wouldn't know." It required a great deal of restraint to match Mulder's composure. "The two of you weren't very close... but then you know that, Fox. Don't you?" Mulder gave a small smile. It was chilling. "There was an explosion at the lab this morning. I apologize for not informing you in person." A final drag, then he ground his cigarette into the earth and took out a new one. "Did you consider how it may interfere with the research?" "Oh yes," the younger man's voice was nonchalant. "We," he emphasized the word slyly, "decided that it was the best course of action." Was the bewilderment he felt at the moment the first symptom of the power seeping away? The smoker fought hard to keep his voice level. "It seems that Kathy's expertise will more than compensate for Strauss' loss." "Strauss?" For a moment, the Smoking Man relished the surprise evident in Mulder's eyes - it could not have been faked. He had not orchestrated the cover-up perfectly, then. Good. The smoker was tired of being the last to hear of new developments. "His body will be found in the wreckage of the building. A most unfortunate accident." The tone of his voice said, "Not a great loss." "I see," Mulder met his eyes with a sharp glance. "Very unfortunate." Blue smoke spiraled between them. "You have changed," the Smoking Man remarked mildly. "Before, you wouldn't have killed men so... thoughtlessly." The younger man didn't even flinch, letting the silence serve as his answer. The smoker understood the sentiment well enough. Whatever the name of the man standing before him, he was comfortable with what he was now. Damn him. Mulder carried with him the burden of two lifetimes. He had been beaten a million times over, but he was impossible to break. And when it came down to it, he was valuable. These days, quite possibly irreplaceable. The Smoking Man felt oddly chagrined... and proud. Somehow, he'd always known. Mulder stared at him with curiosity. "Strange as it will sound, had I been in your place two years ago... I would have simply ordered to kill us," he commented detachedly. "I would have ordered the same after we went back to the FBI. Whatever your motivations, you seem to put your personal priorities ahead of the organization." "The two aren't necessarily separate." Mulder's expression was skeptical. "Either way, we owe you our lives. I will not forget that." The smoker blew a wisp of smoke into the chilling winter wind. "You're truly your father's son... Fox Mulder," he gave the last two words a little extra emphasis. Informing him that he knew... and that he wasn't planning to give up the remains of his power. Not yet. It was as close as he would ever come to welcoming Fox Mulder home. He turned and walked to his car without another glance backward. He had watched presidents die, but he could not look into the face of the man who stared after him with a faint smile as he disappeared into the swirling snow. * * * Skinner ripped the simple white package open, his emotions deliberately on hold. For a long moment, he was motionless, still loath to believe the finality signified by its contents. A letter written in a brisk, accurate script accompanied Special Agent Dana Scully's badge and gun. Nonsensically, he was relieved that it was not yet another coy, coded note, gamely informing him of the next part to the never-ending charade that he could never win. "Mr. Skinner, I sincerely wish that I could return these items in person, but I must remember that from now on, we work on the opposite sides of the law. We've made a mistake by coming back to the FBI, by letting our personal problems take precedence over our responsibilities. I know you believe that our return may have been a part of another elaborate ruse, but while our actions were questionable, our intentions were honest. Victims of the experiment currently in progress, the four dead people from cases that we refused to investigate, didn't die directly from my hand. But I know that if I hadn't left, they might have lived. I assure you that you will not find any other persons responsible. Now that you know this truth, I ask you not as a foe, but as a friend, that you close the investigation into these deaths. And in return, I promise that I will do my best to prevent any other needless casualties. If you still consider this action disreputable, please remember that all miracles come at a price. Agents Holmes and Marsel are very good partners, wouldn't you agree? From the name of Dana Scully, I must thank you and express my regret that you spent so much time searching for what no longer existed. From the name of Kathy Mott, I hope that we can find common language... sometimes. I believe that one day, we will all work towards a common goal. Until the next time we meet..." Skinner searched the page for a signature and didn't find one. Yet, he didn't doubt the identity of the woman that wrote this letter, and he wondered how well Kathy Mott would work with Fox Mulder, whether her partner told her of his returned memory. Probably not. The realization that he was worried about his enemies struck him as funny. Yet, as he folded the pages neatly, there was a lump in his throat that he couldn't explain. There was a knock on the door, and Skinner put the box aside. "Come in." Marsel stepped inside, Holmes tailing him closely, as if to ensure that he didn't falter - didn't lose his equilibrium. She needn't have worried - the young man appeared as healthy as he'd ever been before the events of Alderwood case. Skinner closed his eyes - then opened them slowly, making certain that they didn't lie to him. Somehow, he found himself more captivated not by the easy delight written in Marsel's features, but by the terrified, disbelieving relief of his partner. Perhaps, she would allow herself to feel happiness later, but at the moment, she was still too fragile, too vulnerable. Skinner wondered if he could find the words which would ease her mind, which would make her believe in miracles... ...because sometimes, they did happen. "Agent Marsel, it is more than wonderful to see you here," he stood up, offering a hand and a chair to the young man. "I trust you want to return to work?" For a second, it appeared that Marsel wouldn't agree to sit down - then rationality won over, and he dropped into the chair. "Absolutely," he replied. "I was hoping you could arrange for my re-certification." "Of course," Skinner allowed himself a small smile. "Agent Holmes refused to let me assign her a new partner. Now I see her faith was justified." Marsel glanced over at his partner with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Of course no one has as much experience in break-in and entry as I do..." he stopped, as if suddenly realizing the lack of tact in the remark. Holmes paled visibly. "Sir," her voice was low, tired. "I haven't made much progress in the cases you assigned me - every lead turns up dead. Though the good news is, two more people who disappeared were brought back, have regained consciousness and are now in good health..." Skinner listened to her talk, letting the words fade - already knowing the culprits and the outcome. And if someone had to pay, it couldn't be Holmes. She needed time to recuperate, perhaps more so than her partner did. "Agent Holmes, now that Agent Marsel is back, I wanted to assign you to some other outstanding cases that need your attention," Skinner interrupted her. "I will give the cases you're currently working on to someone else." A favor for a favor. "But, sir..." "Are you questioning my authority, Agent Holmes?" Skinner's voice dared her to disagree. She shook her head. "Sir, if I may be so forward..." Marsel, who was silent throughout the exchange, spoke uncertainly. "But we were hoping you could assign us to the X-Files." Skinner flinched, self-composure lost at the hesitant request. "No," the answer was a reflex. The X-Files department had to be re-stuffed, per orders of the administration, but Skinner didn't want to see the young partners suffering any more unfortunate accidents - or getting involved in any more questionable activities. Didn't want to see them losing body parts or pieces of their souls. The expression of hurt and disappointment on Marsel's face was almost childlike. "I've always been interested in strange phenomena," he explained, his words forceful. "I believe I could contribute to the cases which will otherwise go unsolved." Skinner felt Holmes' dark eyes, full of knowledge, watch him with growing mistrust. As if she could predict his decision ahead of time, as if she had already condemned him for it. And suddenly he knew that he had very little choice - and that he couldn't protect them from the involvement with the Consortium, with the unexplained, with the uncertain, nerve-wrecking, rewarding life that they were voluntarily choosing at this very moment. "After you get re-certified, Agent Marsel... the X-Files are yours to explore." Holmes glanced at him with surprise and a fleeting approval. "Thank you." The partners stood up, the young woman once again hovering over her partner with nervous apprehension, as unobtrusive as she could be under the circumstances. Skinner watched them move in tandem, a smile growing on his lips. Some miracles were worth the price. Though he'd lost one confrontation, he didn't intend to lose the war. Kathy Mott or her partner wouldn't be especially pleased with his latest decision. There were still battles ahead. * * * It was the first white Christmas Kathy Mott could remember. She turned the volume down on the television, which showed the remains of the Scully family gathered around the remains of a turkey. She smiled, raising her glass of wine in a silent toast, just as Bill Scully Jr., at the head of the table, lifted his own glass. "Merry Christmas," she whispered. "Merry Christmas," Mulder echoed beside her. His face was illuminated in the soft green light of the fish tank. They drank together, and for a moment neither of them spoke. "I can't believe you put your own family under surveillance," he said finally. "They're not-" She broke off. Laughed, to release whatever tension remained. "We should get popcorn," she said. "Popcorn would be good." More silence. A comfortable silence. Kathy watched her partner. He seemed different, somehow. At peace. She hadn't seen him like this since...when had the last time been? Back in November, before their lives had been tipped upside-down, before the ghosts of the past had clawed at them, dragging them back into lives they could no longer lead. November. Only a month. Had everything changed so quickly? They raised their glasses again, at exactly the same time, shared another sip of wine and a communal giggle. Nothing had changed, really. Nothing had ever really changed. "I have memories of listening to Handel's Messiah on Christmas Eve," she mused. "I wonder if they are real." Mulder grinned. "Does it matter?" "I suppose not." He stole a glance outside, at the evergreen tree outside that they decorated in Christmas ornaments and garlands just two days ago, after Kathy moved into her new condo. It sparkled under the falling snow, the only bright spot in a silent night around them. "You will always see green out of your windows," Mulder commented, slightly envious. "It reminds me of California." A wistful sigh escaped her lips. "That's why I chose it." He corrected a lock of her hair unconsciously. "Do you miss it?" Kathy shrugged, unwilling to let anything spoil this quiet evening. "We were happy there." "We will be happy here," Mulder asserted confidently. "There will be new adventures, new responsibilities. And we will share them together." She raised her wineglass, silently making a wish. To the new lives, to the upcoming changes, and to the one constant that she could rely upon. "Together," she whispered. He raised a glass in a return gesture. "Always." CURTAIN. Author's Note: (From Ashlea) It seems that what started as a bizarre little idea ("Hey! Why don't we put Mulder and Scully in the Consortium and make them LIKE it?") has somehow evolved into a full-fledged novel in the space of two months. I don't think I saw THAT one coming... So, Mulder and Scully are happy at last, and back where they belong - our work here is done. I can honestly say that of all the fanfic I've written, this one has been the most fun - a fact I attribute to my wonderful co-author. Whether we were attempting to unravel the next plot twist, or debating the merits of Furby world domination (the Date has been set...don't ask!) working with Anna has definitely been an experience. :-) And an amazing one at that. Er, that's about all, I think... We should also thank Manik for editing this monstrosity and Safiru (for the Bible quotes). (From Anna) I am sad that this journey had come to an end... it was too much fun to write, mostly due to my incredible co-author. I can only hope we write something else together. Huge thanks to Rachel and Mel for beta-reading, to Seda for disagreeing, and to everyone else who waited patiently for this sequel. One of my friends just questioned our moral values by asking us how we could have simply let Mulder and Scully (or Paul and Kathy) go back to the Consortium. I admit it: we didn't write Theater to uphold high moral standards. But we did write it to make Mulder and Scully happy - and we have achieved it, even if our methods were undoubtedly questionable. We turned a tragic situation into a happy one, and I can actually sleep at night We believe that there could have been no other ending. If you think otherwise, why don't you let us know? annaotto1@aol.com morleyphile@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto/ http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/