Cephas (1/1)
Rating: PG
Classification: XCA
Spoilers: Colony, End Game, Pusher, Memento Mori, Gethsemane
Keywords: XF/Patricia Cornwell crossover
Summary: Dr. Kay Scarpetta performs Mulder's autopsy and, 
realizing it's not his body, embarks on an investigation with 
Scully. (It's best if you've read at least one Patricia Cornwell 
novel, but if you haven't, you can still understand the story.

Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm not making any dinero off this 
story; just trying to pass the time till the premiere. Besides, 
why take me to court? I'm sure most people who write fanfic would 
be a lot more profitable to sue than I. <g>

Post this anywhere as long as it's unchanged and my name and 
email addy are attached.

Scientific Disclaimer: hey, to (sort of) quote Mulder, I ain't no 
doc! (yet.) I'm not a scientist either, and I know absolutely no 
one else who is interested in this stuff and already has their 
degree. Therefore, I've got no one to ask. So sue me if I get a 
couple things wrong.

Anyway, here we go.




Hoover Building
10:23 a.m.

	" . . . Agent Mulder had died late last night, from an 
apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head." She sucked in 
air and bit her trembling lip, waiting.
	It seemed an eternity until Section Chief Scott Blevins said 
gently, "Thank you, Agent Scully. That will be all."
	She got up slowly and gathered her notes, cramming them into 
her briefcase haphazardly. Then Scully turned and quietly walked 
out of the room.

Richmond Office of the Chief Medical Examiner
12:06

	I switched on the overhead lamp and pulled on rubber gloves. 
Picking up my Dictaphone, I said, "Subject is male Caucasian, 36 
years of age. Cause of death is a cranial gunshot injury, 
apparently self-inflicted. Name is FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder 
as identified by Special Agent Dana Scully.
	"There is a muzzle mark burned into the skin, indicating 
that this was a contact shot. The bullet has been recovered and 
sent to the FBI ballistics lab. Results should confirm Agent 
Mulder's apparent suicide."
	I turned his head and probed the scalp, searching for other 
injuries that could contradict this, and finding nothing, moved 
to his chest. Then a small mark situated several inches above his 
navel caught my eye. It was round and approximately a millimeter 
deep, and did not break the skin. It looked exactly the same as 
the mark left when one stabs a block of clay with a toothpick.
	"Wingo?" I called. "Can you bring me over Agent Mulder's 
file?"
	"Uhh . . . hang on." The shy technician lifted his head from 
the microscope and picked up a clipboard. "Here."
	I flipped through it. "Wingo, would you look right here?" I 
pointed to the mark.
	"What is that?"
	"I don't know yet. Looks like a puncture wound that hasn't 
bled. Could be postmortem for lack of reaction, but it's not 
especially common. Just to make sure . . . Can you prepare a 
biopsy slide, please? I don't see anything about this in his 
records."
	"Gotcha. Let me just finish this one over here . . . ?" He 
backed up, pointing to the samples he'd abandoned.
	"Go ahead. I'll call you when I'm done." Although it was 
just one anomaly, my suspicions had arisen subconsciously. I 
shook my head to myself and made a note in his chart, then moved 
down to the abdomen, inspecting it carefully. Yes, there was a 
small, healed incision. According to the chart, Agent Mulder had 
his appendix removed eight years ago. I peered at it with a 
magnifying glass, then snapped a photograph.

	When I reached his legs, I glanced down to look for the    
small scar from surgery there. It seemed the Agent Mulder had 
exercised bad judgment when he was ten years old and had fallen 
out of a friend's tree house, resulting in a fracture of his 
tibia.
	But where was the scar? Although it would have been small, 
it would not have been unnoticeable. There should have been at 
least something of a mark from the surgery, but the skin was 
relatively unmarred. What was going on?

	Scully sat on the couch dismally, trying in vain to read. 
After the meeting she had gone home, hoping to bury herself in 
something to help her suppress her thoughts. But nothing held any 
interest for her anymore, and she felt a tear rolling down her 
face again. Knowing it was a stress reaction, she held down her 
thoughts that it was she who caused Mulder's death by telling him 
of her situation. However, the guilt remained, and she reflected 
on the last time she'd seen him.
	"He told me the men behind this hoax, behind these lies, 
gave me this disease to make you believe."
	In retrospect, it seemed like the worst thing she could have 
said.
	Scully gave up and put the papers down, burying her face in 
a pillow and letting herself cry.
	Then the phone rang, jolting her. She cleared her throat and 
picked it up, wiping her eyes and clearing her throat. "Hello?"
	"Dana Scully?"
	"Yes?"
	"This is Dr. Kay Scarpetta, the chief medical examiner at 
the Richmond morgue. I'm calling concerning the death of your 
partner."
	Scully's tears came flooding back. "What is it?"
	"Dr. Scully, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to 
come down here. Some suspicions have been raised that Agent 
Mulder's body may have been misidentified."
	She sat up, confused. "Misidentified? What are you talking 
about?"
	"I'd rather not say just yet. You can see for yourself. If 
you would, I'd like a more complete copy of Agent Mulder's 
employment record and medical history."
	"I can get that for you. When should I come down?"
	"As soon as you can access those records. I will be here 
tomorrow, but ideally I'd like to confirm these notions later 
tonight."
	"I'll try." Scully hung up the phone, feeling strange. She 
stood up and pulled on her windbreaker, not bothering to change 
into her suit. Her jeans would do.

Hoover Building
Computer Records Section
5:23 p.m.

	The opening door distracted Holly. "Can I help you?" she 
asked the red-headed woman. Then the face registered in her 
memory. "Agent Scully?"
	"Holly, can you pull up Agent Mulder's employment history 
and previous medical records for me?"
	"Certainly. I take it you have permission from Assistant 
Director Skinner?"
	Scully held up a signed form, and Holly turned to the 
keyboard. "Badge number?"
	"JTT047101111."
	Holly entered the code into the database, and an electronic 
blip signaled a match. She clicked on the file. "Would you like a 
hard copy?"
	"Yes, please."
	The printer churned out the file, and Scully gathered the 
papers. She turned around quickly at Holly's voice.
	"Agent Scully?"
	"Yes?" Scully looked into her young face, hoping that Holly 
would eventually have the opportunity to advance her career past 
a position that seemed so menial. She'd had so much going for her 
before Robert Modell had nearly caused her to lose it all, and 
Scully had found out through the grapevine that Holly was taking 
further computer programming classes at Georgetown.
	"I'm sorry about your partner."
	Good God, the news had already reached the supporting staff 
as well? Scully thought. She debated a moment, then spoke. "If 
these records turn up what I'm hoping they will, you won't have 
to be."
	"Excuse me?"
	Scully mentally kicked herself for raising her own hopes and 
for cryptically leaking information that was, at best, 
speculation. "Just . . . don't close the door on this yet, okay?" 
The printer quieted, and she picked up the remaining files and  
departed, leaving Holly to wonder what on earth she'd meant.

Washington, D.C.
6:53

	Mulder's head was pounding. He tried to slide back to 
unconsciousness, but his headache screamed, demanding immediate 
attention. Grimacing, he tried to put his hands to his forehead.
	Now why the hell am I strapped down, he wondered 
uncomprehendingly, then squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of 
pain slammed through the inside of his skull. Finally he realized 
the magnitude of that thought: God damn, I'm strapped down! Where 
the hell am I?
	Gradually, scattered images appeared in his mind: his 
friend's murder, the alien body's disappearance, watching an old 
recording of a debate about the existence of extraterrestrials, 
and hearing a strange sound in his apartment. The last sensation 
he could pull out of his memory was one of very brief pain as 
something connected with the side of his neck.
	He lifted his head, gritting his teeth as his cranium 
protested angrily. There were restraints wrapped tightly around 
his ankles, chest, knees, hips, and arms, and medical leads and 
wires were attached to his bare chest and forehead. His 
peripheral vision registered movement to the left, and a bright 
light was switched on over his face. Too bright.
	"Wha the hell . . . ?" he managed, fighting past the 
thickness in his throat.
	"Agent Mulder."
	The voice came from above him. Mulder couldn't see the faces 
of the people standing over his stretcher, but he could make out 
several dark-suited men.
	"If this is about Watergate, I confess," he said, his 
sarcasm breaking through the pain.
	"We need your help on a critical matter . . . Fox."
	Mulder bristled. "What did you do to me?"
	"Don't worry. The effects of the drug should wear off 
shortly."
	"That's good to know. Who the hell are you?"
	The question was ignored. "A man named Kritschgau came to 
you with false information. What was it he told you?"
	Mulder coughed violently, his head pounding. He hoped he 
wouldn't vomit. "Up yours," he choked out.
	"Very well." A black-suited figure moved away, and Mulder 
relaxed his muscles under his restraints, drained. Suddenly a 
course of electricity jolted him, and he tensed again, shaking.
	The figure returned, his voice harder. "I'll ask again, 
Agent Mulder. What was it he told you?"
	Mulder tried to stop his trembling, but couldn't. He shut 
his eyes and tried to remember the courses at Quantico. Had they 
prepared him for this situation? Probably, but his fuzzy, 
scrambled mind refused to obey. He decided to be vague and humor 
them. "He told me you were trying to kill me."
	The figure moved away again, and Mulder hoped the inevitable 
wasn't coming--
	A jolt rocked his body again, and his nerves screamed at 
this abuse. The voltage was noticeably higher this time. Suddenly 
he couldn't hold back his stomach any longer, and he felt his 
chest heave as sour fluid rushed into his mouth.
	He felt himself being turned over, still strapped to the 
stretcher, and he opened his mouth and vomited into a bowl 
someone held beneath him.
	As he was turned back, the voice said, "You can make this as 
easy or as difficult as you want, Agent Mulder. Again: What did 
he say?" The words were accompanied by a jarring, but not 
terribly painful, shock.
	This charade could only go on so long, Mulder mused. Besides 
these government men were immune to the law and would probably 
kill him anyway. He groaned as the same electricity flowed 
through his limbs. "Okay, okay!" He choked back another wave of 
bile. "He said that the existence of extraterrestrial life was a 
smokescreen."
	"I thank you for your honesty. Now, what else did he tell 
you? Specifics, please."
	Mulder closed his eyes, trying not to let them overflow with 
tears of pain and guilt.

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner
11:21 p.m.

	"Thank you for coming. I apologize for the short notice, but 
it was very necessary, especially in your line of work, Agent 
Scully." I led her down a long hall, its walls whitewashed 
further by glaring fluorescent lights.
	"What was it you wanted to show me, Dr. Scarpetta?" Scully's 
voice reflected her anxiety.
	I felt a wave of sympathy and compassion as I studied her 
face. I understood what it was like to lose one so close. Mark's 
death had rocked my soul, and I knew the pain she was living. I 
said, "Please, call me Kay. I understand that you are a forensic 
pathologist?"
	"Yes."
	"Well then, there are some irregularities in the body that 
don't jibe with Agent Mulder's medical records. I needed more 
complete records to be sure."
	"Yes, but what kind of irregularities?"
	"I'll let you see for yourself, objectively."
	I pushed open the door to the refrigerator and glanced at 
several toe tags before announcing, "Here." I hauled the 
stretcher out to the autopsy bay. Turning to the computer that 
sat near the wall, I clicked the mouse button several times and 
called up an X-ray of the lower left leg.
	"What am I looking for?" asked Scully.
	"You don't see any injuries? Healed fractures, dislocations, 
anything like that?"
	"No, I don't. Should I?" A tense edge entered her voice.
	I shook my head. "No. I'm not questioning your expertise. 
Rather, I'm confirming my own suspicions. Would you hand me the 
records you brought?"
	Scully passed them over, and I flipped through them until 
she came to a particular page. I read it through briefly, then 
returned it to Scully.
	"See for yourself." I pointed to a spot on the page.
	Scully skimmed it, then looked up, startled. "He broke his 
tibia when he was ten years old!"
	"Yes. There should be a mark left there where the bone 
knitted. And on external examination--" I turned and whipped off 
the sheet. "--there should be a scar there from surgery. However, 
I went over that area multiple times. I even went so far as to 
take microscopy sections from where the incision should have 
been, but there was absolutely nothing."
	Scully winced at the sight of Mulder's body on the table. It 
seemed so final, so irreversible. She had seen hundreds of bodies 
in hundreds of morgues, but this was different. Her eyes closed 
briefly as she composed herself.
	"May I have a glove?" she inquired. I passed her a packet of 
latex examination gloves, and she tore it open and slipped her 
right hand inside. One of Mulder's witty comments came back to 
her: "I know how much you love snapping on the latex." Unbidden, 
tears welled up again, and she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.
	I watched Scully as she forced down her emotions and 
carefully examined the taut, pale skin. She seemed to be 
competent, I thought. Too bad she hadn't pursued the career 
further than the FBI. Or maybe her current position was to the 
advantage: Rather than merely reporting on dead bodies, she could 
arrest suspects, profile criminals, and spend more time in the 
field than was available to me.
	My train of thought was interrupted when Scully straightened 
up quickly. "You'd better run a PCR to make sure it's not him." 
She stood silently, thinking. Finally she observed, "Someone went 
to a lot of trouble to make it look as if this is Mulder."
	"It would seem that way," I agreed. "But let's not jump to 
conclusions, Dr. Scully. I'd like to wait until the PCR results 
return before assuming it's not him."
	She bit her lip, thinking silently. "Dr. Scarpetta, would 
you mind if you and I oversaw the test ourselves? In my past 
experience, tests concerning events such as these have been 
somewhat . . . problematic."
	"Problematic?" I probed.
	Scully tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Just before 
Mulder's death, an ice core sample from what he believed was the 
excavation site of an extraterrestrial craft was stolen from the 
lab. I followed the thief, who then knocked me down the stairs 
and probably would not have hesitated to kill he, had the need 
arose. Later, I learned that he was a pawn of our government 
attempting to sabotage Agent Mulder's and my work."
	I could tell that my face registered disbelief. "Dr. Scully, 
are you suggesting that the government is trying to conceal 
something?"
	"Yes, I am. Please understand, Dr. Scarpetta. This is 
extremely important. It goes beyond faked leaks to the media or 
fraud committed by a government official."
	My face reddened slightly as I remembered these events. Dana 
Scully was not a woman to be patronized, I confirmed in my mind. 
She had done her homework, and seemed in every way my equal. The 
lawyer in me screamed to comply.
	"All right. We'll begin work on a PCR tomorrow morning."

Washington, D.C.
12:49 p.m.

	"Thank you, Agent Mulder. That will be all." The black-
suited man moved away, and the other figures filed silently out 
the door. Mulder caught a faint whiff of nicotine smoke before 
the light switched off and he was thrown into near-total 
darkness.
	He shut his eyes, trying to organize his muddled brain. The 
electric shocks, whatever drug he had been given, and the 
thorough interrogation had taken its toll on his body as well as 
his mind. His limbs were shaky, and he found it difficult to use 
what muscles were available to him in his prone position. He knew 
he needed a doctor.
	Scully, he thought suddenly. How long have I been gone? 
She'll be looking for me!
	The thought gave him hope, but in the back of his mind, he 
knew that these people were impossible to track. All he could do 
was hope that they would release him relatively unscathed.
	He pondered a for a moment over attempting a heroic escape, 
but quickly discarded the idea. These men really knew what they 
were doing, and would probably just as soon kill him. Better he 
remain compliant unless a perfect opportunity presented itself.
	Having nothing better to do, and still thoroughly shaken, 
Mulder tried to sleep.

OCME building, Richmond, VA
9:01 a.m.

	I pushed open the front door to the lobby of my office and 
was immediately greeted by Agent Scully, who looked as if she had 
been waiting there for some time.
	"Dr. Scarpetta," she said, standing up from a seat against 
the wall. She looked terrible. Although neatly groomed, her eyes 
sported large circles and were bloodshot. I suspected that she'd 
not been sleeping well, which was to be understood.
	"If you don't mind, I'd like to take samples of the body's 
DNA up for testing as soon as possible," she said.
	I was touched by the quiet earnestness I saw in her, and I 
realized that she reminded me of my niece Lucy, who had recently 
completed her courses at Quantico and was now a full-fledged 
agent. Their bright minds, physical appearances, and stubborn 
resolve seemed a mirror of each other, not to mention their red 
hair.
	But Lucy, for all her genius, lacked tact and diplomacy. 
Dana Scully harbored and used these traits as well as any lawyer, 
and it struck me that if needed, she could probably tear down a 
defense attorney as easily as I.
	It suddenly dawned on me that I had not yet replied, so I 
said, "I'll be glad to allow you to utilize whatever resources 
you need."
	"May I ask for one more favor?" she asked, searching my 
eyes.
	"Shoot."
	"Could you keep this under wraps for the time being? This is 
sensitive information, and I have to warn you now that your life 
 is in danger if you pursue this with me. If you don't want to, 
I'll understand. I thought about not telling you to be any more 
and continuing on my own, but I've been in that situation and 
dislike it as much as you probably do. So I'll let you decide." 
Her voice shook slightly.
	Surprised and confused, I decided to go along with this odd 
request. "I'll be glad to help, no matter what the consequences."
	She nodded once and moved toward the lab.

Washington, D.C.
9:40 a.m.

	Mulder woke up to a loud, annoying buzz, and for a split 
second he imagined he was in his apartment, awakening for work as 
usual when his alarm clock went off. Then he remembered his 
current situation and groaned inwardly as his stiff arms and legs 
complained about their mistreatment.
	The buzzing noise suddenly stopped, and Mulder opened his 
eyes and glanced around. Sunlight was streaming into the room, 
and he saw the painted white walls surrounding him and a Formica 
counter with various medical instruments resting on it. He rolled 
his head in the direction of the door, realizing he wasn't alone. 
Two men stood in the doorway, one of whom Mulder recognized 
immediately, the other much younger.
	"Good morning, Mr. Mulder," the white-haired man leaning 
against the wall said. He stood straight up quickly. "Please, 
don't ask too many questions. You'll be returned soon."
	It was the same man who had met him in the park in New York! 
"What are you going to do with me?"
	"They are going to kill you," the man said casually in his 
crisp British accent.
	A chill ran down Mulder's spine. "What?"
	The man looked up at a clock on the wall. "In two hours, you 
will be injected with an overdose of morphine, dressed as a 
street person, and dumped in a Boston subway tunnel. You'll be 
buried in a potter's field with no identity."
	"Then why are you telling me this?"
	"I think that particular course of action is a little 
drastic, don't you, Mr. Mulder?" 
	Mulder watched the man warily as he motioned for the younger 
one, who opened a drawer underneath the counter and withdrew a 
syringe and a vial of bluish liquid. He stabbed the cap with the 
needle and pulled back on the plunger, drawing up a small amount.
	"What is that?" asked Mulder halfheartedly, not really 
expecting a straight answer.
	"Something to put you to sleep for the moment," the old man 
told him calmly. "It won't hurt you in the least."
	The younger one turned Mulder's arm slightly and deftly 
slipped the needle into a vein. An uncomfortable burning 
sensation arose from his arm as drug was injected, but quickly 
disappeared when the man withdrew the syringe.
	The last sensation registering in Mulder's mind was the man 
covering him with a white sheet and wheeling his stretcher 
quickly out the door.

Washington, D.C.
6:50 a.m.

	Someone was shaking him roughly, and Mulder opened his eyes 
to find himself lying on the concrete in front of the Smithsonian 
Institution of Natural History. He looked up into the face of an 
unsympathetic security guard.
	"Come on, buddy. Time to move on."
	Painfully, he pushed himself up on one elbow. The headache 
was back, and the sunlight wasn't helping.
	"Let's go. Tourists'll be arriving soon, and they don't want 
to see your ass flopped all over the sidewalk," the guard said. 
"I don't know what the hell you're on, but sleep it off somewhere 
else."
	"Can . . . can I use the phone?" asked Mulder thickly. "I'm 
not a street person, and I'm not on any drugs." Anymore, he added 
silently. What did they give me, anyway?
	"Sure you're not a street person. Look, fella, you better 
get out of here before I report you to the D.C. police."
	"I'm not," he insisted, pushing himself to his feet and 
regretting it. God, my head! he groaned inwardly, rubbing his 
temple. Then he glanced down at himself and realized why he could 
pass for homeless. Where'd they dig up this junk? he wondered. A 
dumpster?
	He was clad in a torn, muddy t-shirt that was hardly there 
and tattered denim shorts that looked as if they'd been run 
through a blender. His feet were entwined in a pair of beaten 
flip-flops. Somehow he doubted that he had the option of flashing 
his badge at the guard.
	The guard glowered at him. "Get going!"
	Mulder shuffled off unsteadily. His limbs were shaky from 
electrical shock and disuse, and he doubted he could walk far.
	Then a chafing in his waistband caught his attention, and he 
lifted his shirt to reveal a thin packet of ten-dollar bills 
stuffed in the top of his shorts. They gave me enough dough to 
get home, he thought wryly. Wonder what nice little boy emptied 
his piggy bank for me.
	He stopped at a souvenir stand and used a ten to buy himself 
a cheap Washington, D.C. t-shirt and pulled it over his head, 
making himself look slightly more decent. Then he wandered over 
to the entrance to the Metro subway.

	Two hours and twenty dollars' worth of subway and cab fare, 
Mulder was standing in front of his apartment door, hoping the 
government's cronies hadn't locked it. He tried the knob, and it 
turned.
	Thanking whatever deity there might be, Mulder stepped 
inside and shut the door behind him. They had done a good job of 
tidying up after themselves, he mused. There were no obvious 
signs of any disruption, until he entered the living room. 
Shocked, he viewed the disarray.
	His belongings had been rifled through, and discarded yellow 
crime scene tape rested on the floor at his feet. Dust he 
recognized as fingerprinting powder covered everything. A small 
red stain was on arm of the couch, and a body outline was taped 
nearby. What the hell happened here? he wondered. Was someone 
killed? Then he glanced at his desk, where his cellular phone 
still lay. Scully would know what had happened.
	He pressed the memory button on his cell phone and waited.

OCME Building
9:35 a.m.

	The buzzing of her cell phone startled Scully out of her 
concentration, and she excused herself from the group. "Scully," 
she answered crisply.
	"Scully, it's me. Where are you?" asked a very familiar 
voice.
	"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Mulder?"
	I looked up sharply.
	"Yeah, hi. What the hell happened in my apartment?"
	"It's uh . . . a long story," she replied, a horrible 
thought suddenly occurring to her. What if this was another 
shapeshifter? Scully thought quickly. "Mulder, can you meet me 
somewhere?"
	"Sure, yeah. Where?"
	"At the indoor firing range in Richmond. In an hour."
	"Richmond? Scully, what's going on here? Some men were 
trying to kill me. I woke up in D.C.--"
	"I'll tell you when I get there." She hung up quickly and 
looked at me.
	"That was him, wasn't it," I said.
	She looked frightened and confused as she put her cellular 
phone away. "It may have been."
	"Well, who else could it have been?"
	Scully sat down next to me again and nervously rested her 
elbows on her knees, folding her fingers together. "In several of 
our cases, Agent Mulder and I encountered what he thought were 
alien-human hybrids. I can't explain it, but these `clones', as 
we referred to them, could change their appearance in such a way 
that they could pass for other people."
	I gave her a look I usually reserved for Marino. "You're 
saying these . . . clones can turn into someone else?"
	She nodded. "Yes. There was one problem with this, though. 
Their blood is bright green and highly infectious. They carry an 
unidentified retrovirus that causes massive thickening of the 
blood. However, this condition can be effectively cured by 
inducing hypothermia and an aggressive treatment with antiviral 
agents."
	I shut my eyes briefly. Damn it, I thought, since when is 
learning extraterrestrial medicine included in the responsibility 
of a chief medical examiner? "So . . . you're suggesting that the 
person who just called you may not have been Agent Mulder at all, 
but rather, an alien."
	"Something like that, yes," she said. "Except I don't 
believe that these people were aliens."
	"Then what do you believe?"
	She shook her head. "I don't know."
	"How are you going to tell if this man is really Agent 
Mulder or not?"
	"By drawing blood somehow," she replied, standing up. "If 
it's my partner, he'll bleed normally and I'll be unaffected. If 
not, then he'll most likely run away. If he doesn't take me with 
him, you'll need to remember how to treat me."
	God, I was getting a headache. Dana Scully had to be 
unstable, decompensating because of her partner's death. This 
couldn't be true . . .
	"One more thing," she added. "If he runs, don't shoot. 
There's only one way these things can be killed: by a puncture at 
the base of the skull." She touched the back of her own neck. 
"You don't have to believe any of this; I'm not even sure I do. 
But if something happens, now you know."

	Mulder loitered in front of the door to the firing range, 
wondering what the cops inside were thinking about the stubbly, 
unkempt man sitting idly on the ground outside. He had been 
waiting for about fifteen minutes when a dark blue state station 
wagon with state license plates pulled up.
	Scully and I got out at the same time, and I scrutinized the 
man's face as I walked around the car and was struck by the  
perfect resemblance he had to the corpse lying in the morgue. If 
it had been a fake, I mused, it was a damn good one.
	She walked toward him carefully, and he moved unsteadily 
forward and wrapped her in his arms. "My God, Scully, I have 
never been happier to see you."
	She shut her eyes briefly. She wanted never to let go of 
him, to hold him forever and make sure nothing ever happened to 
him. But then she thought of who he might be, and released him 
quickly.
	I stood at a safe distance, watching as Scully withdrew a 
capped syringe from her pocket. "Mulder, give me your hand," she 
instructed.
	He held it out, palm up, and Scully grabbed it. "What are 
you doing? Scu--ow!"  he exclaimed as she swiftly poked his 
fingertip with the small needle.
	A single drop of red blood oozed out.
	She hugged him close. "I had to make sure it was you," she 
explained thickly, choking back tears. "I thought you were dead."
	He said nothing, just squeezed her tighter. "You shot 
yourself," she continued. "Mulder, talk to me. What happened to 
you?" She released him and stared at the burns on his forehead.
	"They were going to kill me," he said, looking away. "A man 
we both know decided to let me go."
	She touched the welts. "Who was trying to kill you?"
	"The government," he answered.
	"Then we've got to get you out of here," she decided. 
"They're probably searching. Let's go."
	She led him back to my car. I slipped in behind the wheel, 
and Scully helped Mulder into the passenger seat.
	"What did they do to you?" she asked quietly from the back.
	"They were asking me about Kritschgau," he replied, and 
Scully looked confused.
	"Who's Kritschgau?" I put in. Goddamn it, I hated being in 
the dark. I felt like a fifth wheel.
	"He's a man who came to us with information recently, saying 
that alien encounters were a falsehood created by the government 
to divert attention from themselves." Scully told me. "An alleged 
alien body had just been discovered, and he revealed it to be an 
excellent fake--just like the body you saw, Dr. Scarpetta."
	"You?" Mulder asked me curiously, as if noticing me for the 
first time.
	"I performed an autopsy on what appeared to be your corpse, 
Agent Mulder. It was almost a perfect model except for some 
missing scars, which raised the question of the body's identity 
in my mind. Your partner helped prove it."
	"You can trust her, Mulder," Scully said. Then she looked 
ashamed. "I actually made a report to Section Chief Blevins' 
committee concerning your work," she confessed. "I told them none 
of it was valid. . . . I actually believed you were dead, Mulder. 
I thought my life had ended too."
	He reached for her hand and squeezed it briefly. Then 
suddenly he exclaimed, "Scully--you told that to Blevins?!"
	She hung her head. "Yes. But it can easily be reversed."
	"I'll take your word on that for now," he said 
reproachfully.
	"You were saying about this Kritschgau?" I probed.
	"Yeah. I'm not sure how they took me, but I woke up strapped 
to this stretcher with medical equipment and people standing 
around me. I think they may have knocked me out and abducted me 
from my apartment. I um . . . I'm not sure how long I was out. 
Then they started asking me questions about what I'd been told by 
Kritschgau."
	Mulder paused for a moment, touching his forehead. "At first 
I lied, but when I did the men gave me an electric shock." He 
shut his eyes, remembering. "I think there were five in all."
	"Five what? Five shocks or five men?" I asked, exchanging 
glances with Scully. I knew she was thinking the same as I: What 
if he needed to be hospitalized? Certain drugs he may have been 
given could produce recurrent symptoms and injure him further.
	"Shocks," he said. "Four men, I think."
	Scully looked at me again. "We can't take him to the 
hospital," she said. "We'd run the risk of him being killed in 
order to cover this up."
	I inwardly groaned. She couldn't be serious. Oh well, it 
couldn't hurt to humor her. Mulder would be likely be all right, 
and no one would get hurt. "What do you want to do, then?"
	"I suppose we could keep him at my apartment, or your 
office," she said doubtfully. "But what if he needs any sort of 
medication?"
	An idea struck me. "How about Quantico's security floor?" I 
suggested. "They have adequate facilities, and at the same time 
you might recognize some fellow agents who could vouch for his 
being alive. It would help prevent him from being spirited off 
again." Good God, I was starting to sound just like them.
	"She's getting the hang of this," Mulder remarked to Scully.
	She ignored him. "Is there anyone there whom you know, whom 
you could get in touch with?" she asked.
	Mark's face flashed briefly through my mind, and I quickly 
put him out of my head. "My niece Lucy is a computer programmer 
there, and I'm the consulting forensic pathologist for the BSU, 
ISU, CIA, whatever they're calling themselves. You know, the 
profilers." I smiled. "I'm friendly with one of the agents with 
in the group. Benton Wesley."
	Mulder lifted his head from the door. "I know him! He was 
one of my instructors. Nice guy. One of the few people who 
recognized Bill Patterson as an ass. By the way, you don't have 
to treat me as if I'm about to die."
	"Maybe," Scully said. "But we need to make sure."
	"Scully, I'm fine."
	"Mulder, that ought to be your motto."
	"Or yours," he retorted.
	"Whatever. Dr. Scarpetta, Quantico's fine. You were saying, 
Mulder?"
	He nodded. "Yeah. Anyway, after that they left me there and 
I fell asleep. I woke up and there were two men there. One was 
the same guy who warned you of the attempt on your life last year 
and tried to get information from me following our investigation 
of the Zeus Faber."
	"A submarine," Scully supplied for me when I gave her a 
blank look. To Mulder she said, "What did he do?"
	"He had the other man give me another injection. It conked 
me out." He shook his head. "Then I woke up looking like a bum in 
front of one of the Smithsonians. Apparently he'd given me enough 
cash to get home in fairly good shape. That's when I called you, 
Scully."
	I nodded. "We'll be at Quantico soon. Dr. Scully, can you 
take him to the clinic while I straighten things out with Benton? 
He'll probably want to meet you again, Mr. Mulder."
	"Drop the `mister'," he said, rolling his head back against 
the door. "I even made my parents call me Mulder."
	Scully looked at him sharply, and I wondered what that was 
all about.

Quantico, VA
12:28 p.m.

	Once Mulder was safely hidden in one of the clinic's rooms, 
Scully quickly dialed a number on her cellular phone.
	"Skinner," came the brusque voice.
	"This is Agent Scully," she said. "I have some . . . ah, 
unusual news to give you, sir. It concerns Agent Mulder."
	"What about Mulder?"
	"He's not dead, sir."
	"What?! What are you talking about?"
	"Mulder's alive. I'm standing next to him right now." She 
glanced over at him, a slight smile on her lips.
	"My God, Scully. What happened?"
	She exhaled slowly. "Apparently, the body I identified as 
his is a fake. Mulder was kidnapped and questioned by a covert 
group that you and I both now recognize as part of our 
government."
	"All right," he said. "Where are you now?"
	"We're at Quantico. Sir, the original plan was to kill Agent 
Mulder, not release him."
	"What are you asking for, Scully?"
	"I need a team of trustworthy agents first to witness that 
he is alive, and second, to escort him and I back to Washington."
	"I'm on it," Skinner replied, hanging up.

	My cellular telephone buzzed loudly in my pocket as I walked 
swiftly toward the large bank of elevators. "Kay Scarpetta," I 
answered briskly, putting a hand over my other ear to drown out 
the noise in the large atrium.
	"Kay? It's me, Betty."
	She was my chief serologist. "What's up? Did you finish the 
PCR already? I thought it took longer than that."
	"Well, I tried. Actually I got pretty far along in the test 
before discovering it. I even checked it under the light scope 
and it looked perfectly legitimate."
	"Discovering what, Betty? You know I hate it when you play 
cryptic."
	She laughed, her voice tinny in my ear. "All right. I tried 
to run the sample through, but the chemicals wouldn't react. All 
the compounds in the so-called nucleus were inorganic."
	"Human materials made of inorganic compounds . . . "
	"Yup. Just because I was so shocked, and because I'm such a 
devoted worker to you, Kay--"
	We laughed together.
	"--I borrowed a few chemicals from some other labs and 
figured out what it was made of."
	"And that was?"
	"Plastic, Kay. The guy's cells were made of plastic nuclei."

	I passed Lucy on the stairs down to the basement, where the 
former Behavioral Science Unit was located. In my usual lucky 
fashion, the elevator I was in had jammed as the doors opened to 
the level three floors above the basement.
	"Aunt Kay," she said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
	"Lucy," I greeted her warmly. "I thought I'd have to look 
for you. How are you doing? How's work?" Lucy was involved in an 
important project in the Bureau's Engineering Research Facility, 
called Crime Artificial Intelligence Network, or CAIN. She'd 
diligently programmed and maintained the real-world simulation 
for several years now.
	"I'm fine. We're working on a more user-friendly interface 
program for CAIN, sort of like Windows. Hopefully it'll convince 
more dumbass police forces to come online. You never answered my 
question, Aunt Kay."
	Lucy, blunt as ever. "Do you know Dana Scully or Fox 
Mulder?"
	She grinned. "Yup, Fox Mulder's still got a reputation 
around here as `Spooky'. He's the one who believes in all those 
aliens and stuff. Didn't he just die?" Absently running her 
fingers along the scar at her hairline, she said, "I think . . . 
Dana Scully's his partner, right? She's supposed to keep him in 
line or something."
	"I'm impressed, Lucy. You know more than I."
	"Hey, you go to Quantico, you get the scoop. So what about 
them?"
	I moved to the side of the stairwell as several people 
dressed in suits hurried past, carrying manila folders.
	"Fox Mulder's not dead, Lucy. What was allegedly his body 
showed up in the morgue a few days ago, and I autopsied him. 
There were a few identifying marks that weren't there, so Dr. 
Scully and I tried to run a PCR. Betty--you've met her, right? My 
serologist?--called me a little while ago, saying it wasn't even 
a body. It had no recognizable DNA to test, its nuclear material 
being constructed of plastic." 
	"What?!"
	"I was fooled. It was a dummy, Lucy. A damn convincing 
dummy. Anyway, the real Fox Mulder had been kidnapped by whom he 
thinks were people working for the government and interrogated. 
He escaped and is here for protection."
	"You're kidding, right?" She grinned. "Even so, why would 
you tell me?"
	"No, I'm not kidding. I almost wish I was. And I'm telling 
you because this story needs to get out. If it doesn't, the 
people behind this could easily kill Mulder in order to silence 
him."
	Even to me, the story sounded preposterous. I was surprised 
when Lucy said, "Interesting. Can I meet him?"
	"Um . . . I'll get back to you on that, okay?" I trotted 
down the rest of the stairs, leaving her staring after me.

	I knocked on the door marked SPECIAL AGENT BENTON WESLEY. "It's open," 
the familiar voice called.
	As I pushed open the door, my friend and former lover swung 
his chair around from the desk and grinned. "Kay! It's good to 
see you."
	I pulled up a chair and sat down. "Hello, Benton."
	"What are you doing here?" was his immediate reaction.
	I was starting to get used to that question. "Do you 
remember Fox Mulder?"
	"Of course I do. He was the brightest profiler in his class. 
I was sure he would wind up the head of the unit eventually, 
until he opened that pet project of his. What is it, the X-Files 
or something?"
	"Yes."
	"I heard he committed suicide recently. Terrible, Kay. He 
was quite brilliant. I wouldn't have pegged him as the kind of 
guy to do that."
	"He didn't commit suicide."
	Wesley sat up. "Are you sure?"
	"Positive. He's here now, on the security floor."
	"Security? What happened to him?"
	"Apparently he was kidnapped and interrogated. It was only 
by luck that he was released."
	"Good God," he said, perplexed. "Is he all right?"
	"Pretty much. He seems shaky and there may be some minor 
medical problems with whatever drugs he was given, but I think 
he'll be fine."
	"Who kidnapped him?"
	"Allegedly, covert government agents," I replied. "His 
partner, Dana Scully, seems to believe him."
	Wesley leaned back slowly. "And what do you believe, Kay?"
	"I have no idea," I said honestly. "I find it hard to 
believe that our government could be conducting this sort of 
operation."
	"I don't know," he mused slowly. "Remember Dr. Amburgey, 
Kay? One corrupt government official is all it takes."
	I reflected on Dr. Alvin Amburgey for a moment. He'd been a 
previous Virginia commissioner of health and a thorn in my side 
for over a year. Finally he was run out of office when I 
discovered him tampering with murder evidence in an attempt to 
ridicule me.
	"Anyway, Kay, he's probably telling the truth. I worked with 
him for months and he seems more straightforward and honest than 
most."
	I was surprised that Wesley took this all in stride. He'd 
seen some pretty strange and disturbing things while interviewing 
violent offenders in their prisons, but highly illegal, covert 
government abductions were not one of them.
	"Did they let him go?"
	"That's what he told me. Apparently the plan was for him to 
be killed, but one of the men responsible for this changed his 
mind and secretly freed him."
	Wesley folded his hands. "Is he in any danger now?"
	"I don't think so. I doubt that anyone, government or not, 
would attempt to steal away anyone right under the FBI's nose."
	Nodding, he stood up. "You're probably right. Who did you 
say was working with him?"

	Scully skittishly put her hand on her weapon when a knock on 
the door came. "Who is it?"
	"Dr. Scarpetta," I replied. "Benton Wesley's here."
	She opened the door and let us in. Mulder was sitting on the 
bed, and his face lit up as Wesley sat down. "Hey-y, Wes! Been a 
while!" He extended his hand.
	Wesley shook it and held it for a moment before letting go. 
"Good to see you, Mulder. Alive," he commented wryly.
	"Yeah, Scully told me I'd get a few stares." He glanced at 
her.
	"You called Skinner yet?" Wesley inquired.
	"I did," Scully piped up with a small smile. "It, ah, gave 
him a substantial jolt."
	"I assume you requested help until this blows over," I 
interjected.
	She nodded.
	"All I've heard about you since the Academy were rumors. 
What've you been up to?" Wesley asked Mulder.
	"Oh, you know. The type of thing you never wanted me to do 
but I wound up doing anyway," he replied jokingly. He gestured 
with one hand and widely opened his eyes for a split second. 
"Chasing aliens, that sort of thing. You?"
	"The usual. I've taught only several classes since. I 
suppose you heard about CAIN," he said. "We finally got it onto 
its feet."
	"Yeah, congratulations. I heard you successfully got past 
the problem with Temple Gault," Mulder replied, and Wesley's eyes 
locked with mine at the reference to the terrifying murderer who 
had snuffed out dozens of lives in order to fuel his perverted 
fantasies. He had made attempts on Lucy and me, and it was by a 
very narrow sliver of luck that we'd survived.
	"When do you think the team Skinner's sending will get 
here?" Wesley inquired, changing the subject. We were very close, 
 and I knew him well enough to understand that Temple Brooks 
Gault was a touchy subject. He seemed to have inadvertently 
scarred everyone who was involved with him in any way, including 
those investigating his case. There were nights when I woke up, 
bathed in a cold sweat, having dreamt that Gault had somehow 
escaped the subway train that killed him and was now after me 
again.
	"Within the hour," Scully replied. "In the meantime, one of 
us or someone we trust is to stay here. Hopefully, there are 
already sufficient witnesses." She looked directly at me, asking 
with her eyes if Wesley was substantial, and I nodded. "When they 
arrive, we'll be transported to Washington via private helicopter 
and met by Skinner. Then we can correct any . . . 
misunderstandings created by Mulder's alleged death." All of a 
sudden she put her hand to her nose, her eyes wide. "Oh. Um, 
excuse me for a moment."
	She got up and left the room, heading for the rest rooms 
down the hall and around the corner. Mulder looked stricken, and 
on a hunch, I quickly strode after Scully.
	I caught up with her just before she reached the women's 
room. "What happened back there?"
	"Nothing, I'm fine," she replied, wishing she'd been more 
subtle. She knew Mulder must feel terrible now. Trying not to 
think about it for the moment, she grabbed a paper towel and 
reached for the tap.
	"No, you're not fine," I asserted, putting a finger under 
her chin and tipping her face towards mine. I peered at the red 
smear at her left nostril. "Were you hit or something while I was 
out of the room?"
	She couldn't lie. "No."
	"Then what?"
	She's not trying to patronize me, Scully realized. And she 
understands what it's like to put up with male influence in this 
dog-eat-dog law enforcement environment. Looking directly at me, 
she confessed, "It's a recurring symptom of a metastatic 
nasopharyngeal tumor. That was the cancer I was referring to in 
the report concerning Agent Mulder's motive for suicide."
	A brain tumor? I thought. My God, why strike down this young 
woman in her prime? I recalled the report. No wonder she would 
have believed the body to be his. He would have interpreted this 
discovery as her cancer being indirectly his fault, and this 
would have made his suicide entirely believable.
	"I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "I understand it must be hard 
to deal with."
	Scully looked at me for a long time. "I know you do," she 
said finally. Then both of us were distracted when a crash and a 
muffled yell came from down the hall. We looked at each other, 
the same thought crossing our minds: Mulder.
	She moved first, sprinting down the hall and rounding the 
corner. I followed, wondering how she did that without losing her 
shoes. I nearly did mine.
	By the time Scully reached Mulder's room, scanned her 
fingerprint in the biometric lock, and pushed open the door, he 
was already gone. Wesley was pulling himself up from the floor, 
dark bruises already appearing around the split skin on his 
forehead.
	I rushed to him and placed paper towels over the injury 
while Scully demanded, "What happened?"
	"Six men," he grunted, grimacing. "Knocked me down and 
grabbed Mulder. They're heading toward the east exit. Get going!"
	Scully turned and fairly leapt out of the room, and I ran to 
the phone, saying, "Benton, sit down. I'll call HRT."

	Her tires squealing, Scully floored the accelerator and 
drove recklessly toward the exit Wesley had specified. Fear 
gripped her heart, and she hoped he'd been right.
	Then she saw a dark blue Camry parked at the guard booth, 
and the driver's arm reached out, extending an ID to the military 
policeman inside. As the metal gates began to open, Scully 
slammed the brakes and threw her door open, drawing her gun. 
"Stop right there!" she yelled at whoever the hell would pay 
attention in the car. To the guard, she shouted, "Lower the 
gate!"
	Surprised, the young MPs did so, preventing Toyota from 
leaving. Scully flashed her badge at him, keeping a safe distance 
from the car. "These men are abducting an agent under federal 
protection," she called. "Call and make sure the Hostage Rescue 
Team has been deployed."
	One MP nodded and turned inside, dialing the phone. Scully 
kept her gun pointed at the car, preparing to demand that they 
open the door and release Mulder. Suddenly, the driver's and 
front passenger's door popped open and two bulky men jumped out 
carrying two enormous weapons that Scully didn't bother to 
identify before diving being the cinderblock guard booth.
	She reached around the corner and fired over and over again, 
wondering what the hell she was doing here, shooting someone in 
the middle of a goddamn military base to save some dumb ass who 
had a habit of ditching her a lot, but she didn't care because 
everything was moving in slow motion and she had plenty of time 
to see the steel object moving toward her, plenty of time to 
scream.
	She felt it whiz by her left shoulder and was ridiculously 
pleased at the thought that she had dodged a bullet until she 
felt the sting under her jacket, near the back of her upper arm. 
She grabbed it for a second--not too much blood. Good. She'd been 
grazed. She fired again, counting her shots, she only had two 
left--
	The driver of the car fell, dropping his gun to the tarmac 
as the other man rushed around the hood to the driver's seat and 
fired at Scully again. She fired back, cursing as the bullet 
ricocheted off the roof of the car, missing the man. He pulled 
the car door shut.
	One shot left.
	Scully stood and took aim as the man yanked the car into 
gear, and the last round shattered the glass while the driver 
slumped over the wheel.

	She felt drained, standing there with two dead men who would 
undoubtedly be nameless by tomorrow. She heard engines as HRT's 
vans moved toward her, and the agents hopped out, pointing M-
16's. She pulled out her badge and held it open for a moment, and 
as the team stayed poised for action, she walked over to the car 
and pulled the door open. I silently watched her from one of the 
vans, praying that Mulder was all right.
	He stepped out, and Scully's heart stopped for a moment 
before she threw her arms around him. His hands were cuffed 
behind him, and she dug a key out of her pocket. "You okay?" she 
asked as she undid the lock.
	"Yeah," he muttered. "I thought that was it for me . . . " 
He hesitated for a split second. "Thanks."
	She smiled and put her arms around him again, a tiny tear 
trickling from her eye.
	I moved to Scully and touched her shoulder, bringing away 
blood on my fingertips. "Come on," I said softly.
	She released Mulder, and we walked quietly inside.

FBI Headquarters
two weeks later

	"Upon Special Agent Fox Mulder's complete recovery several 
days after his reappearance, an official inquest was made into 
the actions of Pentagon employee Michael Kritschgau. It was 
determined by the investigative team that he had come to Agent 
Mulder and I for the sole purpose of exacting his revenge on the 
United States government as a whole, which he believed was 
responsible for his son's illness. As a high-ranking government 
agent himself, he knew his testimony would be well-received by 
the press and could cause serious damage to the plausible 
deniability of his superiors.
	"However, when further inquiries were made, it was 
discovered that his son did not suffer from Gulf War syndrome, as 
Kritschgau implied when he came to see Agent Mulder and I. 
Rather, his ailment was documented to be a relatively minor 
bacterial infection, being treated with antibiotics which 
produced several side effects that may have been mistaken by 
Kritschgau to be Gulf War syndrome-like symptoms. When 
Kritschgau's apartment was searched, several psychoactive drugs 
were discovered and alleged to have been obtained illegally. It 
was then suggested that these may have induced paranoia and 
heightened his fears concerning his son's illness."
	Scully paused and looked around the room. They were all 
looking at her impassively, and she thought back to her last 
meeting with these people, when she had been on the verge of 
tears as she told them her tale of Mulder's suicide. But now she 
had the upper hand.
	I looked back at her and flashed her a subtle thumbs-up 
sign. She was handling this perfectly, I thought. There was no 
question in my mind that she would have made an excellent law 
student.
	She continued, "Unfortunately, just before this 
investigation was launched, Michael Kritschgau died--supposedly 
of a cocaine overdose."
	She let this sink in for a moment. "It seems a convenient 
time for an accidental death, especially when one and one's 
involvement in sensitive government actions have come under 
scrutiny. Some may argue that this was a suicide. However, 
forensic evidence revealed that his death occurred before he 
could have been notified of the charges against him. Based on 
this, I do not believe that suicide was the cause of death. 
Toxicological testing supported this. Therefore--"
	"Excuse me, Agent Scully," interrupted one of the people 
sitting at the table. "Would you or Dr. Scarpetta mind going into 
more detail concerning the tox tests?"
	"Certainly," I said, glancing at my notes. "The tests, 
overseen by Agent Scully and myself, proved that although he had 
enough cocaine in his bloodstream to account for his death, there 
was virtually none of its metabolite, benzoylecgonine, present. 
This implies that his use of the drug had been confined to the 
one occurrence. However, the evidence in his apartment pointed to 
long-term abuse."
	"I admit, the evidence in itself is not overwhelming," 
Scully said with a small smile. "But when Agent Mulder's 
testimony is taken into account, the facts that have come to 
light should not be ignored or dismissed."
	"What, exactly, are you getting at?" Blevins said, leaning 
forward and folding his hands on the table.
	"That Michael Kritschgau's allegations were true, that our 
government has been operating covert experiments, and has been 
using so-called alien involvement as a smoke-screen." She stopped 
and looked around again, her face confident, almost daring 
someone to challenge her. "This matter has affected thousands, if 
not millions, of innocent citizens. I ask you to set aside 
whatever preconceived ideas you may have of our government and 
consider the evidence that has been presented to you here today."
	There was a long, long silence.
	"Agent Scully, Dr. Scarpetta, thank you. That will be all."
	She and I rose, nodded at the committee members, and strode 
out of the room side by side.

One week later
Quantico, VA

	"Do you think it worked?" asked Lucy.
	"I couldn't tell," I said, taking a sip of coffee and making 
a face."You know, I think coffee vending machines were invented 
with the express purpose of discouraging caffeine addiction. This 
tastes hideous."
	"Well, how did it go?" she pressed.
	"I think we changed some opinions," I replied slowly. "But I 
just don't know. Scully has told me of her and Mulder's previous 
attempts at revealing these conspiracies. This may be just 
another drop in the bucket, Lucy."
	"You should have told them about the government's 
allegations that those two guys that Scully shot were hired by 
that Scritch-scratch-cow guy. Whatever his name was."
	"Kritschgau," I told her, smiling. "Yes, I suppose so. But 
that was included in the written report."
	"Why the hell would Kritschgau have hired assassins to kill 
one of the few people who had heard his story?"
	"Not a clue," I said. "I don't know how anyone would dream 
that one up."
	"I'm glad I got to meet Mulder," she commented, changing the 
subject and grinning mischievously. "He's cute."
	I laughed. As I reached over and cuffed her on the arm, my 
beeper buzzed, whirring against my hip where it sat on my belt 
loop. I unclipped it and glanced at the liquid-crystal screen. 
"Lucy, hold on a sec. Dana's paging me." Scooting back my chair 
and putting my feet on the table, I switched my phone on and 
dialed Scully's number.
	"Kay, good news," she said right off the bat.
	"Why, what is it?"
	"You know those plastic DNA strands Betty found in the 
body's nuclei? Well, I tracked down a possible lead. A company 
called Pinck Pharmaceuticals, which Mulder and I have dealt with 
in the past, has been doing surgical and burns research, trying 
to diminish the reliance on skin grafts and reduce scarring. 
Basically, they're attempting to create artificial cells. In 
theory, the patient would have several of their own skin cells 
taken prior to surgery and the organelles inserted into a 
standard phospholipid bilayer with a compatible protein surface. 
Then a synthetic nucleus would be constructed by duplicating the 
nucleic acids and inserting a gene that would cause the cell to 
grow and divide much faster than normal across a surface. Once a 
sufficient amount of `skin' was produced from the single 
artificial cell, the layer of skin would be placed over the area 
of injury on the patient, the edges fused, and an injection given 
to halt rapid skin growth."
	"Uh-huh," I said, not really understanding where she was 
going with this.
	"Well, the final product is still years from actual clinical 
testing, but the FDA will probably approve once it's done. In any 
case, I ran some more tests and it turns out that the cells we 
saw in the faked corpse and the experimental ones from that 
pharmaceutical company were one and the same. Now, I think that 
because the technology fortunately hasn't yet been perfected, the 
nuclei in those cells were hastily constructed in order to look 
legitimate under a microscope. The plastic was there just to make 
the cells look real, essentially. The people behind this weren't 
expecting a PCR. But if these cells had been constructed several 
years down the road, the PCR results would have popped up as a 
match."
	I felt the hairs rise at the back of my neck. "My God."
	"Yes. It raises some questions about the future," she said 
quietly. "Kay, I want to thank you . . ."
	"Not at all," I told her firmly. "It may not have been quite 
what I expected, but it was the right thing to do for both of us. 
I hope you're going to keep in touch."
	"Of course."
	Before I could reply, Lucy reached over and tapped my foot, 
giving me a look. "Dana, I have to go. Lucy's calling me." I 
quickly turned off my phone and took my feet off the table.

Scarpetta house
Richmond, VA
10:42 p.m.

	"Dana Scully has opened my eyes to a scandal I wouldn't have 
previously thought possible. This case has left a lasting 
impression on me, and I now wonder if any of us are safe, if any 
of us are really protected by a government we have always so 
revered. I suppose the motive for their treachery lies in the 
continuing power struggle within this country, and around it. 
Even taking into consideration the overthrow of the men within 
the government involved in this affair, as Agents Mulder and 
Scully hope will inevitably occur, I wonder if this downward 
spiral into anarchy, and eventually extinction, can be stopped."
	Brooding, I saved the file and switched off my computer.









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Hey! So what did you think? Please send all comments/flames to 
ScullyNSam@aol.com. Please put "to scully" in the subject line.

Also, a challenge to all fanfic writers that answer these things: 
I wonder what'll happen when M&S and Dr. Scarpetta investigate 
Pinck? Or (hee hee. Evil brain gears clanking), since obviously 
Mulder can't sleep in his apartment tonight (since it's all 
covered with crime scene stuff!), what happens when he spends the 
night at Scully's?
Email me if you're going to do those. It'd be interesting. Or 
I'll do that myself and post it later.

~Little Scully

"Superstition is born of the uneducated mind."
(love that quote! someone on AOL has it. very Scully)