TITLE: Collapse AUTHOR: Elanor G E-MAIL: ElanorG@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/ElanorG DISTRIBUTION: I'd be thrilled - please email me! SPOILERS: a kind of post-ep for all things CLASSIFICATION: X-File KEYWORDS: MSR, Angst DISCLAIMER: The X-Files is the property of Chris Carter, Fox, et al. I'm writing this simply to amuse myself - and a few others, I hope. SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully investigate a group suicide with cult overtones - but things may not be what they seem. As they race to prevent more deaths, Scully searches for the truth behind her vision in the Buddhist temple, and Mulder confront some of his own inner demons. Author's notes at the end. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Prologue Scully wakes from fitful sleep to find herself curled on Mulder's leather couch. She blinks into the darkness for a few moments, trying to remember why she is here. Then as her eyes grow used to the faint light she sees the mugs on the coffee table. She straightens up and looks at the clock, wincing a little at the time. It all comes back to her then, the rush of images and experiences from the temple downtown. The dream, the vision, the hallucination... whatever it was, the feeling is still there, still under her skin. The door to Mulder's bedroom is slightly ajar. A thin stream of light shoots out into the dark. Scully studies the light for a moment, thinking of infinite possibilities. Thinking of how the act of observation alters the thing observed, reducing the infinite to the one. The idea had always mildly intrigued her, ever since her brief introduction to quantum mechanics back in undergrad physics. Lately she finds herself turning the concepts over and over in her head, seeing them in an altogether new way. With an inward smile Scully thinks of Colleen. Maybe she'll call her again soon. She was a physicist, and yet she so like her sister. So like Melissa. Maybe she would understand. Scully stands, a little stiff from her impromptu nap, and pads toward the light in her stockinged feet. Mulder looks up from his book as she enters the room. "Surprised to see you up," he says. "You were out like a light." He sets Bullfinch's Mythology on his bedside table and gives her a small warm smile. Gingerly she sits on the end of his bed. "Sorry. It's been a long day." "I know it has." Mulder swings his long legs over the edge of the bed so he can sit next to her. He has changed into sweats and a t-shirt and Scully envies his comfort. For a minute neither speaks. "Well," Scully says at last. "It's late." "Yeah, it is late." "I should be going." She looks up at his loved familiar face. "Thank you." "For what?" he asks, his smile briefly confused. "For listening to me." "Oh. Well. It was my pleasure." He runs a hand through his spiky hair, a gesture that typically means he doesn't quite know what else to do with his hands. He's close to her now, his shoulder a few inches from hers. He looks at her face, then at his bare feet resting on the floor, then back to her face. "Thank you for the tea." "My pleasure." Another silence. Hesitantly Scully rests her hand on top of his. She talked so much earlier this evening that now she feels drained of language. She has begun to doubt the efficacy of words anyway - it's another thing that she's pondered over the past few days. "Thank you, Mulder," she says again. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning." She tilts her head up to give him a swift chaste goodnight kiss. She can't reach his forehead so she settles for his cheek, close to the corner of his wide expressive mouth. But she makes no move to go. And in that moment Scully feels the thing between them change. The simple warm comfort that they have derived from each other's physical presence for years is subtly transformed into something thick and strange, elastic like taffy or molasses. "I'll see you in the morning, then," Mulder repeats. His changing eyes are dark in the dimly lit room. He bends down to return the kiss and briefly catches her lips with his. He pulls back, barely. "It's late. I really should be going," Scully murmurs close to his mouth. "Definitely," he answers. For an instant they are frozen, suspended. The thing between them is pulled until it is infinitesimally thin, stretched to the point of breaking. Mulder touches her face with light fingertips and kisses her again, lips meeting slowly and deliberately. And as she reaches up to touch him, she hears the small voice remind her: Remember the last time you did this with someone you loved. Remember how much pain it caused. But Mulder pulls her close, his strong arms around her waist, and she slides her hands up his back. And she begins to forget. She wraps him around her like a blanket and he shakes in her arms. And for a time she forgets. The warm soft night passes, breaking into cool morning. At first light Scully dresses and leaves, mildly terrified that this new weakness might be held against them. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx One week later Mulder picks his way through the crowds of onlookers and DC police. Yellow crime scene tape flutters in the breeze. 37th Street is blocked off to traffic; curious neighbors stand in small clumps, too well-bred to truly gawk. The simple Burleith rowhouse is two blocks from Georgetown University, not far from Scully's place. It has the slightly shabby look of a student group house, like so many in this neighborhood. As Mulder approaches the house one of the officers steps forward. His dark pockmarked face is weary. "Sorry sir..." he begins, but stops when Mulder shows his badge. The officer lifts the tape and Mulder stoops underneath. In the bare living room he pauses. The bodies were removed some time ago but the feel of death still lies heavy over the place. Mulder absorbs every detail of his surroundings: the layout of the room; the scratches on the wood floor; the placement of the bodies marked with white tape. Here in this nondescript space six people swallowed poison from Dixie cups. Here five people died silent deaths. The sixth lies in a coma at Georgetown Medical Center - it is very unlikely that she will ever wake up again. Except for her, all the victims have been identified. All were people in their 20s and 30s. No rugs, no furniture. But on the south wall someone has drawn a bewildering design of shapes, symbols, and equations in black marker. One sentence is scrawled near the floor: "Everything that can occur will occur." This is why they were called in, then. Early this morning Skinner summoned Mulder and Scully to his office. He was as impassive as always, but his eyes were strained and exhausted. One of the dead is Jason Kerr, youngest son of Senator Kerr from Maryland. Skinner ordered Mulder and Scully to offer their "extraordinary expertise" - Skinner's words - to this investigation. There is nothing extraordinary about this, Mulder thinks cynically. But a grief-stricken family wants answers and is using their power and influence to find out why this happened. As if knowing why will help. He stands and stares at the wall, memories flooding him. He remembers stepping into a dusty secret room in Apison, Tennessee, full of bodies, people dead by their own hand. He remembers the crushing knowledge that they were too late, that *he* was too late, that his self-indulgence had cost these people their lives. Scully steps into the house now and she is a refreshing vision, briefly lifting his heart. Ever since that night she has achieved an unflappable serenity. As if that strange soft night never happened, that night exactly one week ago when he looked up from his book to find her sitting and yawning at the foot of his bed. How can she be so calm and self-contained, he wonders. How can she. Mulder finds it both gratifying and unnerving. Sometimes he wants to shake her, make her understand that the universe contracted and expanded in the space of one night, make her feel the keen ache beneath his skin. When can I have you again, Scully, he wants to ask. Just tell me and you can take anything you want. But in the meantime there is still this job to do. Mulder looks at her expectantly and Scully hands him a file. "Atropine," she says. "A derivative of the belladonna plant. The DC Coroner's office has only completed two autopsies but I think we'll find the same thing in all of them." She shakes her head. "It's amazing that the sixth victim is even alive. I don't think she can survive much longer." Mulder flips through the file and looks at the photos of the scene before the bodies were taken away. They lie on the wood floor as if napping. Their Dixie cups rest innocuously beside them. "So it's confirmed that they ingested it?" Scully winces. "Mixed in Sunny Delight." Mulder winces in turn. "That's just awful. Doesn't explain this, though." He points to a photo of a body, this time a close-up. "That doesn't account for the needle marks." "No, it doesn't" says Scully, standing close to him and looking at the photo with him. "No signs of drug abuse, besides these needle marks. Nothing from the blood work so far, except for the atropine." Mulder hands the file back to her. "Let's take a look around." They start to explore the rest of the house. There isn't much to see. The tiny galley kitchen is bare, with only a few dishes and a stale box of corn flakes in one cabinet. Upstairs, the bedrooms are empty except for mattresses and sleeping bags. A few clothes and shoes are scattered pathetically on the floor. "Not exactly living in luxury," says Scully. "Nope," agrees Mulder. They pause in the grimy bathroom. A few towels hang from the rack on the door. "This is where they found the syringes. Anything on those?" A bottle of bleach sits under the sink. Scully pokes at it with her toe. "So far that's the only substance they've been able to identify. Looks like they used it to sterilize the needles." "Suicidal, but at least they were hygienic," says Mulder. They go back downstairs, their footsteps loud and echoing in the empty house. Back in the living room they stop in front of the marked-up wall. They puzzle over it for a few minutes. "What do you make of this, Scully?" Mulder asks at last. "Does any of this make any sense at all? Some of this looks like real math to me, real physics, but the rest looks like gibberish." Scully frowns as she scans the equations on the wall. "I remember some of this from school, but this...this is way, way over my head." Mulder crouches down next to the wall. "'Everything that can occur will occur,'" he reads. "Gee, that's deep." He chews his lip, studying the black thick lines, storing the information away for future reference. "Jason Kerr was a physics grad student at Maryland before he dropped out last year. His name is on the lease to the house. He must have been the one who wrote all this." "I don't think any of the others had enough background to write this, much less understand it," Scully says. Mulder straightens up and sighs. "Why are we here, Scully?" "Isn't that usually my line?" "There's not much left for us to do here. This isn't an X-File. Just a group of deluded, sick people who decided this was the only way out." He moves to look out the living room window at the bright deceptive day. "But, hey, there's weird stuff written on the wall. Better call in that weird little basement division. Make the Spookies earn their pay." Scully purses her lips in disapproval and moves behind him so she can look out the window too. For a moment they stand in silence. "Skinner was under the impression it was a cult," she says. "I know. It certainly has all the classic signs of an apocalyptic cult: the Spartan living arrangements, the writing on the wall. The way the victims cut off contact with their friends and families." "And so there could be more members. And more deaths." That's why they're here. Mulder stares unseeing out the window, thinking of a dusty room full of bodies. He tries to ignore the small hard kernel of dread forming in his gut. "I know. That's what I'm afraid of." XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Later that morning, at Georgetown Medical Center, Scully studies the unknown woman's chart. "Jane Doe" is printed in tidy letters at the top. No ID, no fingerprints on file, no matches yet to any missing person report. No idea who this woman is, how she came to that shabby townhouse, why she tried to take her own life. Scully replaces the chart next to the door and peers through the window at Jane Doe. Her small figure is barely visible, bristling with tubes and wires. Scully can make out blond hair and fair skin and little else. The smell of hospital is strong - the sinister tang of disinfectant and cleansers masking the sour human smells beneath. Scully feels rather than hears Mulder come behind her. Awareness of his physical presence comes over her like a rush - this past week she has found herself reacting to him in the most inappropriate ways, at the most inappropriate times. Like now. Small things trip it off: the way his voice sounds when he says certain words, his swift smile, an innocent touch of his hand. His warm hands... But with effort she tamps it down. It has to be kept secret, hidden, private - there is too much at stake. "What did they find?" Mulder asks. "She's like the others," Scully replies. She turns to look at him. His face is distracted, edgy in a way she can't quite put her finger on. "Nothing in her system but the atropine. But she has those track marks on her upper arms." "One of the DC detectives thought we should distribute her photo to local TV," he says. "So her family could see her on WJLA when they tune in for the weather report." "That's the worst idea I've heard in a long time." Mulder replies with a faint, cynical grin. "And that's saying something." She turns back to the window, looking again at Jane Doe. She has a better view of her face now. "I doubt anyone would recognize her anyway, the way she is now," she says. And as Scully watches, the woman's features take on a familiar edge. There is something she recognizes in the sickly, swollen face, something recent, just outside her grasp. Scully blinks, and Jane Doe is a stranger again. She turns back to Mulder to find him giving her a searching, concerned look. He must have seen the brief uncertainty and astonishment that crossed her face. "You okay?" he asks, his tone concerned. "Yeah, I just...for a moment I thought I recognized her. She reminded me of someone. But I don't see it anymore." Mulder studies Scully until she lowers her eyes. "Ready to go?" he asks at last. I'm imagining things, Scully thinks. It's only been a week, after all. "Let's get this over with," she says. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx The drive out of the city is quiet. Tired and distracted, Mulder stares ahead at the road as he thinks about the families of the dead. He's seen it before, he knows it too well. Some will be in denial; some will be overwhelmed with grief and rage. All of them left with unanswered questions and staggering guilt. If only we listened to him. If only we were more supportive. If only I had spoken to her that night and not hung up then maybe she would still be alive. Mulder's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Why. Always the question why. There is never a reason that makes any sense. He glances briefly at Scully as she watches the creeping tendrils of suburbia pass out the window. Ever since the hospital she has been distant and thoughtful. Her clear eyes are troubled. "What did these people have in common, Scully?" he asks suddenly. "What brought them together?" Scully turns toward him. "Well, they were all young, first of all. Between the ages of 19 and 32. Intelligent. Educated. A background in the sciences." Mulder nods. Besides Kerr, and the Jane Doe, there was Lisa Spataro, a systems analyst for a local defense contractor; Eric Robelais, an engineering student and former National Merit Scholar who dropped out of Howard; Joseph Rinn, a statistician with an MS in mathematics who worked at the National Institute of Standards and Technology. And there was Christopher Scott, a researcher at NIH - he had most likely been the one who obtained the atropine. "They were all smart, successful people," continues Scully. "From everything we've heard, they all apparently just dropped out of life. They abruptly stopped going to work and school, they moved and left nearly all of their possessions behind." They stop at a red light and Mulder chews on a fingernail thoughtfully. "I don't know, Scully. They don't fit the profile of cult members. Not really." Scully gives him a quick look and he stops chewing. "Earlier you said they did." "Their *behavior* did - the way they dropped out and abandoned their jobs and families. But they don't fit the profile of people vulnerable to that kind of influence. I don't know why. But I'm starting to think that this *isn't* a cult, not in the traditional sense anyway." "But Jason Kerr's at the heart of it," says Scully. "He's the best place to start, anyway," answers Mulder as they turn onto a long driveway flanked by bare elms. Long green lawns slope away from the house, bordered by crisp white fences. Screens of trees hide the houses from each other and the road, preserving the illusion that they are in the countryside and not just in a suburb of Washington, however luxurious it may be. A thick-set man wearing a security wire in his ear meets them at the door and wordlessly inspects their badges. With a nod he leads them through a grand hallway. Mulder looks up, taking in wide sweeping stairs and a chandelier and 19th-century oils. An elegant facsimile of old wealth. The man ushers them into a book-lined room that they probably call the study. "The Senator will be here shortly," he says as he pulls the door shut behind him. Mulder paces, inspecting the room while Scully looks out the window. Horses graze in the distance. "Tasteful, yet elegant," says Mulder. He stops in front of a corner table covered with photos. A large one in front shows young man with a lean face and a struggling beard, a shy and earnest smile. "Jason," says Mulder, and Scully comes next to him to look. Nothing to suggest that a few years later he would drink poison along with five other people. No sign of that stranger peers from this innocuous face. The door opens again and Senator Kerr walks in, heels tapping on the hardwood floor. "Agents. Thank you for coming." She is a small, straight woman, refined and poised and coiffed even in grief. Beneath the well- manicured exterior is a tough shrewdness that shows in her eyes and her surprisingly deep voice. They shake hands. "My colleague Senator Matheson speaks very highly of you, Agent Mulder. He has always been a strong supporter of you and your...projects. You have quite a reputation." There's absolutely no right way to respond to this. "Thank you for seeing us today, Senator," says Scully, and Mulder is relieved and grateful. "We're very sorry for your loss. We hope we won't take up to much of your time." "You can best help me with my loss by helping me understand what happened," she replies crisply. "Please have a seat." They settle in a cluster of chairs close to a heavy fireplace. The thick-man returns soundlessly, carrying a coffee service on a tray. "Tell us about your son, Senator," Mulder says after he leaves. She tells them about Jason, about the awards and the scholarships, the degree from Duke and the fellowship at the University of Maryland. Then she hesitates as she comes to the difficult part of the story. "And then there was this past year. It's all been bewildering," she says. "After Thanksgiving, he began to avoid us. He stopped returning our calls. He quit school and he moved out of his apartment and left his things behind. He wouldn't tell his friends anything. We hired a private detective to locate him and keep an eye on him. We found out where he moved - that rowhouse - but we had no idea what he was really doing or why. No idea." She sips on her coffee. "Our hands were tied. He is, he was a grown man and it was his life. I didn't think we could commit him against his will, anything drastic like that. There is no history of mental illness in this family," she adds firmly. Mulder nods, yes, of course. "The only thing to do was to wait out this phase and see if he came back to his senses." As they talk another man shuffles into the room. Tall and silver-haired and maybe once he could be described as distinguished. Now it's hard to look at him, at his crumpled face and sunken eyes. He drifts aimlessly around the study, picking up and rearranging objects, adjusting books. Scully and Mulder turn to watch him, but the Senator ignores him. Mulder turns back to Senator Kerr, taking a Polaroid photograph out of his pocket. It's the rowhouse wall, covered with markings. "I'd like you to look at something, if you're ready. This is what was found written on the wall of the house, in the living room." He does not add "Where your son's body was found." She nods curtly and takes the photo from Mulder's hand. She studies it for some time, her expression puckered and serious, then shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I don't understand any of it. It means nothing to me." This next part will be hard. "We think that Jason might have been the one who wrote all that," says Mulder. "What?" "Jason was the only physicist in the group, the only one with the background to even understand what these equations even mean." "Let me see if I understand you," says Senator Kerr after a long pause, and her clipped voice is thick with grief. "You think that my son wrote this, this stuff on the wall. You think this is Jason's fault. You think that my Jason was responsible for all of these people killing themselves." "No. I'm not saying that he's responsible for this tragedy, Senator," says Mulder carefully. His coffee lies untouched before him in a delicate bone china cup. "But I think if we can understand what we wrote, we can understand what happened." Senator Kerr turns the Polaroid of the townhouse wall over and over in her fine-boned hand. "Oh no. No, no. This is a completely unacceptable conclusion. He must have been forced to do this somehow. Coerced." "Senator Kerr...this is a very, very difficult thing to discuss, I know. But there are signs that Jason, and the rest of the victims, were involved in some kind of cult-like activity," says Mulder. "The way they were living...the way they dropped out of mainstream society and cut off contact with friends and family. But a lot of things just don't add up." In the brief silence that follows Mulder reaches for the coffee cup in front of him. "My son was certainly *not* in any sort of cult," Senator Kerr says. She fixes Mulder with a sudden knowing look. "But I suppose you would know, wouldn't you, Agent Mulder? You do have experience with this sort of thing. That whole disaster in Apison, Tennessee?" Mulder's hands feel suddenly huge and clumsy around the tiny fragile cup, and he sets it down before he snaps off the handle. The Senator evaluates Mulder with shrewd eyes. He resists the urge to squirm. "I served on the subcommittee that held hearings on the affair. From what I recall the whole operation was a botched job from beginning to end. Although from what I understand, Agent Mulder, it was doomed to failure long before you even became involved. You can hardly be blamed for the actions of people bent on destroying themselves." She leans back, glancing toward the window and the green view beyond. "Senator," says Scully, and Mulder is grateful again. "We're simply trying to explore every possibility here." Her voice is low and coaxing and infinitely understanding. "Does any of that hold any meaning for you, anything at all?" Senator Kerr looks one more time at the Polaroid and sighs. "You've come to the wrong place if you need an explanation of this," she says, putting the photo on the table. "It's Greek to me. His studies seemed very esoteric - he used terms like particles, quantum measurements. I never did understand it all. We supported him because it was his passion. That's all I ever wanted, really, was for him to follow his passion." "Why do you think he left school so abruptly last fall, then, if this was his passion?" asks Mulder. "I know that Jason's advisor died in a plane crash recently. Dr. ...Dr. Clegg," she says. "They were close, from what Jason told us. He was a brilliant man, apparently very well regarded in his field. Jason was withdrawn and moody at Thanksgiving. I assumed he was upset because of that. It wasn't like him - " "Oh please, Irene, he was moody and withdrawn long before that. On and off his whole life," says Mr. Kerr, speaking for the first time. They all start, having almost forgotten he was still in the room. "He was always like that. And we never did anything about it. He was depressed. It's obvious." Senator Kerr gives her husband a tight, angry look. "You'll have to forgive my husband. The shock's been too much for him. The sedative they're giving him is a little disorienting." "All right, Irene. We'll play that. I'm disoriented." Mr. Kerr turns to face Mulder and Scully. His eyes are fiercely bloodshot. "Jason was different from Irene and me and the other kids. Quiet, introspective. He was hard for us to understand. We never knew him. We never knew what the hell was going on with him." Tears are falling down his face. "And we'll never know why. Irene doesn't want to hear that, but we'll never know why. We'll be wondering the rest of our lives what more we could have done. Goddamn him for doing this to us," he says harshly. "Goddamn him." Senator Kerr stands. "Roger, that's enough." Mulder and Scully stand as well. "We can continue this another time," says Scully gently. "Goddamn him," says Mr. Kerr, shaking and weeping. His wife comes to him and takes his elbow. "Let's go upstairs, Roger." She glances at Mulder and Scully. Her control has slipped and her face is tired and suddenly very old. "I just want to know why. I don't want any other families to go through this." She turns away and guides her husband toward the grand, sweeping staircase, leaving Mulder and Scully to find their own way out of the big empty house. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Much, much too early on a gray damp morning and Scully is driving because she's more familiar with the Maryland campus. She finds a parking spot without much searching and soon they are heading toward the physics building. Mulder beside her has been silent and preoccupied ever since they left the Hoover building early this morning. Walking among the students, among the familiar stolid red brick structures of the campus, Scully can imagine herself a student here again, as if she never left. Back in that time when all those possibilities stretched endless in front of her. Or maybe it only seems that way through the thin film of nostalgia, she thinks. At the door to the department head's office, Scully hesitates slightly before knocking. A shadow breaks the light coming from under the door before it swings open. "Dana. It *is* good to see you. Please come in." Dr. Wurtzbrau is heavier and grayer than Scully remembered, but still nattily dressed, as if to deliberately counter the stereotype of the rumpled scientist. "Dr. Wurtzbrau," says Scully, gamely shaking his hand. Mulder's eyebrows raise, and Scully explains, "Dr. Wurtzbrau sat on the panel that reviewed my senior honors thesis." She wonders why she didn't mention this little piece of information on the drive here. Maybe after last week, after opening herself up to Mulder so much, she's retreating back to her earlier self, the self that only lets slip little pieces of information, treasured secrets to be revealed with great reluctance. But Mulder only smiles politely and shakes Wurtzbrau's hand in turn. "It's not every undergraduate that has the temerity to take on Einstein," Wurtzbrau is saying. A faint German accent colors his words. "So I should have learned to expect the unexpected from you. But I must admit I am surprised to see you in this role. You had a promising career in science ahead of you. I never saw you as a...police officer." "The two paths aren't mutually exclusive," says Scully. Of course, there's nothing like reality to nip nostalgia in the bud. There have been so many like him, she thinks. At Maryland, in med school, in the Bureau. Brilliant, yet narrow-minded. Oblivious. All positive that they know what's best for her, better than she does. Why did it take so long to see that Daniel was one of them? Was there a time when she thought Mulder was one too? "Of course," replies Wurtzbrau, gesturing them into a pair of vinyl chairs and settling behind his desk. "I know you've come to talk about young Mr. Kerr. Tragedy, that. Tragedy." He shakes his head. "What can you tell us about him?" asks Scully. Wurtzbrau rests his chin on his hands. "He never expected to be treated any differently because of his family. Humble. Hardworking. Flashes of brilliance from what I saw. Very promising future in front of him, if he could have escaped Clegg's orbit." "How do you mean?" "There was a sort of cult of personality surrounding Clegg that has always disturbed me," answers Wurtzbrau after a slight pause. "There was a level of attachment between the man and his students - his followers, I should say - of which I did not altogether approve. Clegg took his work quite personally, as if he had been charged with a sacred quest. That sort of environment is hardly conducive to good science, don't you think, Dana? How can one pursue the truth if it is so closely bound up in personal interests? One's own, or another man's?" Mulder clears his throat. "What exactly was Clegg researching?" He asks. "And Kerr?" Wurtzbrau seems to really notice Mulder for the first time. "Clegg was an internationally recognized expert in the field of quantum mechanics. When he came to Maryland three years ago, we thought we were very lucky to attract a scientist of his caliber." "You *thought* you were lucky." Wurtzbrau looks up from polishing his glasses. "Clegg became...problematic. His relationship with his students. His obsession with a rather controversial interpretation of quantum measurement theory." He sighs, evidently not happy with what he's about to say. "I suppose I should tell you this now, in the interest of the truth. Shortly before Clegg's death, certain ethical difficulties came to light." He pauses, as if to make sure he really has their attention before he continues. "The university is engaged in many joint projects with the government and private industry. Clegg was involved with a Maryland biotech firm named QuanGen. Just before he died, it came to light that Clegg was on the board of directors. This presented a clear conflict of interests. The ethics committee was to discuss his case. There was talk of denying his tenure. It would have caused a scandal." He shrugs. "Then Clegg died, and the matter was dropped." "And what was so controversial about Clegg's work?" asks Mulder. Wurtzbrau gives Mulder an indulgent smile. "Not knowing your background, I'm not sure where to begin. Perhaps Dana could explain it to you later, in layman's terms." Mulder smiles, the broad, slightly dangerous smile of someone who's been underestimated. "I'm just a simple G-man, Dr. Wurtzbrau, but I'll try to follow as best I can." Scully presses her lips together and looks out the window to hide her grin. "Well. According to quantum theory, it's impossible to measure a particle's position and momentum simultaneously. An equation, a wave function, can calculate the *probability* of a particle being at a particular point. But the problem is that the act of taking the measurement collapses the wave function." "In other words, the act of observation itself alters the thing or the system being observed," says Scully quietly. Wurtzbrau nods. "Yes, that is a nice way of phrasing it. You may have heard about the paradox of Schrodinger's cat, Agent Mulder? We place a cat - " "We place a cat in a box with a radioactive source hooked up to a bottle of poison," interrupts Mulder. "There's a certain quantum mechanical probability that the radioactive material will decay at any time. If it decays, the poison is released and the cat dies. If it doesn't, kitty lives. But we can only observe what happens by opening the box. So, until we *do* open the box, and collapse the wave function, the hapless cat is both alive and dead." Scully presses her lips together again and Mulder looks smug. "Not bad for a layman, Agent Mulder," Wurtzbrau says dryly. "Oh, well, you know," says Mulder, inspecting his fingernails. "Clegg's special interest was in the 'many worlds' interpretation," continues Wurtzbrau. "According to this theory, the universe splits every time a measurement is made. All of the possibilities of the wave function exist objectively, but in different universes." "So in one universe, kitty is dead. But in another, kitty is alive," says Mulder. The smug expression is gone, replaced with the faraway expression he gets when he's concentrating on an intriguing new puzzle. "I'd hardly describe the hypothesis as 'controversial,'" says Scully. "But a little extravagant, don't you think, Dana? Universes popping up everywhere?" Before they go, Scully turns back one more time to look at Wurtzbrau. He chews his lower lip, his brow creased. "Dr. Wurtzbrau, was there something else you wanted to tell us?" she asks. "I believe there is. This may be nothing. But I think it best to tell you. After Clegg's death, Kerr left the program. But he was not the only one. We also lost another student, a young man named Haipo Gao. Chinese, here on a student visa. He dropped out around the same time Kerr did. I don't know what's happened to him since." Mulder and Scully look at each other. "Thank you, doctor. We appreciate your help," says Scully, and they turn to go. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx "Haipo Gao, Chinese citizen, native of Beijing. Wurtzbrau was right. His student visa is nearly expired, but his wife Weitan is here on a green card," says Mulder as he puts away his cell phone. "No word yet on a current address. INS will get back to us." They are in front of the QuanGen building in one of the more unscenic areas of Rockville. The massive Health and Human Services building, a typical federal government edifice, hulks over the suburban industrial park. The thick black box makes the Hoover building seem light and airy by comparison. A collection of low ugly buildings surrounds it - biomedical supply companies, a used book warehouse, a restaurant supply wholesaler, plumbing showrooms, a few spillover government offices. The QuanGen building is near the end of a dead end street - the parking lot gives them a perfect view. It is a plain, squat brick building, obviously recently renovated. But thick chains bind the front doors. Piles of old leaves rest against the walls. The QuanGen logo, a stylized atom with thin silver lettering, still adorns a sign on the front. "Artsy," notes Mulder. "'QuanGen.' Very catchy." "The catchy name is all they have left," says Scully, looking at her notes. "They were a registered biotech firm in the state of Maryland's technology business initiative. Their investment prospectus speaks glowingly, if vaguely, of government research contracts from NASA, NIH, the Defense Department. But after Clegg died their stock tanked and the stockholders realized that there was nothing there. The company and this property are basically in legal limbo." "Come on," says Mulder. They leave the car and walk up to the chained front door. Scully peeks through one darkly tinted window. No furniture. A few stray wires on the carpeted floor, a small wastebasket. "Quantum mechanics. I have to wonder why the Defense Department would be interested in such an esoteric research subject," Mulder says. "That's what the physicists who made the first nuclear bomb probably thought before they were recruited to Los Alamos." "Touche." "Nothing to see here, Mulder," says Scully. "Let's go." But Mulder is walking around the corner. She follows him and they circle the building. A chill wind has come up in the fading day and leaves rattle around the pavement. Crows fly across the darkening sky, returning to roost in the tree-filled vacant lot next to the train tracks. No one in sight anywhere. They complete the circle around the QuanGen building but see nothing. Mulder thrusts his hands in his pocket. "Let's go," Scully says again, and he nods. Back in the car they sit watching the building. Scully also watches Mulder's face. Ever since their conversation with Wurtzbrau, Mulder has seemed less troubled and more like himself on an X-File - intent on a fresh puzzle, full of theories and ideas no doubt just waiting to bubble to the surface. "So Scully," he says. "Were all of your physics professors such, ah, such..." Scully notes, with some gratitude, that he narrowed down the field to physics and did not include medical school. She grins faintly. "Assholes?" Mulder feigns shock. "Such salty language. I was going to say 'jerks.'" "More often than not." "Bitter physics major, are we?" "Best years of my life, Mulder," she says with soft irony. There is a pile of journal articles sitting on the seat between them and Scully begins to leaf through them in the fading light, ignoring Mulder as he studies her. "Why physics, Scully?" he asks at last. "I always think of you as the kid in school who actually liked dissecting the frog. Happier with, oh, I don't know, looking at mitochondria and other bugs and critters under a microscope than doing dry equations on a board. I bet you even liked the Krebs cycle." "Jesus, Mulder, *no one* likes the Krebs cycle." He laughs. "So...?" She looks up from the article, frowning. Good question, actually. "So...I was always interested in the underlying structure of things. How things are put together at the most elementary level. I always wanted to go to med school, but I took a required physics class freshman year and I was enthralled. It was about getting down to those essential questions." She thinks of her father and a faint smile crosses her lips. "My father approved, of course. I could still fit in the pre-med curriculum, but at the same time it would allow me to go into other fields, like...engineering." They both shudder at the idea. "But ultimately, my penchant for dissecting frogs won out. And a lot of grandiose ideas about Making a Difference and Relieving Human Suffering." "Lucky for me," says Mulder. "What brings up this question, anyway?" Scully asks him, slight amusement coloring her voice. Nice to talk like this again, Scully thinks, after the quiet awkwardness of the past week. "Oh, just being on the campus," Mulder says lightly. "Thinking about you as an impressionable young coed." "Coed," murmurs Scully. Mulder throws her his pleased, trouble-making grin. "Coed." She decides it's his turn. "So why psychology?" His grin falters. "Oh, the he usual reasons." What the hell does that mean? But Mulder is already moving on, before she can pin him down. "The 'many worlds' thing, Scully," he says. "You can expand that idea beyond the level of particles, can't you? If we follow the idea to its logical conclusion, there are an infinite number of other universes. And therefore, an infinite number of us. With every observation, every choice, we chose a universe that's already there as a possible path for us." "That's just one interpretation," says Scully carefully. "We constantly split into other selves," continues Mulder, gesticulating to make his point. "So in one universe, you're a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. In other, you're a physicist. The point is that every instant, our consciousness is choosing what reality we inhabit. And there are an infinite number of other selves inhabiting other possible realities. The possibilities are limitless." "But that depends on whether we count consciousness as a measurement. I don't know if we can." "'Everything that can occur will occur,'" Mulder says, face intent. "That's what Kerr wrote on the wall of the townhouse where they committed suicide. I think we can assume he was referring to the 'many worlds' idea that he and Clegg and this other guy, Gao, were researching." Scully nods. "Seems safe to assume so." "But something must have gone wrong." Mulder trails off, lost briefly in thought as he chews a thumbnail. Around them evening gathers and a street light snaps on, flooding the car with cold white light. "Scully," he says urgently, "what if you could *see* all the different universes? What if you could somehow experience all your different realities simultaneously? What would that do to you?" Scully folds her arms and tries to picture it, tries to consider the implications. "You think that Kerr and the others saw these other realities. And that it was such a shattering experience that it destabilized them and drove them to suicide." "'Everything that can occur will occur,'" repeats Mulder. "Maybe they *thought* they experienced the alternate realities. They could have ingested a hallucinogen - atropine is a hallucinogen after all, maybe they had access to others. There were all of those needles and the track marks on their arms. Perhaps we simply can't detect it yet." Mulder shakes his head impatiently. "I'm not talking about a hallucination. I'm talking about really seeing the other universes." Scully shakes her head. "No. Even if the technology existed, it just doesn't make any logical sense. Once something's happened, there's no going back. Or sideways, for that matter. Reality is fixed at that point." "But Scully," says Mulder, and now his voice is low and secret. "Isn't that what you experienced last week in the temple? Isn't that what you told me?" And Scully suddenly does not like the direction this conversation has taken. "No it wasn't," she says shortly. She doesn't want to talk about this intimate thing, the experience that she is still trying to understand. Especially not in this dark context. How can she explain to Mulder that it wasn't like that for her? She did not see the infinite versions of her life. She saw only how she had arrived *here*, in this one. She saw how every other choice had been stripped away - how every choice, every decision, every instant led to her life now. "This doesn't have anything to do with that, Mulder." Her tone is final. She looks down to avoid Mulder's brief look of confused sadness. Then his face goes still and he starts the car. But before they can pull away, Mulder's phone rings. "Mulder." He looks out the window, away from Scully as he listens. "Great. Thanks." He hangs up and clears his throat. "Gao has a last known address - Alpine Drive, here in Rockville." "Let's go." Soon they are pulling into Greene Estates, just one of many bland garden apartment complexes dotting the suburbs. The parking lot is full of modest new cars and older clunkers. The parking space reserved for Apartment 32, 290 Alpine Drive - Gao's apartment - is empty. Their footsteps echo off the concrete stairs as they climb to the third floor. Mulder knocks on the metal door of number 32. And knocks. "Mr. Gao? Mr. Gao, we're federal agents," calls Mulder. "It might be a little intimidating to have federal agents on your doorstep if your visa is about to expire," murmurs Scully. She scans the hallway uneasily. Something's wrong. "Mr. Gao, we're with the FBI. We'd just like to talk to you about a former colleague of yours." Silence. Mulder knocks again, more firmly. Then his hand slips to the doorknob. Unlocked, it turns easily in his hand. "I think this constitutes a reasonable suspicion, don't you, Scully?" She nods. A cold knot of dread has formed in her gut and she knows by Mulder's tight face that he must feel the same thing, the same accompanying rush of adrenaline. Carefully they flank the door. Mulder reaches out with a long arm and turns the knob. The door drifts open. Hands on their weapons, they move into the darkened room. Thick drapes block out most of the twilight. No furniture. Dark stain of blackened dried blood spread over the beige carpet. Four bodies are slumped in the center of the living room and Scully knows immediately that they've been dead for some time. All of them have been shot in the back of the head. The thick smell of death is suffocating. Mulder carefully flicks the light switch. Every wall is covered with markings: equations, symbols, Chinese and Latin characters, all in red and black pen, from ceiling to gritty carpet. A woman sits with her back against the graffiti- covered wall. Blood from the wound on her temple has splattered onto the markings. Her black eyes are dull. The gun resting on the floor beside her limp hand seems too big for her, too big for the delicate fingers. "What do think, Scully?" asks Mulder. "In another universe are these people still alive? In another universe did we come in time to stop this?" XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx 24 hours later. Mulder waits in the hallway of the morgue at the Maryland state police barracks. He rubs his stubbled face and thinks of the bodies lying in the circle. It's all so clear to him. The situation plays before his inner eye like a film. He pictures the four victims kneeling, waiting patiently for their turn with death. The woman shoots them each in the back of the head, carefully, methodically, and then she turns the gun on herself. The gun was probably purchased legally in Virginia, or illegally on some corner in DC. But a very big question remains. He hears Scully coming down the hall and sits up. She is in her burgundy scrubs and her battered autopsy sneakers and she looks as tired as he feels. "Hey," he says. "Mulder, this confirms it," she says. "The woman with the self-inflicted gunshot wound was Weitan Gao, Haipo Gao's wife. And it *is* self-inflicted, I think that's pretty clear. The angle of the entry wound is right, the position of the gun is right. It most likely happened like you said it did." "And the others?" "More detailed ballistics reports are being prepared. But I think we have a match. And again, the angle is right. Someone her height shot these people. No signs of struggle or resistance." "So where's her husband?" asks Mulder. "Do you think he's still even in the area?" asks Scully. Mulder shrugs. From the file sitting on the chair next to him he picks up a photo. The face of a plain young man with chunky glasses and a serious expression gazes back at him. "An ABP's out for him, his picture's on all the wires. But...he's a Chinese citizen, Scully. This could get real messy real fast. The media are thick as flies outside." She winces a little. "There's nothing Skinner would like better than an international incident." "Yeah, just what he always wanted." Mulder leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "This is the same thing, Scully. Raymond Xu with the Rockville city police translated some of the markings for me. Roughly, it's 'Everything that can occur will occur.'" "Oh no." "And the victims too, Scully. Again, all bright, educated people with a science background. Weitan was a programmer, and so were two of the others, Edward Smith and Justin Huang. Cathy Kwan and Van Huynh were med school dropouts." He rubs his eyes again. "What about the needles they found in the bathroom? Anything there?" Scully shakes her head. "Nothing. Just like the ones found in Kerr's townhouse. And so far nothing in the toxicology reports." She frowns then, looking down at her feet. "But there is a strange protein structure in one of the samples. I was going to go down to Georgetown again and check it against a sample from the Jane Doe." They stand to go their separate ways, and as Mulder watches her walk back down the hall, he wonders if that was a hitch he heard in her voice. Even now, it's still so hard to read her. Then he thinks of interviewing the families of the dead, and his heart sinks. And he thinks again of the dusty secret room, and the swaying grass above, and the stacks of the dead. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Scully finally finds a parking space at the Georgetown medical center after a long search. When the car stops, Scully rests her eyes for a moment, bending slightly over the steering wheel. So tired. Maybe after this home, and a chance to wash the smell out of her hair. Again the familiar hospital smells assail her nose as she walks down the corridor. Jane Doe still lives, amazingly enough, or rather lies suspended in some state between life and death. Still no one has claimed her or identified her. After picking up the lab results, Scully speaks to the young resident on duty. "I don't think she'll ever regain consciousness," he says. "She's getting weaker and weaker, but she keeps holding on. I've never heard of anything like this." "Me either. I've never heard of anybody surviving such a large dose of atropine this long." "At some point someone's going to have to make a decision about how long to keep her on life support." The young doctor's eyes meet Scully's and they share the same thought - who can make the decision when they can't find her family, when they don't even know her real name? "May I see her?" asks Scully on a sudden impulse. "Just for a moment." Why is it so important, she wonders. "I don't see why not." A nurse shows Scully into the dim room and pads away. Scully moves closer to the small figure on the bed. The machines that keep her hovering on this edge of life hum and beep quietly. Scully bends over her, past the tubes, and sees Jane Doe's face clearly for the first time. Then she draws back with a silent gasp, at first too stunned to think clearly. Because it's the same face again. The same face from the hospital. In the street, in front of her car. The woman she followed to the temple. The woman with the blond hair who melted into Mulder when Scully tried to touch her. She is drawn and pale now, black circles like bruises under her eyes but it's the same face. And then the eyes flutter open as Scully watches. This isn't possible, Scully thinks crazily. She can't just wake up like this. "You're finally here," the woman says in a parched whisper like crackling paper, so quiet that the words are simply broken cadences of breath. "Nurse!" calls Scully, finding her tongue. "Thought you'd never come," the woman says. Her lips turn up at the corner, a sickly imitation of the strange serene expression that haunted Scully for days. Where the hell is the nurse? "You've got to lie still, miss," says Scully. "Do you see now? Do you understand now? Everything that can occur will occur," she tells Scully, low and urgent. "Except for you." "Who *are* you?" whispers Scully. The bruised eyes shut. The monitor shrieks, the piercing sound of flatline. Scully steps back, vaguely aware of pandemonium, of nurses and orderlies and doctors rushing in around her. It's too late. Later, Scully sits in her car in the dark parking lot, gripping the wheel. Numb. What's happening to me, she wonders distantly. What have I seen. The vision that filled her with hope last week is now tinged with dread. She sits in the car and asks herself question after question. What did these people see? What if Mulder was right, and they saw - or thought they saw - the infinite possibilties, new universes branching out at every choice, every decision, every moment? What if you could suddenly see the different versions of your life, the number stretching into infinity? How would your mind process it? Madness, despair, elation, all three? If you knew that there were an infinite number of you, that there was a version of yourself living an ideal life in an ideal universe, there might seem to be no point in prolonging this one. She imagines herself married to Daniel, and feels queasy. She imagines herself as a doctor. As a mother. Her sister Melissa alive. Mulder...Mulder alive, Mulder dead, Mulder a stranger. Life without the X- Files, life without Mulder. And what about Mulder, what would he see? His sister never taken, his life and family whole? Scully shuts her eyes, thinking back to the temple. No. The idea of seeing the endless possibilties of her life is terrifying, not exhilarating. Signs along the way point to this place, this point in her life. Not just one path, but an infinite number, all the result of random chance. Of one particular collapse of the wave function. Could I see the things that I have lost, Scully wonders, now that I have resigned myself to living without them? Without thinking she takes out her phone and dials Colleen's number. The number is disconnected. Scully sits there for a minute, just holding the phone. Suddenly it rings in her hand and she nearly drops it in surprise. "Scully," she says breathlessly. "Where are you? Are you okay?" "I, uh...Georgetown." She swallows. "She's dead, Mulder. Jane Doe is dead. Has anyone found Gao?" A grim, humorless chuckle from Mulder. "Gao's been found, all right. He's on the Taft Bridge. And he's armed." XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx The city stands paralyzed. Connecticut Avenue crosses Washington, one of the main arteries in and out of the city, stretching from the White House to the bland Maryland suburbs. At one point in the District it crosses Rock Creek Park, at the Taft Bridge. The park, 400 feet below, is a slice of forest bisecting the city. Usually during the evening rush the bridge hums with traffic. But tonight, police cars block both sides of the bridge, blocking Connecticut. Again, a curious crowd has gathered, straining the police tape. It's not every day that there's a jumper on Taft Bridge in the middle of evening rush. Earlier, a bus driver spotted a man perched on the edge of the bridge and called it in to DC police. Gao's face and name were already on the wire and a quick match was made. DC immediately blocked the bridge. The scene is on the edge of chaos. DC and National Park police loiter around the edge. More than 30 police forces in Washington, thinks Mulder, and still the city is shut down by one man on a bridge with a gun. Just great. A temporary command post has been set up next to one of the lion statues guarding the entrance to the bridge. From here Mulder watches Gao. He appears only as a faint distant shape against the streetlights. The valley yawns below the bridge like a wide black gulf. Helicopters drone overhead. A Metropolitan Police Department van pulls up and men in fatigues emerge, carrying long rifles. The officer in charge of the scene, a Captain Littlejohn, directs them to the edges of the bridge. Mulder walks up to him. "Snipers?" he asks, incredulous. "You requested *snipers*?" Littlejohn turns toward Mulder. "I don't want to take any chances." He is a big, barrel-chested man, an expression of deep cynicism etched on his dark face after years on the DC force. "What, are you gonna shoot him down? Look, this man is not a danger to anyone but himself." "He's an armed murder suspect in a heavily populated part of town, Agent Mulder." He watches as the men sort through their equipment. "You're the one found the bodies, right?" "Gao ran because he *didn't* do it," Mulder says. He rubs his temples, trying to put off his tiredness, trying to ignore the sick panic deep in his gut. "This man is not the killer. He could be our only remaining witness. He's the only one left with answers." Littlejohn folds his arms across his chest. "Look. I only got the snipers here as a last resort measure. I don't particularly want to shoot this bastard down either. I just want him off the goddamn bridge." His eyes narrow. "So what exactly do *you* propose we do?" Mulder sucks in a deep breath. "Let me talk to him." "No. Out of the question. We wait for the negotiators." Mulder begins to ask why the snipers were called before the negotiators, but thinks better of it. "We don't have time to argue about this. Gao is the only living witness to these deaths. We have to know if there's more to come. Every minute we stand here waiting is another minute for him to jump. And then there could be more deaths that could have been prevented." Littlejohn glares at Mulder with the look of someone swallowing an unpleasant pill. Then he sighs. "You were a profiler, huh? That mean you're some kinda psychologist?" "Sort of." "Sort of, the man says." He signs again. "Okay. We'll give it a try." Littlejohn pinches the bridge of his nose. "Hate these fucking jumpers. Just had one on the Metro last week, jumped right on the track at the U Street station. People wanna kill themselves could at least have the decency not to fuck up the whole city at the same time." He gestures at a young cop, who runs over to them with a Kevlar vest. Mulder takes off his coat and his jacket and shivers in the chill air as another cop helps him adjust the straps on the vest. When he looks up, he sees Scully push her way through the crowd, badge in hand. She comes up beside him. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" "It's the hip new look. All the kids are wearing 'em," Mulder says, in a not very smooth attempt to relieve the tension. "Thought you got lost on the way here. Understand traffic is a bit, uh, problematic." "You're not going out there." She gestures toward the figure standing in the dark, out there on the bridge. "This is my partner, Agent Scully. This is Captain Littlejohn," says Mulder, making introductions in response to Littlejohn's raised eyebrows. "Look, Scully, we don't have any choice." "This is too risky," she says. Littlejohn looks down at her. "For the record, I agree with you. But I think the man's right. We don't have much of a choice." "I can do this, Scully," Mulder tells her. Who is he trying to convince, her or himself? She nods, eyes lowered, and Mulder is reminded of that terrible day when he went after Modell in the hospital. The sick look of fear she wore, the lame jokes he tried to tell to relieve the tension. The awkward goodbye when Mulder walked away to almost certain death. "Mulder..." she begins. Then she shakes her head. "Nothing. I'll tell you later. Be careful." And then as now, there's nothing more they can say. Mulder gives her a quick squeeze on the shoulders. Then he looks out to where Haipo Gao stands ready to jump off the bridge, and his face goes behind a cool mask. Scully and Littlejohn and the group of police and the crowd behind the tape all watch Mulder walk into the night, until all they can see are his shirt sleeves gleaming white in the glow from the streetlights. Gao straddles the low railing in the exact center of the bridge. Far below lies the park and the creek in a steep ravine, 400 feet straight down. In the darkness all Mulder can see are the thick leafless trees, clouds of twisting branches. Far below, DC police and the fire department are frantically trying to set up spotlights and an air mattress, but at this height it's a futile gesture at best. Gao does not look up as Mulder comes closer. In the streetlight his thin face is bleached white. Dark stubble covers his jaw. He handles the cheap gun inexpertly, turning it over in his hands like a toy. "Mr. Gao," Mulder says conversationally. He keeps his body language unthreatening, his hands empty and in front of him. "Mr. Gao, I'd like to talk to you." Gao spares Mulder a brief, uninterested look. Then his gaze turns back down to the tree-filled chasm beneath his feet. "Yes," he says. "I'm sure many people wish to talk with me tonight." His accent is thick but his words are clear. "Why are you here, Mr. Gao?" Gao shrugs. "I am only here because I am a coward. I should have gone through with it like the others." The others, lying in a pool of drying blood in a nondescript apartment in Rockville. Keep him talking. "You feel guilty because you're not with them. Because you survived?" Mulder takes a step forward. "You will keep back," says Gao and points his weapon at Mulder's head. Mulder takes a quick step back, hands up. "I did not do what I said I would do," Gao says calmly. "I was responsible for...for the task. I bought the guns. But I am a coward because I could not do it. I couldn't make myself shoot her so I ran." His voice quavers slightly. "But she is a strong woman. Very strong. She finished it herself. Now they are all released." "Released from this reality?" asks Mulder quietly. Gao's peers at Mulder from behind thick glasses. "So you've seen it too. You understand." "No, I don't. Help me understand, Mr. Gao. What did you see?" "I have seen the infinite versions of myself," says Gao simply. "It is strange. You are in this reality now because maybe one day you decide to turn left instead of right. Or maybe one day you say yes instead of no. It is absurd. Why remain here, in this universe with its pain and problems, when there are an infinite number of others where everything is better? "How much better could another universe be if the only difference is whether I turned left instead of right?" asks Mulder. "The smallest things cause the greatest ripples," answers Gao, a hint of a smile on his lips. He waves his gun hand again, and Mulder uneasily notes how tentative his grip on the rail is. "Maybe when you turn left, you meet a good woman. Or maybe you turn right, you avoid an accident that day. And everything is different after." Mulder tries stepping closer again. "By that logic, there would be many more realities where things are worse." Black choking horror fills Gao's eyes. "Yes. I know that. I have seen that too. But the truth remains." "But how did you see these realities? How can you be *sure* what you and the others saw?" asks Mulder urgently. "Was it some kind of drug? Who gave this to you? How do you know it's real?" "Because everything that can occur will occur." Gao's flat voice sends a chill down Mulder's spine. "And now I must thank you. You have helped me clarify my purpose. Now I have courage." The next second passes with the sluggishness of a nightmare. Gao swings his other leg over the railing. Mulder stands up and lunges. The gun drops into the dark. Gao lets go of the railing, balancing precariously on the blade-thin edge. "No," says Mulder, reaching for his hand. Gao steps off the bridge and falls away into darkness. The sound of impact is blessedly muffled and distant. The crowds of police part for Mulder as he walks back and his face is numb. Scully comes up to his side, reaching for an arm. "Mulder..." But all Mulder can see are the bodies stacked in the dusty room. And the way his mother's home looked after her funeral, tidy and sterile and cold. So he ignores Scully and keeps walking. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Late, late that evening, they wait in Skinner's office. Scully sits upright and straight. Mulder leans forward heavily with his elbows on his knees and his face resting in his hands. Skinner sits behind his desk, arms folded tightly across his chest. Kersch is the only one standing and he is the only one in the room at ease, the only one whose eyes aren't focused on the floor. "So that's when Gao jumped," he says. "Yes," says Mulder. "I already told you. That's when he jumped. We've gone over this. It's in my report." His voice is flat. "I simply want to make sure that I have a complete understanding of the situation, Agent Mulder," says Kersch in a tight, crisp voice. "We have a group suicide in Georgetown that has all the signs of a cult, and a Senator from the Justice committee breathing down our necks. The only survivor is now dead. As of yesterday we have a murder-suicide situation in Rockville - the same markings made on the wall. It bears every sign of being a related incident. And today our last witness is dead because he took a spectacular flying leap off the Taft Bridge, in full view of the public and the media. Which you were unable to stop." Kersch gives Mulder a pointed look but Mulder's face does not change. "The Chinese embassy and State Department are asking questions because several Chinese nationals are involved. And now, to top everything off, you're telling me this *isn't* a cult after all, but it has something to do with some kind of bizarre theory about alternative universes." Kersch blinks. "Have I missed something?" Mulder and Scully sit unmoved throughout the speech. "What I *don't* understand," continues Kersch, "is why you attempted to talk this man down on your own, Agent Mulder. Why didn't you wait for the professional negotiators to handle this?" Mulder's eyes flicker for the first time. "You said so yourself, sir," he says mildly. "Gao was our last known witness. At the time, in my judgment, it was too risky to wait for the negotiators." "In your judgment," repeats Kersch. "Would that be the same judgment you used in Apison?" Skinner clears his throat and frowns at Kersch. Their mutual dislike hangs thick in the air between them. "What the hell are you implying here, Alvin?" Skinner asks. "Nobody's implying anything," replies Kersch coolly. "This is an ugly situation and we don't need further complications. I'm just saying we keep the history in mind. It might be time to reconsider our approach to this situation." History, thinks Scully. Neutral word. "What 'history' are you referring to, sir?" she asks slowly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "I think we all know, Agent Scully," answers Kersch, eyes never leaving Mulder. Mulder breaths in sharply but otherwise gives no indication that he's even paying attention. "I'm going to recommend that a task force convene tomorrow. Cult experts, suicide experts, goddamn nuclear physicists if necessary." "It's quantum mechanics." "What?" Scully clears her throat. "It's quantum mechanics, sir, not nuclear physics." Kersch simply stares at her a moment before turning his attention back to Mulder. "The point is that we cannot take the risk of losing further lives." He turns toward the door, prepared to go. The discussion is at an end. "And I think, Agent Mulder, for everyone's sake, that we reevaluate your involvement in this case." Mulder stirs. "You know sir, you're absolutely right." Scully opens her mouth but no sound comes out. He stands, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "Given the *history*, I have to wonder if I should be involved with this case at all. I don't think I can approach this case objectively, and I don't think we can afford that if there are lives at stake." He starts toward the door and neither Kersch nor Skinner seem inclined to stop him. And Scully remembers Mulder saying similar words to Skinner, not long ago on a doorstep in California. She remembers thinking that she should have been relieved, but all she could feel at the time was helpless sorrow. Now she's just angry. "That might be the best thing that you can do for this investigation, Agent Mulder," says Kersch with chilly finality. Mulder nods. "Mulder..." Scully says to his back. But he is already walking out the door without another word. Kersch watches him leave. "I think we all need a little rest, don't you?" he asks. He gives them a curt nod and leaves the office as well. Scully stands, clenching and unclenching her fists. "You know this isn't the way to solve this," she says, looking back at Skinner. "Mulder and I are on the right track." "I know that." "Mulder is not to blame for what happened today. You can't - " "Agent Scully," Skinner says with sudden force. "No one's blaming Mulder for anything. He is not responsible for this sick bastard taking his own life. I know that, and I think even Kersch knows that. But I'm not sure if Mulder knows that. And that's a problem." Scully turns to go. "Wait." The command in Skinner's voice stops her and she spins back to face him. Skinner stands and walks over to the window, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. "I'm only going to say this once," he says finally, carefully. "This has turned into a high- profile investigation. Alvin Kersch is an ambitious man. He sees this situation as an opportunity. He can help Senator Kerr and resolve an international crisis in one fell swoop. A real chance for him to shine." He pushes the blinds aside and peers between the slats at the damp night. "But he is not in charge here. Not yet. His...recommendations don't carry much weight. You and Agent Mulder are still in charge of this investigation, until *I* say differently." The blinds close. "Please talk with Agent Mulder tomorrow. I think he'll reconsider his rash words." Skinner sits back down and begins to sort papers on his desk. He doesn't look up at her. "But Kersch is right about one thing. We need answers soon. We can't have any more deaths." "I'll talk to Mulder," Scully says tightly. Mulder reconsidering his rash words? Good one, sir, she thinks as she walks down the dim hall, and tiredness sinks over her. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Morning sunlight cuts through the bare trees, making Scully squint. "It's a lovely home," says the real estate agent as she opens the lock box on the front door. "It's being done through a broker - the owners were in quite a hurry. Won't be on the market long. It's a wonderful neighborhood. Close in, next to the river, perfect for singles or families with children." Her hopeful sales patter fades under Scully's blank stare. They are on the front porch of Colleen's house. After a sleepless night, Scully tried to call again but again found the number disconnected. Without knowing why, she drove the short distance to Colleen's house, just over the DC border to this quiet wooded neighborhood above the river. Here, just over a week ago, everything had seemed so clear to Scully. But she pulled up to find the house dark and empty. A fresh For Sale sign stood in the yard: "A Long and Foster Exclusive Property. Contact Realtor Janet Bevis today." Janet Bevis stands next to her now, a crisp, professional middle-aged woman, well-manicured and well-tailored but obviously ill at ease. Scully feels rumpled and surly in a cotton sweater and slacks pulled blindly from her closet. "Janet," she says, "It's best if I go through the house alone." "Oh well, of course." Janet steps away, heels clicking on the stone walk. "I'll just go wait in the car, then..." Scully pulls open the door and steps into the house. Emptiness greets her. Bare floors and bare walls and her feet echoing on the bare hardwood floor. The chill of an empty house. Inexplicable sadness comes over her at this sudden abandonment of a much-loved place. No trace remains of Colleen's personality, which just a week ago seemed woven into the fabric of the house. So like Melissa, she thinks. Maybe that's why it was easy to talk to her. Scully's sadness threatens to spill over into grief. Why did I think it was so important to come here, she wonders. Really, I hardly knew her. Scully passes from room to room, upstairs and down, not sure what she's trying to find. There is nothing left for this house to tell her. She ends up back in the living room, in front of the wide glass doors leading out to a flagstone patio. Scully unlocks the door and steps back out into the cold. Thick trees cluster around the back yard, the carefully planted shade garden beautiful even in winter. A slight gleam catches Scully's eye and she moves toward it, kneeling to get a better look. At the base of an oak tree, nestled among the pachysandra and ivy, rests a small bronze Buddha. Scully picks it up, looking seriously at its jolly, tarnished face. It is surprisingly light - when she turns it over she sees it is hollow. A plastic bag is tucked inside. Sealed inside the bag is a brown envelope, addressed simply to "Dana." Scully opens the envelope and finds a newspaper clipping and several pages of brown handmade paper covered with thin black handwriting. Still kneeling in the ivy, Scully begins to read. _______________________________________ Dana - I write this sure in the knowledge that you'll return here, looking for the truth as always. I wish I could give it to you. But I don't have all the answers, as much as I wish I did. Right now, all I am is afraid. All I can do now is tell you the truth as I know it. But before I go further, please believe me when I say that I never wanted to involve you with this. I told you about my previous life as a physicist, but I didn't tell you the whole truth of the story. Shortly after I got my Ph.D., I won a postdoc research fellowship from NASA. It was a dream position. I was working in the field I loved with one of the most respected quantum physicists in the world: John Clegg. It was stressful. He could be a difficult, demanding man, but I admired him tremendously. I admired his relentless search for the truth. A year passed, and my life changed. Late one night, about 1 or 2, I woke up to loud knocking. I opened my apartment door to find Dr. Clegg and three other men. One of the men wore a suit, two others were in army fatigues. Dr. Clegg was frantic with excitement. He told me to get dressed and pack an overnight bag. I was too surprised to argue. I rushed around packing while they waited in my living room. Then they bundled me into a windowless van and we drove. Every detail of that ride stays with me, as if I knew how much my life would change because of it. I asked once, timidly, where we were going. One of the men told me to be patient, that I would learn soon enough. I was too intimidated to ask again, and I trusted Dr. Clegg. So we rode for a long time in silence. Finally we stopped and I could get out. It was dark and I couldn't tell where we were. I had an impression of warehouses and train tracks before I was rushed inside a building that looked like a another burned-out warehouse. It was grungy on the outside, but inside everything was new and clean. Clegg led me into a lab, where a sort of containment facility had been set up. The tall man in the suit followed. He leaned against the wall and watched us. Clegg got dressed in a hazardous materials suit and went into the holding facility. He came out with a vial of clear fluid like water. "All of the answers are in here, Colleen," he told me. His eyes were shining. "Now we just have to learn how to extract them." I asked what he meant. And he explained. He called the substance Wave. He called it a "quantum substance," for lack of a better term. He showed me his research and his results - it looked as if he had been working on this in secret for quite some time. According to him, Wave itself didn't do anything - it didn't have any unusual properties - its chemical composition was similar to water, as far as anyone could tell. The amazing thing about Wave was its effect on particles that traveled *through* it. In experiment after experiment, Cleg claimed that he measured and recorded multiple results - simultaneously. The act of measurement was impossible - meaningless. I was staggered. If Clegg was right, then it meant that, after a particle passed through Wave, it inhabited multiple realities simultaneously. Can you imagine the implications? I asked Clegg where Wave came from. He looked a little uncomfortable then and looked at the man in the suit, who had been watching us silently the whole time. Clegg muttered something about it being some kind of byproduct of a nuclear test. The idea was patently absurd but I didn't say anything. Instead I asked, again, why I was there. I can remember his answer so well. "Imagine if a human being could experience those multiple realities. We're on the brink of the most important discovery ever in the history of mankind. This could be a new step in our evolution. I know you, Colleen. I know Your mind is open to the possibilities. I need your help." I saw obsession in his eyes and it made me uneasy. But despite that I was fascinated. We would push the boundaries of science and human perception beyond anything we could imagine. He was right - this could be a new stage in our evolution. There couldn't be anything more important than working on this. I was about to say yes. Then I heard a thin scream come from down the hall. It got louder and closer. Clegg ran out of the room toward the sound, and instinctively I followed. In the hallway was a tall, muscular man, just wearing sweatpants and dogtags on a chain around his neck. He was the one screaming. Two men dressed in clothes that looked like hospital scrubs were trying to hold his arms. The big man was struggling hard and they could barely hold on. As we watched, he threw them off - one of them hit his head against the wall, hard. The big man knelt, screaming and screaming all the time. I could hardly understand. Something about too much, too much. Then he took out something sharp from a pocket - just a little pocket knife - and he stuck it in his own throat. I had never seen so much blood. Oh God. It was just everywhere. I fainted dead away. When I came to, Clegg was leaning over me. It was silent again. What happened, I asked. Who was that man? "This is why I need your help," Clegg said. He helped me up. The man in the suit was there too. Calmly watching us. Clegg explained that the man was a soldier, a volunteer. He had been injected with a form of Wave. They wanted to see how it would affect human perception. And what I saw was the result. Clegg was very upset. "That man was a hero," he said. He was actually crying. "He was only the first. We need to make sure this didn't happen in vain. You're one the best minds I've ever worked with, Colleen. I know you can help. Please join me." I didn't know if I could believe any of this. I didn't know if Wave was really what Clegg thought it was. But I knew I had seen a man suffer and die. All for an experiment. I was sick and horrified. I nearly said yes to him. I nearly became a monster. Like Clegg. "I'm sorry. I can't help you," I told him. "I'm sorry too, Colleen," was all he said. I could feel his disappointment in me. He left the room and I never saw him again. The man in the suit drove me home. He was silent the whole ride. Finally we pulled up in front of my building. He struck a match and lit another cigarette - he had been smoking the whole drive - and his face was lit in the dark. He turned to me. "I think you made the right decision. Our minds aren't really meant to work that way, don't you think? We're not meant to experience infinity. That way lies madness." His voice was so cold. At that moment that unassuming man frightened me more than anything ever had. "I think it best that you not mention to anyone what you saw tonight. I hope you agree with me." He unlocked the car and I got out so quickly that I nearly tripped over the seat belt. And then he was gone and I was alone. Everything was changed. I was terrified. I was in complete turmoil. My ideas of about science, about my life - everything was upside-down. That morning I watched the sun come up from my apartment window. In a moment of sharp clarity I saw how everything had led me now, here, to this decision, to this place in my life. And I realized that I couldn't follow this path I was on any longer. That day I called Carol and I told her everything. And that day I quit my fellowship. I was basically in shock. I just never went back. I got a teaching job at a private school to pay the bills. I put everything about my old life behind me, trying to forget that anything had happened. I was running away. Three months later, I began to feel tired and queasy all the time. You know the feeling. Carol took me to the doctor. I was diagnosed with cancer. A long, hard time followed. I liked to think that I beat it on my own, by turning away from traditional medicine. But now, I'm not so sure. I spent the next few years building my new life with Carol. I explored new ideas and new ways of thinking. I thought I had escaped that old life, but I was wrong. Then last October, I read that Clegg had died in a plane crash. I'm sorry to say that I was relieved, because I thought that the research would die with him. A week later I opened my door and the man in the suit was on my doorstep. It was the same face that I had tried so hard to forget. I asked him what he wanted. He actually smiled at me. He asked if I had spoken to Clegg recently. I told him no, that I heard that Clegg was dead, and that I hadn't spoken to him since that night. I tried to keep my voice from shaking. "Of course. I'm sorry to have troubled you," he said, still smiling. "By the way, I was very glad to hear of your cancer going into remission. But these things can resurface, can't they? It's best to be vigilant." He turned to leave, and then looked back at me. "You do realize, of course, that he didn't want your help as a researcher. He wanted to use you as another test subject. He saw something in you he could use." Then he left. Once again, I was in turmoil and I was desperately afraid. How did he know about my cancer? Did he really mean that about me being a test subject? I felt so foolish for thinking that I could escape my old life so easily. I didn't know who could help me. Would who even believe me? Soon afterwards, I learned about your partner and your work from a friend in MUFON. I thought you might be able to help me. It was easy enough to meet Fox online and strike up a acquaintanceship based on our mutual interest. I thought you and Fox would believe me, but I wanted to learn more about you first. But now I think I've only placed you in danger. Last week, strange things began to happen: strange cars started following Carol and me when we went out. We heard strange clicks and beeps on the phone. And then when you told me about your experience in the Buddhist temple, I was reminded of my own moment of clarity. It sounded so much like what you described. You and Fox are both special - more than you know. You are both so open to the extreme - you, even more than Fox, although I still don't think you believe it. But do the things that make you special also make you vulnerable? They wanted me as a test subject - what if they want you and Fox for the same reasons? I don't have time to say much more. I'm running away again, for my own safety and for Carol's. We are safe, for now - please don't try to track us. We'll be all right. Our paths diverge here, Dana. I know that you and Fox will find your whole truth, someday. I know it. Be careful. Colleen ________________________________________ Scully reads the letter twice, her calm expression never changing. She refolds it neatly and puts it back in the envelope before turning to the newspaper clipping. It's from the DC Weekly, a mixture of esoteric music reviews, quirky local news, and lots of ads from those video stores where Mulder never used to shop. The date is four months ago. A quarter-page ad on one side of the page is circled in pencil, just a phone number and a simple message: "Intelligent men and women, 18-30, needed as subjects for psychological experiment. No history of mental illness. Earn $500+ per day, plus travel expenses. Call today to schedule a screening." Carefully Scully puts the letter and the ad in her pocket. She takes a last look around the garden and steps back inside. "So, what did you think?" Janet asks with bright nervousness as she prepares to lock the front door. Scully does not answer. Instead she braces herself against her car for a moment, closing her eyes against the pale morning light. The letter and the newspaper clipping are in her pocket. What do I think, Scully wonders. Good question. Every time I think I can't go any further, the bottom falls out on me again and I'm falling, falling even deeper. Maybe I should be like Mulder and stop expecting to land. Before Janet can come back, Scully gets into to car and heads back to DC. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Mulder pulls the oars steadily and the little scull cuts through the still surface of the water. He loves to be out on the river in the quiet morning. Here, just past Georgetown, the Potomac is as smooth as glass, deceptively smooth, and the only sound is the distant hum of traffic. And the restless hum of his own chaotic thoughts. After hours of fruitless tossing and little sleep, it feels good to work his body, to set up a rhythm with the oars. For most of his life, Mulder's exercise routine has been brutally simple: run, swim, or row until exhausted. Lately Scully has been discouraging the running, in a last-ditch effort to preserve the little cartilage left in his knees. He feels the years and injuries beginning to take a toll, knows he can't abuse his body the way he used to. He's made a sincere effort to take it easier lately and not push himself so much. This morning his body feels sound enough. He only wishes he could say the same about his mind. He turns a tree-covered bend and Georgetown is in view now. The Washington Monument rises from the river. He turns faces over and over in his mind with each stroke. Some of them are dim, some of them sharp. Scully, Samantha, his mother, Melissa Ephesian, Gao's pale face full of bleak despair. Then Scully again. When he returns to the boathouse, Scully is waiting on the dock. Even from this slight distance Mulder can tell that she's had a restless night too. She stands slim and pale in the sunlight, faint circles under her eyes. Sometimes he'll come suddenly upon her, like now, and his chest briefly tightens, and the enormity of it all startles him. And it sometimes it startles him to realize that she is all that anchors him to the world. "You're putting too much strain on your lower back," Scully advises as he comes within earshot. "Good morning to you too." Scully watches him maneuver to the dock. She knew he would be here. He gets out of the shell and easily hoists it over his shoulders. She studies him as he carries the equipment back to the boathouse. He looks older this year, she realizes. He's gained a little weight. But he carries it well. Very well. The overall impression is one of health and grace and mature strength, and Scully has to look down for a moment because she can't help remembering what it felt like to hold him while he rocked in her arms. Mulder comes back next to her, pulling on a extra sweatshirt, sweaty and steaming in the chilly morning. He smells like the outdoors, like leaves and water. "Mulder," she says, "We have to talk about this case." His tentative expression disappears and his face turns blank. "Not such a good idea, Scully. You heard Kersch. I'm not exactly the best man for your team if you're trying to stop people from killing themselves. It's not my strong suit." "Kersch is not in charge and you know it. You're using this as some kind of excuse." Mulder doesn't answer but turns away from her and sits heavily on the edge of the dock. Scully sits next to him and she watches their feet dangle above the black water. Traffic thrums steadily across the Key Bridge. In the distance the Kennedy Center gleams white in the morning light. "This isn't about Apison," says Scully at last. It's not a question. "No, not really," Mulder answers. More silence follows and they sit until he can speak again. "I didn't realize. I didn't realize how angry I was at my mother. For doing that." He speaks in clipped, halting phrases. "For killing herself and leaving me without answers. She left me with nothing. Not even a last chance to listen to her, or try to help her." He swallows past the thickness in his throat. "She thought it would easier to escape from me than open up to me. She just decided to run away. I didn't matter enough to her. I wasn't worth it." "You have every right to be angry, Mulder," says Scully. She edges closer and their shoulders touch. Hesitantly she rests her hand on his. "It's only been a short time. You have every right." "It's the ultimate act of selfishness, you know," Mulder continues in a rough voice. "God. I had a chance to stop her and I let it slide." "No. Mulder. You can't blame yourself for the decisions of sick, troubled people. Not Gao or Melissa Ephesian or your mother or anyone." The words sound stale coming from her lips, but it's the only thing she can think of to say. And besides, it's true. "It's not your fault." Mulder takes a deep breath. "I know that. I know that...logically." He looks away from her. "But that's not the worst part. The thing is, I can understand why they do it. I can see myself - " he says, and he stops abruptly, collecting his thoughts and his tumbling emotions. "There have been times in my life when I've just wanted it all to *stop*." She squeezes his hand but says nothing. "The worst was a few years ago, that night when I shot that man in my apartment, and I asked you to lie for me," Mulder continues. "Just before it all happened, I was sitting in my apartment. Everything was falling apart. Everything was a lie. You were dying and it was my fault." The words spill out, and he can't stop them. He remembers sitting and turning the gun over and over in his hand and it would have been so easy, because his whole life had all been for nothing. The memory burns. "I was so close that night. It's not even that I thought I would be in a better place. I just wanted it all to end. I just wanted the pain to stop." "Mulder, it's okay," Scully murmurs. "No, it's not okay. If I had gone through with it, if I had actually killed myself, I would have killed you too. And I can't forgive myself for that." He glances at her briefly, then bows his head to watch the dark water beneath his feet. Murky, brown-green depths, with a deceptive shimmer of reflected blue sky. "I hate that selfish part of me, Scully. I hate to be reminded of it. But it's there." Scully has to close her eyes for a moment. She had always suspected as much. She remembers lying to the panel about Mulder's faked suicide and how she was unable to stop her humiliating tears. She was exhausted and angry and for a split second her lie seemed devastatingly real, oh God it *was* real, he really *did* do it, and it would be just like him to do this to her and end it like this and leave her alone in the dark. Her throat constricts and her eyes sting at the memory and she tries to bring herself under control. She grasps his hand and studies it intensely, taking in the slightly ragged nails, the long sensitive fingers, the rough skin on his knuckles, the fine network of veins and tendons. Then she looks up into his bleak sad eyes, gray and brown and hints of green like the color of winter grass. "But you didn't do it, Mulder," she says at last. "You're here now, with me. Where I need you." Mulder closes his eyes and relaxes, feeling her thumb stroke the back of his hand. Then he opens his eyes and tries to smile at her. "I'm fine," he says. She raises an eyebrow at him. "Uh, I'm okay?" A pause. "I'm better?" She searches his face. The corners of her eyes crinkle very slightly. "That'll do for now." He leans against her. "You know," he tells her conspiratorially, "I never did tell you why I went into psychology in the first place." "You rather avoided the question, as I recall," Scully answers dryly. "Yeah. Well. My reasons weren't quite as noble as yours for going into physics," he confesses. "To tell the truth...I think I just really wanted to learn more about myself. Things soon changed...but that's how it started. Pretty self-absorbed of me, huh?" Still she clasps his hand between hers. "I see. And have you made much progress?" "Oh, I've made some great advances of late," he says warmly. "You wouldn't believe the fieldwork." Scully's smile grows, then fades into something serious. "There's something going on with this case, Mulder. Even more than we thought. And it involves us." She reaches in her pocket and brings out the letter and the clipping. "How well did you know Colleen?" His eyebrows raise at the unexpected question. "Colleen? Not too well. She emailed me about an article I posted about crop circles and Celtic mythology," he says, confused. "We exchanged emails, a few phone calls. Why?" And so Scully tells him. She tells him about the blond woman who died, who wore the same face that haunted Scully for days, and what she said before she died. She tells him how she came to Colleen's house searching for answers but found only emptiness. She shows Mulder the letter and the clipping. He reads it rapidly, absorbing paragraphs at a time. After going through the letter a second time, he sets it down and looks at the newspaper ad. "Have you tried the phone number in the ad?" he asks. "Disconnected." He looks down into the water, thoughtfully chewing his lip. "Do you believe all this, Scully?" "I don't know. That man she mentions...do you think he was...?" "I don't know." He rubs his face a little. And what would *I* do if I could see my infinite realities paraded in front of me, he wonders. Scully whole and happy. Mom alive, Dad alive, Samantha alive. How could I fight that despair? Why would I choose to stay here? He thinks of Gao succumbing willingly to death and closes his eyes for a moment. Now it's Scully's turn to glance away from him. "I, um. I have to tell you I'm afraid of this, Mulder." The weak sun falls behind a cloud and she folds her arms against the chill. "I experienced something last week, in that temple, and I don't know what it was. At the time, every choice I ever made seemed very clear. Everything seemed right to me. But now...I don't know what to think. I was so sure about everything. But what if I can't trust my own mind. So much has happened to us. What if it was a trick, what if - " "Scully." Mulder's hands are on her face, his eyes intense on hers. As always his own worries and dark thoughts melt in the face of her distress. "Scully. We'll get to the bottom of this. We're in this together." "I know. But I'm still afraid." She presses a hand against his chest. "I think we have to follow this, no matter where it leads. We have to do it together. I'm just so tired of struggling in the dark." Her voice hitches a little. He draws her to him. "You and me both." They sit on the edge of the dock in an awkward sideways embrace, clutching tightly as if they were both about to slide off. "Well," he says at last. "Maybe I should, uh, exercise a bit more judgment when I make friends online from now on, huh?" Despite everything, he manages a sidelong grin. "You and me both," she says. She leans into his warmth, drawing strength. "Scully," he says after a moment, and his voice is suddenly low. "Last week there was something you were very sure about. And, uh, you acted on it. *We* acted on it. I just want to know." Everything depends on this question. "Are you still sure about that?" Scully draws back to look him in the eye again. I'm so tired of being afraid of this, she thinks. "Mulder, it's the only thing I *am* sure about." Mulder embraces her fiercely, his face pressed in her hair. Thank you, he thinks over and over, thank you thank you, not sure whom to thank. He feels a huge grin spread across his face and he wonders if it will permanently shape his face. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx "You'll never guess who paid for the ad in the paper," says Mulder as he walks in the office door. Scully doesn't glance up from the screen. "Dr. John Clegg." Mulder looked deflated. "Scully, you gotta work with me to prolong the suspense." "But I'm right." "Yes, you're right. A MasterCard belonging to John Clegg paid for the quarter page. According to the pierced but helpful individual at the DC Weekly classified desk, Clegg paid for three weeks of ads. The first one ran the week before he was reported dead in the plane crash." He stands behind Scully without bothering to take off his coat and leans over her shoulder to show her another newspaper, this one dated more than a month later. "Same ad," he says, pointing to page 36. "This one was paid for by the same credit card. Again, three weeks of ads." "Placing ads from beyond the grave. Good trick." "Isn't it? But here's the thing: Clegg's body was never recovered from that plane crash." He shows her one more newspaper clipping, this one from The Washington Post: Search for Missing Scientist and Team Called Off. Contact Lost With Plane Three Weeks Ago. Noted Physicist Reported Missing En Route to Alaska Study Site. "You think his death was a hoax?" she asks, turning her head to look at his face. "You think he's still alive?" "Still alive and maybe still performing the research on Wave, if we believe Colleen." Scully leans back and frowns. "Why? Why fake his own death?" "To be left alone. To get people off his trail. Although," Mulder says, and he looks a little sheepish, "I could tell him that tactic really doesn't work very well." She smiles, very slightly. "It's also a good idea to pay for things with cash if you're trying to fake your own death." "That's the first rule in the book," agrees Mulder. "Unless someone else used his credit card." "A distinct possibility." He leans over her shoulder again. His lips are close to her hair, his coat brushes her arm. Their eyes meet briefly, warmly, and they share another smile, small and private. It will take them a while, but maybe they'll get used to this. Eventually. "Any luck with the number?" he asks. "It belonged to QuanGen headquarters in Rockville. It was disconnected just after that last ad ran." Mulder stands up straight. "I think this calls for a drive to Rockville, Scully," he says. "I think it's time we got some answers." XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx It's an unlikely place to meet destiny, thinks Scully. They are back in Rockville, back in the dreary industrial park, sitting in the car on the edge of the overgrown parking lot across the street from the QuanGen building. A thin fringe of trees shields them from view. Next to them a ditch filled with straggly trees and a barbed-wire fence separate them from the railroad tracks. They wait and watch as day fades to black. The silence is broken only by Mulder, quietly munching on seed after seed. Hours pass and the night settles around them and still nothing. Until is a sudden light shines from a window on the second floor. They study it for a moment but see no movement. "It could be a janitor," says Scully at last. "That's one mighty clean room then," answers Mulder. "This building was supposed to be all but abandoned." They sit some more. A windowless white van creeps up the empty street and turns into the driveway next to the QuanGen building. Mulder straightens up and lets his bag of sunflower seeds fall to the floor. Scully raises her binoculars to her eyes and watches the van park next to the loading dock. The headlights turn off. In the dim light Scully can see the side door slide open. As she watches, the figure of a tall, thin man steps out, then pulls out a smaller figure behind him. She can't make out the face on the man, but the smaller one - obviously a woman - is hooded. Her hands are clasped, or perhaps tied, in front. Another man steps out of the driver's side of the van, his curly hair silhouetted against the faint light. He walks up some concrete steps to a door next to the loading dock and fumbles with the lock. The small figure in the hood abruptly drops to the ground and lies still. The thin man lets her fall. Both men pause, looking at her for a moment. Then they unlock the door and go inside, leaving her slumped alone against the steps. "My God, Mulder," says Scully. "I know." Their eyes meet, weighing the risks and agreeing on an unspoken plan. In the same motion they both open their doors and step out of the car. Scully watches Mulder as he runs, keeping low, gun drawn and pointed at the ground, circling around the loading dock and disappearing into the dark. Scully moves toward the opposite side of the building, keeping close to the trees. Gun in her right hand, heavy and comforting, her panting breath steaming in the frosty night air. She stops and crouches behind a dumpster. With her free hand she presses her cell phone to her ear. "This is Special Agent Scully with the FBI, requesting immediate assistance, badge number - " But she doesn't finish. A shape suddenly jumps down on her from on top of the dumpster. Enormous arms wrap around her from behind and she struggles furiously. The phone clatters to the pavement. "MUL-" she tries to yell but a huge hand around her mouth stifles her voice. Another hand takes her gun hand, twisting it with brutal strength until she drops her weapon. Scully finds herself being swept up and she kicks and kicks until her heel makes contact with something fleshy. A muffled groan and the arms drop her. She dives for her weapon. The strong hand grips her ankle and she kicks again, and this time her foot connects, with the satisfying crunch of breaking cartilage. She hears another groan. But the grip on her ankle stays tight. She is dragged up and away and tries to scream again but now a train is passing and the loud rattle swallows everything. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Moving carefully, Mulder reaches the small form huddled against the loading dock stairs. He surveys the area - nothing - Scully will be coming around the other side - and he kneels on one knee next to the bound woman, putting his gun back in its holster. He lifts her, gently, by the shoulders. Her head lolls to one side. "Ma'am," he says, his voice soft but urgent. "Ma'am. Can you understand me? I'm a federal agent. Don't be afraid." He pulls the hood off and sees she is a young woman, no more than 30, dark- haired, eyes closed. With a small pang he is reminded of the woman from long ago that he had hoped was his sister. Scratches and cuts cover her face, especially around her eyes. Easily he cuts the thick nylon rope that binds her wrists with his small pocket knife. The skin beneath is raw. She is unconscious and unresponsive, but her pulse is strong in her small wrist. He tilts her face toward him, anxiously scanning her face in the dim light. Scully needs to look at her. He is trying to judge her weight, getting ready to pick her up and carry her back to the car, when her eyes fly open. And she releases a piercing scream. She strikes out at him with astonishing strength and her fist nearly hits his eye. For a split second Mulder is too surprised to move. Then he reaches for her, trying to still her, trying to put his hands on her shoulders. The woman's eyes are wide and black and her face contorted with fear and madness. She screams incoherently. "No! Get away! Too much!" He manages at last to grip her wrists. How to calm her down and get her to safety, how to restrain her without getting himself hurt in the process? "Too much!" she yells. She break his grip and claws at him wildly with the strength of the insane. Mulder talks to her in soothing tones, hoping to calm her, but she only grows louder. The sudden roar of a train on the nearby track briefly drowns out her screams. Where the hell is Scully, Mulder thinks with a glimmer of fear. He reaches for the woman's wrists again but stops when he feels something hard and cold prod against the back of his head. The unmistakable feel of a gun barrel. Trap, thinks Mulder wildly, Goddammit it's a trap, Scully - Now the woman stops pounding on him and crawls away. on her knees. "Please make it, make it stop," she says, her screams fading into hoarse moans. Horrified, Mulder watches as she reaches for her eyes with her fingers. He moves toward her but the gun presses harder and a firm hand grasps him by the shoulder. "That's why we tie her hands," says a voice from somewhere to his left. "And the hood. Otherwise there's no telling what she could do to herself." Another man, the curly-haired man they spotted before, emerges from the door at the top the stairs and speeds toward the woman on the ground. He kneels briskly next to her, a syringe glinting in his hand. The man grasps her upper arm and plunges the needle in before she can turn on him. Then he sits back on his heels and disinterestedly watches her crumple to the pavement. "Hated to use her like this but there's not much of a choice," says the voice. "You used this woman for bait," says Mulder, voice heavy with disgust and fury. "What's the matter with her? What have you done to her?" "Her mind wasn't strong enough to survive the experience of infinity," explains the unseen voice. "Nothing was done to her." The curly-haired man steps up to Mulder and frisks him amateurishly, taking his Sig from its holster. Mulder grimaces. He didn't go down far enough to find his gun in the ankle holster. Mulder counts three men: Curly in front of him, the thin man holding the gun on his head, and the third one, the one who spoke. If he can take them off balance - "I'm going to ask you to move now," says the voice and the gun prods his head again. Mulder turns his head and finally sees the source of the voice standing on the loading dock: A medium- sized, middle-aged man with a pot belly and an abundant beard. A round face that maybe once was jolly. His graying hair is caught back in a ponytail. "Dr. Clegg," Mulder says. "Nice to meet you." The eyes behind the small round glasses are tinged with regret. "Come on. Let's not make any more difficult than it already is." Mulder is pushed towards the door. They go up the stairs, through the door, and into a corridor that smells of disinfectant and stale air and something else sweaty and tangy like fear. They turn into a sparkling tiled room with sinks and black counters that looks like a lab of some sort. In the middle is something disturbingly like a dentist's chair - except for the heavy straps on the arm rests and the feet. "I had a cleaning already," says Mulder. The curly-haired man comes up to the chair and begins to prepare the straps with jerky, robot-like movements. For the first time Mulder really notices his face - he's another young man, but his face is drawn and expressionless. His eyes are glazed. "Over there," says Clegg. The thin one waves the gun in the direction of the chair. His face too is disturbingly empty. This guy doesn't know what the hell he's doing, Mulder thinks, he's not used to handling a weapon. Mulder takes a few steps toward the chair, then feigns a stumble to his knees. Curly and Slim first, he thinks. Then Clegg unharmed. He crouches and moves to pull out his weapon fro his ankle holster. But before he can, a huge form comes through the door, pushing Scully in front of him. He is tall and bulky, with dead eyes and a closely cropped military haircut. He is absurdly big next to Scully's small form. Blood streams down his face - his nose must be broken, but he shows no sign that he cares. He holds a gun at her temple. Scully's gun. Shit, thinks Mulder distantly. Like on the bridge, the seconds seem to stretch. "Don't do it, Mr. Mulder," says Clegg quietly. "Please. I don't want to hurt anyone. This is ugly enough already." Scully's expression does not change. She looks a little scraped but otherwise unharmed. "Mulder..." "I don't want to lose her, but I'd rather have one of you than neither of you," says Clegg. The big man's finger seems to move slightly, slightly on the trigger. "He'll do it, you know. And I can't be held responsible." Mulder's eyes lock with hers for an interminable period, weighing the risks. Then he stands up, face still but eyes fierce. "Who the hell *is* responsible, then?" he asks. The thin man bends down and retrieves Mulder's second gun. Clegg doesn't answer, but seems to breathe a sigh of relief. The big man drags Scully through a door on the opposite side room. "Where are you taking her?" Mulder yells. "Not far," answers Clegg. "Don't worry." He takes one of the guns and points it steadily at Mulder's midsection. Curly and Slim pull Mulder toward the chair and begin to strap him down. Clegg holds the gun on him the whole time. Once satisfied that Mulder is secure, he turns his attention to a row of beakers filled with something like water. "You look pretty damn good for a dead man," says Mulder. Mulder strains against the straps. "How'd you pull off that little hoax, anyway? What happened to the other people on that plane? Alaska isn't very nice this time of year. Trust me." Clegg ignores him. Mulder tries again. "If you want to hide, there are easier ways than faking your own death. You don't seem that good at this whole clandestine thing, anyway. Why go through all the trouble?" Clegg is still absorbed in his work, not looking at Mulder. "You're on your own, aren't you?" Mulder asks. "What you're working on. Wave." This seems to catch Clegg's attention and he glances over his shoulder at Mulder. "They brought your project to a halt. It was too dangerous even for them." "They wanted to stop me," says Clegg finally. "Typical government employees." "I resent that remark." "Narrow-minded. Afraid of change. Like you, Agent Mulder." Clegg pulls on a pair of gloves and gives Mulder a critical look. "I'm a little disappointed in you. Aren't you the least bit curious? You seem to have an idea about what this is. Don't you realize what I'm giving you?" "Yes, I do. It's killed twelve people so far. And it shattered their minds too, didn't it?" Mulder nods at the two other men moving around the lab with empty eyes. Clegg only shakes his head. "You have this great reputation as being open to 'extreme possibilties.' And you are extraordinary, to be sure. But you're not like your partner. She's the one who has true understanding." "What the hell does *that* mean?" He comes toward Mulder now, carrying a syringe. "Don't be afraid." XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx "These are exciting times, Agent Scully," says Dr. Clegg as he checks the straps that bind her down. "We're on the threshold of a whole new stage of human evolution. You're in at the ground floor." "Exciting," says Scully in a low fierce voice. "So I'm going to end up like them?" She tilts her head towards the others. The unnamed young woman is hooded and bound again and curled up on the floor of the lab. The huge man who captured Scully leans impassively against the wall. Caked dried blood still covers his broken nose, but he gives no sign that it even bothers him. The other two men assist Clegg with the same dead expressions. He stands at a counter, preparing some kind of monitoring device. "Is that what you have in store for me?" she asks, nodding at the others. "Insanity? A virtual lobotomy?" Clegg stops and looks down at the woman on the floor. "I know you won't believe me," he says, a bitter smile forming. "But I know how much has been sacrificed. Believe me." The bitter smile turns tragic. "The problem is that it's so hard to judge how individual minds will be affected by Wave. Sandra was my best hope, but you see how fragile she turned out to be." He gestures at the woman, then at the big man. "Antony was strong and disciplined, but he didn't react much better. At least he's...he's easily controlled now. Same with these other two." Scully glances at Antony. Whenever she looks at him she half expects to see his face melt into the other, into the brutal and ugly face of the man, or the thing, that once threw her across a motel room as if she were a doll. She studies Antony's face for a moment, and to her horror she sees that it's crossed with scars. Scully turns away. "And what about Jason Kerr, and Gao, and the others?" She flexes her aching arms against the straps. Her wrist throbs from when Antony forced her to drop her gun. "They didn't react the way you expected either." Grief shadows Clegg's face. "I depended on them, you know. Kerr...Kerr had so much promise. He was brilliant. Sensitive. And Gao was so goddamned dedicated. So serious about the work. They volunteered. They both seemed fine at first, after the test. Just fine. Then they began to think... wrong things. It was Kerr's fault. He became like some kind of goddamn missionary." To Scully's amazement the man's eyes are wet. "I never thought... well. I never thought it would go so far." "This isn't worth it, Dr. Clegg." "There's no choice but to go on," Clegg answers, wiping at his face impatiently and turning back to his work. His grief for Kerr and the others seems genuine. But Scully sees in him then the glazed look of the true believer: Absolutely convinced of the rightness of his cause. Absolutely convinced that the sacrifices are necessary. She's seen this look before too often, on child killers and ufologists and chain-smoking men. If you think that your work is ushering in a new stage of human evolution, how could anything else matter? Scully struggles futilely against the straps. Clegg smiles wanly. "I just hope you realize how special you are. Your partner too." Sick fear hits in her gut like a sucker punch. "Where is he?" "He's fine." "WHERE IS HE?" "He's very close. Please." Scully briefly closes her eyes, fighting off panic. Have to keep my mind clear, she thinks. Keep asking questions. "Why are we so 'special?'" "Isn't it obvious? Wave is a product of the same technology that created the virus. You still keep the traces in your systems." Right. Scully watches Clegg as he prepares a syringe full of a clear viscous fluid. Wave. A hallucinogen. A poison. A product of an ancient alien race, beyond their understanding, that left its relics buried on a beach in Africa and hiding in their own bodies. It could be all of them, or it could be nothing. "And what about Colleen?" she asks hoarsely. "Colleen is a very deluded young woman," Clegg murmurs as he checks the syringe. Antony moves away from the wall and toward Scully. "She was a great disappointment to me." "And the blond woman?" "Who?" "The blond woman who followed me," Scully says, trying to keep the fury and fright from her voice. "Did you put her up to it? She's dead now too, you know. She tried to tell me something right before she died. Did you do the same thing to her?" "I don't know who you're talking about," says Clegg, puzzled. "Anyway, it's time." "No," Scully mutters, beginning to struggle. Antony takes her arm in his large strong hands and holds it steady. Her coat and her suit jacket have been thrown on a chair, leaving her arm bare. The other two men stand back, watching. "Now," Clegg says. Scully watches in horror as the needle pushes into the vein that throbs in the white skin of her forearm. The sting fades and she falls away into sick blackness. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Scully feels hazy consciousness coming through to her, everything skewered like those irritating dreams where she tries to stand or run but her legs won't move. She is aware, dimly, that she's lying down. The faint light hurts her eyes but she forces her eyes open. Acrid smell in her nostrils. The first thing Scully can focus on is Antony's body lying face down on the floor, a black pool of spreading blood beneath him. At the other end of the room, two shapes silhouetted, one kneeling. She can make out the outline of a ponytail, so he must be Clegg. The other is tall but hunched and holds out his hand at an odd angle. Scully squints and tries to focus. She can't make out a face, but she can tell now that he holds a gun. And he's pointing it at Clegg. Their voices are strained and muffled. "...please," Clegg is saying. "Please." "Did you really think we wouldn't find you?" The voice is crisp, commanding, familiar. "Typical scientist. An astonishing lack of common sense, mixed with a healthy dose of self-righteousness." Incoherent mumbling. "...had no choice." "On the contrary. You made a very deliberate choice to betray the Project and strike out on your own. Risky. I cannot guess as to your motivation." Clegg's voice now, loud and desperate. "You and the others were so goddamn blind to the possibilities of the technology. So concerned with saving your skins that you couldn't see the ramifications - " "Oh, I understand the ramifications, I assure you," replies the other, sharp and cold. "You were playing with fire." Something like a sob, more mumbling. "You *are* a fool if you still believe that." He lowers the gun, pointing to Clegg's head. "I hate to do this, John. Waste of a brilliant mind. Then again, your obsession has resulted in the waste of *many* good minds, hasn't it?" The shot is loud, deafening. Scully strains ineffectively against the bonds, struggling against the overwhelming dizziness. Jesus, he murdered him in cold blood right in front of me, she thinks. "No," she shouts in incoherent outrage. The tall figure turns in her direction, as if seeing her for the first time. Then, slowly as if in pain, he crosses the room until he is standing next to her. And then she can see the pinched worn face, familiar and hateful, smell the smoke on his coat - "Agent Scully. I must apologize for this. You were never meant to become involved with this." "You," she whispers. As she loses consciousness again, she sees a flame in his hand, a match raised thoughtfully to the cigarette in his mouth. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx When Scully opens her eyes again, the first thing she notices is how the quality of the light has changed. The flicker of flourescent is replaced with something red-tinged and fluid. Full awareness comes back to her then and she jolts upright. Tentatively she takes stock of her body and mind: dizzy, a little disoriented, but she knows where she is and who she is. It takes her a few moments to realize that her arms and legs are free. Confused, she looks around the room. No one. Not even any bodies. With effort Scully swings her legs off the chair and is rewarded with a sudden headache. She staggers to her feet and realizes why the light has changed. Through the door she can see a fire in the hallway, tongues of bright flame gathering strength. Mulder, she thinks. A thousand possible scenarios play out in her head, every one of them hideous. Gathering strength, she heads for the opposite door. On the way she sees her gun lying on a counter, and she picks it up. Keeping her head down, Scully winds her way down more halls, more offices and labs. Thick smoke begins to build. Occasionally she stumbles. She rounds a corner and she's in another lab, much like the one she just left. Mulder is standing next to a chair like hers. His face is absolutely blank, and his hand is tight around the grip of his weapon. Scully freezes. Swift fear clutches her heart when she sees his face. My God, Mulder, what did you see? Are you like them now? Have I lost you too? Despair opens up before her like a bottomless well. Then Mulder turns his head toward her. And he's all right. It's just Mulder, just *her* Mulder with his blank panic face and his hatred of fire. Relief washes over his features when he sees her but his voice is impossibly calm. "Scully," he says, "You're going to take my hand. And then we're just going to walk out of here." Hand in hand they lurch down the hallways, away from the blaze, doing their best to keep low. They cough and stumble, both of them sick and exhausted. Finally they are back at the door. They burst outside onto the loading dock and the air is wonderfully cold and pure. With a sudden surge of strength Mulder pulls Scully along, away from the burning building. Both are dimly aware of sirens, pulsing lights, shouted orders, a rush of water. Scully feels friendly hands wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. A pair of firemen walk them to a waiting ambulance. Someone places an oxygen mask on her face. "I'm fine," she tries to say. In some part of her mind, Scully recognizes that they are safe for now. But it takes the paramedic some time to convince her to release Mulder's hand. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Not much later, gray morning light breaks over the tops of the trees. Scully sits huddled in the door of the ambulance, her wrist in a splint. The street is jammed with fire trucks. Montgomery county fire and rescue personnel, Rockville city police, and federal personnel are everywhere. Sooty water spills down the gutters. The fire is almost out, but the QuanGen building is gutted. A few feet away Skinner is talking into a phone in low angry tones that carry despite his best efforts. "This is absolutely unacceptable. Your foot-dragging nearly cost the lives of two agents. The backup...I don't care...What the hell are you going to tell Senator Kerr?...Fine. Do whatever you feel you have to do, Alvin." He hangs up, his face a picture of controlled fury. Then out of the corner of his eye he spots Scully. Their eyes meet, briefly, and he knows that she heard him. He nods and turns away. Scully shivers, and suddenly Mulder is back, kneeling in front of her. He stares directly into her eyes, his gaze unbearably intense. "Mulder, I'm okay," she murmurs. She studies her for a long time, searching for signs of madness. Then he nods slightly and looks down at her wrist, unspoken concern still clouding his face. "Just a sprain." "What happened?" Mulder asks, smoothing a hair from her smoke-smudged face. "After they, um...after Clegg injected you." "Nothing. I got sick and dizzy, and everything just went black. I regained consciousness once, though. And...and I saw what's-his-name. Spender." Mulder's eyes narrow. "I'm sure of it. He was talking to Clegg, and then he shot him. He executed him right in front of me. Everything was hazy - it was hard to focus - but I'm sure I saw that." Mulder takes a long breath. "As far as they can tell, there are no bodies in the building. They'll have to sift through to find anything, though. But I believe you, Scully. I think that Clegg is dead now, really dead." Silence for a few moments. He settles down next to her. He shivers a little - he lost his coat and jacket too - and she offers him part of the blanket. He accepts gratefully. "What happened to you, Mulder?" she asks after a time. "Not much to tell. The room spun, then I blacked out. Didn't even dream. I woke up to the fire, and my straps had been cut. Then I saw you." "What does it mean?" Scully says, her voice close to a whisper. "It means...I think you were right. It was just some kind of drug and luckily we got a bad batch. That's all. And our blood work will come back negative, like the others." His lips curve in a slight smile. "I've had better buzzes from cough syrup." Scully looks up at him. "Or maybe...maybe it means that there was never any other path for us, Mulder. What if it just didn't work on us? Maybe we're *not* like the others. We are special, but not in the way that Clegg thought. We collapse the wave function ourselves." "Are you saying we're exempt from the laws of physics because Wave didn't affect us?" asks Mulder uncertainly, his voice low. "You're making me dizzy here, Scully." She shakes her head. "What if, what if there was never any other alternative to where we are now? No other possibilties. For either us of us. That *this* is our only possible reality." The thought really is dizzying. Mulder sits still, trying to understand. "What does it mean?" Scully whispers again. Mulder has no answer for her but puts an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close, and rests his face against her hair. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Epilogue - one week later Cool light streams into Scully's bedroom from the small crack in the door, silvery light from the streetlights outside. Mulder leans back against her headboard, thick exhaustion settling in his limbs. Scully straddles his lap, still rocking, rocking, her arms tight around his back. She is pressed against his chest and he can feel her heart race somewhere around his sternum. I was afraid of this, thinks Mulder dimly. At first he thought this might merely become addictive, like a drug or a bad habit to kick if it became necessary. But the truth is much more frightening. It's not like an addiction at all - it's something indispensable, like air or water. The only word to describe it is sustain. Mulder rubs her back and runs his hands through her fine hair, slipping through his grasp. You sustain me, Scully, he wants to whisper over and over again. You sustain me, this sustains me. But lingering fear keeps him from telling her. Scully pulls back from him and her breathing begins to slow. He can read in her raw, flushed face that maybe she feels the same way. The same questions run through both minds... If there was never any other path than this - for both of them - then what next? This doesn't change anything. The truth is still elusive. The file is still open and the dead are still dead. The blond Jane Doe still goes unidentified, a week after she died. No trace of Clegg's body or any of the others in the burned building. No trace of Colleen. No records of a substance called Wave. There are no real answers for the families of the dead, not even for the powerful and the wealthy. And there are no answers for Scully or for Mulder. They are left with nothing. Except for this. It's so tempting to stay here safe in this private warm place they've finally created. So tempting to lock each other away from the world and its horrors. But tomorrow the fresh search for answers will begin again, as it always does. Her fingers comb through his damp hair and she pulls his head down for one last kiss, for now. Stiffly she disentangles herself and falls heavily to the bed. Mulder rolls back to slip next her. They smile at each other briefly, shy tired smiles as if they only just met. We can only wait and see what happens next, Mulder thinks. And then sleep takes them both. End XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Author's Notes: I've been thinking about this disturbing idea for a year now and then it hit me how well it would fit in with "all things." My apologies to Gillian Anderson for my misuse of her episode. Believe it or not, this fanfic has a bibliography: The Physics of Star Trek (Yeah, Star Trek, you read right) by Lawrence Krauss http://library.thinkquest.org/3487/qp.html http://ourworld.compuserve.com/homepages/dp5/jse.htm http://www.culture.com.au/brain_proj/quantum.htm http://zebu.uoregon.edu/~js/21st_century_science/readings/pine3.html Thanks also to Deep Background for refresher info on various episodes, and neat poison information. I have heard about a story by Robert Heinlein with a similar theme, but I've never been able to find it - I don't even know what it's called. Please email me if you know anything about it. As always, thanks to my wonderful husband for his patience and support. (And the poor guy doesn't even *like* The X-Files!) If I ever write that bestselling novel, I hope to support him in the lifestyle to which he's become accustomed. Thanks also to my brother the physics Ph.D. candidate. I hope this all sounds like I know what I'm talking about... Thanks for reading - let me know what you think. Elanor G ElanorG@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/ElanorG