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
RATING: R for violence, sex, and disturbing
subject matter
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

    Source: geocities.com/elanorg