From: ANNAOTTO1@aol.com Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1999 05:09:15 EST Subject: NEW "Theater of the Absurd 2" (5/7) by Anna Otto & Ashlea Ensro Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com Disclaimer and other information in Act I Act V: A Prayer for the Lost Child "Stacie... hey," Dr. Mark Strauss rubbed his forehead listening to his wife's teary voice on the phone. "Please get a hold of yourself. She will be all right... call the paramedics... she will be fine." Gradually, her hysteria was pushing his blood pressure higher, the concern for his only daughter driving him frantic. "Stacie, she needs you. Call 911. You will pull through, you always..." Strauss listened for a few more minutes, cooing in the receiver occasionally, trying desperately to calm her down. Another sob from his wife and he would be forced to run home *now*. "Stacie, I will be there soon. Bye." "Trouble at home?" He flinched at the sound of a soft voice behind him. "My three-year-old is ill," he explained. "Pneumonia." "That is unfortunate," the Smoking Man sympathized. "And highly unusual. I thought only neglect could lead to such serious illness." Strauss swallowed the nasty reply - forced himself to breathe. Wondered if his little girl could breathe just as easily. "Considering that I spend all my days here, you can hardly blame me for her condition." "Your presence here doesn't seem to do much good, either," the smoker's hooded eyes focused on him, and he shivered. "So far, there have been three deaths from the experiments. Perhaps, you're neglecting your work duties as well." "Sir..." he laughed bitterly. He could hardly expect anything besides accusations. "We barely started testing the vaccine on human subjects. Did you expect immediate success?" This time, the smoke was directed straight at the doctor's face. "Yes." "So far, all of them died after they had been returned to the hospital. Why don't you blame the medical personnel there?" Strauss retorted, uncaring. "I blame you because you didn't keep them here long enough. I blame you because I don't believe in coincidences." "Sir, I have to work with material that someone else made," he wiped the sweaty palms on his pants. Oh God, the only thing he wanted to do now was run home to his daughter. "If Kathy Mott had been here..." "But she is not. Here." The Smoking Man hissed. "Dr. Strauss, let me make myself very clear. If I hear of one more untimely death in the Holy Cross Medical Center - you will not have a reason to go home at all." Strauss closed his eyes. Of course, it had to come to threats. Of course. "I understand, sir." "We all want to see this work, doctor. Do your part." The Smoking Man departed, and Strauss stared bleakly into space. He barely slept for the last three days, trying to figure out why the vaccine that worked seemingly so well led to such severe complications days after the injection. Autopsies lent him no easy answers. And so far, the failures outweighed the successes. His wife was hysterical, and his daughter was ill - and he wouldn't be getting home any time soon. * * * Mulder watched as Scully typed the report methodically. He knew what it would say: the case was closed, the boy wasn't clairvoyant, he could not contribute any useful information to the investigation of a crime committed months ago. He thought the boy was surprisingly good. If he were a fake, at least he was amusing - and the flashes of the future he described were imaginative and colorful. But in all honesty, he just couldn't care less if his clairvoyance was genuine or bogus. The case held no interest for him, and he let Scully take the lead and play the skeptic. She didn't seem to enjoy the role, but she was efficient. The case was closed swiftly. Mulder fought to keep from yawning. "Mulder..." Scully's fingers paused above the keyboard. "I had a terrible dream last night." Nightmares? He glanced at her, concerned - waited for her to continue. "I was alone in the desert, and it was so hot... I felt like I was suffocating," she spoke slowly, trying to recall the details that threatened to escape. "There was a fire burning underground, and I knew that..." she swallowed painfully, forced herself to speak the words out loud. "I knew that you were dead. That you burned in these flames." "I knew I would go to hell," Mulder grinned, his smile fading immediately as she turned a shade whiter. The pain in her face made him hurt - the beginnings of a demonic headache building in his skull. "Scully... it was just a dream," he tried to sound light. "Look - I'm perfectly fine." "No," she whispered. "It was too real. I knew that you had died - and I was the one who sent you there." Mulder's hand closed over hers. "Maybe, it was a flash of memory," he tried to rationalize it. "A distorted memory - you can't trust it." Scully squeezed his fingers, took her hand away, and began typing once again. "Do you believe that our memories will come back?" He nodded, self-assured. "Yes. In time, they will. It's just your garden variety amnesia." "I want to remember," she kept her eyes fixed on the screen, her voice indifferent. "But if these are the things that are hidden in my subconscious... if I'd lived through this..." she shuddered. "Perhaps, we're better off not knowing. Not remembering." The spikes of headache were now sharp and burning. "It's not the answer, Scully," Mulder spoke gently. "Without our memories, we're..." he searched for a word. "We're damaged." Scully turned away. "The report is ready. Read it." He went over to the printer to pick up the pages, barely skimmed them before signing with a name that still didn't belong to him. If they weren't investigating the cases that could interfere with the Project, they were wasting their time on the paranormal phenomena. And while such cases were curious, they were not even remotely beneficial. Damaged or not, as Paul and Kathy, they had fulfilled lives and they did work that they believed in. Work that he still believed in. Despite the inhumane methods, despite the lies - he knew that they were working for the greater good. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe..." Scully sounded miles away. Mulder met her eyes for a brief moment, startled by the longing and fear that he read in them. "Maybe we were damaged before they performed this little experiment on us." * * * There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the railings of the apartment across the street from the hospital. He watched them, shining against the watery gray sky, the light patter of snow falling over rapidly darkening streets. It had become a ritual every night, sitting there, a thin shadow in his wheelchair, watching the street lights come on one by one. There was very little else he could do these days. A faint crack of light split the darkness of his room. "Marsel?" He looked over. "Holmes? What are you doing here?" "I...uh..." She sat down beside him, her eyes taking in the hundreds of lights that laced across the buildings like a net of stars. "Nice view." "Yeah." He traced his hand over the window, outlining the wire meshing between the two panes of glass. "Do you think they're afraid I'll try to escape?" She laughed. "If you could escape, Marsel..." She trailed off. Was she being insensitive? He shifted his gaze towards her, opened his mouth to say something, and then reconsidered. There was something he was supposed to say, was there not? "You came here to talk to me," he said. "Skinner's called a meeting with me tomorrow. We...we're going to initiate an OPR hearing against Mulder and Scully." He groaned inwardly, irritated at having to serve as her sounding board. Her conscience. he told himself. "I...I don't remember very much," he said faintly. Uselessly. "That's...not what I wanted to talk to you about." "Go on..." She drew in a deep breath. "A man came to me. He said he could help." "Help how?" "He said he was there last night. That he could testify, and that..." Marsel nodded for Holmes to continue. "That he had information suggesting that Mulder and Scully are still involved with...that they're still killing people." He stared at her, it was as if she was about to say something else. "Do you believe him?" Holmes shook her head emphatically. "I think he's one of them. Whoever *they* are." A weak laugh. "But he seems to want to take them down as much as I do." "Is that what you want? To take them down?" She met his eyes. "Isn't that what you want?" He turned his attention back to the blinking lights. "I don't know how much that matters." He was silent for awhile. "Of course that's what I want." He could feel her eyes on him. He wished she would look away. "Holmes, if you do this..." "Yes?" "How much better does that make you...than *them*...?" It was the sort of thing he was expected to say. He had to be a good FBI agent, even now. Stick to the book. Uphold the law. Put his own bitterness aside. Even after *they* had taken everything from him. "I know..." He nodded. "So do I." She stood up. "I guess I should be going. They'll kick me out if they find me here." He bit his lip and said nothing. She hesitated, then walked towards the door. "Holmes?" "Yeah?" "Good luck." "Thank you." She closed the door quietly behind her. One of the street lamps had burnt out, but the others came on, like clockwork. * * * William had kept his gun in a box when the children were small, afraid they would stumble upon it accidentally, and it had remained there long after they had grown and moved out of the house. After he retired from the Navy he had no use for it, and it remained at the bottom of the box with all his medals, the old letters to her from overseas. //For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then we shall see face to face.// //Now I know in part; then I shall know fully...// //Even as I am fully known...// She followed the curve of his handwriting over the paper, now yellowed with age, the edges beginning to decay. And then she placed the old letters in a neat pile, breathed in the scent of their timeworn pages, the crackle of slightly wrinkled paper. It was still there. He had polished it regularly when he was alive, and in the years since his death it had barely rusted at all. She tested the trigger. It would still fire. Margaret ran her hand over the smooth, cool metal surface. She remembered the first time William had tried to teach her how to use it. She would not touch it. It was not part of her domain. She baked cakes. She did not fire pistols. Margaret closed her eyes, greeted by a flash of auburn, of crystal blue. Her daughter's face. A stranger's face. //And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.// //But the greatest of these is love.// She lifted the gun to her face. She wanted to know if it still smelled like him, carried his essence. Could somehow carry his essence over Dana, bring her back from wherever she was. Bring her back home. //She obeys no one, she accepts no correction. She does not trust in the Lord, she does not draw near to her God...// //Be joyful, O thou mother, with thy children; for I will deliver thee, saith the Lord.// She stretched her arms across the table, the gun firmly grasped in two trembling hands. "I love you, Dana...Dana...come home..." * * * "Sorry I'm late." He lit a cigarette, leaning back in his chair. The bar was noisy - a good thing. They would not be overheard. But he was unfamiliar with the setting. It was Martin's territory, not his. He gave a thin smile at the insincerity in the young man's voice. "Yes?" "Skinner has initiated a disciplinary hearing against Mulder and Scully." The Smoking Man reflected on this. Three, four years ago he would have known about it immediately. He would have known the results before the hearing even took place. He had so many other concerns, these days. His place in the organization was much more secure. But still, the sense of distance disturbed him sometimes. He was not used to allowing events to unfold as he sat back and watched. "They're on thin ice," Martin continued. He waved for the waitress to bring them a round of drinks. The older man breathed out a long stream of smoke. "Are they?" "You realize the difficulty involved." "Of course I do." He could guess well enough what Martin was thinking. They were not particularly pleasant thoughts. The waitress winked at Martin, setting down two glasses of whiskey. Martin lifted his immediately, smiling back at her. The Smoking Man only watched the silent exchange coolly. "Your friend not the talkative type?" She gave the older man a perfunctory glance. "He's shy." Martin rolled his eyes slightly as the smoker tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. The waitress shrugged and sashayed to the next table. "I think they'll come around." Martin's tone was deliberately light. Confident. Too confident. He was hiding something, obviously. "Once they see the logic from our point of view." "Are you so sure?" "Do you need them that much?" He thought about it as he took another drag on his cigarette. "They're useful." "I heard about Adamowictz." "Yes, the poor woman," He extinguished the cigarette and took a new one. "I would have liked to send the family some flowers, but apparently she had no family." Martin leaned forward. Behind them someone staggered out of the bar to be violently ill on the sidewalk outside. "You're on thin ice too, then." "What makes you think that?" "Don't worry." He glared at the condescension evident in Martin's voice. "I'll get them back." A long exhale, smoke veiling his wearied features, briefly obscuring the smug face of his companion. Could nothing he said intimidate the man? "Oh, I know you will, Martin." He tipped ash into the young man's glass. "I only worry what it might cost you." * * * The old Baltimore house, hidden under a blanket of snow and lit by the lone gaslight, appeared charmed - a vision out of fairy tales. A warm, cozy place where the hero could rest weary feet after conquering an evil adversary, where flames danced merrily in a fireplace, lighting up happy faces, warming disenchanted hearts. Scully sat down on the steps of the porch, using the trench coat to shield her ironed skirt. It was barely six in the morning, but she was carefully dressed and prepared for the administrative hearing that would take place in three hours. Today... She felt her back tense in knots. Today would be the official termination of her career in the FBI. And she was simply going through the motions, waiting for the inevitable to transpire. Calm blue eyes stared in the dusk of early morning, watering slightly. She blinked the tears away, it wouldn't do to destroy the meticulously applied make-up. So tired of being someone else, of combining disjointed dreams and memories into a cohesive whole. So far from being the hero of any fairy tale - so close to being cast in a horror novel. the words of Margaret, so sincere, so false. Her hands shook when the door opened and a woman who was still a stranger stepped out on the porch. Margaret wrapped herself tighter in a hastily thrown coat, her hair still mussed from sleep, her eyes too red, too cloudy. "What are you doing here at this hour?" she asked hoarsely. Scully stood up hastily. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I think this is where I came..." she looked around, uncertain. "To be safe." There was silence as Margaret looked downward and something inside Scully dropped. "Can I come in?" A nervous laugh followed a request. Was she not welcome here? Margaret stepped aside, allowing the passage, and Scully brushed past her, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. I don't even know who I am," the words tumbled out hurriedly, involuntarily. "I've done some terrible things, Mom. But..." She stopped, glancing in the lined face so like hers, searching for a connection that seemed inches away, for a way back to the times past, encountering only doubt and fear instead. She shivered, recognizing that her own mother was afraid of her. "They stole my daughter," her mother said suddenly. "Were you the one who stole my baby from me?" Scully shuddered, unwilling to believe her ears. This woman could still be her mother - this kitchen could still hold the warmth and safety that it promised. "But... I keep seeing you," she whispered with longing, the tears starting to course down her cheeks again. To hell with the make-up. "Your arms outstretched to catch me..." Margaret didn't move - none of her daughter's words could melt away the hardness around her mouth, the distance in her eyes. Scully covered her face, wondering if she would finally crumble under the weight of dual personalities, neither of which was complete. Both women winced when the cellphone trilled, and she reached into her pocket to silence it. "Scully," her voice croaked into the phone. "No, it's... it's..." eyes closed to catch a breath, to disregard the surroundings, to make a momentous choice. "Dr. Strauss, this is Kathy Mott speaking." * * * Margaret Scully watched the transformation of a lost and frightened young woman into an assured, calm stranger with the icy eyes of the machine. A cruel, vile pretender who wanted to take the place of her daughter. A chameleon changing colors to accommodate to the environment, its long striped tongue flicking out to capture innocent bugs. Swallowing them up just like it swallowed Dana two years ago. "How many people had died from the experiments already?" the stranger asked the receiver. "Four? Were there successes?" Margaret reached inside the pocket, touching the reassuringly cold metal, her pulse slowing down gradually. And the dark vortex opened up in her own mind like the hungry mouth of a lizard, obscuring the light of sun, swallowing her whole. "I will need full medical histories of all subjects, surviving and deceased; I need to know whether they had been taken before." And the monster's red lips that spoke of death and cruelty looked just like Dana's. "Dr. Strauss. Just keep him stable... I will be there soon." And the fiend's fingers fixed a stray lock of hair with a nervous, fleeting annoyance, just as Dana used to do. "This is not your fault..." a pause, a quick grin. "Maybe you will even see your daughter today." And the stranger's voice had the same low, soothing inflections that entered Dana's voice when she spoke with small children or distressed adults. Such a good job they had done. But they still couldn't convince her - couldn't make her believe that her daughter had changed into this hungry, ugly chameleon. "Dr. Strauss," clear eyes were looking directly into the nuzzle of a gun. "Gotta go." Kathy Mott put the phone away calmly, laid her hands on the table, her lips curling into a crooked smile. "Mom. This is not a good time." Margaret's grip didn't waiver. "You are not my daughter." "I've tried to be," palms turning upward as if in supplication. "If I could..." "Appearances are deceiving," Margaret whispered. "But the inner nature cannot be altered." "No," Kathy agreed. "But you must let me go. I'm expected... there is a man dying." Margaret didn't let her deceptively tranquil fa=E7ade crumble as grief choked her. "Then you will be held accountable for his death. Just as you - every last one of you - should be held accountable for Dana's." "If you don't let me leave now," a firm voice brokering no arguments, "you will be the one responsible for a death that I can still prevent. If I am in time." The gun wavered. "Mrs. Scully." And when the monster admitted the truth of its nature, Margaret started and opened her hands, seeing the weapon spill out of them in a quick flash of silver. She hung her head down in anticipation because... Because they were all caught in a spider-web, and a long striped tongue was coming for them, and it was hungry, and it would swallow. And it would not let go. "I just want my daughter back." She stiffened when gentle hands embraced her, when hot breath of this stranger, of her daughter, stung her cheek as the lips left a delicate, regretful kiss. "Dana Scully loved you very much," a familiar voice whispered in her ear. "And she always will." There were hurried clicks of high-heeled shoes and the sound of a gun being unloaded. And when the chameleon ran away, Margaret Scully was surprised to see the sunlight still streaming in the windows. End of Act 5/7 "Theater of the Absurd 2" (6/7) by Anna Otto & Ashlea Ensro Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com Disclaimer and other information in Act I Act VI: The Choices That We Make "Mulder," his voice when he answered the phone was curt, rough. Edgily, he paced the hallway outside Skinner's office. Scully had better have a good excuse for being late and causing him to worry. "Where are you?" "At work, being the good little conspirator that I am," there was a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Miss me?" Why did he have to suffer this man? "Goodbye, Martin." Martin's voice stopped him hurriedly. "This is about your partner, Mulder. Wonder where she is?" He felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. "What?" "She is busy with Dr. Strauss, fixing another 'subject,'" Martin explained, amused. "I'm surprised at how easy it was to get her back. Nothing like a colleague begging for help." "You're lying, you son-of-a-bitch," Mulder hissed. Someone brushed past him, and he whirled around angrily, shook his head when the offender mumbled hasty apologies. "We have an important hearing in twenty minutes." "Apparently, someone's life was more important to Scully than some hearing," Martin suggested a possibility. "Wouldn't you feel the same way?" Mulder felt like a puppet, every string being pulled simultaneously. "This manipulation may have worked the last time, but it will not work again," he spoke, fighting for strength. "Dangle my partner in front of me, expect me to follow, even though..." "So you remember," the conspirator's voice was wary. "I don't expect you to come running, Mulder. But Scully is tied up at the moment, and I wanted to do you a favor and let you know where she was." "I don't believe you," Mulder whispered. "Why would she go back to serving those who destroyed her?" "Such melodramatics. We didn't destroy you." Martin paused for effect. "Remember what your smoking 'friend' said that night?" Even now, his eyes stung at the pain of betrayal from the man he used to trust. "No." "'Don't be afraid, we will just clean the fissures and replace some rotten parts.'" Mulder slumped against the wall, teeth grinding at the rising migraine, the words twisting inside him like a crooked knife. "Go to hell." He shook as someone touched him on the shoulder, turning around cagily. "Agent Mulder," Skinner's eyes skirted away from his. "Where is Agent Scully?" "I don't know," he whispered to yet another man who betrayed them. "You don't know, or you're not at liberty to discuss?" Skinner questioned scathingly. "Why can't they just leave us alone?" darkening hazel eyes burned with sudden rage. "Why can't you?" "Agent Mulder, this was not entirely my idea." "Did you expect us to fight them? Is that it?" Mulder took a step forward, voice growing in intensity. "We left with a threat hanging over our heads, and even so we disregarded it and brought Sharona back, only to watch her die. Maybe we should have become a link between them and FBI." A bitter laugh. "Tell them which ones to return if the case attracted too much attention. And then watch all the returned ones die." Skinner clenched his fists. "Return from where?" "I'm not at liberty to discuss," Mulder mocked him. "Four people are dead, Agent Mulder," his superior's voice was hard. "And you're telling me you'd rather sit back than stop this manslaughter?" Mulder shook his head, knowing that there was no compromise to agree on anymore. "I'm told we used to be so very brave and impetuous. Haven't we paid enough for it?" he asked softly. "For that matter, haven't you?" Skinner sagged visibly. "Mulder..." Mulder pointed at the door, harsh smile playing on his lips. "I believe they are expecting you inside. Sir." * * * Kathy Mott readjusted the subject's IV, then turned to Strauss with an expression that wavered between triumph and exhaustion. Strauss' own features lacked visible emotion, maintaining the same sullen mask he had kept all morning. "Alive..." Strauss whispered, the slightest nuance of relief sliding into his voice. "Yes." Kathy's own tone was crisp, professional, but not entirely lacking in sympathy. She looked down at the young man lying on the bed. "Alive." She stared at the chart in her hand, a hastily constructed mapping of the measures required to avoid the sort of complications that had already claimed the lives of four subjects. Alive, yes, and barring any further unseen developments, he would continue to be. And the work would go on, as it always had. Kathy sighed, looking at Strauss' haggard face. "You look exhausted," she said, "Why don't you go home?" At his hesitation, she added, "I'll take care of the rest." Distrustful, clearly at the end of his strength, he stared back at her. "Are you positive?" Kathy grinned. "I would bet my medical license that this man stands to live a long and healthy life." She wondered why Strauss still looked so unhappy. The vaccine was successful. He should have been overjoyed. Instead, it seemed to her that he was about to cry. She lay a hand on his shoulder. "Go home," she repeated. He stood up slowly, drained. "Thank you...Kathy..." Turning back to her patient, she did not see him leave. It had not been long before she heard the door open again. "Has Dr. Strauss left? I thought I would speak to him." It surprised her somewhat that she did not feel the familiar prickle of fear at the sound of his voice. Had she slipped back into her old persona so quickly? Kathy rose to face him as he reached for a cigarette. She indicated the man on the bed, and he replaced the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket without taking one. "The situation is under control. I suggested to Strauss that he go home for the evening." She shrugged. "That is all right, is it not?" The Smoking Man looked mildly surprised. "Of course," he said, his voice quiet. "Of course." He approached the bed. "Will he live?" "I believe so, yes." Kathy watched the older man closely. He was as cold and aloof as ever, but the red around his eyes gave him away - he had not slept in days. She glanced at him with obvious concern, realizing only now how desperate the organization's situation had become since their departure. It was good to be needed. "Agent Scully-" he began. A soft laugh. "Kathy," she corrected. He drew in a deep breath. "Kathy," he said. The faint light of a smile touched his icy eyes. This - this was right. "It's good to have you back." * * * Where was he? Holmes glanced at the faces composing the review board. At Skinner, his face grim, fingers rubbing at his temples. At Mulder, stiff and uncomfortable in his dark suit - at the empty chair beside him. Martin was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, that did not surprise her. She had been a fool to trust in him, to believe that these men and women operating from the shadows could ever be brought to justice, to believe that a man paralyzed in a near-fatal car accident could ever be made to walk again. They had used her - and though the realization was painful, it was not shattering. A small voice in her head kept up the mantra, none the less - - while the rest of her mind automatically answered questions. Yes, on the night in question, she and Agent Marsel illegally entered the premises of the Alderwood Medical Center. Yes, they had been pursued upon departure by a black sedan, which had driven them off a bridge. Yes, she could identify the driver of the sedan as Special Agent Fox William Mulder, the passenger as Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully. No, she could not identify the bodies floating in the tanks, nor the contents of the vials removed from the glove compartment of her car by the agents in question. "And you submit to the board that this story can be corroborated?" "By Agent Marsel, yes, and by another man, who is not present at this time." For the first time, she saw Mulder flinch ever so slightly. "Do you have evidence to support these allegations, Agent Holmes?" "I have this man's testimony, but as I said-" "That will be all, Agent Holmes." She returned to her chair, eyes staring straight ahead at the faces of the panel, in defiance. In resignation. Her hands at last had stopped trembling. * * * Holmes' testimony floated towards him, sounding as though it came from far away, a hazy, underwater sort of distance. He was only aware of the weight of her words as she spoke the phrase, "another man". Another witness. Mulder clenched his fists, a slight tremor of fear coursing through his body. He was under no illusions. The hearing was for the sake of formality; regardless of the strength or weakness of the young woman's account, his career - and Scully's - was over. Still, Holmes had no evidence, and he had expected that his termination would be the extent of the punishment. He had been relieved. He would leave the FBI, leave all this conflict, and start afresh somewhere else. He could get a job teaching criminal psychology, maybe head back to San Diego, try to reclaim whatever remained of his life. He had the sudden, sinking understanding that none of it was going to happen. Someone else had been on the bridge that night. Someone else had seen him casually wave away the lives of two young agents as though they meant nothing. Someone else had stood aside, watched as he buried himself beneath the weight of his own sins. Whatever evidence Holmes had, she did not come by it alone. It was no mystery as to the identity of the secret witness. He groaned inwardly, cursing his own stupidity, wondering what sort of sick game Martin was playing. It was Martin who had given them the key back to the memories of their former lives - and now it seemed that he was trying to destroy them. Just who was he working for? There was something missing, he thought, some crucial piece of the puzzle. If he could only remember... It was not all that important, really, just another problem to consider. Martin was irrelevant... absent. What sort of a deal had he made with Holmes? There was probably only one thing Holmes wanted. Mulder shuddered at the thought. A different pain twisted at his heart as he saw Skinner stand up to testify. All these betrayals...Martin, the smoker, Skinner... Scully. His mind wandered from Skinner's account of the night on the bridge, to the last time he had seen his partner. She had seemed so lost, a million miles away. Her empty chair absorbed his concentration. She was gone. She had returned...to *them*, to those bastards who had taken their lives away. Perhaps she had never left. He had to wonder what he was doing here. Even if Holmes' evidence did not condemn him, what use did he have to the FBI? He was chasing after ghosts while the Project was failing, while human lives were at risk. Perhaps their methods were cruel, but they were means to an end, and he could not entirely disagree. When he was Paul Bartlett, he had been useful. He had been happy. Perhaps that was what Scully had realized. His attention snapped back to Skinner's voice. "Two years ago, Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully disappeared without a trace. It is my opinion that they never returned." Mulder steeped his hands, his eyes meeting the dark gaze of his superior. What he must have gone through...it was fortunate that at least now he was willing to let them fall. "For those two years I have searched for them, and I am searching for them still." Such grief in his voice. The resonance of a catastrophe. Mulder's hands clenched the arms of his chair, trembling with the force of the bright white flash that almost blinded him, the rush of voices filling his ears, a thousand faces, stored by an eidetic memory, coming back to life. It was over almost before it started, and when his eyes opened he could feel every eye in the room turned towards him, aware that *something* had just happened. For whatever reason it was Holmes he noticed most - one face he did not remember from the sudden flashbacks. And then, Mulder focused on Skinner, studying the familiar somber face in new awareness, his breath catching for a dizzying moment. In the uneasy silence of the room, his disbelieving whisper seemed too loud - too abrupt. "You have been looking for us for two years?" "Agent Mulder, perhaps you should allow..." an uncertain voice from one of the reviewers broke through. Mulder stood up, glancing briefly at the shocked faces around him. "I remember," his tone was flat. "Everything." And then he walked out of the hearing, ignoring the swell of whispers behind him. * * * Skinner ran down the steps to the basement office, instinctively guessing that he would find Mulder there - for the last time. In a brief moment during the hearing, he'd seen the light of remembrance color the familiar face of a stranger, transforming him into the man he used to know. Ironically, the career suicide the agent had just performed by walking out of that room was the first recognizable gesture Skinner had seen from him in weeks. The words were tinged with an almost nostalgic sadness. And now, as Skinner watched the younger man rummage through the old files, he recognized the expression on his face and it made his blood run cold. He was saying goodbye. "You kept this place clean," Mulder's voice was reconciliatory, an otherwise cutting remark made soft. "It was the janitor," Skinner replied in tone. "Everything is exactly where it used to be... I am glad that you chose to go through with the OPR hearing," Mulder affirmed. "You've made too many sacrifices for us, and what a disappointment." Skinner closed his eyes, feeling powerless as the chain of events unfurled in front of his eyes. Always too late - always a few steps behind, always impotent to prevent new disasters. "I've done nothing." Mulder flicked his gaze upward, contemplating the sorrow written in Skinner's features with sympathy - the reply falling off his tongue almost unconsciously. "If we were killed, it would have been a better solution to the problem we must have presented. And you wouldn't have to go through all this..." he waved his hand, "...needless inquest." With only shocked silence for an answer, he added softly, "Violence does have its value, after all." Skinner shook his head, trying to clear it off cobwebs. Even now, he couldn't agree with Mulder's words - couldn't choose the finality of death over the instability of hope. "You're going back." A grim nod. "Yes." He stared at the badge and a gun when Mulder pushed them in his direction - made no move to take them. After everything that these bastards had done, how could one voluntarily choose to join them? "They need me," Mulder explained, as if having read his thoughts. "Scully needs me... And FBI is better off without us." "There are still ways..." "No." Mulder pointed to the pile of folders beneath Scully's desk. "Any chance you could... destroy these, along with those you gave to Holmes?" Skinner's face grew red in indignation. "Pardon me?" Mulder sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "I didn't think so," he muttered ominously. "Well, there are other ways of destroying the evidence, you know." Skinner reached for the gun and the badge, his eyebrows furrowing dangerously. "Do tell." Mulder grinned suddenly, relieved to see the anger on his ex-boss' face. Anything better than crushing sadness he'd seen minutes ago. "I have to go," he pushed the open drawers shut, stole a last glance at the office that used to be his home for several long years. Funny how he'd always chased after the truth when it was staring him right in the face. "Perhaps... I will have a chance to correct everything that had gone wrong." "Not unless you can perform miracles," Skinner grumbled. "You underestimate our abilities, Mr. Skinner," Mulder spoke seriously. "There is only one thing that I will regret." Skinner watched a fleeting shadow pass over Mulder's face, waited for an answer. "Being your enemy." The door was closed softly, and the Assistant Director flipped Mulder's badge open - stared at the unflattering picture of an achingly familiar face. Once a friend. Now an adversary. Yet always the same person - possessing the same intensity, courage, and dedication whether he worked for the good or the evil. And for the first time, Skinner wondered if there had been a clear division of sides - if he'd make the same choice in Mulder's place. In an empty office, only ghosts could hear his whisper. "Never a needless inquest." * * * Mulder watched his partner at work, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, fluorescent lights of the lab flickering off the glasses perched on her nose. Medical histories and rows of data were piled in front of her, and she chewed her lip thoughtfully as she read over each, occasionally making notes. The picture was at once infinitely familiar and dizzyingly strange - and it took him several minutes to once again assimilate the two identities, Kathy and Scully, into one whole. In the end, the names hardly mattered: this was his partner, the woman he trusted with his life, whichever way he chose to live it. "Mulder," she took her glasses off, revealing weary blue eyes. She pronounced the name with a questionable intonation, as if testing the new waters. He looked - different, as if something happened that changed him overnight, and for a moment, something nagged at her. He shook his head resolutely. "Paul." Kathy released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding, as the fear of going through this made-up life alone released its grip on her. "Paul," she repeated gratefully. "What took you so long?" His heart skipped a few beats in protest, and then started again. He'd followed her willingly the first time without even knowing what lay ahead. He'd made the same choice today - only this time, it was an informed choice, and one he would make without the slightest hesitation, again and again. Mulder smiled reassuringly. "Traffic." Kathy searched his eyes, looking for vacillation and doubt, and saw none. Perhaps, he really did mean it - and even if he didn't, she would have to take what he offered. "I might have isolated the problem Dr. Strauss ran into during the experimentation," she switched back to work. Mulder sat down across from her. "What was it?" "All the subjects who died were vaccinated for smallpox. Everyone who survived was younger and did not receive the vaccinations. Of course, the antibodies were present in both cases, but somehow, they acted differently upon encountering antibodies from the new vaccination. In all the subjects who were vaccinated firsthand, we saw an adverse biological reaction." "How did you fix it?" "Blood transfusion from the younger patients," she explained. "Really, all that could have been avoided if we halved the amount of vaccine injected now. But we still will need to confirm this hypothesis." He nodded, lost in thought. "Yes, though we might have to wait..." he stopped, surreptitiously indicating to Kathy that she should be silent at the sound of footsteps behind him. "I knew it was just a matter of time," Martin smirked, gratified to see both partners back at work. "You finally saw the light." Mulder bit his tongue - commanded his lips to stretch into a smile. "We've decided to take you up on your offer." He felt Kathy tense, tacitly gestured to her to stay calm. Martin paled slightly. "I will have to speak to Dr. Kenmore," he replied evasively. "Hopefully, he can help you restore the memory." Mulder feigned surprise. "You mean you promised us something that you weren't certain to deliver? Just as you promised Holmes the cure for her partner without speaking to our 'friends' first?" Kathy's eyes flared with anger and fixed upon Martin's face. Under two scrutinizing gazes, he suddenly remembered the reason why he wanted to see them leave in the first place. The partners were hardly a match for him to contend with. And now that they were back, they would use their combined strength to overshadow him, leave him to the thankless tasks of an errand-boy. "There was never a necessity for it," Martin replied with forced nonchalance. "Holmes was just a means to an end. I am sure you would have done the same in my place." "Holmes is the agent in charge of investigating a few unexplained disappearances and subsequent deaths of subjects of a certain experiment," Mulder bit off each word. "And it would be wise to draw her attention away from this case. Don't you think, Martin?" "You've grown soft, Mulder," Martin bared his teeth in scorn. "Sorry for your fellow agents?" "It is 'Paul,'" Mulder corrected unequivocally. Kathy would never have to doubt that his memory was still lost - and he certainly would not give Martin the advantage of the realization to the contrary. "You will help Holmes and Marsel - today. When you speak with the healer, explain to him that the two agents may be used for our future benefit, and you'd better make him believe you." "And if I don't?" "I have my own guesses as to who pointed Holmes in the direction of these 'hot' cases." "I was only following orders," Martin glared at him. "Perhaps you should ask your smoking friend why he thought it so important to bring you back." Mulder's eyes narrowed as he processed information. "Question authority, Martin." Martin felt his insides shake in hatred. This would be the last time he obeyed Paul's orders. "Anything else?" he hissed solicitously. "Bring Dr. Kenmore here tomorrow at nine o'clock, sharp. We will speak to him ourselves," Mulder requested with military precision. "You're dismissed." Kathy followed Martin Ng's departure with her eyes, then grasped her partner's hand. "Paul... I'm not sure it's such a good idea. I don't want to remember," she whispered honestly. "Do you?" He'd already remembered, and he wished that he hadn't. "No," he confirmed. If she wanted to bury the recollections of the events she'd lived through, he couldn't force her to do otherwise. "But we won't be here - and neither will be anyone else. Besides Kenmore and Martin." Her eyes narrowed in a question, then smoothed in dawning comprehension. "Do you hate him this much?" Mulder agreed inwardly: he did hate Kenmore, a faceless shadow who eroded their minds, who forced them into this half-existence. But he knew she was asking about someone else. "Martin is an unstable link in our organization," he replied truthfully. "It is not a personal choice." Kathy nodded in understanding, trusting him to make the best decision. "It is your only chance to remember... who you were," she reminded him softly. "I'm willing to give it up." Mulder squelched the sentiment. There would be other chances... there was always a possibility that she would remember - just a random push, a coincidence, a once-in-a-lifetime fluke could bring Scully back to life. And then he wouldn't feel as alone as he did right now. He glanced in her eyes, content to see the strength and trust, qualities that never changed no matter what the name of the woman. He wasn't alone - and there was still a lot of work to be done. "I can't believe we have to switch apartments again, Kathy," Mulder laughed, somewhat abashed. She smiled in answer, feeling the gears of her life, like terrain plates after an earthquake, slide back into their places. "I don't know about you, but I will be asking for a big raise." End of Act 6/7 "Theater of the Absurd 2" (7/7) by Anna Otto & Ashlea Ensro Theater of the Absurd II: Home By Anna Otto and Ashlea Ensro annaotto1@aol.com & morleyphile@yahoo.com Disclaimer and other information in Act I Part VII: The Shift of Power It seemed like a very long time since he had last been in this room, seen his own weary gaze reflected in the pale, wrinkled faces of his colleagues. It was a tired room, where every word uttered was a thinly veiled threat, every glare held more significance than he cared to comprehend. He lit a cigarette, sat back, and waited. "There have been some difficulties as of late," the First Elder said, baring rotten teeth. "The situation is-" "Under control," the Englishman finished for him. "Mulder informed us." "Mulder?" He immediately regretted the waver in his voice, the admission of ignorance. Once again, they had failed to inform him. Once again, he could feel his power slipping. He exhaled a cloud of smoke with the name, and fell silent. The Englishman's voice was mocking. "Were you not told? A clean-up operation is proceeding as we speak." He said nothing, waited for clarification. "At nine o'clock this morning there will be an explosion at the Washington facility." The First Elder spoke now, his voice too gloating for a monotone. "We expect only two bodies to be recovered. The explosion will be attributed to a gas leak." A slight nod. Dr. Kenmore and Martin Ng. Two loose ends that would prove dangerous to the organization in the wake of Mulder and Scully's abrupt changes of heart. "I am sorry to hear that," he replied flatly. He looked up. "Will that be all?" He had come a long way simply to be told of the precariousness of his position. They might have told him over the phone. He watched as they shuffled out one by one. Only the Englishman remained, his eyes as cold and hard as the smoker's own. "I would think that you have cause to celebrate." He puffed on his cigarette. "Do I?" "The situation...with Mulder and Scully. It could have gone wrong so easily. As is so often the case with these... calculated risks." He stared the man down. "It went according to plan. More or less." "And to think," a slight smile. "We have so many other, more important plans. I would hate to believe that this matter has diverted your attention..." He extinguished the cigarette. "I hope to return to those plans immediately." The other man's gaze narrowed ever so slightly. "I'm glad to hear that," the clipped voice retorted, and left him standing alone in the room which had grown suddenly so much colder. He lit another cigarette, and closed his eyes. * * * Martin turned on the light switch, startling Dr. Strauss. The doctor had been preoccupied by a virus sample beneath the lens of his microscope - he looked up abruptly as Martin and Kenmore entered the room. "You're in early, Mark," Kenmore said. There was a panic underlying the old man's tone. Martin could sense the unease - he felt the same way himself. Neither of them wanted to be here. Strauss shrugged. "Kathy Mott's findings have put us months ahead in the space of a few days. With the unexpected side effect of forcing us all to work equally as hard." Martin laughed. "How unfortunate." He studied the lines on Strauss' face closely. The man was a knot of nervous energy and overwhelming fatigue. He clearly did not want to be there either. Martin wondered about the need for his own presence, why Mulder had asked him to bring Kenmore. It appeared as though his position had slipped several notches in the past few days. Did they not remember that he had engineered Mulder and Scully's return, that without him the two agents could have easily had slipped back into place, once again endangering the progress of the Project? It seemed that he had been sent here to be humiliated, advised of his place. To be subjected to a reminder of his own sins as Mulder and Scully at last were able to open the floodgates of their memories, to see him for what he was, for what he had done to them. So be it, he thought. They would need him again soon enough. Until then, they could hold their grudges. He yawned, impatiently glancing at his watch. It was a few minutes to nine, and there was still no sign of Mulder or Scully. He listened idly to Kenmore and Strauss' conversation. It did not interest him much. It did not appear to interest either of them a great deal, but it was enough to divert Strauss' attention from the microscope. For a man who seemed to devote all his waking moments to the Project, Strauss was easily distracted. Martin could not help but wonder why he did not simply go home. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably. Something was wrong. Kenmore could have come on his own, easily enough. He stared from one face to another. They were weak, both of them. Strauss' family made him vulnerable; Kenmore's knowledge made him dangerous. He had the sudden awareness that no one, least of all himself, was indispensable. He wondered if the ticking he heard was his imagination, the onset of unwarranted paranoia, or... He turned abruptly towards the other two, quietly talking in the impromptu silence. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Martin said. * * * He slammed the door behind him and ran for his life. An absent part of his mind wondered vaguely whether Strauss and Kenmore realized what was happening. A strangely sympathetic part of his mind hoped that they did not. And he kept running, the breath tight in his chest, until he collapsed on the grass outside of the facility, the sudden heat surrounding him as the building exploded in a fury of flames. Gasping for air, he propped himself up on his elbows, watching it burn. At least he had no more illusions about where he stood with them. A small crowd of bystanders was forming. He knew it was best to leave before he was noticed. He was nondescript, but he would never be nondescript enough. Martin shivered in the cool air, wrapping his jacket tight around his shoulders, and started walking. He glanced only once at the burning building as the squeal of sirens mounted in the distance. "Welcome back, Paul," he whispered, "Welcome back Kathy." The falling snow would conceal whatever footsteps he left behind. * * * Teena Mulder's grave lay buried beneath half an inch of snow. Gently, almost reverently, he brushed away the layer of white, running his fingers over the letters, encrusted with frost. Teena Mulder, beloved mother. Teena Mulder, who had never had a chance to learn of the man her son had become. She had been in the ground for a year, and if the grave had been maintained at all, it was because of him. The ring of cigarette ashes around the stone was a poor substitute for red roses, but at least he remembered. He remembered, when so much else had been forgotten. She had been buried in Parkway Cemetery, beside William Mulder. He had thought it inappropriate, somehow, and then convinced himself that it didn't really matter. He had seen enough in this life to care little for the next. If it hadn't been for the snow, he probably wouldn't have heard the footsteps. "What are you doing here?" Recognizing the voice, he braced himself for a slam against the nearest available wall, perhaps a gun shoved against his face, but there was nothing. Only a calm, cold voice, utterly incongruous with his memories of the man who now stood beside him at Teena Mulder's grave. He would have preferred a gun in his face. "I could ask the same of you." "I-" For a moment Fox Mulder looked defiant, angry, but the expression quickly faded into a mask of impassivity. "I wanted to remember her." "You don't remember her." He paused, taking a drag of his cigarette. By the pious way Mulder touched the gray stone as he laid down a few flowers, he suddenly doubted it. The man was lying. He'd known him for too long to believe otherwise. "Never mind. It's good that you came." Mulder shifted from one foot to another. The Smoking Man stared at him. Wondered how much he remembered. If he remembered everything now. "She was a remarkable woman, Fox. It is a pity that she died the way she did." "Paul," Mulder corrected him. An unnecessary reminder. The smoker had no doubt of the identity of the man before him. "How did she die?" "Alone. I suppose it was for the best that she died before you...came back. The woman had enough tragedy in her life." Mulder scowled, but did not move. He found it oddly disconcerting. The old Mulder would have reacted violently, impulsively. This man's gaze was as hard and unwavering as the smoker's own. The old Mulder was as dead as his mother. The Smoking Man shivered beneath his overcoat, more than vaguely disturbed at the sight of this man who could not be named. "Did she miss me?" Mulder asked, a sudden crack of vulnerability beneath the hard shell. "I wouldn't know." It required a great deal of restraint to match Mulder's composure. "The two of you weren't very close... but then you know that, Fox. Don't you?" Mulder gave a small smile. It was chilling. "There was an explosion at the lab this morning. I apologize for not informing you in person." A final drag, then he ground his cigarette into the earth and took out a new one. "Did you consider how it may interfere with the research?" "Oh yes," the younger man's voice was nonchalant. "We," he emphasized the word slyly, "decided that it was the best course of action." Was the bewilderment he felt at the moment the first symptom of the power seeping away? The smoker fought hard to keep his voice level. "It seems that Kathy's expertise will more than compensate for Strauss' loss." "Strauss?" For a moment, the Smoking Man relished the surprise evident in Mulder's eyes - it could not have been faked. He had not orchestrated the cover-up perfectly, then. Good. The smoker was tired of being the last to hear of new developments. "His body will be found in the wreckage of the building. A most unfortunate accident." The tone of his voice said, "Not a great loss." "I see," Mulder met his eyes with a sharp glance. "Very unfortunate." Blue smoke spiraled between them. "You have changed," the Smoking Man remarked mildly. "Before, you wouldn't have killed men so... thoughtlessly." The younger man didn't even flinch, letting the silence serve as his answer. The smoker understood the sentiment well enough. Whatever the name of the man standing before him, he was comfortable with what he was now. Damn him. Mulder carried with him the burden of two lifetimes. He had been beaten a million times over, but he was impossible to break. And when it came down to it, he was valuable. These days, quite possibly irreplaceable. The Smoking Man felt oddly chagrined... and proud. Somehow, he'd always known. Mulder stared at him with curiosity. "Strange as it will sound, had I been in your place two years ago... I would have simply ordered to kill us," he commented detachedly. "I would have ordered the same after we went back to the FBI. Whatever your motivations, you seem to put your personal priorities ahead of the organization." "The two aren't necessarily separate." Mulder's expression was skeptical. "Either way, we owe you our lives. I will not forget that." The smoker blew a wisp of smoke into the chilling winter wind. "You're truly your father's son... Fox Mulder," he gave the last two words a little extra emphasis. Informing him that he knew... and that he wasn't planning to give up the remains of his power. Not yet. It was as close as he would ever come to welcoming Fox Mulder home. He turned and walked to his car without another glance backward. He had watched presidents die, but he could not look into the face of the man who stared after him with a faint smile as he disappeared into the swirling snow. * * * Skinner ripped the simple white package open, his emotions deliberately on hold. For a long moment, he was motionless, still loath to believe the finality signified by its contents. A letter written in a brisk, accurate script accompanied Special Agent Dana Scully's badge and gun. Nonsensically, he was relieved that it was not yet another coy, coded note, gamely informing him of the next part to the never-ending charade that he could never win. "Mr. Skinner, I sincerely wish that I could return these items in person, but I must remember that from now on, we work on the opposite sides of the law. We've made a mistake by coming back to the FBI, by letting our personal problems take precedence over our responsibilities. I know you believe that our return may have been a part of another elaborate ruse, but while our actions were questionable, our intentions were honest. Victims of the experiment currently in progress, the four dead people from cases that we refused to investigate, didn't die directly from my hand. But I know that if I hadn't left, they might have lived. I assure you that you will not find any other persons responsible. Now that you know this truth, I ask you not as a foe, but as a friend, that you close the investigation into these deaths. And in return, I promise that I will do my best to prevent any other needless casualties. If you still consider this action disreputable, please remember that all miracles come at a price. Agents Holmes and Marsel are very good partners, wouldn't you agree? From the name of Dana Scully, I must thank you and express my regret that you spent so much time searching for what no longer existed. From the name of Kathy Mott, I hope that we can find common language... sometimes. I believe that one day, we will all work towards a common goal. Until the next time we meet..." Skinner searched the page for a signature and didn't find one. Yet, he didn't doubt the identity of the woman that wrote this letter, and he wondered how well Kathy Mott would work with Fox Mulder, whether her partner told her of his returned memory. Probably not. The realization that he was worried about his enemies struck him as funny. Yet, as he folded the pages neatly, there was a lump in his throat that he couldn't explain. There was a knock on the door, and Skinner put the box aside. "Come in." Marsel stepped inside, Holmes tailing him closely, as if to ensure that he didn't falter - didn't lose his equilibrium. She needn't have worried - the young man appeared as healthy as he'd ever been before the events of Alderwood case. Skinner closed his eyes - then opened them slowly, making certain that they didn't lie to him. Somehow, he found himself more captivated not by the easy delight written in Marsel's features, but by the terrified, disbelieving relief of his partner. Perhaps, she would allow herself to feel happiness later, but at the moment, she was still too fragile, too vulnerable. Skinner wondered if he could find the words which would ease her mind, which would make her believe in miracles... ...because sometimes, they did happen. "Agent Marsel, it is more than wonderful to see you here," he stood up, offering a hand and a chair to the young man. "I trust you want to return to work?" For a second, it appeared that Marsel wouldn't agree to sit down - then rationality won over, and he dropped into the chair. "Absolutely," he replied. "I was hoping you could arrange for my re-certification." "Of course," Skinner allowed himself a small smile. "Agent Holmes refused to let me assign her a new partner. Now I see her faith was justified." Marsel glanced over at his partner with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Of course no one has as much experience in break-in and entry as I do..." he stopped, as if suddenly realizing the lack of tact in the remark. Holmes paled visibly. "Sir," her voice was low, tired. "I haven't made much progress in the cases you assigned me - every lead turns up dead. Though the good news is, two more people who disappeared were brought back, have regained consciousness and are now in good health..." Skinner listened to her talk, letting the words fade - already knowing the culprits and the outcome. And if someone had to pay, it couldn't be Holmes. She needed time to recuperate, perhaps more so than her partner did. "Agent Holmes, now that Agent Marsel is back, I wanted to assign you to some other outstanding cases that need your attention," Skinner interrupted her. "I will give the cases you're currently working on to someone else." A favor for a favor. "But, sir..." "Are you questioning my authority, Agent Holmes?" Skinner's voice dared her to disagree. She shook her head. "Sir, if I may be so forward..." Marsel, who was silent throughout the exchange, spoke uncertainly. "But we were hoping you could assign us to the X-Files." Skinner flinched, self-composure lost at the hesitant request. "No," the answer was a reflex. The X-Files department had to be re-stuffed, per orders of the administration, but Skinner didn't want to see the young partners suffering any more unfortunate accidents - or getting involved in any more questionable activities. Didn't want to see them losing body parts or pieces of their souls. The expression of hurt and disappointment on Marsel's face was almost childlike. "I've always been interested in strange phenomena," he explained, his words forceful. "I believe I could contribute to the cases which will otherwise go unsolved." Skinner felt Holmes' dark eyes, full of knowledge, watch him with growing mistrust. As if she could predict his decision ahead of time, as if she had already condemned him for it. And suddenly he knew that he had very little choice - and that he couldn't protect them from the involvement with the Consortium, with the unexplained, with the uncertain, nerve-wrecking, rewarding life that they were voluntarily choosing at this very moment. "After you get re-certified, Agent Marsel... the X-Files are yours to explore." Holmes glanced at him with surprise and a fleeting approval. "Thank you." The partners stood up, the young woman once again hovering over her partner with nervous apprehension, as unobtrusive as she could be under the circumstances. Skinner watched them move in tandem, a smile growing on his lips. Some miracles were worth the price. Though he'd lost one confrontation, he didn't intend to lose the war. Kathy Mott or her partner wouldn't be especially pleased with his latest decision. There were still battles ahead. * * * It was the first white Christmas Kathy Mott could remember. She turned the volume down on the television, which showed the remains of the Scully family gathered around the remains of a turkey. She smiled, raising her glass of wine in a silent toast, just as Bill Scully Jr., at the head of the table, lifted his own glass. "Merry Christmas," she whispered. "Merry Christmas," Mulder echoed beside her. His face was illuminated in the soft green light of the fish tank. They drank together, and for a moment neither of them spoke. "I can't believe you put your own family under surveillance," he said finally. "They're not-" She broke off. Laughed, to release whatever tension remained. "We should get popcorn," she said. "Popcorn would be good." More silence. A comfortable silence. Kathy watched her partner. He seemed different, somehow. At peace. She hadn't seen him like this since...when had the last time been? Back in November, before their lives had been tipped upside-down, before the ghosts of the past had clawed at them, dragging them back into lives they could no longer lead. November. Only a month. Had everything changed so quickly? They raised their glasses again, at exactly the same time, shared another sip of wine and a communal giggle. Nothing had changed, really. Nothing had ever really changed. "I have memories of listening to Handel's Messiah on Christmas Eve," she mused. "I wonder if they are real." Mulder grinned. "Does it matter?" "I suppose not." He stole a glance outside, at the evergreen tree outside that they decorated in Christmas ornaments and garlands just two days ago, after Kathy moved into her new condo. It sparkled under the falling snow, the only bright spot in a silent night around them. "You will always see green out of your windows," Mulder commented, slightly envious. "It reminds me of California." A wistful sigh escaped her lips. "That's why I chose it." He corrected a lock of her hair unconsciously. "Do you miss it?" Kathy shrugged, unwilling to let anything spoil this quiet evening. "We were happy there." "We will be happy here," Mulder asserted confidently. "There will be new adventures, new responsibilities. And we will share them together." She raised her wineglass, silently making a wish. To the new lives, to the upcoming changes, and to the one constant that she could rely upon. "Together," she whispered. He raised a glass in a return gesture. "Always." CURTAIN. Author's Note: (From Ashlea) It seems that what started as a bizarre little idea ("Hey! Why don't we put Mulder and Scully in the Consortium and make them LIKE it?") has somehow evolved into a full-fledged novel in the space of two months. I don't think I saw THAT one coming... So, Mulder and Scully are happy at last, and back where they belong - our work here is done. I can honestly say that of all the fanfic I've written, this one has been the most fun - a fact I attribute to my wonderful co-author. Whether we were attempting to unravel the next plot twist, or debating the merits of Furby world domination (the Date has been set...don't ask!) working with Anna has definitely been an experience. :-) And an amazing one at that. Er, that's about all, I think... We should also thank Manik (for making a brave attempt at editing this monstrosity) and Safiru (for the Bible quotes). (From Anna) I am sad that this journey had come to an end... it was too much fun to write, mostly due to my incredible co-author. I can only hope we write something else together. Huge thanks to Rachel and Mel for beta-reading, to Seda for disagreeing, and to everyone else who waited patiently for this sequel. One of my friends just questioned our moral values by asking us how we could have simply let Mulder and Scully (or Paul and Kathy) go back to the Consortium. I admit it: we didn't write Theater to uphold high moral standards. But we did write it to make Mulder and Scully happy - and we have achieved it, even if our methods were undoubtedly questionable. We turned a tragic situation into a happy one, and I can actually sleep at night We believe that there could have been no other ending. If you think otherwise, why don't you let us know? annaotto1@aol.com morleyphile@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto/ http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/