"Bullet with Butterfly Wings" by Smashing Pumpkins, from Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

Mulder watches as the man sitting in front of him pours water into the paper cup, spilling some of it on the pristine table in the process. Undoubtedly, he wishes that it were whiskey or scotch, because either would provide a respite from the questions that are about to come. The chair in which he sits is deep and comfortable, but he perches close to the edge of it, as if preparing to flee the room at the first opportunity.

Dr. Phillips whips out a pack of Morley Lights and ignites one, then offers it to the interviewer belatedly.

"I'm trying to quit," Mulder declines.

"They don't bother you, do they?" Dr. Phillips inquires between quick inhalations. "I haven't had one since morning."

"Feel free," Mulder shrugs. "So what are the duties that kept you so busy today, Doctor?"

"I'm an anesthesiologist. I provide the oblivion during the surgeries." It would sound lighthearted if not for the anxiety that permeates his every word.

"I wasn't aware..."

"That specialists of my kind were employed here?" Phillips interrupts. "Surprise."

Mulder grits his teeth, returning the interview on its track. "What kind of surgeries do you assist in?"

"Doing a little research on the side, Agent Mulder?" Phillips' eyes narrow minutely. "I could tell you, but it would take time, of which both you and I have precious little."

Mulder concurs inwardly: every minute that he spends questioning the employees in this facility is a minute that he could spend by Scully's bedside. And he can't afford to lose his focus on the investigation, something he believes to be inevitable from the first moment that he will walk inside her hospital room and take hold of her inanimate hand. He needs to distract himself, needs to forget himself inside this case. The sooner that he finds the culprits, the sooner that he can have the best assurance of her safety, of Samantha's safety.

Then, he can shake off this nightmare of a temporary reassignment. But now, he leans forward, closer to the impotent fumes of smoke from a Morley Light and an unshaved face of Phillips. "Please elaborate, Doctor."

"I keep the subjects drugged out of their minds while the surgeons poke around their reproductive organs. And before you ask, no, that's not what I hoped to end up doing when I applied to medical school."

Mulder shuts his eyes, willing the image away. "You seem unhappy," he comments unsteadily.

"You're very observant." Phillips pours another cup of water and gulps it down immediately. "I see now why we have to resort to your help. Any idea yet of who is behind the murders?"

All evidence points to an inside job, and that is the reason why Mulder is willing to endure this interrogation and many others to follow. "If you could work up the nerve to pull a trigger, Dr. Phillips, you would fit my profile wonderfully," he smiles serenely.

The doctor stares at him, the cigarette forgotten on the way to his mouth. "For a moment there, I thought you actually meant it." There is a touch of hysteria in his laugh. "But you're right, I wouldn't have the guts even if I had the will. Besides," he adds after a pause, "with the hours I work, I wouldn't have the time, either."

"Did you know Dr. Palmett?" Mulder asks of the latest victim. "Have you ever worked with him?"

"Yes, I have," Phillips nods. "We were close... as close as people become in this line of work, anyway. He was also unhappy, you might say - and afraid. Seems that he was afraid for a good reason." His hands shake slightly as he pours another portion of water, filling the cup to the brim. "You want to know my theory on what's wrong with our organization, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder, though he has quite a few theories of his own, gestures for the doctor to continue.

"We became too bold. Too secure in our purpose, in our own righteousness, in our wealth. But when the cup runneth over...this is why our lives overflow with grief now." Phillips' shoulders sag in resignation. "We're all sitting ducks. As long as we work here, we are targets. And if we quit, we only invite the wrath of the remaining ducks. Ducks, Agent, can be very cruel when they're scared and are out for revenge."

This litany of apprehension and cockiness is becoming tiring, and Mulder shifts impatiently in his seat, despairing of extracting any useful information out of this man. "Did Dr. Palmett have any enemies that you know of?"

"No," Phillips says helplessly and gets up. "May I go now?"

"No, you may not," Mulder snaps. "How accessible is codeine in this facility? Does anyone keep track of the supplies?"

The doctor sits back down carefully. "Normally, we answer for every narcotic, including codeine, down to the last milligram. Though what with shortage of staff lately, it's been fairly easy to get hold of. I also can't think of any reason why anyone here would want to be responsible for your partner's death."

Mulder appears unperturbed. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't write her off yet. She is still alive. She will stay that way."

Phillips chokes on his water, and the sound is akin to a prelude of terror. "My god," he hisses once he regains his breath. "I cannot *believe* they kept it a secret from you. Sometimes they're nothing more than a bunch of selfish cowards. Nothing more than that." He slumps in his chair, hands covering his face. "Unbelievable," he repeats.

With calmness he doesn't possess, Mulder waits until Phillips recovers sufficiently to keep talking. "Would you please elaborate, Doctor."

"I wondered why you were so... functional before. Oh hell. Agent Scully died - I read the obituary in the newspaper, about two days ago. Due to the latest developments, that page of Washington Post has become part of my daily reading material," Phillips explains nervously. "I can't recommend it highly enough."

Mulder is not aware of the sound that erupts from his chest, nor does he register the replying shudder of the man sitting across the table. The scalpel goes in deep enough to achieve, if not complete unconsciousness, then at least a temporary oblivion from the pain. Slowly, as if he is waking up from a long nightmare into an even more abhorrent reality, he becomes cognizant of Phillips' hands on his shoulders, of the doctor's distressed face too close to his own.

"Agent Mulder, is there anything I can do to help?" he asks, and Mulder guesses it's not for the first time. "God, I didn't want to be the one to tell you, it's just my luck...I have Valium with me." He pats his pockets anxiously.

"No," Mulder refuses the offered bottle of pills. Nothing short of morphine would provide the relief. "Sit down, Doctor. Please, just... stop."

Phillips lets go, still shaking his head and muttering to himself. "Unbelievable. Simply unthinkable."

"I should have visited her," he whispers. "I am just as much a selfish coward as anyone else in this place."

"Don't waste time on self-recrimination. You must keep your focus, Agent Mulder." The doctor moves the cigarettes and lighter within the younger man's reach and watches as he lights one up, seemingly without any conscious thought. "I know why they wanted you to be unaware, of course. Without your help, we're all going to die here."

"So, it's that simple." The smoke is strangely soothing, even if the flavor is detestable. He wonders if there will be more cigarettes after this one.

"Finding the men responsible should be in your interests, as well," Phillips continues. "You've become a target the minute you started working for us."

"In that case, Doctor," Mulder comments distractedly, "I've chosen my company wisely."

He pockets the cigarettes and walks out of the room.

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