TITLE: Insight II - Dark Fire
RATING: R (language, violence)
CLASSIFICATION: X A 
DATE: October 2003
SPOILERS: See Insight for background - it's kind of post-FaD!
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: jowrites - joannhere@gmail.com

LEGALLY:
Legally these characters belong to some combination of 1013, Chris Carter and 
Fox. Mulder's soul belongs to DD, for which I'm truly thankful.

SUMMARY: Mulder looks for a firestarter. Scully looks at the job that Mulder 
offered her. 
A sequel to Insight. Suppose Scully arrived at the hospital two minutes later in 
Folie a Deux. Imagine after having worked apart for two years, Mulder and Scully 
need to work together again. 
Insight is on my website at: http://www.cbcasa.com/apb.htm 
My thanks to Ann, Sana and Kel for beta reading.
Thanks also to everyone who wanted to see more of Insight's world. 
NOTE: This story is an episode in an occasional series. It will probably make 
more sense if you read Insight first. Content warnings not supplied. 
======= 
The Bellings were waiting in his office when he got back from Georgia. Mulder 
was just grateful that they'd left him alone during the red eye flight. Of 
course, it had helped that every seat on the plane had been taken. Old habits 
died hard. 
What now - an apology, throw himself on their mercy and then beg them to go 
away? No, absolutely not. He couldn't, wouldn't apologize for giving them his 
best shot yesterday and failing. That was the fast track to genuine, 
no-drugs-barred madness. 
Carefully locking the door behind him, he checked the camera settings and took 
the phone off the hook. 
According to the autopsy reports the baby died from smoke inhalation. Mom died 
trying to reach her child - instant death as she opened the bedroom door and low 
flames flashed over into sudden inferno. Dad died trying to drag her back in 
from the landing. 
Arsonists were always a nightmare. Get them drunk on political rhetoric and the 
promise of a just cause, excite them by massaging their egos and covering their 
expenses, and they were terrifying. Did he mean to kill them? Did he even think 
about what he was doing to the people inside the house? Or was the promise of 
fire enough to let him forget the rest? 
The man Mulder had flown to Georgia to interview yesterday had stared him down 
with the confidence of someone who'd been through it all before. 
Mulder took a seat on the couch, the Bellings having chosen to use the visitors' 
chairs. "I told you that it wouldn't be easy." 
"Not easy! You think it's easy for me?" snapped Mr. Belling. 
Poor choice of words. Very poor. "No. No, of course not. We won't stop trying. 
We will get the man who did this." 
"You know who did this!" 
Knowing it and proving it were two very different things. In any case the man 
who Belling had probably correctly identified as the cause of the fire was not 
himself the arsonist. The leaders of racist gangs had mad dogs to do their dirty 
work. The only thing Mulder knew for sure was that the fire raiser had come in 
from out of town. The local men had been checked out, seven years ago. 
"We're the wrong color for you and your white boy club. Aren't we, *Agent* 
Mulder?" 
Mulder winced. Oh, he didn't blame the man. Understood the reaction perfectly. 
The family had reported harassment, broken windows, ripped tires and threats of 
violence, and had seen little response apart from a single late night drive past 
by a police car. 
Louder protests and the threats had stopped. Only to be replaced as soon as 
attention had died down by ominous silence. and then by firebombs that had 
blocked all the doors in seconds and consumed the house in a matter of minutes. 
"The man who you believe organized the attack has had time to prepare. Unless 
he's convinced we can get a conviction, he won't admit to anything." Once a 
conviction, for something, was guaranteed, then a combination of plea bargains 
and bragging rights might act as motivation to reveal more, but without a 
certainty of punishment there was no reason for the man to confess. 
"Then make him. If you cared, you could make him." 
"I can't. It doesn't work like that." Hell, it wouldn't even work like that if 
the eyewitnesses were alive, and the incident fresh in their minds. And with so 
many years of pent up anger fueling a need for revenge that might blind them all 
to that one percentage point of doubt that justice needed, then it couldn't work 
like that. 
"You could if it was your baby who choked to death behind that door. If it was 
your wife who'd died screaming like that. You wouldn't be so damned reasonable. 
Let me show you *reasonable*, Mr. FBI." 
The whiff of gasoline was the first warning. "Mr. Belling, no. Please don't do 
this. I'm sorry about what happened to you and your family. But I can't do my 
job any other way." A smell of burning hair that made Mulder's nostrils 
constrict and his throat gag. 
"I've seen this every time I've closed my eyes since that night. I hear it, all 
the time. You close your eyes; you watch this; you listen to this, FBI. Then 
tell me what you can do." 
Acrid fumes filled the air, scratched at Mulder's eyes, scraped at his throat, 
filled his lungs with red-hot panic. 
The baby whimpered, crying out in pain and confusion. The woman screamed, first 
in fear and then in agony. Blisters formed, boiled, bubbled and burst in seconds 
as skin blackened, cracked and fell away. Flesh melted from bone as the flames 
lapped at her body. 
Cries and pleading merged with the roar of all-consuming fire, the crash of 
falling wood, the snaps and cracks as floors splintered and ceilings collapsed. 
Screams of agony turned into howls of despair as Jay Belling looked for a way to 
drag his wife back into their bedroom. But there was no way out and nothing left 
to do except to die here. Coughing and gagging, the man finally crumpled, the 
sounds of suffocation dying back and spluttering out until the only sound left 
was of fire triumphant, crackling and hissing in victory. 
When silence returned and Mulder started to move again, he wasn't surprised to 
find himself curled up so tightly on the couch that his bones were aching, nor 
that the cushion he'd buried his face in was damp with an ugly mix of sweat, 
tears and something he's rather not analyze right now. He unrolled himself just 
far enough to blow his nose, and then waited for the lightheadedness to fade, 
taking a few deep breaths to get his bearings back. 
Think positive. The good thing about it was that it hadn't happened on the 
plane. At least they'd left it until he got home. 
Home? Despite the storms raging in his head, some bit of his psyche rebelled at 
that and brought him back to the here and now with a sharp slap of cold 
awareness. Home? He couldn't help but smile as he replayed the word. The FBI 
offices and his apartment had been effectively interchangeable for years. But 
getting the naming convention wrong was just plain embarrassing. 
Maybe he should go home for a few hours? 
But before he did anything else, he'd better get cleaned up. If the cushion 
looked like that, then what the hell did his face look like? After that maybe he 
should take a swim or something. Something? Anything, more like. Anything to get 
the damned smell out of his nostrils and the images out of his head. 
"Yes, Mr. Belling. I get the picture. Loud and clear." 
Unfair tactics certainly, but understandable. No matter. 
He gave a quick blessing to his predecessor in this role and his love of 
executive perks as he did an emergency repair job in the small washroom off the 
office. He grabbed a jacket from the temporary coat rail that wasn't so 
temporary now. 
Pam Hyatt could get things started on the Belling case but it could only be a 
matter of days before she would decide that enough was enough and that maternity 
leave was a necessity. Mulder had forestalled that particular moment of truth by 
encouraging her to arrive late, go home early, and even to take a little 
afternoon nap on the couch. He pushed the stained cushion into a drawer to be 
dealt with later. 
Tom Gibbs then. Tom could do it. It wouldn't be easy. But Tom could do it. Hard 
to justify on a case where the trail had gone nowhere the first time around and 
was quite so cold. Moreover the chances were that whoever had actually done the 
deed was, by now, in jail. An already experienced arsonist who'd become a 
murderer for hire would find it difficult to keep a low profile in the outside 
world. 
Of course Tom would need help from the Hate Crimes team. Backup from the FBI 
labs and the ATF. Cooperation from police departments across the country. People 
would have to give way on priorities, on jurisdiction, and even on dearly held 
pet theories. 
He sighed, rolling his head to unwind the taut muscles in the back of his neck, 
remembering how many favors it used to cost him to get an analysis rushed 
through the forensics team or a computer search done through proper channels. 
Like anyone would argue priorities, or anything else, with him now! 
He shrugged into his jacket and opened the door. 
Scully was sitting at Pam Hyatt's desk, using Pam's computer. 
It took him a moment to remember what to say. "Hi." 
"I thought I'd wait for you to finish your call." 
Mulder looked at his watch. "Don't tell me you've been here for an hour." 
"I've been reading up on some of the recent X-Files." 
"The ones that don't have computer security blocks," he noted. 
"A rain maker, Mulder?" She smiled as she said it. 
"The things people do for love." 
"A man who walked out through the walls of his prison cell?" 
"He was only looking for his family." 
"Zombies?" 
He tensed. He needed to be at his best for this and he was a million miles away 
from that right now. Why couldn't she have come round after he'd had a good 
morning. He almost laughed at the thought. What had she said? Oh yeah, zombies. 
"They were going to see in the new millennium, and possibly the apocalypse, 
together." 
"Millennium? That would have had to wait for 2001." 
He did laugh at that, decided that things could be going far worse than this, 
and that that was something to celebrate. "Nobody loves a math geek, Scully." 
"Were you going somewhere?" She pointed at the keys in his hand. 
"Actually, I was going just about anywhere - out of here. Join me?" 
She nodded. 
He decided against anything that involved taking the car. He wasn't ready for 
that particular conversation. Fortunately, Quantico did have its advantages and 
one of them was the fact he could walk through the grounds and pretend that he'd 
really left the office. 
The sound of gunfire tended to spoil the illusion for visitors but Mulder 
scarcely even noticed it. A quick check on direction and distance to convince 
himself he was listening to trainees on the range or staging some exercise, and 
then he could block it out. 
Survival was all about knowing what to block out. 
Despite the training courses that meant that new people came and went from here 
all the time, the place still reminded him of a closed college campus. Most of 
the faces were familiar. Students were generally easy to spot and in any case 
tended to stick with their classmates. He glanced down at the keyring in his 
left hand and was content. 
They grabbed sandwiches and drinks from the cafeteria and headed out into the 
parkland. 
"Where are we going?" she finally asked. 
He shrugged. "Picnic?" Truthfully, he hadn't even thought about it. They were 
just walking together. Apart from a couple of strictly factual and depressingly 
brief conversations, they hadn't spoken since he'd given her the CD and she'd 
agreed that she would come down here for a day to meet the agents who were 
working on the X-Files. 
She tried again. "Do you ever go home?" 
A brief huff of laughter. "It's funny, I was just thinking about that when you 
arrived." 
"So do you?" 
"Sometimes." He took a detour off the main path and cut across through trees to 
a smaller track that led them to a couple of deserted benches, a quiet 
invitation to lunch in the dappled sunshine. 
Scully looked impressed by the discovery. "You seem to know this place well." 
He'd spent a couple of years here with Bill Patterson, mostly confined to the 
subterranean offices of the behavioral unit. He'd been back here almost eighteen 
months now. "You don't have to relocate down here if you don't want to." He 
heard how easy that might be to misunderstand and tried again. "The team could 
move up to New York." 
Her expression spoke briefly of her surprise before lapsing back to far too 
calm. 
OK. So maybe that wasn't what she wanted to hear. She'd have leapt at the remark 
by now, knocked him flat with a series of practical, pragmatic questions, if 
that was the offer she'd been waiting for. 
He tried again. "I'd prefer the division to stay here. I want to remain 
involved. The facilities and access to the labs are better." 
"Involved?" 
He reran his comments, and was surprised that she'd locked onto that one. Did 
she really think he could walk away? The irony didn't strike him until then. She 
had walked away and she thought he'd done the same thing. He'd walked, but not 
in that direction. "I'll try not to interfere." 
"Tell me about the baby farms." 
Ah, so she had been reading the CD. It was no surprise to hear which image had 
disturbed her most. "The first time I saw one was in San Diego." 
"Emily?" 
"Yeah. I'm sorry you had to read that off the disk. I didn't think I could 
explain it properly." I'm a coward, was the phrase that he decided not to add. 
"If I could have avoided dragging you into this." His voice trailed off, 
emphasizing the bitter truth of what was being left unsaid. He would not only 
have preferred not to involve her in fighting against this threat, he'd have 
sooner hidden this from her completely, lied by omission and let her have that 
real life of hers. But he really didn't have a choice. 
Her face was a mask of pain disguised. He watched her as she ruthlessly forced 
the subject back to the facts. "And then you made a breakthrough?" 
"I didn't really get much further until I got an informer." 
"Who?" 
Bill Mulder, X, Deep Throat, a couple of people they'd introduced him to. "I 
can't tell you that." 
"You expect me to run a division that's founded on suspicions delivered by 
informants and you won't tell me who these people are?" 
Fuck this - she'd read the damned file. He didn't have to defend himself or the 
X-Files, not even to her. She was going to work on this because it was the right 
thing to do. No begging, no favors. "The division was founded on the evidence I 
obtained by following up on those suspicions." 
"I want to meet your sources." 
You don't, he decided. "You can't," he said. He stretched his hands back above 
his head, arching his spine, unwinding some of the kinks the night flight and 
the confrontation with Jay Belling had put there. The yawn was predictable 
despite being unexpected. He really needed a timeout. 
"Your way or no way?" 
"No. Your way. Get the evidence, analyze it, act on it." 
He waited out the silence. He understood her reaction, acknowledged how 
difficult it had to be for her to keep the fury in check as he laid down the law 
on this. But some things just weren't negotiable. She didn't want to know that 
it was X who'd told him all about the breeding program in Maryland that was the 
new home of fire-starter Cecil L'Ively, of Soft Light experimenter Dr. Banton 
and of lightning boy himself, Darren Peter Oswald. No more than the Deputy 
Director wanted to know why some of the profiles coming out of the behavioral 
unit these days were quite so devastatingly accurate. 
"And if I say I can't work like that?" she stated finally. 
"We work like that all the time." The only difference was that this time the 
person blocking access to sensitive information was him. 
"You've changed, Mulder." Her tone was sad, almost melancholy. 
If only she knew. 
--------- 
Skinner couldn't keep still and Scully was starting to regret her decision to 
sit down. 
She tried to make her point again. "I don't understand why he wants me there." 
"Do you think you can manage the X-Files division?" 
"Yes. That's not the -" 
"- that's exactly the point. Mulder doesn't think anyone else can." 
Such faith in those words. Yet the conversations between her and Mulder had left 
her aware only of his doubts. Hesitant, angry, distant, distrustful. 
Except about the role he'd identified for her on the X-Files. Could it really be 
as simple as that? Could he really just be telling her the truth? He wanted her 
work, but not her - she hesitated at the thought - not her friendship. Was he 
really scared of her, scared that she might declare him faulty in some way and 
fail him again? 
The room was starting to feel awfully claustrophobic. She paid attention to her 
breathing. "I've been reading up on the behavioral division since he went back. 
It's impressive." 
"It is." 
"I've been asking a few questions. It doesn't stop there, does it? He's 
freelancing for police departments, foreign police, waking up old cases." 
"And your point is?" 
"None of it's officially acknowledged. His name scarcely appears on any of the 
reports. But it's him, isn't it?" 
"He was always good." 
"How does he do it?" 
His lips were tight, turning his words into a low warning growl. "Experience, 
intellect, imagination, intuition? Does it matter?" 
"It does if it's killing him." 
"Then help him." 
"He doesn't want my help." 
Skinner shook his head, impatience breaking though. "You wouldn't be here if he 
didn't. Stop thinking of him as an X-File. Just listen to him, as a man." 
-------- 
Tom Gibbs skimmed quickly through the file. "This is the one you went down to 
Georgia to check on?" 
"Purely speculative trip. Just to meet some of the players. The locals may not 
have taken the initial harassment seriously enough. But the homicide 
investigation looks solid. They used the ATF for crime scene analysis. We did 
the profile. They invited the Hate Crimes team to oversee. It looks like a 
professional hit. Somebody from out of town brought in for the job and then gone 
again." 
"You go with the idea that this was racially motivated?" 
"Don't assume it." Mulder licked his lips and tried to avoid the sensation of 
Jay Belling's eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck. "Look for the 
personal factors. This was planned, organized, calculated - not a gang of angry 
drunks on the rampage. Even if it started out as political, the personal 
triggers are what'll get people talking." 
"So I take the arsonist's MO to the ATF, looking for anyone working in the right 
timeframe?" 
"Any kind of target - not just church burners and stuff." 
"Got it. Can I just ask - why now?" 
"Because I think we can crack it." 
Nodding, Tom carefully closed up the file and didn't ask any more questions. 
-------- 
The agents in the X-Files division were clearly Mulder's choices - the skill mix 
too improbable to be the random output of a staff review. Scully glanced over 
the personnel files again. A biochemist, an accountant, an ex-military pilot, 
and a mathematician with a special interest in ciphers and a sideline in 
conjuring tricks. 
Dave Skillen, the biochemist, was the only one in the office, and that suited 
Scully because he was also the one she'd have chosen to talk to first. He knew 
who she was the instant she walked through the door. They swapped greetings and 
professed happiness at meeting at last. 
"He told me about you." 
Scully had no need to ask Skillen who the "he" might be. She forced a smile and 
attempted to make a joke of it. "Only good things, I hope." 
"Hmmm," suggested Skillen, sounding non-committal at best. 
Time to change the subject. "Biochemistry? You were working in the forensics 
labs?" 
"DNA analysis. I helped sharpen up some methodologies." 
Sharpen up was an understatement. He'd worked with the instrument makers to 
redesign both the equipment and the procedures. Fewer errors, less potential for 
cross-contamination, better accountability and, to the amazement of everyone, 
faster results and higher throughput. She pointed at the personnel summary. 
"I've seen your commendations." Hell, she'd read his conference papers and his 
forensics advisory bulletins over the last few years. The man was the epitome of 
the term blue-flamer. And now he was working here. 
"Are you coming back?" 
She dodged the direct question. Didn't he know that no one was allowed to be 
direct about anything related to the X-Files? "You were the first recruit to the 
X-Files. You worked as Mulder's partner?" 
"Yes." 
Fine. She tried again. "Did you ask for the job?" 
"I met him a few times in the lab. I helped him analyze some of the more unusual 
results. He asked for my advice on sample collection. I said I'd go with him." 
Skillen's stern features relaxed into a slight smile at the memory. 
"And you did?" 
The smile softened him, made him look more like the 35 year old that the file 
had claimed him to be. "Changed my life!" 
"For the better?" 
"I'm a scientist. Just like you, Agent Scully. Working on something like this," 
he shook his head as if he was hunting for the right words by rattling them out 
of the folds in his brain, "it's a privilege." 
------------ 
The apartment visit had been a non-event. Mulder had gone back there, 
anticipating "something" and found exactly nothing. Home? He tried for the word 
again and found no resonance in the too obviously deserted rooms. 
Maybe he should make it official and actually hand in his keys? But that sounded 
too final. In any case he could hardly notify the Bureau that he was now a 
permanent resident of a basement office on the Quantico complex. The fact that 
it was true was bad enough. Acknowledging it to other people would be a far 
worse mistake. 
He put the freshly cleaned suits, shirts and ties he'd brought with him back 
into the closet and selected a different batch. Summer was coming and he chose 
accordingly, he even dug out a couple of extra T-shirts and shorts in 
anticipation of being able to abandon fleecy jogging wear. 
The sooner Scully took the X-Files job officially the better. He had no doubt 
that she would, but the delay and indecision was playing havoc with his already 
jangling nerves. 
The Gunmen had been kind. As usual. He bit back a laugh at the thought. Kind! 
He'd gone there in pursuit of playful, thought-provoking ramblings into the 
latest conspiracies and the worst science fiction movies, and maybe a couple of 
beers and some cheese steaks. And what had he got? Lots of gentle, consoling 
words around the theme of, "It'll all work out, Mulder." 
Fuck it. It had better work out; else they'd all be dead in ten years. 
--------- 
It was one of life's paradoxes that it was the people who weren't part of the 
Bureau's normal chain of command who got the best offices. Dr. Wendy Adams made 
no apology for the windows that overlooked the immaculately kept grounds of the 
Quantico complex. "Agent Scully! Nice to see you here. Or do you prefer doctor?" 

Remembering their last conversation and unwilling to offer the psychiatrist any 
new ammunition Scully played safe. "Dana is fine." 
"Funny, Mulder once told me that you always say that." 
"I saw your name on the training schedules for the Academy." 
"Knowing Yourself," Adams announced, as if she was preparing to write the words 
up on the blackboard on the first day of a new course, "How our preconceptions 
interfere with our ability to process evidence and analyze behavior. That's ever 
so popular. Job Related Stress - Identifying it, taking acting to resolve it. 
People really prefer to snooze through that one. Did you want to sit in on one 
of my sessions?" 
Scully was still deciding whether to laugh or draw a weapon. "I wanted to talk 
to you about Agent Mulder." 
"My boss," stated Adams. 
"Not your patient?" 
"It would be unethical for me to talk about a patient." Wendy paused for a 
moment before rising to pour herself a coffee and offering Scully a cup. "It's 
the good stuff." 
Scully accepted the offer with a nod and waited for the woman to start talking. 
Adams took a first sip before obliging. "I'm a consultant. I do training courses 
aimed at the Bureau's senior management. I also advise the profilers on the X 
factors, as you might say. They work with the perspective that however mad the 
bad guy might seem, ultimately he understands what he's doing. And that there's 
a motive, even if it's one that makes no sense to the rest of us. I help them 
out when the suspect seems to have lost touch with reality. I talk to the 
profilers when they think being sane is stopping them from doing the job." 
"Is that what you do for Mulder?" 
"Mulder knows the value of sanity." 
Instinct told Scully not to go any further, but need told her that she must. 
"Skinner had him committed once." 
"And you and Mulder both ended up in the hospital afterwards." 
"Has Mulder ever spoken with you about it?" 
"He told me that he'd have been dead if you hadn't shown up when you did." 
"I got there too late. He did die - they thought he was dead. They were wheeling 
me out of the room. I tried to tell them what was happening. I told them he was 
alive. They wouldn't listen." 
"Somebody listened - you know that. I know you've read the hospital reports." 
Sure. Oxygen, blood transfusions, kidney machine hook ups, carbon filters, 
cardiac stimulation and in the middle of it all the administration of 57 
varieties of drugs, in a cocktail that looked as deadly as anything that Pinkus 
could have injected, to deal with multiple organ failure. After 72 hours the 
doctor had pronounced himself cautiously hopeful - pointing out that toxin 
levels should already be falling. 
A week later and Mulder had woken up screaming in the middle of an intensive 
care unit. His first thrashing movements had ripped out IVs, catheters and 
monitor pads, and forced the whole ICU team into desperate measures to try to 
calm him down. Until finally, terrified of what might be happening to his 
already weakened heart, they decided that they had no choice except to sedate 
him. It was about the last thing the duty doctor had wanted to do. They still 
hadn't identified the source of his collapse beyond the vague conclusion of a 
tetrodotoxin-like substance injected directly into his bloodstream. 
Scully looked up at Adams. "Just lucky. The doctor had trained in Japan - he 
knew about Puffer Fish poisoning." 
Wendy sounded incredulous. "You told him that Mulder had been eating sushi?" 
Scully couldn't stop her brief gasp of amusement. 
Adams shook her head. "Sorry. I'm used to dealing with Mulder. You're very alike 
really. You know that he was conscious through almost all of it?" 
No. She didn't want to know that. 
"He remembers you. You were lying on a gurney, covered in blood, and shouting 
orders to anyone who'd listen about zombies and neurotoxins." 
Fucking hell shit. 
----------- 
Despite more than five years service with the Bureau, Mick Saunders still looked 
like everybody's poster-boy Marine. Tall, broad and muscular, with 
next-best-thing to crew-cut hair and impossibly shiny shoes. He looked like he 
should be escorting Mulder off the premises, not working for him. 
"Agent Scully - great to finally meet you." He rose to his feet, stuck out his 
hand and Scully couldn't help but think that her brother Bill would be a lot 
happier if she took this one home next time. 
"Agent Saunders. Nice to meet you, too." She smiled, adopted her polite 
headmistress meeting the new parents demeanor before continuing. "I get the 
impression you know more about me than I do you." 
"Doubt it. Mulder plays some things pretty close to his chest." 
You don't say. "The file's a bit vague on how you met." She pointed at the 
folder in front of her. "I believe Section Chief Mulder has told you that you 
can be open with me." A shiver ran along her spine as she heard the tartness of 
her words. Was it the military bearing that had thrown her, or the wild gleam in 
Mick's eyes as he spoke about Mulder? She hadn't even agreed to take over the 
division and she was already starting to worry about the chain of command. 
"We met in California. He was working a case." 
"And?" 
"He told me something, so I hit him." 
Well that played rather nicely into Scully's first impressions of the man. 
"He knew my dad. You knew him, too. An informant. You called him Deep Throat." 
Mick chuckled, a low dangerous rumble of a sound. The man must have been the 
pride of the Marine Corps and Scully couldn't help but wonder why he'd left it. 
"I didn't know how he died. There was never an explanation, not even much of an 
investigation. Then I met Mulder." 
"And then what happened?" 
"Mulder got up off the floor, looked me in the eye and asked me to do a job with 
him. Told me if I still thought he was wrong afterwards I could use him for 
sparring practice." 
"That was the raid on the lab in Maryland." 
"The baby farm. We," he paused, staring at his fingernails before taking a deep 
breath, "we couldn't do anything about the women. We couldn't rouse them and we 
couldn't carry them out. I guess we could have taken some of the things - babies 
- from the tanks, but we had no way to keep them alive." 
And suddenly, as her stomach dropped through the floor, she knew what had 
happened, and just how they'd got those whole body tissue samples. More than 
forty not quite identical twins, same mom, same dad, a missing gene here and 
there - a roll call for discovery by trial and error experimentation. "So what 
did you take?" 
"Aborted fetuses - well, 30 weeks - babies really. They were already dead, 
covered in burns. I guess they were awaiting destruction. Mulder thinks they 
were the rejects. We carried as many as we could; we had to stuff them into 
plastic bags." The expression on Mick's face said it all - the recollection was 
enough to ignite the fuse. He was ready to kill somebody, or maybe throw up, or 
possibly both. 
"How did you get away?" 
He looked relieved by the change of subject. "Chopper. I'm a pilot." The relief 
vanished and the temperature in the room fell by at least ten degrees as Mick's 
expression darkened again. "Mulder sat in the back with the babies - he talked 
to them all the way home." 
-------- 
Arms folded, Mulder continued to stare down Skinner in a battle of wills they'd 
run a hundred times before. 
The AD, sensing that today was not going to be one of those days where Mulder 
backed down, blinked in acknowledgement of his defeat. "She's just worried about 
you." 
"I'm not her job." 
Funny, Skinner had told Scully much the same thing a few days earlier. "She 
wants to understand where you got the information from." 
"I've told her. So have the agents working the X-Files. I assume you've told her 
the same thing?" 
The agent's look was a challenge. Though there were probably some things more 
futile than playing chicken with Fox Mulder, Skinner didn't even bother to try. 
He continued with a challenge of his own instead. "What should I have told her?" 

"The truth?" 
Skinner mentally inserted the capital "T" on the comment but didn't respond 
other than to wave a request for Mulder to continue his speech. 
"That the X-Files division uses information gathered by illegal searches, 
unlawful forced entry into private property, unauthorized electronic 
surveillance, and wrongful access to computer records. Initially conducted by 
me, aided and abetted by informants, outside specialists and unassigned FBI 
agents working without formal approval, but with the tacit consent of my 
superiors. It now continues as a covert operation with the effective blessing, 
if not the uncritical support, of the Director and his colleagues." 
Nice summary. It was to be hoped that no one ever put Mulder in front of a 
Congressional Inquiry. Don't ask, don't tell - was such a useful slogan when it 
came to Mulder. "I think she's concerned about the issue of the informants." 
"There is no issue. The information should be treated as suspect and 
uncorroborated until we can confirm it independently. She knows that." 
Sure, and she knows what else is in the files, noted Skinner. What she wants to 
know is what isn't. Hell, so did he! But whereas Scully seemed to be entitled to 
the information, Skinner knew that, like everyone else, not only wasn't he 
allowed to ask, he wasn't even allowed to admit that there was anything to be 
curious about. "If anything were to happen to you, she'd need to know how to 
reach your contacts. It's a matter of her doing her job." 
"If anything happens to me, they'll either walk or they'll make contact again 
themselves." 
"And if something happens to you," Skinner paused but failed to see much 
reaction, "or her." A glimmer of a response at that, but not the one that he'd 
hoped for. Mulder's features drifted from carefully managed irritation to 
fiercely controlled anger at the low blow. Skinner tried to push his way past 
the mistake. "Or if another agent gets hurt because of one of them?" 
"Then knowing their names won't help." 
--------- 
Tom Gibbs had been working hard and even Mulder was shocked by just how much 
information he'd already gathered. 
"Multiple simultaneous ignition points. Willingness to work away from home 
territory. Liquid accelerants. Thoroughness. There are only really three 
possibles working in that timeframe. One's probably dead. One's in jail now. 
Truth is, we wouldn't be seeing any kind of pattern if the computer technology 
hadn't come on so far. They'd have just been 'arson by unknown subject' at the 
time." 
Mulder nodded, noted Gibbs' careful modesty in handing most of the credit to the 
computer. "Any links to the victims?" 
"Not yet. I guess you want me to go back in time. Look if there's an overlap 
between where the Bellings used to live and the work of these guys?" 
"As far back as you can follow them." 
"Got it." 
"Great job, thanks." 
And Mulder couldn't help but feel ashamed by the look of surprise that flashed 
across Tom's face on hearing the words. 
------------- 
Dr. Stephen Harrison was fighting dirty and he knew it, but these were desperate 
times. Since the moment Dana got that letter from DC she'd been drifting away 
from him. Not just physically either. He'd still spoken to her every night, even 
while she'd been on her visits to DC, but he didn't need a videophone to know 
that she had one eye on the clock when she replied. 
The kids greeted her as if she'd been missing for months. They carried gifts of 
horses drawn in art class and bracelets made in friendship. Scully smiled, her 
teeth pressing into her tongue as if pain was a necessary accompaniment to 
pleasure. 
Steve stepped forward, affection on his lips and love in his eyes. She had to be 
able to see it. She had to care. 
She looked up at him, swallowing hard but saying nothing. 
When he pulled her into his arms and her tears soaked into his shirt, he knew 
for sure that he was losing her. 
----------- 
"Mr. Belling. I need to talk to your wife alone." 
"She has nothing to hide from me." 
"I know that." 
"Then what's the problem?" 
"You are!" Mulder rocked back in his chair, surprised that he'd actually said it 
out loud. Jay Belling launched into another tirade. The agent let it fly 
straight past him, ignoring the speech until Jay paused for breath and Mulder 
jumped back in. "*I* need to talk to Mrs. Belling and *I* can't do that while 
you're here." 
Helena Belling's hand tugged lightly on her husband's forearm. "Jay. Baby. Let 
the man do his job." 
The brief argument that followed was strictly Jay and Helena's business and 
Mulder remained silent while they settled it amongst themselves. 
"Agent Mulder." 
When he looked up again, Helena was sitting on the couch alone. "Thanks." "Jay's 
a good man, but he's so angry. He doesn't always know who his friends are." 
"I understand." He paused briefly, licking his lips, before launching into his 
explanation. "I've got some questions for you. I think the arsonist may have 
known you or your husband. I've got a list of places and people. I'd like to 
know if any of them are familiar. We may have to go back to your childhood." 
"Whatever it takes. And I'm talking for the both of us now." 
Her smile was sad but real, and Mulder took courage from it. Tom Gibbs had 
traced his arsonists more or less across two decades identifying attacks with 
the right MO for the whole of the US. Hundreds of fires in dozens of cities. 
Overlaps were inevitable. Timings were difficult. Was 1985 the time her family 
went on vacation in California or was that 1986? Helena had died young. Only 
twenty-two when she married Jay. A year later and she was pregnant and living in 
a nice house in a new town, with her husband in the job he wanted and the only 
cloud had been that some people didn't like to see a black man and a white woman 
looking too happy. Another year and she was dead. 
Mulder saw a glint of recognition in her eyes. "What is it?" 
"I stayed with my aunt down in Florida that summer." She pointed at the mention 
of a fire in Daytona Beach. 
He did the calculation; she'd have been sixteen. He tried not to look too 
optimistic. "Did something happen? 
"A boy. No, a man, I guess. A couple of years older than me. He kept following 
me around." 
"You weren't interested?" 
"It's a long time ago. I don't know. He was," she shrugged, hesitating over the 
words, "weird, and not very bright." 
"What happened?" 
"My uncle told him to stop sniffing around." 
The answer was so close he could smell it. "Your uncle - your father's family?" 
She smiled, acknowledging the cautious phrasing. "Yes. The black side of the 
family." 
"This boy, young man - he was white?" 
"Poor white trash. He thought I was a princess - he also thought I was white. I 
don't know what rattled him more. Getting run off by my uncle or finding out I 
was African American." 
"He was angry?" 
"He screamed at me like I'd tricked him, but I hadn't ever said more than two 
words to him." 
"Did he do anything else - apart from the name calling?" 
"I don't know for sure. But not long after, somebody set fire to my uncle's car. 
You think it's him?" 
"Do you remember anything about him? His name, job, anything?" 
"My God. You do think it's him. You think he saw the pictures of us in the 
newspaper? Jay complaining about those Nazis?" 
"I think I need to get some more information." 
---------- 
Tom Gibbs didn't seem surprised when Mulder pushed him deeper into the story of 
the man whose arson career had apparently begun in Daytona fifteen years 
earlier. "I guess it's kind of local to Georgia," he suggested cagily. 
"I think someone in Helena Belling's family had a place down there." 
Tom snorted a little at that. He had after all read pretty much all the same 
material that Mulder had access to. Not that the problem, of how mysterious the 
connection might appear, mattered much to Mulder. Gibbs had been around for long 
enough to be trusted. Tom obliged by changing the subject. "How's Pam?" 
"Doctor says it'll be any day now. She's home for the duration." 
"And how are you?" 
Mulder tried not to flinch. He hadn't expected that, not from Gibbs. He thought 
the man knew better. Maybe a little Skinner style briskness would work. "Is 
there a problem, Agent Gibbs?" 
"I thought maybe with Pam being away, you could use a little help." 
Fair point. Things were going to be difficult without Pam as a buffer-zone. Not 
only would cases arrive without the right information but he might have to waste 
time justifying some of his replies. Pam had always found such nice ways to 
phrase things, such excellent rationalizations for his wilder theories and 
suggestions. "Are you volunteering?" 
"Soon as I get the arsonist." Gibbs risked a smile. "But no way am I going to 
wear a skirt." 
"Just so long as you don't get pregnant." 
-------- 
Packing to move back to DC was proving to be unreasonably hard and Scully found 
herself struggling with every choice, however trivial. Were the magazines going 
with her, being thrown out, or given away? The packs in the kitchen cupboards, 
was it worth taking things that might tear or burst or stain in transit, or was 
it wrong to trash perfectly good food? The indecision was ridiculous; the level 
of effort required was ludicrous. 
Officially things weren't over between her and Steve. Officially she might even 
now get that call in a few moths time to take over her old division in the New 
York office. Officially she'd gained two years valuable experience and was 
returning to DC with a promotion to head of department and a team of four agents 
and a promise of more to follow. 
Unofficially it seemed as though she was admitting that the last two years had 
been a mistake. 
Dragging her heels over filling up cardboard boxes was just a symptom. 
The X-Files were worthy work - that much was clear. Thousands of victims of 
illegal experimentation deserved the effort. Millions of people potentially at 
risk from genetic engineering projects run amok could benefit from it. The 
people who thought that they could play God with the genes of men like Cecil 
L'Ively to build themselves a better soldier needed to be brought down. 
The team that Mulder had created loved their jobs and, so far as she could tell, 
loved their boss as well. Dave Skillen was a fine scientist. Mick Saunders was 
just the man you'd want at your back in a tight corner. She hadn't met the other 
two yet, but she had no doubt that in their own ways they would be just as good. 

Which left only one question - why the hell did Mulder insist that he needed 
her? ---------- 
Jay Belling paced while Mulder spoke. Using Helena Belling's vague memories of a 
summer vacation fifteen years ago, Tom Gibbs had been able to open up a few 
doors. Helena's uncle had added a little more meat. A couple of old-timers at 
the police department had pointed him towards the right files. Suspicions were 
added together to tell a new story. 
"You're telling me that this bastard knew my wife? That this was revenge for her 
giving him the brush off?" 
That was only part of the story. "He was a professional arsonist. He had the 
same hate in him as those stone throwers and car smashers who'd been harassing 
you. Seeing the pictures of the two of you together was all it took." 
"So now what?" 
"He's in a secure hospital in Maryland. He's not fit to stand trial. I don't 
think he'll ever get out. But if he does, we'll have Federal warrants waiting." 
Mulder decided against actually telling Jay Belling the additional details. He 
had no way to explain it, and certainly no way to justify it. What could he say? 
Oh, by the way, a covert branch of the military are experimenting on him as part 
of their genetic studies on firestarters and psychopaths. They're interested in 
why he's not afraid of fire. Really, the Bellings didn't need to hear any of 
that. 
The man had been arrested three years earlier when he'd stayed in a burning 
building just a little too long and had been caught walking out of the flames, 
wearing a fireman's uniform complete with regulation breathing apparatus, a 
heavy axe and the wrong color headgear. 
Helena Belling nodded slowly at Mulder. "Then it's over." She took her husband's 
hand, the baby lying quietly, cradled in her other arm. "Thank you, Mr. Mulder. 
We needed to know." 
Mulder watched them in silence, saw the tears build in the man's eyes, and 
simply nodded in reply, looking away from the family to give them some privacy, 
understanding that there was no more to be said. He murmured a last goodbye as 
they left the room. 
-------- 
The desk outside Mulder's office had a new occupant. Tom Gibbs introduced 
himself through a mouthful of cake and then, as if he'd already done this speech 
at least a hundred times today, told her the weight, sex, height and physical 
condition of the new born child and that Pam was feeling great. 
He shook his head, suddenly identifying her as a stranger. "Sorry - you're not 
here to drop off a card are you?" He waved towards the stack of brightly colored 
parcels and envelopes at the side of the desk. 
"I'm here to see Mu," she corrected the slip, "Section Chief Mulder." 
Tom studied the diary screen. "Is he expecting you?" 
"I'm Agent Scully." 
She'd obviously said the magic words; his look of surprise gave him away. "Ah, 
OK. I'll let him know you're here." 
Mulder appeared at the door about thirty seconds later and beckoned her in, 
smiling innocently as Tom pointed in disgust at the box of baby congratulations 
by his side. 
She took a seat facing Mulder's desk, only for Mulder to join her in the other 
visitor's chair. 
His voice was cautious. "Have you decided?" 
"I've still got questions." 
He waved his hands in a brief "What gives?" gesture. 
"Why do you need me?" 
"Who else?" 
"Dave Skillen?" 
"Too inexperienced, way out of his depth in the field." 
"Mick Saunders?" 
"You've met him?" Mulder smiled, shaking his head. "And people say my 
inter-personal skills suck! Mick's great, but you don't want him talking to 
civilians, you know?" 
Well yes, she did know. But he still hadn't answered her original question. "Why 
*me*?" 
His smile faded and was replaced by a look that was a demand. Even so, she was 
gratified by his delay in responding. She hoped it meant that he finally had 
something to say. "I used to think that all I wanted from a partner was the 
benefit of the doubt. And now I know that it's the doubts that I need most of 
all." 
Was that supposed to be a compliment? He wanted her back because she would doubt 
him? "But the things on that CD. The way the other agents talk about you. You've 
been vindicated." 
He shook his head. "It's what's not on the CD. There *is* an alien invasion 
being prepared and the main force will come in a test-tube, not a spaceship. It 
may be as close as a decade away, it may take them longer, but it's coming. The 
files on that disk document an attempt by a secret faction in the military to 
avert it." 
But that would mean. What would that mean? That they should be allowed to 
continue? "This faction - how do they propose to stop it?" 
"They're preparing a race of soldiers capable of fighting back against the alien 
storm troopers and they're attempting to create a vaccine that will protect the 
population from the chemical threat." 
"But you're trying to stop their project?" 
The cold look in his eyes reminded her of a hotel room and an encounter with a 
morphing alien that had stolen his form. "No. No, we're not. That's the point. 
We're trying to make sure that when the time comes the weapons and the soldiers 
are pointing in the right direction." 
No. "Mulder!" Impossible. "My God. I can't believe...." They were documenting 
this stuff with the intention of letting it carry on? Under new management, but 
still doing the same things. "How can you even say that? How can you allow it to 
continue? The experimentation, the clone farms, the murders of innocent women 
and children?" 
"How can you?" 
Low blow. Fucking low blow. "Bastard," she spat out. "You were one of the most 
ethical men I ever met and now... You'd let them carry on incinerating babies 
just because they flunk some endurance test?" 
"No. I wouldn't. But right now, I can't stop them. What about you - can you let 
them do that?" 
"Why me?" she asked again, despising the pleading tone that she could hear in 
her words. 
"Because you're one of the most ethical women I've ever met and you will make 
the right choices because you'll always insist on proof." 
"And other people won't?" 
"Other people listen to me." 
"I always listened, Mulder. Always." 
He closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, the ice had started to melt, 
reminding her of a Mulder she thought she knew. "You always looked for 
alternatives," he said softly. 
"An alternative to what?" 
"The end of the world, or at least of the human race. My informants tell me that 
this project of theirs is the only way to fight back and that we've already lost 
the war because it's been infiltrated by the aliens." 
"Then why are they even talking to you?" 
"To save their souls?" 
"And you're asking me to do what?" 
"To save mine." 






THE END





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