"Spiders" by Joydrop, from Metasexual

Even in sleep, Sam continues to shiver. Mulder asks the guard for yet another blanket and covers her up, smoothes the lock of wavy hair away from her face. Extreme exhaustion, as one of the doctors classified it. Nothing to do but give it some time. The only thing missing is the reason for her to be so tired, so drained of energy.

He settles on the linoleum floor beside her, finding comfort in her presence. He is free to use a nice office down the hall, equipped with every necessity, but his concentration wanes there, rendering him useless.

He faces a similar problem everywhere he goes. His mind wanders, replaying the scenes from the past that has been lost too quickly. His feet, if given free rein, end up in those places least related to the investigation. Not once has he noticed the raised eyebrows of his prisoners and surrogate bodyguards as he stood at the Potomac, watching the water for an hour, or as he walked across the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, again and again, measuring the ground in chaotic circles.

In this room, however, he is reminded of the reason to continue. The only reason that still remains.

Not for the first time, Mulder questions his initial assumptions, reassesses the puzzle. Though he has been certain that the epicenter of the quake destroying the Consortium stemmed from within, evidence proves him wrong at every turn. Perhaps more telling than any evidence is the veil of terror that hangs over every man and woman with whom he comes into contact.

The irony is not lost on him. Yesterday, he would have applauded anyone who was responsible for this situation, and even today, he might be tempted to simply sit back and watch the bloody spectacle unfurl before his appreciative gaze. But the disappearing chips of abductees upset the picture enough for him to question the motives of the people involved.

Scully's death does not fit in the pattern altogether. She was an innocent, someone who never should have become a target, someone who perhaps would have fit into the category of abductees rather than those chosen to be destroyed.

Even the method by which she was disposed of seems peculiar. Poison should be less appealing to the killers who are as quick and as ruthless. Medical narcotics, especially, provide what is almost a merciful sleep in comparison to violent deaths that some others have suffered.

Almost as if the leader, the man ultimately responsible for her death, had been reluctant to go through with it and taken pity on her. Someone who is equally cruel and compassionate, who has the opportunity and momentum to dispose of the unwanted people, yet chooses to take what are almost certainly risks while removing chips from abductees. Someone who knows the names of the men involved in the carefully hidden conspiracy, who has access to drugs and weapons, who easily avoids the radar of hundreds of people hunting for him.

Mulder's eyes are unfocused as he creeps through the labyrinths of the mind that he seeks. The old exercise is a familiar routine, but today is perhaps the first time when he's been able to achieve this level of fusion with the killer, still not enough to work out a profile, but close. So close that he can feel the frustration of the man who believes that he's already lost his essence, who's betrayed himself. There is no room for loyalty in his aching heart, no room to have faith in anyone but one person who...

...who is dying?

Mulder lays a hand on his chest, trying to slow down the madly beating instrument, which pushes blood through his arteries at an excessive rate. Surely, he projects his own grief onto the man he seeks. Again and again, he is presented with proof that he is in no condition to continue with this charade, that mistakes he makes even now will cost more lives of both innocent and guilty.

Still, work is a reason to fight the encroaching depression, an outlet to lose himself in. One more time, he tries to relax and opens the door leading back to the labyrinth.

He's always known that he was profiling an insect.

A gray spider weaves a tangled web that spreads in ever-increasing radii from under its hairy legs. Its abdomen is bulbous, grotesquely distended with blood that it drank from the victims caught in its lacework. And though they fight, hundreds of men and women ensnared within its bonds, they can never free themselves. Mulder wonders why the flies should struggle so, for how can they prefer life if their consciences are so heavy with guilt? How can they choose to continue on when everything they used to be has been trampled and thrown aside, like so much waste?

When spider's beady eyes turn toward him and a pair of appendages extends in his direction, Mulder doesn't resist.

When the guard brings Samantha's dinner an hour later, he finds her still asleep, and her brother investigating the corners and shadowy places under her bed.

"Are you looking for something?" he asks tentatively. "Did you lose a ring?"

Mulder waves him away absently.

"Just checking for spiders."

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