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

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 2/4

	Scully went through her e-mail, feeling the insistent gaze of 
her partner that turned in her direction whenever he thought she wasn't 
looking. Finally deciding that she had had enough of it, she raised her 
eyes, catching him off-guard. 

	"What's going on, Mulder?"

	"Nothing," he winked at her, putting a light expression on his 
face immediately.  "Just missed you."

	Scully rolled her eyes, all the while wondering why the remark 
that was obviously designed to appear suggestive, the usual fare of 
Mulder's one-liners, instead sounded sad and wistful.

	"It has only been one day, Mulder. I would think you needed a 
break from me," she flashed him a quick smile. 

	Actually, one day and a couple of hours in hell make for an 
eternity, thought Mulder, not allowing himself to voice the sentiment 
aloud. He flashed back to the pained blue eyes of Sheila Freeman, the 
blood seeping from the scar on her neck, and the strangely sympathetic 
voice of Miller. The vaguely familiar voice that seemed to insinuate 
itself deeply in his mind, a nightmare that refused to be silenced. 

	How could he possibly articulate to his partner these visceral, 
sickening visions when she was so much a part of them? How could he 
explain the need to see her healthy face and clear bright eyes after 
diminishing the light in the orbs so similar? He shivered visibly as 
if a gust of cold air penetrated the room -- then turned away 
abruptly, leafing through the folders and trying to distract himself 
from the revolting images.

	He severely doubted that it would get easier with time. 

	"Are you all right?" Scully was studying him with undisguised 
concern.

	"Fine, Scully. Fine," Mulder mumbled, returning immediately to 
the papers in front of him. "I have to take care of these reports for 
Skinner."

	Recognizing that she would not be able to get him to talk,
she returned back to her e-mail, unsettled. Whether or not this 
problem was connected to the Consortium, the new policy of silence was 
really getting to be a problem. They never seemed to get past the "how 
are you's" these days. Scully wished nostalgically for the old times 
when Mulder swept the basement weekly, as a routine, remarking 
sarcastically that it provided for a good exercise. She thought that 
if he found a bug now, he would probably leave it in place, careful 
not to disturb the delicate instrument.

	She would not mind this exercise herself were it not such a 
transparent deviation from the established pattern.

	"I have to assist with a few autopsies today, call me if 
something comes up," Scully gathered her things, suddenly feeling 
helpless and inconsequential. It seemed that Mulder was taking most of 
the brunt of this battle, while she stood by impotently, a mere 
watcher of the war in which she could not participate. "I would like 
to help," she said softly, trying to convey the hidden meaning of her 
words to her partner. 

	Mulder nodded, watching her step out of the office. You are 
helping, Scully, more than you know, he thought grimly.

	Helping me keep my sanity. 

	* * *

	Andrew turned off the engine of the brand-new Taurus, and 
gathered the papers scattered on the front seat. What a way to spend 
Friday evening, he mused sarcastically, by going over the case notes 
and composing profiles for the killers, alone in the tiny apartment 
that he chose only for its proximity to the FBI headquarters. It was a 
beautiful night, the lights of downtown tempted him, and he longed 
suddenly to be out somewhere, with a few friends or a date. 

	Full of restless energy, Andrew slammed the car door and ran up 
the steps of his apartment building. He could wish for dates all he 
wanted, but unless he took the time to distract himself from work 
long enough to look around, and maybe accept a few non-too-subtle 
offers for company from women at work, all these wishes would remain 
unfulfilled. 

	Only twenty-six, and already a workaholic, he thought ruefully 
as he walked to his door. At this rate, he would probably have to go 
back to Milwaukee for Christmas to avoid spending it in solitude. Not 
that his parents wouldn't be happy to see him -- but the prospect of
spending an entire evening with Aunt Beth, who still had not lost her
cheek pinching fetish, was enough to deter Winters from seriously 
entertaining such thoughts.

	Sighing profoundly, Andrew tried to shake himself out of the 
self-deprecating mood and plucked the keys out of his pocket. Pushing
the door open, he almost tripped over a sizable package sitting just
beyond the door frame. He cursed half-heartedly, but picked it up with 
interest and looked through its contents hastily. After a brief 
examination, he slowly stepped inside, forgetting to lock the door 
behind him or to take off his jacket. 

	There were photographs. Black and white surveillance pictures, 
extraordinary in quality. He put aside a few audiotapes that lacked 
labels or any other identifying marks. They would have to wait while he 
tried to gather some air into his lungs, to wipe clammy shaking hands 
on his pants. He recognized both of the men portrayed in the pictures. 

	One of them apparently had no name and was most probably dead 
at the moment, judging by the amount of blood found at the crime 
scene. The case was still in the jurisdiction of the VCS, unresolved 
and on hold for the moment. Andrew remembered listening to the 
frustrated discussion of the other agents who cursed the day when this 
murder without a body fell into their care. He understood their 
attitude: without knowing who the victim was, it would have been very 
difficult -- practically impossible -- to find the guilty party.

	The second man was Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the 
FBI. Speaking to the man in question. Standing on the steps leading to 
the building of the victim. Entering his apartment. 

	Poised over a body with a gun drawn.

	Andrew swallowed nervously, feeling his back muscles gather 
into a tight knot. He had to be mistaken. He had never communicated 
directly with the Assistant Director, but many of his colleagues spoke 
of Skinner with respect, appeared to highly regard him. This man 
couldn't possibly be a killer.

	The last picture in the pile was a shot of a grave on the 
Arlington cemetery. Unadorned headstone that proclaimed: Henry 
Davidson, 1928-1997. No epithets and no flowers, simplicity and 
austerity itself.

	He had the name and the body of the victim, and he was almost 
certain that he had the identity of the killer. Andrew collected the 
tapes and papers with shaking hands, deciding numbly that he would 
turn the entire package over to his boss, Dean Douglas, because 
evidence like this could not be ignored, no matter how dirty the 
source of it obviously was.

	But the seeds of doubt were already coloring the righteousness 
of his actions, and the nagging question in the back of his mind asked 
insistently: "Why me?"

	* * *

	Mulder trained the binoculars on the windows of Andrew Winters' 
apartment and watched anxiously, as the younger agent looked slowly 
through the package, then collected its contents accurately. For a few 
moments, he hoped that the entire parcel would end up in the garbage 
basket, almost chanted the words, wishing for some telepathic ability 
to transmit the fervent prayer. Understanding with despair that it 
wasn't heard, he slumped against the seat of the car and closed his 
eyes with a sweeping feeling of exhaustion and despondency.

	Mulder was still giddy from seeing the photos and listening to 
the tapes that contained a screaming, well-executed accusation against 
Walter Skinner. His first impulse was to burn each piece of evidence, 
one vile picture after another, as he understood the meaning behind 
Miller's words for the first time. He did not want a promotion at the 
price of his boss' demise. 

	Mulder did not care whether Skinner truly committed 
the crime or not, he could understand perfectly the driving force that 
pulled the trigger, could remember only too well the time when he 
barely restrained himself from doing the same. The agent cursed the 
day when he reiterated the details of the case in Upperville, Virginia 
to the Consortium members. The speed with which the operation was 
orchestrated was indicative of the reason why Skinner was no longer a 
man whose services were desired.

	The true perpetrators were those who hid the body, who cleverly 
concealed the evidence until now, who arranged for the burial at the 
cemetery that was never intended for people like Cancerman. Reading the 
name on the headstone, the federal agent felt a visceral rage, a fierce 
hatred for the man who stole his life, who lied to his sister, who 
expertly manipulated the strings of his character for so many years, 
and was instrumental in eventually making him a double agent. Mulder 
could taste the clouds of smoke in the air around him, could almost 
see them as vividly as during their first meeting in Skinner's office 
-- or the last meeting when the conspirator offered a bargain, when he 
still had the strength to refuse. 

	At the beginning, it had been nearly incomprehensible as to why the 
Consortium would choose Agent Winters as the recipient for the 
nefarious package.  Mulder's photographic memory quickly provided a 
response, offering the image of a young man who came to seek 
advice from Scully some time before. Though Andrew Winters was a kid 
barely out of college, he was already an excellent agent, still too new 
to have been corrupted by power games, but already experienced enough 
to make informed decisions. The sense of righteousness and justice 
that all green agents shared would ensure Skinner's demise.  There 
would be no question that he was to become involved in the ongoing 
investigation of Henry Davidson's death after he brought in this kind 
of evidence -- and his unclouded judgment would be enough to influence
the outcome of this round of the game.

	The snowflakes falling on the front window obscured his view of 
the small, softly lit apartment, and he didn't make a movement to turn 
on the wipers. After a moment, Mulder put his hands on the wheel and 
took several deep breaths, trying to quell the sudden panicky feeling 
in his chest. Not all was lost yet -- and Walter Skinner was still the 
Assistant Director of the FBI. And as much as it was still in his
power, he would make sure that the status quo remained unchanged, 
because he owed the elder man as much. Because Skinner had saved his 
ass after numerous disasters.

	Because given the chance, he had prevented Mulder from selling 
his soul.

	Turning the key in ignition, the agent turned the car around. 
On the way home, he noticed a dark sedan trailing him brazenly. 
Slowing down to a stop and letting it pass, he waved a hand and 
grinned wickedly at the passengers, catching their surprised looks 
for a brief moment.

	At the very least, the Consortium could always be counted upon 
to provide the best entertainment in town.

	* * *

	Skinner rubbed his temples in an effort to fend off the rising 
headache and the strange sensation of an impending catastrophe. He 
could not explain the source of his disquiet -- but he couldn't shake 
it off.

	He was starting to believe in premonitions. It was a damn 
X-File.

	"Sir, Dean Douglas and Andrew Winters are here to see you," 
Kim's unerringly official voice sounded through the speakerphone.

	"Send them in," he replied immediately, slightly relieved at 
the distraction that the conversation with the head of the Violent 
Crimes Section would provide. Besides, he liked the man -- while less 
brilliant than Bill Patterson, Dean Douglas was honest, humane, and 
decidedly lacked the psychotic tendencies of his predecessor.

	"Assistant Director Skinner, good to see you," the visitor 
offered a hand, then pointed to the young man standing beside him. 
"This is Agent Andrew Winters, the newest and brightest member of our 
unit", he watched with hidden enjoyment as the agent took a couple 
unconscious steps back, clearly uncomfortable with the praise and with 
being in this room.

	"It's nice to meet you," Skinner offered indifferently, failing 
to inject the sincerity in his words and wondering what the purpose 
of this strange visit was.

	"Mr. Skinner, Agent Winters has come into the possession of 
some documents which may help us in closing one of the outstanding 
cases. I believe you took an interest in this case previously?"

	"Which case are you talking about?"

	"The murder of Henry Davidson," seeing that Skinner's 
expression remained blank, Douglas handed the shot of a grave to him. 
"And considering that we did not know the name of the victim until 
today, here is the picture to go along with it."

	Skinner felt the blood throb at a dangerous speed against his 
skull. He could not recall meeting the cigarette-wielding bastard near 
his apartment building; it was usually not necessary to go looking for 
him that far. And he certainly could not remember shaking hands with 
him -- now how was that for a grotesque distortion of his everyday 
life?

	"Where did you get this?" his voice was hoarse and he hardly 
recognized it.

	"I found a package near my apartment," Andrew replied 
emotionlessly, trying to sustain the penetrating gaze of the Assistant 
Director who was looking at him with as much affinity as one viewed a 
cockroach. "I also found these," he handed him the rest of the 
pictures.

	Skinner leafed through the photos, studying his own face -- his 
own hand that held the gun that apparently shot Henry Davidson. He 
realized dully that the worst thing about this situation was his sudden 
irrational fear that the pictures really portrayed him, even if he 
never remembered pulling the trigger.

	That's what you get when you surrender to the dark forces, he 
thought.  Not even your memory is safe. 

	And now he was starting to sound like Mulder.

	"We will, of course, try to confirm the validity of these 
pictures -- rather, I should say, we will try to confirm that they are 
fabricated," Dean Douglas' voice cut through his musings, and Skinner 
looked at him wearily.

	"Is Agent Winters leading this investigation?"

	"He is a part of it, but I will be in charge of this case from 
now on. If these pictures are indeed real, we will have to involve the 
office of Internal Affairs, and take appropriate measures." The head of 
the VCS studied the AD with sympathy and not a small measure of respect. 
He was certain that if Skinner were indeed a killer, he must have had a 
damn good reason for dispensing with Henry Davidson, or whoever this 
man was. "However... is there anything you want to tell me? What do you 
know about the murder?"

	"Are you asking me if I have an alibi?" Skinner questioned 
directly.

	Dean Douglas seemed lost in thought for a moment. "You will 
notice... that I have decided to inform you of what's happening before 
going through with the common procedure. I still hope that this is a 
misunderstanding -- and I am sure you do, as well. But... that is the 
only special favor I can allow in this case."

	The Assistant Director processed the reply, evaluating his 
position once again, guessing that the pictures were most likely not 
fabricated, that he would be dragged in for questioning soon enough, 
and Douglas was merely warning him for the moment, offering him a 
reprieve that wouldn't last long.

	"I appreciate your trust," he paused for a moment. "Please 
inform me of what you find."

	Dean Douglas nodded curtly, realizing once again the actual 
devastating potential of the pictures he held in his hands, wishing 
that he was free to destroy them and let the sleeping dogs lie, but 
knowing that his integrity would undoubtedly prevent such action.

	When he was leaving the office, he turned to look back at 
Skinner, who appeared lost in the grip of some nightmare. And for 
once, the comparison rang painfully true.

	* * *

	The partners sat across the table from Skinner, and Mulder was 
answering his questions about the old case files, diligently but 
impatiently. Scully studied Skinner carefully, noticing the rumpled 
white shirt and the tired lines under his eyes, and wondering why 
their usually prim boss appeared so disheveled and troubled. It seemed 
he was simply going through the habitual mechanics of questioning 
Mulder's theories, but that for once, his heart wasn't quite in it.

	During an unusually long and convoluted explanation of why the 
pair of Italian shoes appeared on the expense report, Skinner got up 
absently and turned to the window, loosening his tie.

	Mulder halted. "Well, I could just go and buy new shoes. . ."

	"Forget it, Mulder," suddenly, Skinner sounded completely 
indifferent to the fate of shoes that drowned in the lake, or to his 
agent's stubbornness in wanting to stick the Bureau with paying for 
them. "Just... forget it. You can leave them in the report if you 
like." 

	Scully's eyes grew large as she looked at her boss, then at 
Mulder who shrugged for lack of explanation. "Sir, is anything wrong?"

	You bet, Skinner almost screamed at her, then bit his lip and 
spoke calmly. "Yes, Agent Scully. But it's none of your concern."

	Mulder took in a shuddering breath, realizing that the pictures 
must have already reached the proper hands and Skinner already saw 
them. So many times he had tried to convince himself that the 
catastrophe he'd put in motion might be avoided, but any such 
illusions had now been effectively shattered.

	He wished there were proper words to apologize for arguing 
about the Italian shoes while his boss' freedom and future hung in 
the mid-air. 

	"Sir, is there anything we can do? We don't have any cases on 
our hands right now."

	Skinner sighed heavily, turning back to face his agents. "You 
might as well know. There was some evidence found in the murder of 
Henry Davidson that links me to the scene of the crime."

	Scully did a double take, too shocked to understand the 
implications fully. "Who is Henry Davidson?"

	Skinner was silent for a second.  "The Cigarette Smoking Man."

	"Oh my God.  I didn't know that," she spoke slowly, while 
turning to look at Mulder, uncertain whether she could make the same 
statement for he partner. 

	"What evidence could they possibly possess?" Mulder questioned, 
trying to contain his anxiety and finding it almost impossible to play 
the role of an ignorant. "I thought that the investigation was on 
hold."

	"It was. They obviously had a murder, but no body and no name. 
And no suspects," Skinner replied, wondering again for a brief moment
how he came to be in this situation. The sensation was similar to 
standing at the precipice of a black hole, waiting to be sucked in. He 
paced by the side of the desk, needing to feel the solid ground 
underneath him. "And now they have all three. And as I mentioned 
previously, I'm the primary suspect."

	"Oh my God," Scully breathed.  

	"That seems like an awful lot of information to come by," 
Mulder made a gigantic effort to keep his voice level, feeling like 
the lowest scum in the pond. 

	"There are pictures of me shaking hands with him at the steps 
of his apartment building, and of me holding a gun that killed him," 
Skinner replied grimly. "And if it is confirmed that the pictures are 
real... well, you know what happens then."

	"Sir, I must ask -- whatever evidence they have -- what 
possible motive would you have for this murder?" Scully didn't want 
this conversation to end so abruptly, realizing intuitively that she 
lacked some essential pieces of data in this mind-boggling puzzle.

	"Actually, I did have a motive, though I assure you both that 
I was not the one who killed him," Skinner eyed Mulder uneasily, 
deciding that there was no way they could keep this information under 
wraps any longer. "I made a deal with Cancerman several months ago, 
and he... misused my services."

	"A deal? What kind of a deal?" Scully pushed for more. 

	"A deal that was supposed to buy a cure for your cancer."

	Scully felt as if her heartbeat was the only sound in the room 
as she contemplated Mulder and Skinner who looked like a pair of kids 
admitting to some naughty trick. Only the FBI building was a far cry 
from the playground -- and she could not believe that her partner knew 
about this too. "And is this deal the reason why I am alive today?" 
she whispered, her horror undisguised.

	"Scully, I don't think we will ever know," Mulder hurried to 
reply, cursing Skinner mentally for disclosing the information, 
knowing that he had to undo the damage. "Cancerman pointed me in the 
direction of the chip. Maybe it was his way of handing us the cure. 
But Scully, you know that there were other factors at work."

	Scully felt her eyes sting. It was so comfortable believing 
that her cure had not come from the dirty hands. It was so reassuring 
and so naïve to believe in miracles. "So what did he ask you to do for 
him, sir? I need to know," she asked, suddenly seized by the desire 
to understand the measure of this sacrifice.

	"Just some clean-up jobs, nothing too big," Skinner ignored the 
images of children dying from small pox. It would have happened 
regardless of his involvement, he told himself, but the notion did not 
ease the ache in his chest. "And I would overlook certain things, just 
close my eyes at times."

	Mulder was still trying to gather his thoughts, to choose the 
lesser of the two evils when Skinner's voice jolted him.

	"Agent Mulder, you were interested in this case, weren't you?"

	"Yes."

	"Well, since you have no cases currently, you might as well 
look into this," Skinner suggested calmly. 

	Mulder cringed inwardly but managed to nod politely, realizing 
that Skinner was essentially asking them for help, as indirectly as 
was possible in this situation. "Yes, absolutely."

	"Dean Douglas is in charge, and Agent Andrew Winters is 
working on it currently. And," Assistant Director turned to study 
their concerned faces, "thank you both."

	"It is me who should be saying thank you," Scully smiled 
slightly. "We will speak to Dean Douglas and see what we can do."

	"Sir, let me just say that I believe in your innocence," Mulder 
offered helplessly, quite certain that this was probably the last time 
he was speaking to Skinner while he was still an Assistant Director. 
"I presume you don't have an alibi?"

	Skinner shrugged. "Even if I had one, I don't think it would 
help against the kind of evidence you are about to see." 

	Watching as his agents left the room, the Assistant Director 
felt slightly uneasy, sensing again the presence of some secrets that 
he was ignorant of. Something was terribly wrong, though he couldn't 
quite put his finger on it. 

	He would just have to trust his agents to do the best they 
could against the incredible odds -- one more time.

	Outside Skinner's office, Scully pinned Mulder down with a 
glare. "You knew about the deal. You knew and you never told me."

	He threw up his hands in the air as she turned on her heel 
sharply and started walking toward the elevator. "Scully! This was 
hardly my secret to be shared. I found about it by accident, and I 
wish to this day that I didn't know about it either."

	"Why not?" People gave them way as they marched down the 
hallway. "Do you also prefer to live in denial?"	

	"No," he stopped in his tracks, too tired of explanations on 
the run. "But I can't help thinking that it should have been me 
instead of Skinner. It should have been me, Scully. And now he is the 
one who is paying through his nose."

	She tugged his hand, trying to get them away from the curious 
glances of other agents. "Mulder, these sacrificial gestures are having 
too much of an adverse effect. And as egotistical as it sounds at the 
moment, I'm very happy you didn't make that kind of deal."

	Mulder fell silent, contemplating once again the reasons why 
the Consortium seemed to accept him now, wondering if his current 
situation was any better than the one he'd almost gotten into a few 
months before. But the answers kept eluding him. 

	Before stepping in the elevator, he threw her a quick sideways 
glance. "Scully, this will sound melodramatic... but did I ever mention 
how happy I am that you are alive? And moreover, I don't care what 
means were used to ensure your survival."

	The doors opened with a chime, and she guided him lightly to 
the entrance. 

	"You never had to, Mulder."

* * *

	"I haven't asked you for a promotion," Mulder didn't bother to 
hide his animosity. "This was completely uncalled for."

	The obese man threw a disgusted look at his British companion. 
"Agent Mulder, I don't think you are in a position to question our 
motives. And what are you doing here today, the meeting is not until 
tomorrow."

	"The meeting is too long to wait for," Mulder's expression did 
not change. "Walter Skinner's life is at stake, and I know you have no 
reason to care, but I do."

	Milton was unperturbed. "Walter Skinner aside, I thought you 
would be grateful," he replied with a smirk. "How old are you? Forty 
or so?"

	The agent tried to clamp down on his anger. "As interested as 
you have always been in my personal life, I am sure you remember my 
birthday."

	"Actually, Henry Davidson had always shown much more propensity 
toward remembering such mundane dates. Personally, I couldn't care 
less," Milton's eyes grew cold. "But you should give more thought to 
your career in your age, Agent Mulder. Other, less talented colleagues 
of yours have already made ASAC or more."

	Mulder shook his head, deciding to appeal to their logic 
instead. "After the recent media disaster, it would be extremely 
suspicious if I suddenly became Assistant Director," he smirked. "I 
can just imagine the headline: The Legacy of Insanity Continues: 
Paranoid FBI Agent Promoted. Or even better: Dilbert Principle in 
Action: How To Get Rid of Crazy FBI Agents Working in The Field. Why, 
let's advance them to managerial positions!" 

	"Now you are talking sensibly," the heavy-set man was looking 
at him with a bit more respect at the same time as Milton chuckled 
appreciatively in his coffee. "We could arrange for press to change 
their minds quite easily."

	Mulder clenched his fists, wondering what new disaster he set 
into motion. "I am afraid to ask," he mumbled. "What are you talking 
about?"
	
	"We will inform you of arrangements when they are made," Milton 
replied quietly, having calmed down a bit. "By the way, Dr. Miller 
speaks of you very highly. He thinks you are doing an extraordinary 
job."

	Mulder rubbed his forehead, willing the sudden headache to 
subside. "I'm honored," he remarked sarcastically. "Dr. Miller is a 
wonderful mentor."

	"Undoubtedly. He is a good man who has known too much tragedy 
in his life." The Well-Manicured Man seemed lost in thought for a 
moment. "Regardless, I presume you are involved in the Davidson's 
murder investigation."

	"As of today, yes, and may I add that I had no choice in the 
matter? I am the one who submitted the incriminating evidence on him!" 
Mulder shook his head, feigning frustration. It was one thing to admit 
that he didn't want a promotion, but it would have been way too 
dangerous to say that he actually wanted to help Skinner.

	"Well, you won't be involved in the investigation for much 
longer, I hope," Milton glanced meaningfully at his companion. "I am 
sure Agents Scully and Winters will handle it with competence."

	Mulder fell silent, brooding on the possible implications of 
this statement. "Let us just not forget that you have still not upheld 
your part of the bargain -- whereas I have fulfilled all of your 
requests," he stated abruptly, suddenly impatient with them.

	The heavy-set man laughed for the first time as if it was the 
cleverest witticism. "You have access to an abundance of information in 
our facilities, Agent Mulder. Help yourself." He watched as the younger 
man flew out of his chair and slammed the door in anger, not bothering 
with proper good-byes. "Our newest colleague should really watch his 
temper."

	"Oh, I am sure that his new position will be rather beneficial 
in that respect," Milton spoke quietly. "But I must say, Northam, that 
this is the kind of passion our organization can only profit from."

* * *

	Mulder felt the stare of the lab technicians as his normally 
drab charcoal suit clashed with the painful sterility of the cinder 
walls of the testing facility.  His key card sat in his 
jacket pocket, the cameras mounted to the ceiling whined as they 
tracked his movements.

	Perhaps more unsettling than the ease at which he had been 
allowed to enter, was the protection, or lack of it, between him and
the organisms the scrubbed men and women were covertly examining under
their compound microscopes.  The technicians around him were disguised
behind rubber gloves, cloth masks, and the glare of fluorescent lights 
hitting plastic goggles. They moved in deliberately languid movements,
and Mulder momentarily wondered if it were the researchers, instead of
the specimens, who were extra-terrestrial in nature.  The federal agent 
shoved his hands resolutely in his pockets, content to keep a 
comfortable distance between himself and the test tubes, vials, and 
agar plates.

	His footsteps echoed noisily amid the hum of nuclear 
magnetic resonance machines, and Mulder slowly processed the incoming
stimuli.  There was no alien blood, no clones, no black, Tunguskan 
worms.  Instead, his eyes tracked over invisible cells in between clear 
cover slips and slides, over droning centrifuges as they contentedly 
spun a pus-like fluid.  Mulder felt his jaw clench at the picture 
of normalcy -- unable to fathom why he had worked so hard, for so long, 
suffering so many losses.

	For it to culminate with this.

	Something deep inside him was shouting, jumping up and down, 
proclaiming that he had found the truth.  But the rest of him felt
strangely detached -- clinically separated.  The lab was anti-climactic, 
and as he progressed deeper into the laboratory he wondered how much 
the Consortium was still hiding from him. 

	Mulder picked up a vial and stared at the milky substance, 
failing to feel impressed.  Throwing any previous feelings of caution 
out the window, he trailed a finger as he passed microscope-bearing  
counters, suppressing a feeling of... tedium.  Familiarity.   

	It was as if something in the building turned what made Fox 
Mulder "Spooky" click off.  As if there was a certain virus in the air 
that made him into the cold-hearted bastard who could effectively wipe 
away women's memories.  It kept his hands still, instead of reaching 
for the trigger and blowing away the congregation of heads that 
conspired and laughed at other people's misfortunes.

	Of course, the psychologist in Fox Mulder knew that he was
rationalizing.

	That there, indeed, was nothing in the air, and that he was a
sick sonofabitch who was willing to go to any proportions, hurt an 
obscene number of people, to get this far.

	Far from progressing, Mulder wondered for how much longer
he would remain at a standstill, without seeing the whole truth.

	A set of sliding doors somewhere in the distance beeped, then 
whined as they slid open.  Mulder inwardly cringed, half expecting Deep 
Throat to cut him off at the pass, or for green berets to force him to 
flee.  He once again glanced furtively at the cameras mounted overhead, 
his peripheral vision unconsciously absorbing the large computers, 
even larger processors, and vats of material that would most likely be 
unidentifiable to Quantico's computers.

	There were warnings attached to the UV irradiators, stickers
proclaiming toluene's carcinogenic effects.  There was a first aid
kit buried in the corner, a fire blanket and an extinguisher mounted to
the wall.

	Mulder was tempted to laugh.

	As if the Consortium cared for the health of the people who 
worked for them.

	He walked towards the back, passing purple bacteria colonies
growing on agar media, a proliferation of particles in test tube 
solution.

	And stopped, eyes widening at the rows of alien fetuses.

	Mulder crouched so that he was at eye level with the organisms.
A spot on greenish-gray flesh pulsated in time to the beat of alien's 
heart.  Pale eyelids covered the eyes, and Mulder stared back 
with a forced detachment, silently begging it questions -- wondering 
why it was so valuable that a government would be willing to kill for 
it.  

	Mulder gasped as the eyelids suddenly opened. Eyes like shards 
of blue ice pierced the translucent green solution.  He rose rapidly, 
his knees cracking in protest.  He could feel his façade of 
indifference threaten to abandon him as he forced his legs to walk 
calmly across the room.
	
	The beeps soon surrounded him.  The glow of tanks engulfed him.  The
aquarium-like containers were filled with indiscernible flesh-colored 
shapes. Mulder bit his lip, suffering through an onslaught of memories 
-- of his mother's fading heartbeat at the hospital, of Scully
comatose and dying, of Deep Throat cruelly murdered, of Michael 
Kritschgau and the blend of lies and truths he uttered.

	The agent leaned in closer, noticing the protruding belly of 
the buoyant figure in front of him, the criss-crossing veins and 
arteries which transported a fluid to a developing fetus that Mulder 
doubted was blood.

	Monitors, buttons, and a keyboard marred the one side of the
tank, and Mulder stared at it, mesmerized by the noises and charts, 
the peaks and the valleys -- all indications of brain activity, even if 
the subject's lack of movements dictated otherwise.

	A door slammed, a shadow loomed in front of him, and Mulder 
effectively clamped down on his sudden reflex to flee, his left hand 
drifting down to his pocket and key card as reminder of his 
authorization to be here. He watched warily as a technician and an
armed security guard approached -- all too familiar with the play that 
would enfold.

	"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

	Mulder flashed his key card. "I'm authorized to be here."

	The man squared up to Mulder's figure before shaking his head.  
"This is a control group; you threaten to contaminate it by coming in 
here unprotected.  Get out."

	Mulder's jaw flexed.  "Not until you tell me what this
is."

	The lab technician rolled his eyes, and was about to speak when
another figure cut him off at the pass.

	"Enough, Brian. Mr. Mulder is right. He is authorized to be 
anywhere he chooses."

	Mulder stared at the mustached man who had just recently 
entered. His brain absorbed the slight belly of success, the balding 
head, the light brown crown of hair which was quickly turning white. 
His synapses suddenly fired, the man's voice triggering a memory -- a 
recognition that almost floored him.  His stomach fell -- he felt as 
if he wanted to throw up. 

	He tried to convince himself that he would wake from this 
nightmare soon, that he had not given incriminating evidence to Agent
Winters, and was not gawking at the man currently standing directly
in front of him in one of the Consortium's laboratories.

	Mulder tilted his head slightly, closed his eyes momentarily, 
trying to contain his breathing.  He looked up at the Director of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation coolly.  "Director Robinson... good
afternoon."

	The elder man smiled with yellowed teeth, the grin turning him
into a garish gargoyle underneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Agent Mulder, I haven't had yet the opportunity to relay my joy in 
hearing that you've joined us."

	Mulder nodded with a tight-lipped smile as the pieces fell 
into place.  Skinner would effectively be history within the next week, 
the Director of the FBI was an influential member of the Consortium, 
and the section head of the X-Files was about to get a promotion.  
He felt his head start to hurt with the force he was clenching his 
teeth.  There were no more proponents to the truth, only actors who 
dealt with lies and confabulations, himself included.  

	Parasites infested the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

	And he was the lowest rung on the evolutionary ladder.

	Robinson was pumping his hand, still revealing ugly yellowed
teeth.  "Brian and the other technicians will assist you in any way
possible.  Right, Brian?"

	Mulder watched the lab technician shy away from the Director's
presence, backing up a few steps.  "Sure.  No problem."

	The Director nodded, satisfied with the results, and walked
away, taking the lab employee and the security guard with him.

	Mulder stared at the aquariums once again, passing a hand over
his burning eyes. After he had pinned Blevins, he had felt like such 
hot shit. On top of the world with the Smoking Man dead, with Skinner 
clearly drawing his lines, with Scully being cured.

	And he was made to be the fool yet again.  

	By this time tomorrow, Skinner would no longer be his boss.  
His one time ally would be occupied by more pressing matters.

	He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Mulder 
tried to convince himself that when this war was all over, he would fix 
everything.

	He walked out of the room with guilt weighted steps.

***

	Everything in Walter Skinner's house was silent.  And the 
Assistant Director stared at the chicken in front of him, listlessly
poking at the dead animal muscle with his fork.

	His paranoia was running rampant; he attributed it to too 
many years trying to pull back on Mulder's reins.  Something weighed 
his stomach down, made him want to expel the bile that was churning 
in his stomach, made each swallow of thick saliva painfully slow.

	The air around him was charged; major changes were afoot. 
The Consortium had been reeling him in for favors less often.  The
office downstairs had been quiet.  The two agents in the X-Files
division were suspiciously out of trouble.

	A door knocked, and Skinner jumped, a hand trailing by his
unholstered hip.  Instincts carved from the army and the FBI were 
rearing their ugly head.  He unconsciously took the plate to the 
garbage, scraping the breast and vegetables away.  Methodically, 
he placed the plate and fork in the sink.

	He wiped his hands on his pants and pushed his glasses up, 
inhaling deeply, wondering for what he was mustering up courage.

	Somber black uniforms greeted him, and Skinner noted Douglas' 
grim expression. "Walter," he nodded in greeting.  "We need you to 
come to the station and answer a couple of questions."

	Skinner hesitated, then finally nodded. The VCU chief's 
friendliness of a couple days ago disappeared as if by magic. "Just 
wait... "  He looked around, suddenly feeling lost in his own 
apartment. "I have to get my coat."

	Douglas grabbed the arm of the retreating figure, pointing a 
finger to a spot just behind Skinner.  "It's right behind you."

	The Assistant Director looked at the railing, seeing the tan 
material draped innocently over the oak pole.  "Oh..."  He grabbed 
harshly for it, wishing it had been somewhere else -- an excuse so that 
he could walk through his apartment one more time.

	He suddenly had an attachment to the TV he barely watched, 
to the couch and coffee table in the living room that he hardly used.  
The thought of abandoning them suddenly made his heart beat faster, his
breaths come out harsher.

	Guilt, his mind chanted.  You know you're guilty.

	But for what, the other part of his mind insisted.  He hadn't 
killed the Cancerman. His hatred for tar and nicotine had never been so 
severe to warrant executing a man in cold blood. Despite what the 
photos showed, he had not met with the Cancerman on the night of his 
death. And most importantly, the bullet hadn't come from his gun.  

	The rebuttal came quickly: memories of nameless, suffering 
children dying of small pox were testament to his guilt -- visions of 
Ajax bottles and sponges were indicative of the hole he had willingly
dug himself in.

	Skinner was suddenly lost, thinking, flashing to a multitude of
confusing scenes.  Mulder might have been a stupid, rash, self-centered
agent with nothing better to do than stick his nose up the asses of the 
FBI's brass.  But Skinner had witnessed too much, had seen the evidence
pass right before his eyes, and understood that Mulder's paranoia was 
justified.  The agent was brilliant, devoted -- and when combined with 
the strength of his partner, he held the awesome potential to turn 
lies into truths.  

	A tug on his arm and Skinner was brought back to reality.  
Douglas' grip was gentle, but firm, and the Assistant Director hastily 
pulled his arm away, suddenly needing the independence.

	Other uniforms showed him the warrant to search through his 
apartment, and he winced at the sound of drawers being upended, of his 
garbage can being knocked over.  Skinner looked up, just before Douglas 
offered him a look that he could only characterize as pity.  Another
uniformed officer was reciting Miranda rights, and Skinner stole a 
last look at his apartment as the uniforms silently lead him towards 
the elevator.  

	The drive to the police station would take about forty minutes
as Douglas was saying, trying to make small talk.  Skinner nodded 
grimly. The past half hour had seemed like a bad dream.  In forty 
minutes, the true nightmare would begin.

***

	Mulder stared as the white styrofoam cup paled in comparison to
the brownish-black liquid it contained.  He was almost tempted to laugh 
at the fleeting familiarity.  But instead of the Bureau's  
cafeteria, he was sitting at the research facility's canteen.  And 
instead of conversing with Special Agent Doctor Scully, James Milton's 
thin figure was sitting across from him.  

	It must be a conspiracy, Mulder's mind mused.  The coffee here 
was as bad as the Bureau's.

	"How is your assignment progressing, Fox?"

	"Fine," Mulder answered quickly.  "I've... adjusted to it."  He
nodded his head to affirm the statement.  He stared at the liquid 
in his cup again, knowing his eyes would betray him and reveal the 
words to be a blatant lie.  Turning personalities on and off was 
taxing, and it was giving him migraines to swerve from one temperament 
extreme to another.  The fear that he would lose himself in the process
was all too real, and it nagged continuously for attention at the back 
of his mind.  

	"I uh..." he cleared his throat experimentally, "ran into 
Director Robinson."

	Milton smiled.  "Nice man... a very valuable acquisition to the
group."

	Mulder nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  

	The elder member stared at the federal agent, attempting to 
analyze the slumped posture, the fingers that danced nervously on the 
table.  Mulder was quiet.  Sullen.  And Milton wondered what thoughts 
were circulating through the young man's gifted head.  "He knew your 
father really well."

	He watched in admiration as Mulder's head jerked up -- the
eagerness quickly hidden as his eyes clouded over and his face grew 
impassive.  "Director Robinson knew my father?"

	Milton guffawed, the sound echoing through the empty room. 
"Who didn't know your father, Fox, is what you should be asking."

	The federal agent nodded grimly and went back to staring at the 
coffee. Not for the first time, he wondered when the Englishman started
calling him by the first name, but suppressed the need to correct him.
It fit only too well with the surrealism of his surroundings.
When Mulder spoke again, his voice was low, tumultuous, despite the 
lack of volume.

	"You knew my father, too."

	Milton nodded slowly and watched as Mulder's finger started to
play with the styrofoam mug.  

	"Did he ever say anything about my sister?"

	The Well-Manicured Man grew pensive and his forehead creased.  
"No..."  He looked to the ceiling as if trying to grab a memory, but 
then shook his head resolutely.  "No. I never heard any mention of your 
sister... It was Samantha, right?"

	Mulder nodded once, staring at the man in front of him.  
Milton's inflections had changed.  He was a good liar. He had almost 
gone through the former profiler's finely-tuned radar undetected. 
Almost.  Mulder continued to stare at the coffee, filing away the 
statement for future reference.

	"Perhaps Dr. Miller may know something. He and your father
were close.  Or perhaps..." the Consortium member paused as if an idea
was just forming.  "Perhaps there's a mention of it in the letter your 
father sent you."

	Mulder raised his head, meeting Milton's eyes.  The elder 
member regarded him innocently, and Mulder's suspicions grew again. 
It was the second time the Consortium had brought up the subject of 
the letter, even though he had been quick to disregard it. He made no 
attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice. "There's nothing in it. 
You should know.  You've read it already."

	Milton smiled professionally.  "Your father always spoke in 
tongues, Fox. Sometimes the answers to the secrets we wish to know
are closer than we think."

	Mulder narrowed his eyes.  The Consortium's interest in the 
letter was... unsettling. Underneath Milton's scrutiny, the gears in 
his mind were silently churning. He was prompted to wonder if his own 
quick dismissal of the letter had been premature -- perhaps he had 
missed something in his quick perusal.

	The old man looked to his wrist and then back to Mulder.  "One 
o'clock, Fox.  If I'm not mistaken, you have an appointment."

	Mulder withheld the grimace that was threatening and rose 
slowly, feigning a sudden need to stretch.

	"Yet another canvas to erase and paint," Milton joked, 
enjoying his own symbolism.

	The agent felt his teeth bare in a likeness of a smile.

	"Dust off those women's synapses, Fox.  Clean the cobwebs in 
their fissures.  Makeover those lobes and revitalize their 
neurotransmitters."  Milton guffawed once again, and Mulder forced air 
through his lungs, hearing himself emit a noise that was supposed to be 
a cruel resemblance of a chuckle.

	He walked quickly out of the room, still hearing his lungs 
choke as he laughed.  His breath hitched, his forced mirth echoed off 
the empty corridors -- even as his eyes filled with helpless tears.

	***	

	Scully stared at the computer monitor in front of her, the 
bleak light of it illuminating the room, much to the protest of her
tired eyes.

	Her pupils tracked the letters as Scorpio13 typed methodically.
She closed her hands around the coffee mug, attempting to absorb some 
of its warmth.  But the coffee was cold, and Scully was quick to draw 
the parallels to her apartment, where it was both freezing and dark.  
She nonsensically wondered if Nescafe could also get lonely.  

	Conversing with her partner by means of secretive nick names, 
metaphors, and symbols was making her weary.  Conversations around the 
office were contrived -- almost farcical.  Everything uttered in the 
X-Files office was a lie -- all the words were cloaked in the air of 
mundane normalcy, wary of whatever bugs may be listening.  And it was 
only behind the anonymity of a newsgroup where her name was encoded, 
where they spoke in tongues, could she actually converse "normally" 
with her partner.

	The cursor was suddenly blinking, waiting for her reply, and 
Scully felt her lips part in surprise at the message.

	HEAD RESEARCHER AT WORK SHARES QUITE A RAPPORT WITH THE 
MONKEYS.

	The agent stared at the monitor, feeling her shoulders tense 
at the sudden onslaught of helplessness.  So tired of all the lies, 
of running around in circles.  She wondered exactly how many moles 
actually worked in the FBI.  

	Scully's fingers hovered over the keyboard, temporarily unsure
of what to write.  She bit her lip, squinted as she typed with the 
right hand, drew her robe tighter around her body with her left.

	DOES HE KNOW OF YOUR RAPPORT WITH THE MONKEYS?

	The affirmative reply came quickly and even as Scully's eyes 
were barely surviving the war to stay open, her fingers danced on 
their own.  

	WHAT'S THE CURRENT STATUS OF THE BALD MONKEY?

	Scully watched UNSTABLE float across her monitor, and she
nodded to herself, hardly surprised.  Mulder went on, stating in no 
uncertain terms that he had a big day of research tomorrow and how he 
was dreading it.  She narrowed her eyes. Her partner still 
refused to disclose his exact duties with the Consortium, and she 
watched as the blinking cursor moved to the right as she typed.  

	WHAT TYPE OF RESEARCH ARE YOU DOING?

	There was a long pause before the reply came, and Scully rolled
her eyes in exasperation at Mulder's general reticence to talk, and his 
admirable ability to skirt the issue.

	GETTING VALUE OUT OF MY DOCTORATE.  GOTTA GO, GETTING LATE.

	Scully stared at the letters, surprised by how much she didn't 
want her partner to leave.  She thought of something to say -- tried to 
think of something witty, some smart-ass comment about the dark and 
porno videos.  But her fingers moved of their own volition, and she 
watched in surprise, in horror, as she saw her own comment stare back 
at her from the Dell monitor.

	I MISS YOU.

	The pause was longer -- stretching for all eternity.  There 
was no reply.  There was no dialogue box to say that Scorpio13 had 
logged out, and there was no indication to say that he had received 
the message.  She clenched her mug tighter, scolding herself for being 
so stupid, for saying such things over an open newsgroup where someone 
could be listening.  Watching.

	She wondered if she had scared Mulder away.  Maybe angered him 
by her lack of caution.  She was about to unhappily close the 
connection when his reply came back.

	Scully smiled, and logged out happily, turning off her computer 
with a flourish.  She went to bed, still seeing the black letters 
imprinted on a white background.

	I MISS YOU TOO.

* * *

	"Are you telling me, Mr. Skinner, that on May seventeenth, you 
never engaged in a conversation with this man, even though there is a 
photograph -- undoctored according to your labs -- of you conversing 
with the victim."

	Skinner nodded his head, his jaw clenching.  It seemed he was
answering the same question over and over -- just rephrased differently
each time.  "Yes."

	"Did you know the victim?"

	Skinner sighed.  "Yes."

	"What was the nature of your relationship."

	"He frequented my office occasionally."  The Assistant Director
contemplated his next sentence.  "Although he visited less often over 
recent months."

	"And what business did you have with the deceased?"

	"He was a federal employee.  We discussed matters of... 
protocol."

	The detective sighed, throwing a doubtful look in the
Assistant Director's direction.

	"Mr. Skinner... how much does a man in a profession such as 
yours make?"

	Skinner shook his head, not following the line of questioning.  
"What?"

	"How much do you make in a month?"

	Skinner opened his mouth to protest, clamped on the sudden
urge to bolt.  He felt his stomach turn over as awareness dawned.  He 
knew the curve ball that was going to be thrown, and had no 
doubt as to which group of men had planted the evidence.  

	"I make about six thousand dollars a month."

	The detective nodded his head.  "And yet, your bank records 
show that two days after the murder of the deceased you made a deposit 
for one hundred thousand dollars.  That's far from chump change."

	Skinner didn't say anything, scolding himself for not checking
his bank records more often.  And it was so easy -- the Consortium 
could implicate and obfuscate with ease.  Skinner studied the table, 
avoiding the detective's stare -- there was nothing he could say to 
defend himself. The silence was incriminating -- but it was rapidly 
becoming the only defense he had.

	"Nothing to say, Mr. Skinner?"

	The Assistant Director remained silent, and he felt a hand 
touch his arm.  His lawyer's voice echoed through the interrogation 
room. 

	"My client refuses to speak any longer.  I suggest that this
questioning be brought to an end."

	The detective sneered, and with an expletive-filled mutter, 
stormed out.

	Skinner was tempted to stand up and voice his situation.  He 
wanted to tell the detective that he was a pawn in a game.  That the
evidence was rigged and he was being framed.  That most likely the
man in the photograph was a clone.  And that the dead man knew 
secrets about the country, and worked for a faction that did not 
abide by any rules.  

	But it would sound like a plot out of a B-grade police 
melodrama, and he would be laughed at.  Mocked.

	Skinner now knew where Mulder's cocky facade came from.  Knew
from whence Scully's steely glare had developed.  He put a hand over 
his mouth, unconsciously blocking any involuntary movements from his 
mouth and vocal chords.

	The door slammed and Skinner turned to his lawyer, wary of the
two-way mirror in front of him.  He noted the desperation in his voice, 
fully cognizant of the evidence that was rapidly piling against him.  
"Have you heard anything from Agents Mulder and Scully yet?"

	The lawyer shook her head.  "I haven't heard anything at all 
from them."

	The Assistant Director nodded wearily.  He studied the cinder 
walls around him, and wondered if he would be able to do a lifetime 
sentence within the confines of steel bars and cement walls.

	He shook his head to dispel the thought.  Mulder and Scully 
would come to his defense, just as they had before.  They knew what 
was going on out there.  Any minute now, his mind tried to convince 
itself.  He kept his eyes on the door, watching for their arrival.  

	Waiting.

	***

	The phone ringing jarred him out of a blackness that was not
reality, but not the unconsciousness that came with dreaming.  As if
reciprocating his predicament, he had been floating in a netherworld 
between fact and fiction -- his pseudo-sleep marked with tones of
gray and charcoal.

	No rest for the weary, indeed.

	He shoved papers out of the way in reaching for the phone, 
hearing the soft swish as his father's letter landed on the floor.
Studying his cursive strokes had made his migraine worse, and trying
to decode tangible words had only compounded his fatigue.

	His hand made contact with the receiver, and he reached for 
the light beside him, squinting when the yellow-white beam 
assaulted his eyes.

	"Yeah... Mulder."

	"Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent in Charge Peterson from 
the Baltimore Division."

	"Yeah," his voice came out smoggy, slurred as his brain was 
slowly processing each statement and formulating a coherent reply.

	"We have a problem here that could warrant your... services.  
We have a hostage situation.  An elementary school here is held
hostage by a male with a package of sarin attached to his chest."

	Mulder shook his head.  "I don't understand how I..."

	Peterson was quick to interrupt. Even though the SAC's voice
was grim, Mulder could swear he heard a smirk coming from the other 
end.

	"He believes he was abducted by aliens."

	 Mulder pursed his lips, muttering an "I see."  He rubbed a 
hand harshly over his eyes, watching colors dance over his eye lids.
Was it another test by his newest employers?  Or was it a real 
red ball with a madman and innocent people?

	The federal agent closed his eyes, reliving his previous 
hostage negotiating experiences.  He rolled his shoulders, as he 
thought of John Barnett. Feeling the muscles in his neck protest 
louder, he once again cursed FBI rules and regulations.  God, protocol 
had been such a bitch -- Mulder went to bed with her once, and in the 
morning after, had to attend Steve Wallenberg's funeral.

	His body fully aware as to where his thoughts were leading too, 
Mulder's hands automatically clenched, his blood pressure began to 
rise, as his thoughts turned to Duane Barry.  Rolling his neck again, 
Mulder sighed audibly into the phone.  If there had been any 
reluctance on his part to go to Baltimore, he realized it was already 
long gone. There was no way he could defy the Consortium with the power 
that they had.  With the depths that they could sink.  

	Scully was a testament to that fact.  

	And there was no way he could defy lending his services to 
the Baltimore division, at the risk of leaving innocent children to
the whims of a mad man.  

	"Mulder... are you still there?"

	The agent shook his head, inhaling sharply.  "Just let me 
get some things prepared. I'll be right there."

***

	Andrew Winters walked cautiously into the interrogation room, 
wary of his superior officer sitting in handcuffs across from him.  
He watched a head rise slowly and was assaulted by the intense
glare of his Assistant Director.

	Winters sat down across from him, not saying anything, trusting
that Skinner had the most to lose by keeping his mouth closed. 

	The silence dragged on.  Winters could feel the second hand
of his watch beat against his wrist, while Skinner was content to
stare at a spot on the wall just behind the young agent's head.

	Andrew looked up when he heard Skinner clear his throat.  The 
Assistant Director opened his mouth, closed it again, appearing
contemplative, then spoke slowly.  Hoarsely.  As if his voice was not
used to speaking.  "No matter what you found, I didn't do it, Agent
Winters."

	The younger man nodded courteously.  He had seen the pictures 
and the evidence that was rapidly being compiled against his superior 
officer. A conviction of treason and first degree murder would be most 
likely.  

	Offenses punishable by death.

	But something in Winters' mind protested.  Something that made
him feel at unease seeing his boss in handcuffs.  It was the same
queasiness he had felt when he found the metallic implants in the 
missing women.  The same stomach grinding feeling that pointed out
that the Assistant Director had been awfully careless and painfully
obvious in killing a man.  

	He watched as Skinner regarded the two-way mirror warily, and 
then lowered his head in his direction.  Winters reciprocated the 
gesture, hearing the Assistant Director's harsh whisper assault his 
auditory canal.

	"What I'm about to say... may seem incredible,"  Skinner
paused.  He swallowed, unsure if what he was about to say was really 
the right thing to do.  If this was really the right person to 
disclose everything he so desperately wanted to say.

	"You have to believe me.  Just listen to me when I say that the 
man who was murdered...  The... the *group* that he works with 
is involved with the secrets that Section Chief Blevins was accused 
of."

	Skinner watched the younger agent's eyebrows crease. "Rousch."

	The Assistant Director nodded in confirmation. "I used to... I 
used to work with them as well."  Skinner watched the younger agent 
instinctually sit back -- an attempt to distance himself from the 
accused.  He drew his lips into a tight line, refusing to reveal 
his relief at knowing Winters believed the story, if not completely, 
at least partially.  "When I threatened to... defect, this is...
well, you see the result of that threat."

	The young agent's neutral expression didn't falter, and 
he nodded, inwardly processing the story's validity.

	Skinner leaned in desperately.  The close quarters were making 
him claustrophobic, and he spoke too harshly, too quickly to convince 
anyone of his innocence.  "You have to believe me.  Agents Mulder and 
Scully can vouch for the existence of this group.  You have to talk to 
them."

	Winters nodded.

	Skinner shifted in his chair uneasily, uncomfortable with 
having to request the simplest things.  It was beyond embarrassing -- 
beyond humiliating -- to fall into subordination, having to request 
washroom breaks and pleading to make a phone call. "Please tell them I 
need to speak with them as soon as possible."

	Winters nodded again. "I'll see what I can do, sir."

	Skinner flinched at the title of respect, surprised, and yet
slightly reassured.  Winters got up slowly from the chair, and the 
Assistant Director watched the retreating figure, startled when the 
metal door slammed shut.

	He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.  
Skinner looked to the clock, and realized it had been twenty four hours 
since he had last talked to Mulder and Scully.  He rubbed a hand
over his face.  

	Perhaps Scully would be a little more doubtful of his 
innocence -- she had clearly shown her ambiguity during the last time 
he had been charged with murder.  But the knowledge that Mulder knew 
about everything relieved him.  The section head of the X-Files 
division could vouch for the existence of Rousch and the duplicity of 
Section Chief Blevins.  The Special Agent had first-hand knowledge of 
the conspiracy that was out there, and would be able to get the charges 
dropped.

	If Scully couldn't do it, Mulder certainly would.

	Right?

	***

	The makeshift control center, made hastily from a real estate 
office, was a flurry of barely controlled FBI and state police 
activity.  The elementary school across the street was under the 
watchful eyes of a chopper flying overhead, and three dozen cruisers 
around the building.  Yellow tape surrounded the growing crowd of 
buzzing onlookers, their faces shining underneath the glare of news 
lights.  Men, masked in black, and armed with semi-automatics clashed
with the serenity of monkey bars and picture-adorned windows.   

	Mulder walked in, feeling detached, hearing warped voices
talk over the whine of modems, fax machines, and cellular phones.
Someone approached him, pumped his hand roughly and introduced himself
as the Baltimore SAC.

	He recognized the smell of caffeine and adrenaline, 
blindly absorbed the hastily written names on the green chalkboard
ten feet in front of him.  Mulder suppressed a shiver, attempting
to push the feelings of deja vu away.  

	The federal agent blinked, and suddenly the sounds turned 
normal, Peterson's concerned face floated into view.  The two federal 
employees walked the length of the building, the SAC's voice 
inflecting in time to his steps.

	"Perp's name is Vernon John Fulsom.  Went to elementary school
here.  Has a history of petty robbery, drug charges, and had an
on again, off again relationship with a militia group.  Nothing
big.  He's holed himself in one of the corner classrooms with twenty- 
four children and a teacher.  His back is loaded with sarin."

	Mulder nodded, understanding the conundrum.  The SWAT team 
wouldn't be able to shoot, for fear of breaking one of the vials.  
Any methods of violence were immediately put on the back burner for
threat of unleashing the nerve gas. The only option, other than 
killing twenty five innocent children would be for the perp in 
question to surrender completely.

	"What does he want?"

	Peterson cleared his throat. "He claims that aliens have 
probed his body and have left implants in... various orifices."

	Mulder nodded. "Do we know anything about his abduction 
experiences?"

	Peterson shook his head, his lips maintaining a grim line.  
Mulder had to applaud the man for not openly scoffing the story as
the ramblings of a mad man.  It was obvious the SAC wanted a peaceful
resolution -- even if it meant putting aside personal prejudices and
opinions.  "Look, Mulder, I don't care if the guy says he's Clinton's
new lover.  I just want this red ball to be over -- we've had enough
children dying in schools already, wouldn't you say?"

	Mulder nodded his acknowledgement.  "What's the plan so far?"

	"Talk to him.  He knows about you.  You're the only one he's
agreed to speak to."

	Mulder nodded grimly as Peterson steered him towards a headset.

	"I know you had a situation like this a few years ago.  So, 
just remember, don't perpetuate the fantasy, remind the perp that he 
has twenty-five innocent people in there."

	He sat down gingerly, hearing static enter his ears.  The 
lights overhead flickered off for a millisecond, then reluctantly 
started glowing again, much to the chagrin of the agents circulating 
around him.  Mulder felt his jaw clench, needing to remind himself that
Vernon John Fulsom was not Duane Barry, despite the eerie similarities.  
A SWAT officer asked silently if he was ready, and Mulder numbly 
nodded yes.

	He wanted to ask if they could slow things down... if he could 
have time to pause and breathe and think.  The lies and fictions that 
he was telling were blending themselves into real life.  Blending 
themselves so well that he couldn't distinguish between the two any 
longer.  

	An electronics technician pointed at him, indicating that
the show had begun, and that he would get no respite.  Suddenly, there 
was a dialtone, a phone ringing, and a rough voice.  

	"Yeah."

	Mulder cleared his throat.  "Vernon?"

	The man laughed harshly.  "VJ will do, Mr. FBI.  This is Agent
Mulder, right?"

	"Yes, this is Agent Mulder.  How can I help you, VJ?"

	"I want to talk to you."

	"I'm..."

	"In person.  Face to face."

	Mulder balked, then nodded.  "Okay... okay."  He rubbed a hand 
absently over his forehead, when he caught Peterson mouthing "hostages" 
to him.  "I'll talk to you, VJ, but we're going to need some sort of 
sign of faith.  Can you release some of the children?"

	"No."

	"Whatever you want, VJ...  the police here will be more willing
to get it for you if you can show some good faith."

	There was a hesitant pause, and the gruff voice muttered. 
"Fine. Two children.  One's looking sickly and the other one's... 
been messed up."

	Mulder closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, feeling himself 
drowning in a situation that was moving too fast.  "Do they need 
medical attention?"

	There was another pause before there was an affirmative reply.

	The agent took a deep breath before asking.  "I can't treat 
those children myself, VJ.  Any medical treatment will have to be
administered by a professional.  Will you allow a paramedic to come
with me?"

	The positive reply took an agonizingly long time to come.  When 
the sullen "yes" came over the head set, Mulder let out a sigh of 
relief. "I'll call right before we arrive."

	The connection went dead and he heard people being dispatched 
to retrieve bulletproof vests, mikes, and ear pieces.  Another man was 
introducing himself, as someone was pulling kevlar over his head.  The
entire set up was screaming Duane Barry.  Agent Collins was pumping his 
hand, saying something about being an FBI agent with medical knowledge.  
He was wearing a blue uniform, and someone was shoving an identical 
shirt into his arms.

	So Duane Barry. 

	As eager hands pushed him towards the technician with the ear 
pieces and glue, Mulder absently wondered if the fall-out would be of 
the same magnitude.

***

	"Oh, Agent Winters, the DA called and said they want a 
statement from you regarding AD Skinner's case."

	Andrew turned around to try and locate the source of the voice 
when another figure stepped towards him. "Winters, here's the 
paperwork from the Omaha case that accounting wants from upstairs.  
They say they need it by Tuesday."
	
	Winters opened his mouth to protest but five manila folders 
were thrust into his hands and he only caught the retreating figure of 
the Bureau assistant.

	"Oh, Winters!!"  A voice boomed.  "Agent Scully called and
said that she got your message."

	Andrew yelled blindly across the room.  "Did she say if she 
was going to come here and talk to me?"

	"How the hell should I know, man.  I'm just the messenger."

	The young agent swore under breath as he walked to his desk,
suddenly noticing the woman waiting nervously beside it.

	Winters smiled as recognition struck. "Sheila... what are you
doing here?"

	The woman didn't return the smile, seemingly shrinking further
into her chair.  Her timid voice was a soft exhalation as if the words
had a difficult time passing though barely moving lips.  "Have you
found anything?"

	Andrew shook his head.

	"What about... what they found in me."

	He shook his head again.

	The woman continued shaking, her hands wringing.  Andrew 
noticed tears forming at the corner of her eyes. "Other women have 
been found with it?  The same man did all of that?"

	Andrew nodded.  "Yes, there have been women who were abducted
before you who have been found with metal implants in them."  The
federal agent tried to convey his reassurances to the woman who
had just been released from the hospital all of twenty four hours
ago.  

	Yet another disappearance.  Another return.  

	And yet another woman with no memory of what had happened.

	His phone suddenly shook off its cradle and Andrew hastily 
balanced on one foot, shifting the folders to one hand, grabbing for 
the speaker phone.

	"Yes."

	"Agent Winters?  This is Agent Mulder.  I got a message saying 
you needed to talk to me urgently.  That it was an emergency.  Did
something happen to Agent Scully?"

	Andrew wrinkled his eyebrows at the breathless words and hum 
coming from the other line.  "I uh..." he stuttered, trying to gather 
his thoughts, "needed some information regarding Assistant Director 
Skinner's charges. He said I should talk to you."

	Winters heard a lengthy pause before the voice on the other
line swore, offering a terse reply.  "That's your emergency?  I'm on 
the case, Winters, and I'm dealing with a hostage situation.  Unless 
your emergency is more severe than the emergency in Baltimore, talk
to Agent Scully."

	Andrew balked at the terse reply.  "But I thought..."

	"Winters, I need to go.  I can't deal with your crap right 
now." Someone in the background called Mulder's name, and the 
background buzz increased in volume.  "Look," he heard Mulder breathe. 
"I'll get back toyou later, okay?"

	The agent stared at the phone as the line went dead.  He 
slammed the manila folders onto his desk, jabbing at the speaker 
phone to end the connection.  

	He turned to apologize to the woman who had been speaking when 
he noticed she had disappeared.  He walked to the front of desk, 
gasping at the woman who was writhing on the floor. 

	"Sheila?"

	The woman was muttering, whimpering, rocking as fluttering
fingers passed over the back of her neck.  Andrew kneeled on his
haunches, attempting to comfort her by placing a reassuring 
hand on her leg.

	The woman jumped as if burnt, and snapped out of her trance 
with a gasp.  Startling blue eyes tracked Andrew's movements
suspiciously, and the federal agent extended his hand, helping
the woman stand when she hesitantly accepted the offer.

	"Should I call a doctor?"

	The woman shook her head frantically, her red hair falling 
into her face.  She seemed unable to form words, her voice coming out 
in gasps. She finally licked her lips and pointed to the phone. 
"That's the voice of the man who took me."

***

	"Where's Mulder?"

	Scully stepped carefully into the seat across from Skinner, 
noticing how her superior's eyes darted from her to the door.  She
wondered where the urgency in his voice came from -- wondered
why his eyes gazed at her distrustfully.

	"He was requested in Baltimore by Dean Douglas and SAC
Peterson.  A hostage situation."

	Skinner closed his eyes, trying to remain calm.  "Is there
any indication that the situation will be resolved soon?"

	Scully shrugged her shoulders.  "I'm not sure.  Mulder didn't
say much.  At the time of the call, I don't think he was yet made
aware of what his duties would entail."  

	She tried to appear casual, tried to add nonchalant inflections
into her speech.  It was true that Mulder had barely said anything in 
his terse, early morning phone call.  When she found out her partner
had been *requested* by the brass upstairs, her worry had grown 
exponentially.  

	He reassured her that he would call as soon as possible, still
dubious as to whether the Baltimore PD and FBI really needed 
his services.  She assumed that they did, if her silent cellphone
and answering machine were any indication.

	"Agent Scully, I need to ask a favor."

	The female federal agent nodded cautiously. "Sure."

	Skinner took a deep breath before proceeding slowly, as if 
deciding what he wanted to say was a laborious task.  "Can you go
over the murder scene one more time?  More specifically, can
you look at the forensic evidence -- the blood, toxicology.  It's
your specialty -- and I would like to hear the evidence directly
from someone I trust."

	Scully nodded, warming at Skinner's disclosure of the value
he placed into her investigative skills.  "Sure."  

	The Assistant Director offered a thankful smile, forcing his
lips to curl upward.  "Thank you."

	Scully reciprocated the forced smile, suddenly feeling the 
walls closing in.  She made a show of getting ready to leave, 
wondering if her jerky movements would betray her sudden need to 
escape.  She hastily belted her coat around her waist, nervously 
pushing her hair away from her face.  "I'll get on your request right 
away."

	"Tell Agent Mulder that I need to speak to him."

	Scully covered her mouth, emitting a hoarse cough.  She was
unable to offer a reply.

* * *
	
	The school was empty, and the agents' footsteps resonated 
dully off the parquet floor. The unnatural silence gnawed on Mulder's 
already jagged nerves, and he slanted a look at his morose companion, 
seeking some distraction. "Have you ever been in a hostage situation 
before?"

	Collins did not seem eager to provide the conversation. "Once."

	"How did it work out?" Mulder was mildly interested, 
regretting the question in the next second as he watched Collins' 
narrowed eyes and a tense face.
	
	"It didn't," followed a terse reply. "There were two men and 
three women, and the bastard killed them one by one.  Blew his head 
off after." Collins' voice softened.  "We didn't even know for a while 
there was no one alive left."  There was a lengthy pause, before his 
next words came out as a mutter. "Damn silencer."

	Mulder felt hot sympathy engulf him as he listened to his 
account, guessing that the lack of emotion was inversely proportional 
to the depth of the scar. "What did the SOB want?"

	"Money," Collins shrugged his shoulders. "Justice. Power over 
the universe. That's all they ever want, isn't it? And they usually 
never get it."

	Five lives for green paper, Mulder mused as they approached the
classroom with children. For the lives of twenty something kids, with 
all the media attention that this negotiation was already receiving, 
there would be no problem gathering a significant amount of dollars. 
But somehow he doubted that monetary profit was what VJ was looking 
for, if  his own presence here were any indication.  Feeling the 
kevlar scratch underneath his armpits, Mulder suddenly wished for 
such simplicity.

	They knocked on the door, and soon heard the footsteps 
followed by the sounds of the lock being unbolted. A haggard-looking, 
deathly pale man greeted them with a contemptuous sneer, watching the 
agents move inside the brightly colored room.

	"Why, Agent Mulder, you brought a friend," VJ spoke in mocking
intonations, a definite flicker of recognition in his eyes that 
remained, otherwise, as murky as waters of a swamp. "Welcome to our 
humble abode."

	"VJ, I am a medical doctor. Where are the kids who need my
attention?" Collins sounded about as human as a robot as he looked 
through the terrorist to the bunch of children huddled up in the 
corner. Their teacher, a young woman not older than twenty-five, 
obviously on the verge of tears and barely keeping it together, held 
the hand of one small girl who appeared to have a bad case of hiccups, 
undoubtedly caused by fear. She used the other hand to obsessively 
smooth the light brown hair of a boy whose arm appeared to have been 
bent at an unnatural angle. Tears had dried on his face and Mulder 
inhaled sharply, recognizing the tell-tale signs of shock.

	"There they are," VJ pointed to the boy and to another girl who
sat a few steps away from the group, holding her belly. "She threw up a
few times, and he kind of broke his arm. . ." VJ stopped, and Mulder
silently wondered how exactly the *accident* happened, firmly deciding 
that he should not ask -- at least not now.

	Collins moved to the children, a smile unexpectedly lighting 
his face, while Mulder forced himself to finally look at the thin man 
who nervously fingered the vial on his chest. "Real sarin, man. . . do 
you know what that stuff does to you?"

	The agent nodded calmly. "I have an idea. Really messes up your
stomach and your head," he spoke lightly, dismissively, as if he didn't
realize that the seizures alone would cause irreparable damage to the
brain -- or that if medical help was not received shortly after 
exposure, death was inevitable. The incident in Tokyo subway was 
enough of a showcase. "No one will do anything to make you use it. We 
want to work together with you -- the police outside will do anything 
in their power to get this resolved."

	"Oh yeah, I've already heard this chant from them today, Agent
Mulder," VJ sneered. "Tell me something new."

	"Then tell me what you want, VJ," Mulder remembered all his
psychological skills, improved recently by the lessons of Miller as 
well as repeated practice. Inject the words with an almost magical 
kindness. Gain his trust. Let him say what's on his mind. Make him 
believe you. "You wanted to talk to me, here I am. Talk."

	The man shivered slightly, cockiness  disappearing for the time
being, his eyes flickering from the FBI agent to the children, then to
some unidentifiable point in the blue sky barely visible through the
drawn curtains. "I am tired, man. I am so tired -- and these 
things. . . they just won't leave me alone."

	"What things? Aliens?"

	VJ raised the gun to his face, looked at it curiously, as if
researching its inner mechanism. "I am dying."

	Mulder did a double take, stunned. It was everything that he
was unprepared to hear. "Are you sick?"

	"After as many times as I have been a guinea pig, Agent Mulder, why
should that surprise you?" the man sounded exhausted, and not at all 
sane. "They want to know what that poison did to me, so they take me 
once, then twice, and again, and again, and they put things inside me, 
and do you have any idea what that's like?"

	The agent nodded, remembering Duane Barry and his "it's like 
living with a gun to your head." This went beyond deja vu. This was 
twilight zone. "What poison?" he inquired, still not understanding 
what VJ was raving about.

	"Oh, don't tell me you don't know," VJ bared his teeth in an 
ugly resemblance of a smile. "The Gulf War Syndrome? That weapon they
tested on all of us -- didn't think we would live long enough to 
testify?"

	Mulder felt cold anger rise inside him, an almost murderous 
rage directed at Peterson and all the others who didn't do enough 
research -- again -- or just never bothered to inform him of his 
subject's history. The other agent was suddenly standing in front of 
him, and he snapped back to the situation at hand.

	"I want to take the children outside. I hope you let me come 
again if something else happens," Collins spoke to VJ with a forced 
politeness.

	"Just go before I change my mind," the terrorist snarled at 
him, and Collins gathered both children in his arms, signing a 
thumbs-up to the remaining agent and exiting quickly.

	"I didn't know you were in the Gulf."

	"Everyone forgets about wars so easily, especially if they 
ended in a victory," VJ philosophized sadly. "It's only us, veterans, 
who know anything about it. A lot of my buddies died there, and now I 
am next."

	"I am sorry, VJ," Mulder was busy trying to superimpose what he
knew of the Gulf War Syndrome symptoms with the man's unhealthy 
appearance. Definitely anxiety and fatigue -- but there was no way to 
verify anything else.

	"Bet you are. I think we are all getting sick from that weapon
they tested out there, guess they wanted to kill the enemy but didn't 
know its strength and ended up killing their own people."

	Mulder felt a migraine rising. "Who are they?"

	VJ looked at him as if he were insane. "The government, who
else?"

	"VJ, I'm getting confused," Mulder wasn't lying. This story 
had so many holes, raised so many questions, and he simply failed to 
understand what perverse logic could possibly lay behind it. "I 
thought the aliens were the ones who experimented on you?" In his ear 
piece, he heard a worried voice of Peterson telling him not to anger 
the subject, and ignored it pointedly.

	"Don't you get it?" VJ waved his gun in the air, exasperated. 
"They are all working together. That weapon was obviously created with 
some extraterrestrial help -- and our precious government, the United 
States of America, my ass, helped them try it out," he stopped for a 
moment, disgusted. "I thought you, of all people, would believe me!"

	One of the children started crying suddenly, and VJ grimaced 
as if in pain, moving too fast for Mulder to realize what was 
happening. In the next second, the terrorist was shaking the scared 
kid, and the agent was beside him, imploring him to stop, trying to 
contain his own horror. "VJ, please. This is just a small boy -- 
remember what happened the last time -- you broke that boy's arm -- 
I am listening! I believe you, VJ!"

	The teacher grabbed the small form, hugging it close as the 
man left the child momentarily. "I just hate it when they cry," he 
whispered hoarsely, a comment obviously not directed at anyone in the 
room.

	"I trust you," Mulder edged away from the children gradually, 
trying to get VJ to follow him. "You have to trust me, too. I am 
working for you. You were telling me that the weapon that our 
government used in the Persian War was of extraterrestrial nature. Do 
you mean to say that the aliens experimented on you later on to find 
out the effects of the said weapon on your physiology?"

	"Now, was that so hard?" VJ flashed an angry look at the agent. "And
I bet that the people who made this weapon, they probably know how to 
cure this disease. And I don't want to die yet, my man. No, I don't,
no matter how much I might miss my buddies."

	Mulder looked at the sarin pointedly. "You know, I am not 
certain if the Gulf War Syndrome is fatal, but that thing will kill 
you for sure. It's your life too, VJ, remember that."

	A strange smile crossed the emaciated face momentarily. "Sorry 
to disappoint you, my man, but I am not planning to die today."

	The agent rubbed his temples, not sure what to make of this. 
"Let's get this straight, VJ. You are asking for the cure for your 
disease, is that all?"

	"And something else, too," VJ continued smiling. "I want the 
truth about Gulf War Syndrome out. And about all the little cohorts of 
our government with the aliens. And I know, Agent Mulder," threatening 
notes entered his voice, "I know you can do it for me. Some people 
informed me of the nature of your work."

	Mulder suppressed a shiver. "I will have to go and speak to the
police and other FBI agents of your demands." As Peterson continued to
whisper in his ear about hostages, he asked softly: "Would you care to
part with a few children? You don't need them all, and you know that
they are way too much trouble."

	"You are not asking me to be partial and choose between them, 
are you? Or do you want to do that for me?" VJ produced some sound 
which Mulder interpreted as a laugh. "Go, do whatever it is you have 
to do -- but I want a revolution to happen today."

 * * *

	Scully tried to concentrate on the papers in front of her, but 
the numbers and letters danced and blurred together, refused to 
produce meaning to her tired senses. It was already three in the 
afternoon, and there was still no word from Mulder. Unless he 
absolutely couldn't get to the phone, he would have already called and 
let her know what was going on, would have asked her for help if he 
needed it. She didn't let herself guess what reasons could possibly 
prevent him from doing so.

	Mulder's empty desk stared at her from across the room and a
sensation of foreboding swept over her momentarily, a strange certainty
that it would remain empty for a long time to come. But of course, 
there was no reason. . . she was just being silly, and she dropped her 
eyes quickly, ashamed of her weakness. The first line in the bloodwork 
report, Subject Name: Unidentified, swam into her line of vision. How 
fitting, she thought fleetingly. Despite the fact that the Smoking Man 
supposedly had a name now, he would always remain the unidentified 
shadow, a face disappearing in a cloud of gray smoke. Scully supposed 
that if they had ever asked him what his name was, he would have told 
them -- wouldn't bother to keep it a secret -- but it was always so 
much easier to call him Cancerman.

	So much simpler to classify the enemy.

	All the values in the report were decidedly normal. She found 
it bizarre that there wasn't nicotine rather than blood coursing 
through the veins of that man.  He was not poisoned. There were no 
drugs or alcohol in his system. Even the red and white cell counts 
were perfectly standard, no cancer. Rarely a deviation from the norm, 
no indication of genetic diseases -- everything as ordinary and boring 
as a glass of water. 

	There just had to be something here that could help Skinner, 
and Scully desperately wanted to find it. Even if he was a murderer, 
which she found hard to believe, he was also a man who sold his soul 
in the hope of giving her life. Even if she resented the obligation 
that weighed heavily on her shoulders.

	Her eyes fell on the blood group, AB, and for a moment she 
thought there was something strange about that. . . a subconscious 
feeling that was gone quickly.

	"Agent Scully, may I speak to you?"

	The agent suddenly realized that she was not alone in the
room, and she turned in annoyance to look at Andrew Winters.

	"I am sorry, I tried knocking but you didn't answer," he 
apologized quickly. "What are you working on?"

	Scully took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Reminded 
herself that this young man was not to blame for her problems. "I'm 
going over Henry Davidson's bloodwork."

	"Anything?"

	"No," she replied resolutely, closing the folder. "I received 
your message regarding Assistant Director Skinner, but I haven't had a 
chance yet to come and talk to you in person."

	"It's all right. I spoke to him yesterday and he claims that 
he has been framed and that the organization responsible works with a 
company called Rousch. Do you know anything about it? Is it possible 
that these photographs may have been faked? After all, the lab guys 
are absolutely certain that the pictures are real. . ." Andrew trailed 
off, suddenly unsure of why his mouth was running off,  why he was 
doubting such irrefutable evidence.

	Scully sighed, reviewing what little information she could 
safely share with him. "After Blevins, I tried to find some 
information about them on the Internet -- but there is absolutely 
nothing. Sometimes, it seems they don't exist," she said truthfully. 
"But I do know Skinner. And I find it very hard to believe that he 
would be responsible for murder," she finished softly, guilt washing 
over her once again.

	Andrew leaned back in a chair, immensely tired of everyone 
speaking in half-truths. "Wasn't there a suspicion that they were 
responsible for engineering your cancer?" Silence ensued, and he went 
on, undaunted. "Wouldn't it be natural to conclude that they may deal 
with biological or chemical research?"

	Scully glanced at him sharply. "These are guesses, Agent 
Winters."

	The agent contemplated the small woman in front of him,
suddenly noticing an almost eerie likeness between her and Sheila 
Freeman as the memory of this morning's incident sprang to his mind. 
The incident which he dismissed as the ranting of a woman mad -- or 
at least, severely traumatized. He forced it out of his head. "You 
know, I feel like I am hitting a wall every time I talk about this 
case. And I'm carrying such a huge load already, and would you believe 
it, I didn't even notice that Christmas had come and gone," he added 
under his breath, not sure why he was sharing personal information 
with Scully, who was practically a stranger.

	Scully's face softened, a fleeting smile playing on the 
corners of her lips. "Yes, the Bureau does seem to exert an odd effect 
on holiday traditions.  This Thanksgiving was an blast especially -- 
Mulder's mother died on Friday, and then I had to fly to 
Greenwich. . ."

	A heavy pause ensued as she returned back to that surreal day,
wondered what would have happened if she hadn't found that damn letter 
in a box. The answer was easy: her partner would be here, neither of 
them would have anything to hide, and they would probably be safely 
investigating some evil spores from another planet. She should have 
burned it and scattered the ashes at sea.

	Wishful thinking, no less.

	"Did you speak with Agent Mulder today? He was in such a hurry,
sounded as if he was in some sort of a hostage negotiation. . ." 
Andrew asked curiously and noted that her cool mask dropped for a 
second.

	"Yes, in Baltimore," her voice felt scratchy in her throat.

	"I think I saw it on the news. The guy claims to have been 
abducted by aliens, he has sarin attached to himself and twenty-four 
kids holed up in a classroom. You know, if it wasn't so sad, it would 
be funny," Andrew smiled, realizing too late what effect this news 
had on Scully. She jumped to look for a remote, gripped her desk 
tightly as the room appeared to spin for a moment. Attempted to steady 
herself as her thumb hastily tried to find the power button.

	Alarmed, Andrew watched her search for CNN. "Agent Scully, I'm
sure he's all right."

	Her lips pressed in a thin line, she listened to the news 
report, concentrating her attention on it fully. Understanding that 
his presence in the room was no longer desired -- or even noticed, 
for that matter, Andrew excused himself. 

	For some reason that he still couldn't quite pin down, the 
entire situation with Sheila was now more disquieting than ever. He 
could not imagine Fox Mulder involved in anyone's kidnapping.

	And still, he had the nasty feeling that maybe Sheila was not 
mistaken.

* * *

	On the way back to the classroom, Mulder hurriedly read over 
the newspaper headline and an article he wrote about an hour ago and 
that was hastily printed by one of the newspapers whose reporters were 
standing outside. For once, he was happy to have media nearby, though 
as they read his story about the government's alliance with aliens and 
experimentation on human subjects, they must have thought him insane. 
Peterson only shook his head, resigned. Mulder couldn't care less.

	The "antidote" was the easiest part, just a mixture of some 
strong sleeping pills and food colorings to make it look exotic. The 
agent raised the vial to the light, chuckled at the greenish swirls 
in the thick fluid.

	Now, he only had to keep VJ from crashing the packages with 
sarin once he hit the ground, stone-cold.

	If only he could trust himself to do it.

	Taking a deep breath, Mulder knocked on the door once again. VJ
regarded him coolly, took the offered vial and the newspaper in silence
and started reading under the dim illumination provided by the 
streetlight.

	"Are you satisfied, VJ?" the agent asked quietly. "The whole
country has just been taken by storm. I am sorry that we don't have a
TV in here or you would see some interesting news."

	The terrorist continued to read. "So you believe me."

	"Of course I do. I have been investigating these shadowy 
dealings for a long time, and I should probably thank you for 
providing me such a great opportunity to sink my teeth into those 
bastards," Mulder replied with enthusiasm, getting into the role, 
hearing Peterson's happy, excited whisper in the ear piece. "I wasn't 
sure it would work when I left here, but. . . Doesn't it make you 
proud that you live in the country where children's lives still mean 
more than the cover-up of lies?"

	VJ stared at the vial. "I am going to live if I drink that?"

	Mulder nodded, smiling. "I was assured of that. I do want to 
ask you, though -- how did you know about me?"

	VJ dug into his jeans pocket, produced a picture and handed it 
to the agent. "That you, right? One friend of mine told me you could 
help me, man. That you would believe me and I could get my life back."

	Mulder shuddered visibly at the touch of reverence in his 
voice, wondering who led this madman to him and how exactly he got 
such peculiar reputation. Glanced at the unnaturally silent hostages 
huddled close together. "Drink it, VJ. Let's see some magic."

	"All right. But. . ." the thin man staggered in the direction 
of the kids. "I want one of them to drink it first, you know? I trust 
you, man, but I want to try it on someone else, first."

	Mulder quickly evaluated his options, watching as VJ lifted up
one of the girls who immediately started squirming. The worst that 
could happen was she would fall asleep -- but VJ would still drink it,
unsuspecting the foul play. "All right. Let me hold her," Mulder heard 
the words tumble out of his mouth, and for a split second wondered
what part of him made the decision. Took the child in his hands 
automatically.

	He almost fell over from the scream he heard in his ear in the 
next moment. Someone, not Peterson, but another voice, someone he 
didn't know was telling him not to let the child drink the medicine, 
that it was poison, and that VJ was supposed to die. Mulder released 
the screaming girl and grabbed for the vial, registering the look of 
betrayal on the other man's face. The shards of glass, covered with 
the thick fluid, lay everywhere on the floor.

	VJ reached into his pocket again and produced a small gray 
pill, swallowing it with the speed of a magician, but his other hand 
did not quite complete the way to opening the package with sarin. The 
agent caught the convulsing body half-way to the floor, shielding the 
poison gas, comprehension of today's events dawning slowly.

	He didn't want to believe that he has been manipulated so well.
Once again, he had served as a mere pawn in the carefully orchestrated 
operation.

	In several minutes, an EMT was prying the dead man out of
Mulder's hands, and the children were crying in the background. Their
teacher, alternating between laughter and tears, was trying to hug him
and he responded weakly, shaking Peterson's hand at the same time.  
Red and blue whites washed over everything as he numbly crossed 
the street from the school.  Reporters yelled at him from far away, and
in the distance, the body of Vernon John Fulsom was being taken to
the Baltimore city morgue.

	It was all over.

	But how could he begin to explain that he was the only person 
to blame for this incident?

* * *

	The X-Files office was still locked at eleven in the morning, 
and Scully reached in her bag for the keys, exhaustion overwhelming 
her for a moment. Watching the coverage from Baltimore on TV, alone 
in the cramped basement, was too unnerving, the recollections of Duane 
Barry were too fresh, and since she was unable to reach either the 
negotiations center or Mulder's cellular, she decided to stop 
torturing herself and simply drove there.

	Scully arrived just in time to see the children being 
dispatched to their parents, situation apparently resolved. Adding to 
the general atmosphere of tumult and celebration was a crowd of 
reporters, TV cameras, and flashing lights that seemed to grow 
exponentially. The live wall that they created was nearly impossible 
to get through, but soon she realized that she didn't have to, 
because the only person the media seemed to be focused on was the one 
she was desperately searching for. Mulder.

	He didn't see her, and Scully stepped back immediately,
searching for a quiet place to wait them out, too aware of the desire 
to touch her partner and make sure he was alive. Leaning against the 
wall, she watched the police and FBI agents slowly disperse. The 
lights of ambulances, TV cameras and headlights of the passing cars 
washed the beige school building in grotesque colors. A bad place, 
thought Scully, come on in and smell the nerve gas.

	She watched casually as a well-dressed older gentleman spoke 
with another man. He turned momentarily, revealing his profile, and 
Scully's hands grew cold as she put the name, James Milton, with the 
face of a man who warned her of impending danger when Mulder was 
missing. On the way to a limousine, after saying good-byes, the other 
man threw a brief look at Scully, recognition but no light in the pale 
eyes. And she could only gaze at the departing car, wondering why a 
complete stranger recognized her while she could not recall ever 
meeting him.

	Before James Milton noticed her, Scully went back to her car 
and put the keys in ignition. This hostage negotiation was somehow 
connected to the Consortium, she had absolutely no doubt about it now, 
and the realization chilled her to the bone, made her teeth chatter as 
she pulled the coat around her tighter, turned on the heat in the car 
with shaking fingers. Did Mulder know about it? During his early 
morning phone call, was he aware that twenty-four children were 
placed in danger simply on someone's whim?

        The answers eluded her, and much as she wanted to believe in
her partner's ignorance, the doubt weighed massively on her heart. Her
shivers gradually subsided as the colorful crowd of reporters melted. 
From afar, Mulder looked bone-weary and yet he produced a pleasant 
smile while walking up to the Englishman and shaking his hand briefly. 
And though his eyes tracked over the remaining people, as if searching 
for someone else, Scully knew that she could not risk walking up to 
him at this moment. And even if she could, she wasn't sure if she had 
the strength to face him right now.

	She knew that she would not be able to close her eyes later in 
the night as her unwilling hands moved to start the engine. And she 
knew that the cellular phone would remain frustratingly silent all 
night long, because he wouldn't call, and she would be too proud to 
dial the familiar number.

	Now, after a sleepless night, she was late for work, where the 
empty desk greeted her again. And Scully was very grateful that there 
was no one who saw her face in that moment, when she could literally 
feel the walls close in on her.

	On the desk, she found a note asking her to run the analysis 
on some gray pills stuffed in a cellophane bag. For some reason, that 
little thing, the impersonal request hastily scribbled on a piece of 
paper, was the final drop that broke the dam, and  Scully sat down 
heavily, all her anguish and loneliness pouring out in a flood of 
tears. This is how Mulder must have felt when he met Samantha, she 
realized with a start. It must have killed him that she was alive, 
healthy, but as unreachable as the stars in the sky.

	Hating herself for being melodramatic, she wiped the tears off 
angrily. There was no reason to get so worked up over this, she told 
herself sternly as she grabbed the pills on the way to the lab.

	But suddenly, Scully knew exactly why the findings on 
Cancerman's blood group surprised her. Samantha's group was 00. She 
remembered it perfectly as one of the few pieces of information they 
had gotten on her during the Roche case. Just another atrocity 
embedded in her dreams, digging through the dirt with her bare hands 
and watching her partner rapidly disintegrate before her very eyes, 
one shred of his heart after another.

	Cancerman had lied. Samantha was not his daughter.

* * *

	The VCS department was alive with chatter and gossip today, and
Andrew did not have to guess the topic of the conversation. A tired 
face of Fox Mulder smiled at him from the morning newspaper, the 
headline above it proclaimed: "FBI AGENT SAVES LIVES." Andrew stared 
at the picture for a long time, searching the familiar face, 
imagining that there was pain and resignation hidden behind the 
courteous smile. Mulder was an enigma that only seemed to grow more 
puzzling with time.

	And Winters was still very interested in Sheila Freeman's 
reaction to his voice.

	Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and the young agent 
turned around, startled.

	"Agent Winters, may I speak with you for a moment?" Dean 
Douglas greeted him warmly.

	"Sure," Andrew tried to gather the manila folders and books 
off the extra chair in his cubicle, but gave up when he understood 
that he had nowhere else to put them. "What's going on?"

	"I just spoke with the newly appointed Assistant Director," 
Douglas said slowly, as if doubting that the conversation actually 
took place. Since he had seen  the pictures of Walter Skinner holding 
a gun that shot Henry Davidson, the changes at work just kept on 
coming, and few of them were for the best. "He would like to request 
your services in another department."

	"A transfer?" the young man echoed softly, dismay reflecting 
on his face when his boss confirmed. "Where?"

	"Actually, you might find this new assignment interesting -- 
though a bit peculiar," Douglas replied, his own disappointment at 
losing one of the best agents in the department apparent. "Have you 
heard of the X-Files?"

	Andrew just stared, shocked. "But. . . Agent Mulder. . ."

	"Is the new Assistant Director. Most of it is good publicity, 
I think, and Director Robinson was quite in favor of his candidature," 
Douglas shrugged and exited the small cubicle, leaving his agent 
open-mouthed.

* * *

	Scully sat in the large fifth-floor office and gazed outside at
the impressive view of Washington D.C. downtown. Across the table sat 
her partner -- ex-partner, her mind corrected mechanically -- and she 
has just realized that addressing him by the simple name of Mulder 
was improper conduct.

	"I was trying to find you last night," she finally said, 
deciding to avoid names or titles for now.

	"So was I," he replied colorlessly, still hurt by her absence 
even as he realized the lack of rationalism in that feeling. Because 
after walking out of that stuffy classroom, the only person he wanted 
to see was Scully. And the only one he didn't want to see was Milton. 

	"I was there," she mouthed softly and turned away, realizing 
that this conversation would probably be as pointless as every other 
conversation that didn't transpire on the newsgroup. It made her 
throat constrict with the unshed tears, and she struggled to maintain 
her composure.

	Mulder's eyes darkened as he watched her upset face, suddenly 
understanding the reasons why he didn't see her last night. "Oh, 
screw this," he muttered under breath and pulled his chair from behind 
the desk, putting it next to Scully's. At least physically, they were 
now on the same level. "Did you find out what the pills were?"

	"Cyanide," she replied, seemingly unimpressed with his gesture.
"Where did they come from?"

	"VJ swallowed one yesterday. I am pretty sure he didn't know 
what it was. They were always in his pocket -- he was planning on 
using them in case he decided to dispense with the kids."

	"He thought it was an antidote to sarin, didn't he?" Scully
instantly regretted the question, watching as Mulder stiffened and 
chewed his lower lip. "May I perform the autopsy?"

	"Military is handling it," he replied quickly, if gently, 
signaling that this conversation was over. Whoever staged this hostage 
charade at the Consortium certainly liked drama, he thought 
sarcastically -- even VJ's death had to resemble Duane Barry's. A sick 
man who blabbered a little too much about the Gulf War and aliens had 
been cruelly manipulated to commit suicide.  Twenty four children and 
a young woman had been put in danger, two children still in hospital 
-- all of them fighting night terrors. While he, Scully, and hundreds 
of other law enforcement officials had to go through the 
adrenaline-fed hell that came with a hostage negotiation.
	
	All to gain some publicity and have an opportunity to promote 
him.

	On the other hand, Mulder already guessed who staged this
charade. He just had to confirm it.

	"I was worried about you yesterday," Scully's voice broke and 
she was finally embarrassingly aware of the wetness in her eyes. It 
seemed as if every little hitch today had suddenly gained the ability 
to make her cry.  "I was watching CNN coverage from Baltimore. . . 
and I could not reach you."

	Mulder shaded his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry, Scully. 
I never had an opportunity to call you and let you know what was 
going on."

	"I understand. You are a busy man these days, aren't you?" 
her voice held no trace of sarcasm but he flinched as if burnt.

	Scully scolded herself mentally. She was behaving like a 
child. There was no reason to start fighting now. She had to maintain 
the belief that everything could still get back to normal.

	The onerous silence was disrupted by Andrew Winters who 
addressed Mulder deferentially and nodded to Scully politely. In turn, 
she smiled slightly and threw a puzzled look at the newly appointed 
Assistant Director.

	"Agent Winters, due to my changed position," Mulder shrugged
self-consciously, "I was hoping you wouldn't mind working as Agent 
Scully's partner from now on. You are already working with her on 
Davidson's murder, after all."  And I know that you are honest and I 
can trust you, he added silently. Acknowledging that he had to prove 
that he was happy with his present position at the Consortium, but 
that he was worried about Scully, Winters' assignment was the best 
compromise Mulder could think of on the fly.  He gazed knowingly at 
Scully as he spoke.  "The cases that come to the X-Files department 
may be bizarre at times, but even a skeptic like her could not resist 
their appeal."

	Scully had to smile at that, much as her heart ached at
the notion of working with someone else. Mulder was watching her with a
plea in his eyes, and she nodded back slightly, accepting his decision. She
put on her most gracious expression and smiled at Winters. "Well, I can 
promise you will enjoy the mind-bending surprises of working with 
ghosts and mutants."

	"I would be honored," Winters said simply to Scully, 
pretending not to notice the strain in her voice. "Though I regret 
leaving Violent Crimes."

	That was only partly true, the young agent amended silently. 
The job of profiling was often too much to bear, and the new 
assignment was seductive. However, he still hoped that it was not... 
permanent.

	Mulder looked at him, trying to hide his surprise, remembering 
his own joy when he left the department. "Well, perhaps, you will have 
a chance to return there," he replied. Along those wishful lines, 
Mulder wondered if Skinner would ever return to the chair he was 
sitting in now.  If Mulder would ever get possession of the X-Files 
again.  And if, when he could finally gather enough courage to 
apologize, Scully would forgive him for everything he had done since 
that fateful day at the corner diner.  

	Scully rose to her feet reluctantly. "Agent Winters, if you 
come with me, I will try to welcome you. . . to our basement."

	The young man accepted the offer with a gracious smile, 
appreciating his new partner's humor. 

	"Are there any new developments in Davidson's case?" Mulder
interjected quickly, cursing himself for the emotional inflection in 
his voice. The first court hearing was scheduled for tomorrow, and he 
shuddered imagining himself in Skinner's situation. Because from
where he stood, there were only a few steps to where Skinner was 
standing right now. 

	"No, but... Cancerman's blood was AB. What was Samantha's?" 
Scully watched as her ex-partner's eyes widened in shock, while Andrew 
was busy trying to comprehend the meaning behind the cryptic message.

	"Thank you," he said dully. "Please tell me if you find 
something else."

	Scully swallowed the automatic formal reply before it had a 
chance to leave her lips and suddenly at a loss for other words, 
produced a shaky smile instead.

	Mulder got up and opened the door for them silently.

	And the way from the Assistant Director's office to downstairs 
had never seemed quite as long.

* * *

	Miller was playing chess alone when Mulder stepped into his 
office. He often started a game in between sessions with his patients, 
and many years of practice made him an expert in this ancient art. 
Now, if he moved a Queen to B-6, whites would have a chance at taking 
a few more pieces. . .

	"If you move a Queen there, the whites will lose."

	"Fox, I didn't even see you come in here," Miller extended a 
hand to him. "I am just indulging myself with my little hobby."

	"I can finish this game for blacks, if you like," Mulder 
offered and the doctor almost clapped his hands in delight.

	"Be my guest! It has been awhile since I've had a chess 
partner," Miller reviewed his position carefully and moved a Queen to 
a different place. "You were right."

	Mulder shrugged and moved a pawn. "It was your idea to use
VJ for publicity, wasn't it?" The question sounded more like a 
statement. It took all of his powers of concentration not to scream 
at the man in front of him, not to unleash all the fury within his 
heart.

	The doctor threw an admiring look at his opponent. "Yes. Based 
on the information we had in his file, he fit the criteria, and he 
served his purpose nicely, wouldn't you say?"

	"Why didn't you inform me of this?"

	Miller shook his head, reviewing the chess board. "Oh, but I 
knew you would be against it from the start. You just do not know how 
to use people. No, that's not it. . ." he wrinkled his forehead, 
searching for proper words. "You don't realize that some people only 
serve as a means to an end. I knew you would behave in a certain way, 
and I knew he would behave in a certain way. I was not the one who 
took care of the rest of the details, such as supplying him with 
sarin, pills, and. . . a few ideas on how to utilize them. And we do 
have other people in the FBI and police who can be counted upon to 
lend us a hand."

	"It was almost perfect."

	"Well, some things we can't predict. But either way it worked 
out fine," Miller smiled with satisfaction, oblivious to Mulder's 
deceptively soft voice.

	For a moment, the agent was torn -- one part of him shuddering 
at the cold dismissal of a human life, another applauding the man
whose psychological expertise was the key to a successful staging of
Baltimore drama. "Was he really dying?"

	"Who knows? The effects of this weapon are still largely 
unknown. Personally, I am not aware of the lethal cases of the Gulf 
War Syndrome. . . it is all in a dosage, I suppose."

	Another piece of a puzzle fell into place. Biological weapons 
of extraterrestrial nature would certainly be considered a worthy 
benefit from Rousch's experimentation -- all in the name of democracy 
and safety of the American public, no doubt. He wondered what other 
parts there were to the project that he wasn't aware of.

	"Eventually, you will understand the large picture, Fox," 
Miller answered his silent question. "But you have not been long 
enough with this organization yet for us to trust you implicitly. 
To this end, I must commend the fact that you have immediately paired 
Agent Scully with someone else. What's in the past. . ."

	Mulder laughed uneasily. "I would be a fool to pretend that it
didn't kill me inside, Miller," he moved another piece lazily and 
looked at his opponent perceptively. "If you know me that well, you 
must also know how much she means to me."

	"I do. We all have our weaknesses, and Agent Scully is yours," 
the old doctor sounded oddly sympathetic. "I used to have a son. He 
was my weakness. His mother abandoned me when he was very small, and 
he and I, having no one else, were as close as two human beings can 
be, until he became ill. Leukemia," Miller pronounced the word with a 
touch of fear. "I would have done anything to make him better, and at 
the time Rousch was working on a cure for it. I think it was a side 
product of something else, but no matter. That is when your father 
asked me to join the organization."

	"My father?" Mulder echoed, his pulse accelerating immediately.
"Did you know him well?" before firing off another question, he stopped
himself with an apology. "Forgive me for interrupting."

	"It's all right," Miller waved a hand. "We used to work 
together, but we were never friends. I am grateful to him even though 
my son died before we had medicine that could heal him. Time, Fox, is 
merciless. And you never have enough," he finished in a whisper.

	Mulder watched the sadness and longing in the older man's face 
and felt his anger drain away slowly, only to be replaced with 
sympathy. He could identify -- oh, so well -- with everything that 
Miller related, remembering his own despair when Scully became ill. 
And if the only way to cure his son was to start working for the 
Consortium, then it was the only way and he had to take it.

	Because there, indeed, was never enough time.

	Getting a handle on his strangely changed feelings toward the
doctor, Mulder cornered the white King with a black Knight. "You lose, 
and I have an appointment. Later," he spoke lightly and stepped out 
of the room.

	Miller smiled excitedly, looking at the board. What a 
beautifully executed victory, he thought. It was hardly surprising, 
however, that the bright boy he used to know had become a brilliant 
man.

	He only wished that this brilliance was enough to decipher 
whatever message it was that Bill Mulder left in a letter to his son.

	Mulder leaned against the white wall and stared at the 
blinding light overhead until he felt tears burn in his eyes. The game 
was easy. The conversation extracted an unimaginable toll. He wished 
that this building, these people he worked with now could just 
disappear, that he could just shrug them off like a nightmare that 
disintegrates in the sunlight of the morning, leaving no recollection 
of its events. Perhaps, he could get Miller to erase his memory of 
the time he spent here, he thought with mounting hysteria. Then, if 
Scully asked him where he spent all this time away from the office, 
and ask she would, and soon, he could just tell her that he did 
not remember.

	It would be so perfect.

	At the sound of approaching footsteps, Mulder slowly regained 
his focus, reminding himself that seriously entertaining such thoughts 
were a one way ticket to a straight jacket and padded walls.  So the 
Consortium kept files on the people they were interested in.  Probably 
on everyone who has ever been taken or experimented upon. He didn't 
know why it should have surprised him so, or why he didn't think to 
look for them previously. It would only be natural to look for them 
now. 

	To look for a folder labeled Samantha Mulder.

	And even though she didn't want to know him, even if she had no 
desire to learn the truth about herself -- he still wanted to know the 
truth about what happened to her.

	Even if he never saw her again.

End of Part 2/4